Constable Doc adjusted his monocle and frowned as the typewriter on the Transfictionally-Activated Computational Device clicked out a reel of parchment. He leaned over the machine to read as the report slowly appeared.

When he has read enough, he called out, “Miss Vannie! We have received yet another crossing-over between Sherlock Holmes and Les Misérables!”

“That makes three such assignments in under a score of days.” Constable Vanna Toulouse sighed. “Though it gladdens me to see that Mr. Hugo’s works are still popular amongst the public, I do long for the uncomplicated days before these o’er-crossings entered into fashion.”

Constable Doc moved to join her at the equipment pantry. “I am not certain ‘uncomplicated’ is an adjective which was applicable to our profession at any time.”

“Truly spoken.” The constables both bent down to retrieve a large apparatus from the bottom shelf. “Nonetheless, this Fused-Fiction Disentanglement Device is becoming quite a strain on the nerves, if I do say so.”

“As well as on the muscles,” Constable Doc huffed as they both strained to lift it. “But such is the lot of those of us under the Hydraulic Hyacinth. Her agents aren’t referred to as ‘Various and Sundries’ for no reason, after all.”

The constables carried the FFDD across the room and lay it before the wall where the Aether would soon be parted to allow entry into the o’er-crossed canonical worlds. Constable Vanna then walked to the TACD and began to flip a series of numeric dials.

“May I assume,” asked she, “that Holmes is once again traveling to Paris to consort with revolutionaries, in spite of the impropriety of a well-known British celebrity doing so during a period of social unrest in France?”

“You certainly may assume so, for it is precisely the case.”

Constable Vanna tsked and shook her head sadly. “Well, it falls to us, now. Shall we on, Mr. Doc?”

“Certainly, Madam!”

* * *

In practiced unison, Constable Doc slapped Mr. Holmes across the face with The Sign of Four as Constable Vanna delivered a much softer blow to Monsieur Enjolras with a copy of the Brick. The mouths of both canonical persons expelled a bright white fog, which mixed together to form a ghostly gentleman in top hat and cane. The constables nodded to each other before advancing on the author-eidolon.

“oh i get it were in the steampunk verson and im made out of steam ha ha ha AAAAH”

The eidolon was easily dissipated by copies of two powerful canons being swung through its being.

On the topic of powerful canons, however, Monsieur Enjolras was was now raising a caplock rifle to his shoulder, and Mr, Holmes was drawing an anachronistic Webley revolver.

Each constable drew a small glass ball from a pocket and threw it before one of the canonical men. The glass shattered, and from within, the mists of the river Lethe rose up to the gentlemens’ faces. The hands holding their firearms dropped, and their faces displayed a blank expression.

Constable Vanna pulled two handles out of the bank of interlocked gears which covered the top of the FFDD, and locked them into place on opposite sides of the device. “Sir, Monsieur, if I could trouble you to place your hands here, and here . . . Thank you kindly!”

With the canon characters facing each other across two sides of the FFDD, each constable kneeled down next to one of the unoccupied sides and geban to turn the cranks that protruded from those faces of the machine. The forest of gears began to rotate, all grinding against each other. Warm steam began to billow out from the base of the FFDD.

As the steam streamed past the feet of the canons, growing thicker with every crank, the streets of Paris began to fall away, collapsing like the set backgrounds in a stage show. In spite of the dazed state of his mind, Mr. Holmes detected a sensation of sliding, as though his shoes were running backwards over the rails of a train track. But after a few moments, the river of steam, the sliding sensation and the mental stupor all had vanished. Mr. Holmes found himself reclining in the sofa of his apartment at Baker Street, wondering if he had perhaps mismeasured a dose of cocaine.

* * *

Two weary constables panted as they watched Monsieur Enjolras charge back to the Corinth to rejoin his friends on the barricade. Constable Doc offered his handkerchief to Constable Vanna to wipe the sweat from her brow before using it on his own.

“I should say . . . we did well, today.” Constable Doc said while breathing heavily. “Not overly much madness today.”

“No,” agreed Constable Vanna. “Perhaps next time. Shall we retire to our Readiness Chamber?” She held her arm out with her elbow crooked.

“I certainly think we shall,” her partner replied, linking his elbow with hers.

Well, I've always been a fan of the Magical Girl genre, so...

Magical Plot Protector Agents Anne and Emma~

Anne was sleeping in her and her partner's shared room at the Protector's Garden, an interdimensional fortress that served as the hub of the Organisation, run by the Flower Princesses. She rolled over and had just gotten comfortable when...
"DI-IIIIIIIIIING!" squeaked out the small, furry animal sitting on the desk.
Anne moaned and turned to face it, when it spoke in an annoyingly high-pitched voice. "Protectors! There's a disturbance in Magical Girl Lyrical Nanoha! A Sue-wraith's possessed Momoko Takamachi and made her a magic-phobic abusive mother!"
Emma frowned. "Oh, for crying out loud. Anne, get out of bed," Anne growled and stood up. "You really should be nicer to CAD. Without him, we wouldn't be able to find out where the Stus were, or teleport, or anything!"
"Yeah, thanks for the exposition, Emms. I just wish that the Princesses had thought to make them a little less annoying. How'd you even figure out it's name, anyways?"
"CAD--Canonical Assistance Doodad. Where're the transformation thingies?" asked Emma. Anne grabbed a pair of small, black discs, each with a green cactus engraved on the front, and tossed one of them to Emma. The two girls said in unison, "Magical Guardians, Canon Protection Powers, Set Up!" In a flash of light, the two were dressed in black, frilly dresses. The black discs were now on chokers, and the two girls looked, well, like stereotypical Mahou Shoujo whose outfits had been dipped in black paint. The large gun and sword that Anne and Emma (respectively) were holding looked somewhat less stereotypical. Emma grinned. "OK, CAD! Open the portal!"
"Why do you have to be so cheerful about this?" muttered Anne.
CAD started to glow brightly, and within moments the glow had expanded into a bright-blue circle, with a slightly darker spot in the middle where the animal floated. Anne and Emma held their weapons carefully, and walked into the fic.

The follow is the logical progression (using the HQ definition of 'logic') of me reading Pieguy and Huinesoron's steampunk pieces, followed by AnnaBee's Pirates of the Plot Continuum.


>>>>>>>>>>>>>>


Constable Skeetle had just reached the most delicate operation in the servicing of his weapon, the magnificent Webley and Stronginthearm Mark VII ‘Widowmaker’ (with, of course Dr Schadenfreude’s patented Proximity Deterrent). The table in front of him was covered in parts and tools, some of which could only exist in the slightly more... relaxed reality of HQ.

Being brought up as a keen believer in the Daemonic Manifestations of the Triumvirate of Distraction, Misfortune and Comedic Timing (that recent fashion saw fit to pervert into a single entity colloquially known as the Ironic Overpower), he looked around for anything which could distract him, noting that his partner had still not arisen (who could be very distracting when she put her mind to it), and that the alarm on the Computational Engine in their shared Readiness Chamber was set to silent.

Skeetle made the required feint attempts at locating the component, thereby offering up a small sacrifice of his time as a gift just in case any of the Triumvirate may happen to be watching (the hand gestures of warding preferred by the devotees of the IO were nothing more than idle superstition to his mind).

[DRRRIIIINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNG-INGING-ING—ING]

As the last echoes faded away, Skeetle was acutely aware of two things. The first was that the volume control of their Computational Engine was now in the upright and locked position, and the second was that the resonant frequency of the bell was exactly that which would cause the Emulsific Compensator to shatter.

Some days, even the most careful observations of the required rituals left you with egg (or in this specific case, viscous blue fluid) on your face.

The noise had been loud enough to wake the dead, literally, as it turned out. Skeetle could hear the sounds of his companion moving around in her room, as he turned the control wheel of the Engine to the ‘accept’ position.

Various mechanical sounds, clicks, clacks and hisses, started emanating from the Computational Engine as the automatic keyboard began typing up the mission parameters. Other aspects of the machinery activated on cue, including the recently purchased Bugatti Self-Contained Tea Production Automaton.

The Engineer from the Department of Applied Technical Creativity had successfully integrated it with the Computational Engine the previous night, and now Skeetle would be automatically served with a cup of the finest tea prior to every mission. The Constable was a firm believer that no Gentleman Adventurer should ever have to combat the vicious multitude of the forces of badfic without first having imbibed a suitable draught, and now he wouldn’t even have to brew it himself.

A mere 8 seconds after activation, the patented Quad-Stack Supercharged Overpressure Boiler had delivered a stream of hot liquid into Skeetle’s waiting cup. With much trepidation, he slowly brought the steaming hot drink to his lips. It was time to find out if that reviewer in the latest TechnoTeapot serialisation actually knew what they were talking about.

Best. Purchase. Ever.

He was still standing in the middle of the RC, with an expression of absolute bliss on his face, when his partner walked out of her sleeping chamber. The sight of her caused his smile to turn up by a couple of notches.

“Vy must my zluuuumber be dezturbed?”

She was wearing a corset and leather trousers, the black of her clothing emphasising the paleness of her skin. Her hair, usually intricately braided, hung loose.

Skeet wandered over to the output array, cup of tea still in hand, and looked at the roll of parchment that was spilling out into a bucket. The report was clearly extensive; a couple of feet worth of printing had already collected, with more still being printed. Usually the reports generated by the Department of Expeditionary Reconnaissance were only several inches at most.

“Sky-pirates of teh Caribbean.” Skeetle read out the title of the fic they’d be going into.

“Teh?”

“Apparently. Also: Sky-pirates. Despite the fact that this abomination of an amateur literary work is set in the year of Our Lord 1665, fully two centuries and more prior to Messrs Wright and Wright perfecting their design for an effective and efficient aeronautical engine-“

“Yez, yez, I am fully avare of zhat, zame az hyu. Vot of ze mission itzelf?”

Skeetle began scanning the document printed out so far, giving his partner the highlights. “Um... according to this, there’s a whole armada of Extra-Canonical pirate ships, which can fly naturally, virtually every EC in there is a Sue or Stu, with Improbability Quotients up in the sixties at minimum, so a severe danger of Total Personality Transfer for the most lusted after canonical characters... oh...”

“Vot?”

“It seems that most of the ships have a version of the main canons. Reconnaissance think it most likely to be a collaborative effort, with each respective author lacking the capacity to share any of their LOs.”

“Zoundz like hard vurk, I vill be vanting zumtink tzu perk me up a leetle, bevore ve head in.” She sashayed into the kitchenette off the main room, taking a vial out from the prototype Chilled Organ Storage Unit that Medical may or may not know they were missing.

Skeetle’s continued assessment of the fic was interrupted by the sound of tortured metal and the grinding of gears. The typewriter stopped moving, one arm frozen in place halfway to the page.

While he was no Engineer or Armourer from DATC, Skeetle had grown used to the idiosyncrasies of their device, and cast his eye over the engine, noting which parts were locked solid, which quivered in their mountings, and which of the multitude of gauges had needles approaching the red.

“Pass me the... number seven, left handed, adjustable correction wrench, would you?”

Liza plucked the requested tool from its rack, her lips stained a dark red from drinking, and handed the high precision wrench to her partner. He sagged slightly under the weight, but quickly set about calibrating it. Spinning the dials at the business end until he was satisfied with the shape and weight distribution, Skeetle then stepped up to the malfunctioning device and, in a move that would have shocked and appalled the Oriental Artificer, rapped it smartly on its side (the Oriental Artificer, the same as any other traditionalist when it came to the fine art of percussive maintenance, would never dream of using the number seven for anything other than an overhead, vertical strike to a piece of offending machinery).

With a shudder and the hiss of venting steam, the Computational Engine started up again, almost immediately filling the small room with an unbearable racket.

[DRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNNNG]

[RATattaTATattaTATattaTATattaTATattaTAT]

[eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee]

The bell, rattle and whistle were all going, and as Skeetle once more turned the wheel to ‘accept’ he realised why the mission brief was so long. It wasn’t their mission, but rather an ‘All Officers’ alert. Maybe the integration of the Automaton hadn’t been totally successful, it made a damn good cup of tea, but had possibly affected the settings of the main Engine. Unless and until it landed him in hot water with the Portentuous Council of Transnatural Directors, Skeetle would consider that to be a fair trade-off.

The mission brief finished printing, and Skeetle scanned through the final section, detailing the specific request for assistance and the plan that the first Constables in the field had put together.

Alizabeth had finished her drink, gaining a bit of colour to her skin tone, and was rummaging through their shared weapons’ locker.

“Vot iz ze mission zhen?”

“It’s worse than I first thought! Not only do we have a veritable army of Sues, sorry, that should be ‘navy’, to deal with, and technology contamination, but the entire world is one huge Locational Continuity Error! The reason everyone uses airships is that the land has broken up into a series of ‘floating islands’.”

“Vy iz zat?”

Skeetle spoke slowly, at first trying to comprehend what he was reading, before his brain shut down all non-essential features to preserve itself. The exquisite tea was also a remarkably good coping mechanism. “According to Reconnaissance... uh... in the backstory of the fic... the world... exploded. Thus leading to the need for airships.”

“Ze Vurld exploded?”

“Yes, according to the Explorer for ‘no adequately explained reason’.”

The female Constable had finished arming herself, a pair of duelling pistols and a rapier were visible, and she’d have a couple of smaller blades hidden somewhere. Skeetle’s quad-barrelled repeating pistol and a more traditional cutlass were laid out on the table for him.

“Zo, vot iz zee plan, und vere do ve fit in to eet?”

Skeetle finished reading the mission briefing. “The plan calls for a group of Constables to take over one of the EC pirate ships, then launch it into the middle of a large, and rather lacklustre, ‘naval’ battle. Apparently the Phlostigon Department are working in conjunction with the Department for Technical Creativity to rig up a ‘large exothermic reaction generator’ that will be mounted on our captured vessel, and should wipe out all of the Technological Contaminations. Obviously, prior to that, teams are going to sent in to recover any canonical characters from the various ships, which is mostly where we’re going to come in.”

“Zho, ve are to be pirates zhen?”

“Actually my dear, the plan calls for us to chamaelenify ourselves as members of the ‘Royal Air Navy’, and why that wouldn’t be the Royal Air Force I don’t know, as the first part of the mission is to capture a pirate vessel, and we do have to keep as canonical as possible.” He began to work on the appearance altering device, calling up the default uniform for Royal Navy mariners.

Alizabeth strode forward and jabbed a finger into her partner’s chest, using her deceptively powerful strength to force him away from the intricate brasswork controls.

“No,” She announced. “I don’t like zee uniformz, ve vill be pirates.”

Skeetle opened his mouth to raise further objectives, but she cut him off before he had a chance to utter a single syllable.

“Pirates fight each odder all zee time, ve vill be perfectly canonical.”

“I still think that we should-“

Alizabeth’s hair streamed out behind her, blowing in a non-existent breeze, and her irises turned from grey to blood red. Shadows flickered across her face, as the lights within the RC flared and dimmed, and Skeetle’s flesh was covered in goosebumps due to the rapid temperature drop. All in all, it was an unnerving display, even for a seasoned Constable of the Transfictional Canonical Defence Authority.

“Alright, my darling: pirates it is.”

“Vot harre hyu vaitink vor zhen?” It had often been remarked upon in the past that Alizabeth’s accent grew stronger the more she drew on her power.

Well, my psychotic companion to move out of the way of the control column that she never bothered to learn to use, but there’s probably a more diplomatic way of putting that, thought Skeetle. He took on an apologetic tone, well aware of the finger stabbing just over his heart. “Oh, well, it’s nothing of course, but you are rather pinning me to the wall here, and I can’t quite seem to reach the controls from all the way back here.”

“Zorry.”

Skeetle added greatcoats to both of their ensembles, and selected a tricorn hat for himself. With their disguises set, and the appropriate weapons and equipment gathered, they powered up the Aetheric Sunderer and prepared to enter the Literary Realms once more.


>>>>>>>>>>>>>


'Sky-pirates of teh Caribbean' does not, to my knowledge, actually exist. Although I must admit that I haven't gone looking for it, just in case I do manage to find it.

If my writing about it causes it to exist, as the result of some sort of quantum tunneling effect or other equally bizarre means, then I apologise in advance to anyone who encounters it.

This is epic, and I fully intend to write something in it.

For that matter, I might even undertake an actual Mission, albeit an extremely anachronistic one- After all, fanfiction.net alone has, much to my surprise, quite a few Dickens fics- http://www.fanfiction.net/book/Charles_Dickens/

Surely one of them must be bad enough to spork ;).

Than the ship fics. But. I had fun doing it.

PPC AU: The Pirates of the Plot Continuum

"Bolton..."
"Unhhhh..." The hammock rocked back and forth, like a wave on the sea.
"Bolton, wake UP!" Midshipman Pellew, his partner, shook his hammock, hard. Bolton sat up.
The loud sound of a bell reverberated through the entire ship... the signal for All Hands On Deck. The Sue Pirates were coming.
"What have they got?" Bolton frowned. The AHOD bell was an even better cure for drunkeness than being dunked overboard.
"The usual. The Black Pearl, the Dawn Treader, their crews, and a couple of Sue-Ships."
"Bloody Sues can't even build their own bloody ships..." Bolton grabbed his gun, loading it and filling it with powder. "How many we got?"
"Three ships, with five pairs of privateers each." Pellew grabbed a pair of cutlasses, and slid one into the scabbard on his belt.
"Good lord... they've got an army, and we've got nothing." He took a swig from the bottle of 'medicinal' bleeprum he kept in his pack, to steady himself.
"Well, we've got Cap'n Sunflower." Pellew grinned. "C'mon. All hands means you, too."
The pair ran to the ladder and climbed onto the deck, ready for battle...

I think it would be fun.

. . . but I honestly have no idea how to integrate Suicide into a steampunk universe. The closest I can get is "enlightened savage with robot arm," and I'm not sure I can pull that off. Ah well. Have fun, you guys. :D

The great brass pistons hissed with escaping steam, and the heavy riveted form of the door slid upwards to reveal the office beyond. Behind a fine mahogany desk stood a device of the most marvellous intricacy: a well-wrought tree of brass and leather, with leaves of pure gold leaf. Were one not a fully-authorised Constable of the Department of Locational Continuity Preservation (colloquially referred to as the Phlostigon Department, due to their conviction that every problem can best be solved by the explosive liberation of said element from one's target), one might be tempted to call it a work of art. It was not.

At the heart of the tangled branches, a burst of steam was expelled, and the fronds started to move. The coppery glow of the etheric transduction mechanism flared into existence, the trunk sparked with magneto-electanic force, and a voice spoke from some undefined source.

Ah, my Constables. Pray, enter, and be seated. Let not your overwhelming incompetence force us to abandon common politeness.

Constables Davillo and Serenity entered cautiously, flinching as the grand entrance sealed itself behind them. They took their seats in silence, aware of their transnaturally animated superior's gaze.

Excellent. Would you care for tea? I believe Doctor Creator d'Article has repaired the Magnetonic Pressure Oven, so there should be no further 'incidents'. No? A pity. Now then. Constable Davillo.

The former member of Oberon's court (original name Butterfly; he changed it himself) shifted uncomfortably. "The, ah, incident-"

You refer to your combustion of the entire population of the ethereal realm in the collected works of the Great Dickens?

"... I do."

According to Doctor D'Article, what you have succeeded in doing is fundamentally impossible. It defies all the laws governing ethereal beings, not to mention magneto-electanics.

"With your permission, Sir Mallon, it can hardly be impossible," Constable Serenity (vampire of the Old School, Countess of Transprussia, at least in her own world) spoke up. "He has, after all, achieved it." She ran a finger over the black leather of her corset. "Almost sent me to my grave again, indeed."

And we will come to that at a later time, the brass Sir Mallon promised. Constable Davillo, you are a severe danger to all those around you. The Transfictional Canonical Defence Agency would, I daresay, be better off with you cast out. However, it raised a branch to quell Davillo's protest, the Portentuous Council of Transnatural Directors has taken your unnatural efficiency into full account, and we have decided to continue your employment - with, of course, a suitable docking in pay. It paused for a moment. Alternately, you may transfer to the Department of Internal Structure and Services. You know the furnaces always need stoking. I leave the final decision to you.

---

AU Dafydd, Selene, BM and DOGA? Heck yes.

hS

This seems like it'll be a fun little AU. And yes, I did in fact read the entire thing out loud, with a ridiculously overdone accent and everything.