I still have many genre ideas.

I did not see this until it finished, but it is quite nice. I would like to write part next time.

That was one of our most entertaining group exercises, reading-wise.

So, yeah, another round. And... I don't know why, but some parts are formatted oddly. You can't see on white background, but there are some parts where the text has white background color.

They're really fun to read!

I'd love to do another one of these. So awesome.

I really enjoyed reading this, and would certainly like to see more like it in the future.

This was really fun! I'm kinda sad that I missed the claimings on all the genres I was reasonably sure I could write, but it'd be fun if we did something else like this again later.

I had a blast writing them and reading them, so by all means!

The two agents immediately collapsed onto the floor the moment they were in their response center.

"That was terrible!"

"I need to scrub my mouth out with something," Cris groaned. "The grammar, the terrible grammar..."

"You weren't the one crying tears of blood!" Myall wailed. She was using the edge of her sleeve to rub at her eyes, trying to get the remaining quickly drying blood out of her eyelashes and away from her tear ducts.

"I feel so unclean. What the frak happened?"

A polite cough coming from near the console caught their attention. Techno-Dann was screwing the side panel back on.

Cris immediately shoved herself off the floor. "What are you doing to our console?"

"Fixing it," said the technician. "The readings from your console were going through the roof."

"What?" Myall stared at the console. She got up, on uneasy legs. "I fixed that!"

"Yeah, after I unplugged the toaster."

"I was wondering about that," Dann said. "The Department of Dead Author Electricity Generation experienced a voltage spike just before your console recieved the mission call. Normally, the TVSS would catch it, but it looks like the console's surge protector was already experiencing some problems because its VDR had been abused to the point of failure. Beyond that, for whatever reason the thyristors in there were looping in on themselves, so the genre and style regulator board failed. I just managed to lock it to 'PPC', but we can't afford the downtime required to replace the components that need it, so don't agitate it."

Cris blinked. "Uh. Can you repeat that in simple English?"

"Your console went boom because you were melting spoons in a toaster. Don't do that anymore, and don't hit your console unless you want to experience it even more."

"See, Cris-y," Myall started, "This is all your fault, and-"

Dann turned to Myall. "And you aren't allowed to poke around in the Console anymore. It was a nightmare trying to find everything in there."

"Awwwwww."

"Now that that's sorted out, I'm heading back to DoSAT; Makes-Things is probably waiting for my report." With that, Dann left.

The two agents looked at each other.

"This was your fault."

"What do you mean, it was my fault, he just said-"

"-That it was your fault!"

RC E# descended into bickering.

AN: OMG u giuys faangs (u get it its xkuz I'm goffic lol) to all te over duz like AugstICe, shees te best what wit helpjgni me witbn the sturie. anewie O0RN WIT TE CHAPTEFR

Muyall nd Crisss (whno wrere both goffs lkie me CZU ITS BETTR N BEYNG STPID SUE PREPZ!!!111!) lpet aver a wawll and ran twoards the sue wif dere coats fliing out behind dem inane AWSEOME way.

"Were did we gett rdeese coats?" Mhyall asked.

"Nver mind thattt - whire we tallukging like iddiote prepz?" seed Crisss.

"i wishi knwe," Myhall groned. see strarted to weeep tearz uf blood. "IT HURSTS!!1!"

"kant let it stoop us! Gtta get de sue, den wecan get of out heree!"

Deyh ran up at fehe sue nd surrounded hur. the sue starred at den, bet did nuthiong cuz see wuz STOOPIT (LIEK AKLKL U PREP HA8TRS) Bill Weasle tr]yed tol stop den, but thay psuhed him down, he said "oWWW' and feelll unconshush.

"WTEF whoooare u?" sad the sue. "are u... DEBT EATTRS?!?.!1/?!"

"Noh! Were........ AGFENTS OF THEN PPPC!!!!!111!" de 2 agentz sed tgether,

"Aleena Evrlieght, aka MAree sue, aka STPOPID PREP BICH," Mhyall sed, "uer cherged wit abuzing Spag, maknig Bill Weasle occk, Multile stinmeskipz, makin miniz, aminating inmanimate objects, chanig tenzez, braking PPPC equipment, gennerbenting PPPC ajentz, nd pssing off PPPC ajentz! De pun ismint is............... DEATH!!!!1!1!"

"ny last wurds?" asked Crisss. "Pferably short 1nes?'

"but i luv Bill!!!!11!" seed teh sue.

and tehn the ajentz pulld out sum specel warns nd seed "AVERDA KAABDABRA' nd the sue melted noto a poodle of blodd.

Den the ajentz pceked up Bill Weasle nd neuralyzed him. "u don't know anyone nammed Aleena Evrlieght, ok?" crisss seed. "Ure also reelly hot n stuff" she added sexily.

"Leaf im alon nd letts GO!!!!!" Myhall seed s shee opened up a poratal. Crizss ssighed as shee flowed her partner tru the poratal back to de PPPC.

(*headdesk* I will never do that again. And now, let everything return back to normal.)

Light glinted off of the counterfeit galleons produced by the Irish team’s leprechaun’s, and Cris winced as it blinded her temporarily, her hand going for her weapon on instinct. Were the Sue aware of her and Myall, she would surely take this opportunity to attack them while they were dazzled by the leprechauns’ display. But their quarry was still unaware of their presence; they were not such poor trackers as to blunder around and alert her.

I almost wish that we could kill her now, Cris thought with a sudden savagery, coupled with an urge to leave the fic and get back to the burritos waiting for her in the response center. She said as much to Myall, who gave her a sidewise glance.

“What?”

“Look, it’d be perfect. There’s so much noise…nobody would be paying attention to us. Nobody would be paying attention to her, either, if she just got up and left and never came back…”

“Cris.” Myall’s voice brought her back down to earth. “We have to charge her first. Remember?”

“Right,” Cris said, frowning slightly. She bit her lip and tried to turn her attention back to the Quidditch game, which was – thankfully – largely unaltered by the Sue’s meddling with the canon. It was an entertaining enough match, even if she knew how it was going to end, but sometimes it was nice to be able to just sit back and enjoy it. Myall seemed to be having a good time, too, or at least as good a time as a PPC Agent on assignment was allowed to have.

So they huddled in the alcove, sneaking glances at the match, until it ended congruently to canon. The spectators began to trickle out of the stadium once the match was over and all of the excitement had subsided to a dull hum, and Myall nodded at Cris as he got up. The pair of agents insinuated themselves into the crowd near the Weasleys and Aliena – not so close as to be noticed by the Sue, but not so far away that they would lose track of her. They had an advantage in that they knew what the Weasleys’ tents looked like, a useful bit of intel that thankfully had only needed to be scouted out with a reliance on the canon, but they would still rather not have lost her. It was a matter of pride more than anything.

As they all returned to their tents, Cris and Myall hung back in the nearby woods, keeping an eye on the target’s encampment. There was another sizable amount of time before the Sue would emerge from the tent and make herself a target for assassination; the agents figured that it would be best served by resting. Myall sat down and leaned his back against a tree, closing his eyes while Cris took watch. Night soon fell.

She examined the Words in the meantime and growled out an expletive as the Weasleys argued about ‘clobbing’. “It’s cobbing,” she snarled to nobody in particular, since Myall had fallen into a light doze. “Clobbing…that sounds like something involving terrible guns in GoldenEye…” She continued to make angry noises at the typos she saw until—

—sparks split the night. That jolted her into wakefulness; she must have fallen into a light doze, and she cursed herself for being careless. She shook Myall’s shoulder to wake him up, and his eyes snapped open.

“Death Eaters,” she said. “The Sue will be out soon, doubtless to do something heroic.” As if on cue, the tent flap was thrown dramatically open, the Sue framed by the dim light from inside. Bill had been with her – he quickly withdrew as the screams of terror began.

The target was now alone.

Cris grinned like something feral. “Come on,” she said to Myall. “Let’s do this thing.”

They approached the Sue as the chaos began in earnest.

(And for the coup de grace, I leave you with the genre - or rather, the author - Tara Gilesbie. Yes, that Tara Gilesbie. Yes, the author of that masterpiece of modern literature, My Immortal.

Have fun, y'all.)

Feeling as they did the weight of The Duty, the Agents bowed to its demands, proceeding to follow the Sue’s entourage of Weasleys to, with a ray of canon shining through, the seats acquired by Mr. Weasley. The crush of witches and wizards, most decked in their cheeriest robes of support, for their favoured team, served to conceal Cris and her partner well. It also provided the most perfect opportunity for observation, and she stole a glance at her compatriot, who had, in the interim, undergone as puzzling a transformation of gender as she herself had not so long ago. It seemed to her, however, to be indelicate to enquire further.

Thankfully the majesty of the stadium was little dimmed or twisted by the Sue. However, that pleasant peace was not to last--Mr. Bromia swiftly place a restraining arm around her shoulders, even as Cris fought to keep down an expression of fury entirely unbecoming of a gentlewoman. ‘And she dares to call that Elvish?’

‘Elfish, more like,’ her partner corrected. ‘At least, so I would assume, from the notes given at the outset of this travesty.’

His words prompted her to check their progress. Small blessing though it was, they had at last arrived at the final instalment. Saying as much to Mr. Bromia, she noted the look of unvarnished, yet oddly cheerful, vicious pleasure at the reminder, for it meant that shortly they could administer justice. The realization itself served to remind them that they had not yet discussed an appropriate method, with which to dispose of the Sue. He began to discuss it--arguing that, with the discussion between Mr. Potter and the house elf Winky proceeding unchecked, the time was ripe to plan.

Cris, however, overrode him--not to put off the discussion, but by her continuing observations of the abuse of Canon, the first of which noting, in a surprising turn of events, that young Harry briefly held the author’s attention. The rare pleasure was soon abandoned, however, in favour of absolute drivel.

‘This cannot be serious!’ she burst out. ‘I will leave that she needs to guess she--the great beauty who has replaced a Veela herself in Mr. William’s affections--is different from the diminutive Winky, without remark--’

‘Were it not improper, I would note that you have indeed remarked upon it,’ her partner murmured.

‘--but this theory of the evolution of the house elves seems utterly preposterous!’ Even for the universe of Ms. Rowling’s construction, which was at time nearly as nonsensical, as the Suefics themselves could be, such a history seemed beyond the pale. Whether for good or for ill, the author--all too predictably--neglected to explore this with further depth, and the connection between the canonical elves and the superfluous Sue creations, though briefly described as male, passed quietly as the conversation at last turned to the events at hand.

The next half-hour passed in merciful uneventfulness. The respite allowed the Agents to at last discuss their plans for the creature purporting to be a Miss Aliena Everlight of elfish descent, and her painful and imminent demise. Their attention was unavoidably recaptured, with the arrival of the Malfoy family.

At the misuse of ‘there’ in place of ‘their,’ Mr. Bromia muttered with disappointment. He found it a pity indeed that the instance did not yield any interesting--much less entertaining--side effects. ‘However, one could argue that to be the greatest charge of all. There is nothing interesting left. And,’ he added after a moment’s thought, ‘that there is no easily accessible source of burritos.’

‘You might have eaten a little in the Weasley kitchen,’ Miss Wirewood reminded him.

‘And abused Mrs. Weasley’s unknowing hospitality? Hardly!’ he protested. ‘Besides, I am not certain I could trust myself to know which might have been... altered, shall we says, by Messurs Frederick and George?’

Though about to agree with the sentiment, a piece of the narration became unexpectedly distracting. ‘‘Suddenly?’’ Cris exclaimed with incredulity. ‘Surely the enmity with the Malfoys would come as no surprise to one claiming to be romantically attached to the eldest of the Weasley children!’ As she said it, the scene shifted into a sequence almost directly mirroring those of the books, and both Agents sighed with released tension.

Mr. Bromia observed that, for all the suffering employment with the PPC necessarily entailed, nonetheless it occasioned its own relief--rare as such times might be--for how many could claim witness to such an historic competition as that between Bulgaria and Ireland, during the years of the second great Wizarding War?

Cris glanced through the words briefly. ‘And the Sue deigns to spare us from further truly horrifying transgressions, for the duration of the event,’ she agreed with satisfaction. ‘I believe we may amuse ourselves with impunity.’

With such exchanges of delight, the pair located a small opening from which to observe events unfolding. Though--the great numbers of spectators having taken all the seats--they could only squeeze into close standing quarters, they hardly noticed either the discomfort or the impropriety of their situation. The Sue dismissed with almost casual insignificance the grandeur of the pageants and the excitement of the game--yet as such, only her most unimportant opinions and slight actions marred Canon’s natural beauty. For those hours of the game, Miss Wirewood was free to revel in the rush of the moment, and the heady emotions of the crowd, for once afforded a nearly-unscarred happiness, which came so rarely in the endless battle against the Sues.



[As we finally near the conclusion to the pain we have endured, the author now humbly offers up the prompt of spy thriller.]

I established that waaaaaay back in Noir.

The next genre is in the style of Jane Austen.

Fanfiction.

A constrained environment, defined by its usage and adherence to a previously created work of fiction's characters, settings, and themes. For many burgeoning young writers, this is where they begin, continuing a legacy of storywriting that has existed since we first began telling stories.

In some cases, unfortunately, in their attempts to write a story these new writers stumble into serious mistakes, ones that can cause terrible harm to the fabric of the original canon, through poor adapatation of the characters, destruction of the setting, and ignorance of the themes involved.

In this environment, of course, we find a rich ecosystem develops, with more experienced writers finding the works of the inexperienced poor, and leaving much to be wanted. These new writers also often introduce a new, invasive species into the world; Mary Sues.

Mary Sues are often unwanted things, an exotic pet set loose in the wrong environment; often dangerous on their own, they can lead to changing the story around them for the worse, for these creatures have no natural predators.

Due to this, groups of Mary Sue "hunters" developed.

Much like the ranger protects nature from negative influences that can lead to the destruction of those precious natural resources and to maintain an area's natural population, thus do members of the Canon Protective Initiative work.

Here we can see two at work; these two are constables- agents- of the Protectors of the Plot Continuum, entrusted with, in their case, culling Mary Sues from where they do not belong.

In this particular work of fiction, a particularly obtrusive Mary Sue has been located. She is an elf of the variety one often sees in high fantasy, as inspired by Tolkien's seminal work The Lord of the Rings.

Unfortunately, she is in a fanfiction that is set in the world of Harry Potter, where elves are house elves, minor servants who bind themselves to a master and work for free.

Here, she has entered a relationship with Bill Weasley, and the story is on the cusp of the Quidditch World Cup that marks the opening chapters of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. Indeed, the fanfiction has heavily borrowed from the canon, with only a few lines differing to include the Sue.

Finally, however, we see the slightest of divergences, as Aliena- as the Sue is named- and Bill are not joining Harry Potter and the others to travel by Porkey.

The constables, Myall Bromia and Cris Wirewood, are under an unsual amount of stress on their mission today, for though the Sue is a quite simple one, as far as Sues go- all members of this particular organization are required to maintain a list of wrongs done by the Sue to determine how detrimental to canon she is- there is something awry with their equipment.

In a situation where being able to react to the narrative and use it to their advantage is frequently the difference between a successful culling or perilous injury to themselves, they are at a disadvantage.

It is not preventing them from carrying out their duty, however, as they await under the Weasley family kitchen table, observing the Sue.

"Did you hear that?" Cris whispers.

"Hear what?" Myall asks, as she looks around.

"The narration! There is definitely something wrong. It sounds like David Attenborough!"

"Oh, yeah, it does, doesn't it?"

"Also, now you're a guy."

"I was hoping we could ignore that."

Finally, the Sue and her canon companion rise from the table, to put on their robes, as Percy Weasley returns from preparing himself for the day.

Charlie's robes were deep forest green, probably to offset all the bright green Ireland colors he would be collecting once they got there. Percy's robes were dark blue, and Bill's were a shade above jet black. Aryen's own robes were a rich burgundy color.

Soon after a final motherly order from Mrs Weasley, Percy, Bill, and the Sue depart for their destination through apparation, leaving our agents behind.


[Your next genre: Stream of consciousness!]

The coruscating atmosphere undulated wobbily as the freakish macrocosm carried the two gagging warriors to the subsequent division of the acidulous tale.

“By the surly beard of Mrifk!” ejaculated Cris, her ragged hair moist with perspiration and descending chaotically over her flushing pale face. “I am getting tired of these conversions in backdrop!”

“Mffmfff,” Myall husked, maw congested with edible victuals.

“How many burritos doth thee have, Myall?” Cris queried, her pale red lips twisting into a chafed grimace.

“Mmmffmfrflemffff,” sayeth Myall, gesticulating at the fictional narration unfolding around them.

Outside the abode of the Weasley clan, the atmosphere was caliginous in the early dawn. The personages from the great Rowling's original narrative had deviated from the Burrow, leaving Myall and Cris combusting with covetousness.

“Fortunate sluts!” Myall shrieked, having ingested the masticated comestibles obstructing his enunciation. “I would sacrifice all the treasures of Argon to abandon this quest!”

Cris conflicted valiantly with the urge to regurgitate all that she had consumed within that rotation of the earth as Bill aroused the Sue as one would a lover.

“Awaken, dear wench,” Bill stated whimsicorically. “We shalt depart from this domicile when thou and Percy art girded for the journey.”

Moving without sonance, the agents stalked the wench until she reached the bathroom to accomplish her toilette. Narrowing orbs that sweltered with choleric rage, the twain hunters scrutinized the Words.

“It seemeth aberrant to me,” sayeth Cris.

“What,” queried Myall?

“That the wench would hold questions of the condition and whereabouts of her comrades with the same significancy as the Quidditch game she is about to witness,” Cris replied, bustily.

“I would be far more anxious for the outcome of a sports match than the well-being of another Sue wench,” sayeth Myall. “Would not thee?”

“Aye.” Grunted Cris. “I suppose thou art correct in that judgment.

(I feel so dirty. Next genre is wildlife documentary.)

The Agents continued to watch with dismay
As the Sue simpered on in her simpersome way.
At that moment, a fortunate glitch in the text
Returned poor manned-up Cris to her own proper sex –
A luckier stroke than a Blue Bumbazoo
Finding two million bucks in his Bumbazoo shoe.
(The Blue Bumbazoos aren’t well known for their luck.
They’re quite frequently prey for the Diffenbliff Duck.)

As the Sue said she knew of old Sirius Black
Poor Cris felt her sanity starting to crack.
She dropped all her gear with a thud and a bump
And slumped to the ground in a slumpulous slump.
“This fic is the worst-written fic that I’ve seen!
It’s turned my hair white and my face has gone green!
It stinks like the stink of the stinkiest skunks.
If we don’t kill it soon, why, I might just blow chunks!”

Myall tried to console her. “Oh, Cris, don’t be blue.
Why don’t you decide how we’ll get rid of this Sue?
We can throw her from one of those cool flying cars –
Or transfer her to Pigfarts! I hear that’s on Mars!”
But Cris shook her head – she was in far more pain
Than Joe-William McFloob of Gazumperville, Maine,
Who each morning at eight from the spring to the fall
Smacks his head, without fail, on a jutting-out wall.

Molly Weasley then spoke of the Quidditch World Cup
For which all at the crack of dawn had to be up.
The dinner concluded, the guests all arose
And Cris fought the urge to stomp on the Sue’s toes.
“There must be a fabulous method to kill
This hideous Sue, for what she’s done to Bill.
I’ll think and I’ll think, and I’ll find it, you’ll see.
Then that troublesome Sue will have troubles with ME…”

[I relished the chance to write this anapest -
Of all structures and metres it's surely the best.
And now for a prompt that will challenge the brave
And drive others to madness or maybe the grave:
A story so foul it stinks worse than a hair
On a boil on the bum of a Bricklebrack Bear.
What's this vile piece of which I am rabbiting on?
Why, I speak of none else... than THE EYE OF ARGON.]

Set to the rail tracks of the original Harry Potter texts, the pawns of the anomaly girl spoke the strings of dialogue that had been set for them by their benevolent creator.

The head woman of the family began to raise her voice as she “interrogated” her son, Bill, over his choice of attire. As she did this, the two diligent agents dedicated to protection the canon, felt a small shift in the way time progressed.

“Oh my!” Chris exclaims. “A single word that was placed into this fanatical fiction has changed the tenses that are being used to describe the events that are taking place! My own actions have been infected by this vile mistake!”

Just as these words left the plot protector’s lips, the tenses of the words in the piece of atrocious fiction fixed themselves.

“Ah!” uttered Myall. “The word that is at fault in this, is ‘maintains’. The proper word is ‘maintained’, and due to this offence to the delicate structure of word tenses, I shall mark it as such on the register of crimes this reality-warping woman has committed.”

The exchange of dialogue between Mrs. Weasly and her son continued. It was an almost perfect duplicate of the exchange that happened in the original work of fiction, Harry Potter. The only deviation from the original exchange was that the mother of Bill stated to the monstrous Aliena that she desired for Aliena to convince her son to let her trim his hair.

Myalls facial features shifted into a frown. “Really, I question why this abomination to the construction of decent characters could sway Bill Weasly’s opinion more than his mother could.”

The events continued, and again as in the original book, other attendees at the table started to converse about the bizarre magical sport known as ‘Qudditch’. However, this exchange was more altered than the previous one, as the monstrous Aliena stole words from a character’s mouth, and spoke them.

The protagonist after which the tomes of fiction were named inquired what happened. Another Weasly child who was called Charlie, as well as the reality-warping Aliena, relayed the events that had occurred during a previous match of Quidditch.

According to the universal script of the fictitious work of writing, Aliena enjoyed the look on Harry’s face when she revealed to him that she took part in the sport of Quidditch. “ Yes ,Harry, elves enjoy a good round of Quidditch ever now and then.” the monster told the boy.

“This can not be!” Chris exclaimed, outraged at this statement that went against the very fabric of the Harry Potter universe. “Not only is there a misspelling, which is a minor thing considering what else was in that atrocious statement, but elves do not play Quidditch! And even if elves inhabited the world of Harry Potter, why would the boy assume that they did not play Quidditch?!” The agent took out his heat retaining liquid container, turned the nob on the lid that opened a small slide, and took a sip of mind-cleansing herbal concoction that prevented him from recalling foolishness.

“Blea?” Chris offered his trusted partner.

“Please.” Myall took the container from him, and took a long sip. She had a strong suspicion that this was going to be quite a long assignment.

When I came to, groggy and my sight blurry, I felt a sort of schizoid separation from my own body, as if I was an intruder, a mere guest, inhabiting it against some higher Will. I tried to move my limbs, but they did not obey my commands; I tried to move my mouth to express my distress, but no sounds came out. Soon I did speak, but the voice was booming and somehow alien, coming from a source that was not quite inside me.

"Well, I guess that means we better start setting up the tables”, the voice said, the voice of Bill-Weasley-who-was-not. I recoiled, even though the movement was impossible, my presence frozen within my own flesh and blood. The eyes-that-were-not-mine turned, and I saw something that made my heart-that-was-not-my-heart seize, and I was mortified as I had no clear idea whether this was because I was so terrified of the creature before me, or if the Bill-Weasley-who-was-not was so deeply amoured by it, the creature twisting the not-me to its command.

The creature was squeamous, dangly, in the rough shape of a human, with long messy hair and ears that seemed to elongate at the tips, turning into sharp edges like butcher’s knives. She grinned at the me-who-was-not, with her teeth bared, yellow grimy fangs that looked poised to tear into my throat. She produced a sound that was more like a shriek, yet even as I tried, my hands would not lift to my ears to keep it at bay. I felt my mental faculties melting away into nothingness, like water swirling down a drain.

Not-my eyes turned and saw my own brother Charles, and I was filled with simultaneous elation and worry: that my brother was here, and perhaps might aid me and see that I was not who I was, but yet also that he was exposed to this horrible beast that seemed to have me under its thrall. But I looked at Charles’s eyes with my own, and the spark I had known in them for so long was gone, and I understood then with coldness in my soul, that whatever the she-beast had done to me, it had done to Charles as well.

I watched with a mixture of curiosity and terror as my brother and I used our magickal abilities to lay out some tables in the garden, which I faintly recognized as our family’s own. I prayed that my family would not be here, and instead somewhere far away. We, so to say, continued this menial task, and the she-beast summoned some tablelinen and arrayed them on the tables we had set out. I began to wonder if this was a ritual, and the dinner that would be had on those tables would be the living flesh of I and Charles. I was beginning to see this as a mercy instead of an atrocity.

My thoughts were suddenly pierced by the distant shout of dear Percy, apparently he was here too, but I could not pick out the words or their meaning. Had he come to rescue us, perhaps? I tried to will the Bill-that-was-not-me to look around, but to no avail. Instead I was captivated by the beast, which used some of its own arcane magicks to grow entire plants, darkened weeds and twisted scraggly trees, to fill the garden my father and mother had so carefully cultivated. The three of us sat down, the creature positioning itself between us, when people started streaming into the garden and joining the table; and I quickly surmised that my entire dear family had joined us on this banquet; and I wished the end for them would be swift and painless.

[Next genre: steampunk.]

“Oh no, Mysterious Somebody! The Sues are polluting Lord of the Rings! What’ll we doooo?!”
“We call… the PPC!”

(music) From all across the canon worlds they’ve gathered in this place
To stop the Sues who threaten to unravel time and space
Their origins are many but one common thing they’ve got
Is their sworn and sacred duty as PROTECTORS OF THE PLOT!

PPC!
Stop the Sues!
PPC!
It’s the life we choose!
PPC!
All for one!
PPC!
We’re havin’ fun, yeeeeah!

PPC! PROTECT THE PLOT!

PREVIOUSLY, ON PROTECTORS OF THE PLOT CONTINUUM…
“This doesn’t feel right. Two timeskips in one go…”
“I think this ‘fic is affecting us. I feel… weird.”
“Cris… were you always a man?”

The fireplace gives a ferocious roar. “Whoa, C-man, did you see that? This Sue is making canon go crazy!” Myall clings to Cris as Ron and George burst out of the fireplace. “Lord Negasparkle must have sent her after Bill!”

“I’d bet on it, My.” Cris puts a hand on his chiselled jaw. “We have to stop this totally whacked-out Sue from whacking out the whole universe!”

The mini-Aragog at their side chitters in disgust and scurries up Cris’s back as Fred “nearly jumps out of his pants”.
“You can say that again, Hogwart’s!” Myall says.

Cris punches a few buttons on his CAD. Its radical hi-tech vector display tells him Fred and George are still mostly in canon. “She hasn’t gotten to the twins yet. You know what this means, My?”

Myall shakes her head, biting her knuckle.

“It means… we can still save them!”

PROTECTORS OF THE PLOT CONTINUUM WILL BE RIGHT BACK AFTER THESE MESSAGES.

“Die, Lord Negasparkle!”
“You’ll never kill me, Agents! NEVER!”
Now you can take part in your own awesome plot protecting adventures with the new line of PPC action figures! Acacia Byrd, with kung-fu facepalming action! Jay Thorntree, with her own camera! And from the evil Mary Sues, it’s Sue Arwen and the sinister Lord Negasparkle! Collect them all! PPC Action figures, now at a store near you! PROTECT THE PLOT!
(Batteries not included. Not for children under the age of six. Made by DoSAT.)

A cartoon Luxury sneaks into a sunny kitchen and opens the cupboard.
“Finally! Now that those kids are out, I can get myself a bowl of tasty Luxury Charms! Crunchy cereal and delicious marshmallow handcuffs, underwear and skinning knives… mmmmm!”
She licks her lips and reaches for the box, only to have a net dropped on her head.
“Noooo! Foiled again!” Luxury wails as she’s surrounded by laughing kids.
“Sorry, Lux! Back to Bad Slash for you!”
Luxury pouts, and the camera focuses on the cereal box. A chirpy voice starts talking. “Enter the Luxury Charms sweepstakes to win a family vacation to New Caledonia! Just send in fifteen box tops and, in twenty-five words or less, tell us what you’d do if you found Lux after your Luxury Charms! Offer void where prohibited.”
Luxury has the last word. “Ooooh, I just want my Luxury Charms!”

PROTECTORS OF THE PLOT CONTINUUM IS BACK.

The look on Cris’s face is one of frustration. “This is not good, My. She’s just ripping off quotes from the book verbatim! I mean, she doesn’t HAVE to show these conversations!”

The duo nearly fall over as the scene jumps to outside. “Whoooooa!” Myall looks anxious. “Cris! We have to stop these scene shifts! But I don’t know how!”

“Nor do I, My.” His expression is worried. “Nor do I…”

PROTECT YOURSELF!

Cris and Myall stand in the RC, grinning. “Hey, Protector Cadets!” Cris says. “Sometimes you’ll come across a fic that makes you wanna spork your own eyes out. But before you reach for the Bleeprin, stop. Think about what drugs will do to you.”

The camera focuses on Myall. “Drugs are really bad. They can ruin your life and your brain – you might even start writing Sues yourself, and that’s no good!”

“So remember, kids,” Cris says. “Next time you’re tempted, just say no. Bleep is for sheep!”

Hogwart’s chitters enthusiastically, and the duo laugh. “You can say that again, Hogwart’s!” Cris says, and the Agents look at the camera. “Stay safe, be smart and PROTECT YOURSELF!”



Well, that was fun. Your prompt, ladies and gentlemen, is Lovecraftian Horror.

Cris stepped out of the portal, and came to a stop. He looked around, and then blessed Artemis, the great huntress, showed him their location by the light of the moon. Myall followed, and watched Bill bring Aleina in.

Aphrodite's works were crafty, but Bill's execution left much to be desired. Thus, Aleina left the room to set up a bed.

Myall swore to Zeus's daughter the keeper of wisdom that this silly behavior from Bill Weasley would not stand. Cris agreed, adding an invocation to Hera that the Weasley family would not be swayed by such things.

Unfortunately, Dionysus, the reveler, had seemingly received an invocation from the beast which the two travellers called a "Mary Sue": Mrs. Weasley was frantically at work to prepare the house against the guests. Aliena, Charlie, Bill, and Mr. Weasley
almost lost their legs at breakfast as a broom zoomed underneath the
table.

The flying broom then attacked Cris and Myall, guided by the War-God's hands. However, the gods did not forget them, least of all Athena, the wise one, who came down to the earth and deflected the course of the wild broom, guiding it gently as dearest Aphrodite would guide a lover to her chamber. The broom snapped upon impact, and with a parting blessing she left just as Charlie hatched a plan to make it
out before his mother had enlisted their help to scrub the house.

This affront against Zeus's steadfast wife was not taken lightly, however, and with a small whisper of the wind made Molly Weasley catch them. Cris, the warrior son of a common man, watched as everyone was made to scrub every dish clean. Pleased with herself, the mother of Ares left to watch her work.

Further was she pleased when Hermoine arrived, and the group watched as the twins were forced to scrub some more after attempting to sneak out for a small snack. Apollo, the poet, however, took issue with the fact that such focus on familial squabbles seemed to notice how this delayed the narrative, and so it placed a time skip.

This in turn angered the one who had blessed the two agents, who flew down next to the Wolf-god and began arguing with him. Ares, whose broom was blocked by the queen of fighters, came down and argued with Athena. This brought on the wrath of the goddess of love, and before long, every Olympian was in the room, arguing over who was right in the situation.

It was at this moment that Cris and Myall both agreed that they would never, ever leave an invocation to Athena again as long as they lived. And so, they stumbled over to Percy's room, where they watched as Percy researched cauldron bottom-thickness such that he blissfully ignored the Olympian brawl that had begun below. And so it was that they allowed the captain of the skies to intervene, breaking up the fight. Zeus reminded them that the beast known as the "Mary Sue" was to be slain at all costs, but this did not sway them. And so, he persuaded them to return to Olympus to finish their dispute, and every one of the heavenly beings returned to their home to finish the argument.

Cris and Myall, warriors of the PPC, wished they would never see these Olympian gods again, and made their way downstairs after the next time skip to see everyone except for Ron and Arthur Weasley sitting around the table, the goblets filled with wine that smelled of the sweetest grapes.

[Next Genre: Saturday Morning Cartoon]

The world blurred, shifting in softly misty colors like a watercolor viewed through the gemstones on an heirloom necklace. They continued their conversation well into the evening, the soft words of the Author murmured in their ear, and the leanly-muscled agents shivered as the chill of the timeskip caressed them.

"This doesn't feel right," Myall said softly, biting her lush pink underlip. Cris's gaze was drawn, as if it were a stallion bound by his master's powerful ropes, to the sight of his partner's distress. "Definitely charge for two timeskips in one go. Until the evening, a couple of lines of dialogue, and then--look out!"

The agents were flung violently off their feet. Myall let out a high, pure cry, half fear and half anger, as the world lurched and seemed to try to throw them off. Cris was flung hard, but he thought only of his partner's safety. Gritting his teeth, he reached out one long arm and wrapped it firmly around Myall's waist, drawing her closer and pulling them both down on the green-dappled floor of the forest.

His pulse pounded in his ears as Myall clung to him. Cool sweat streaked her forehead and long graceful throat, and her eyes were wide with doe-eyed annoyance. She was warm against him, so warm, her curves molded against his hard flat planes, the pair of them huddled together on the forest floor as the world writhed frantically around them.

"I hate timeskips," Myall murmured, her breath a cool breeze against Cris's cheek. He did his best to restrain himself from pulling her closer. "Also, get your hand off my butt."

"Er . . . sorry." Cris blinked, trying valiantly to drive the feel of Myall's soft velvety skin from his mind. "I think this 'fic is affecting us. I feel . . . weird." He gazed down at her, drinking in the sight of her. "Dazed. Like I'm dreaming."

The world righted itself for a moment, and the two cautiously climbed to their feet. The Author whispered again, her gentle voice making their soft hair sway in the breeze. They spent more and more time together throughout the next three years, and his parents were only too happy to have an elf in the family . . . And there it was again, the blurring, the mist, and again the wrenching as they were flung like leaves in the wind by the monstrous timeskip.

This time, Cris flung them both to the ground and crouched over Myall. She gazed up at him, her chest heaving as she fought to breathe, one hand knotted into the cloth of his uniform shirt over his heart. She could feel the pounding now, the thunder of his hot-blooded pulse against her cool white fingers, and her eyes widened as she gazed up at him. Around the pair, the world was going mad, three years of time whirring by in moments. For the agents, it might have been a thousand.

"Cris," Myall said softly.

"Yes?" Cris whispered, afraid to breathe.

"Were you always a man?"

"Um." Cris paused. His confusion wasn't helped by the fact that in the whirlwind of the timeskip, a small rock had just smacked him in the forehead. "I . . . don't remember?"

"Get out the portal generator," Myall commanded, her soft voice sending a thrum of pleasure through her partner. "I don't want to know what the hell's going on here, and I don't want to know. Portal us to chapter two. And I believe I said get your hand off my butt."

[Next genre: Greek myth.]

Of Forest Elves that ne're a soul hath seen
Our Constables doth stalk from tree to tree,
Through beautious troves of splendid greenery.
Upon the face of Elves confusion springs,
"Why come'st I here, when I should'st be elsewhere?"

From Hogwarts school the Sue hath earned degree,
And bridged the gap that long hath laid between
Two peoples in this world of mystery.
Aryen by name, but Sue we call her still,
Bill Weasley hath now come into her gaze.

"Such exposition have I never seen,"
complain'd the Constable by name of Cris.

"I cannot understand," Myall did'st say,
"For thou dost have borrito in thy mouth."

"Did'st thou not note the commas where none should
be found in any sensible man's prose?"

"Aye, I did. But did'st thou note the Sue-ish
tendency, to cling to canon people
for no reason but to say thou hung with
Sirius?"

"I did. Now see her sneak to
Bill Weasley in such a way as to make
him seem a love-struck fool, despite himself."

Queried the Sue to Bill, "Why come'st thou here?"

"I come to hone my verdant thumb techniques"
The Weasley man did'st lie so terribly
The Constables could'st see that he'd been Sue'd.

"Thou lie'st," the Sue did'st say, all full of mirth.
"What purpose hast thou in Meloria?"

Bill coyly smiled and put away his knife.
"Thou art my friend, an Auror, too, it seems;
Can thou not know what brings me to this place?"

"Thou made'st thy fortune seeking hidden gold,
Join me for tea, while'st telling me the tale."

"How did'st the Sue come, then, to know of that?"
Spoke Cris, with less burrito in the way.

Myall consider'd it a moment, then
Offered her best appraisal of the deed.
"Methinks the Sue hath pull'd it from her arse.
It is the only way that makes much sense."

-------------

That was a beast. Not even up to 500 words, but since it is all in Iambic Pentameter, I hope you will forgive it.

Next genre: Cheesy Romance Novel (Not erotica, just romance)

Next genre is Shakespearian. ^^

I stared at the console, at the smoke rising from the back and coiling in the harsh glare of the fluorescent light. Coiling like a snake, a snake that was also made out of smoke. A Sue. Oh, sure, we’d dealt with Sues before, they were a dime a dozen even down here in Floaters. Those dames were always trouble with a capital T, and a capital ROUBLE as well. Maybe it was the burrito I had just, against all better advice, taken a bite out of, but there was something in my gut telling me this mission was going to go south faster than a migratory bird on an all-caffeine diet.

Speaking of dubious diets, my partner Myall was busy cramming another one of those burritos into her mouth. I hoped she wouldn’t get indigestion – the last thing you needed on the mean streets of fanfic patrol was a tummyache. Fastest way to be put in a Chicago overcoat was to let your guard down around a Sue. They’d ice you or brainwash you faster than you could say “don’t ice me or brainwash me”.

And yet Myall was busy throwing caution to the wind like a frisbee. That broad was crazier than a Bad Slasher who volunteered for permanent Kingdom Hearts duty. But we all have to take the cards we’re dealt in life – whether they’re aces or jokers.

A silhouette moved past the window in our door, which was odd, since our door hadn’t had a window a moment ago. There was a gentle knock, or more like a rustling, like the sound a plant might make if it knocked on a door. Then the door opened, and we saw that a plant had knocked on the door.

The Floating Hyacinth walked into our office, smooth as a bald man’s scalp. She had a body like a fine violin, in that they were both composed largely of vegetable matter, and her fronds swayed back and forth like… fronds, swaying back and forth. I could tell this Flower was going to be trouble – but then, Flowers always are.

Agents, the Hyacinth said in a voice like a dream: that is, entirely within our minds. I trust you received your mission alright.

“Yeah,” I said, not trusting the plant as far as I could spit. Which was pretty far, actually, if I say so myself. “Yeah, we got your mission. Why come down here personally?”

The Hyacinth chuckled. I just wanted to… make sure you were going to do your jobs properly. This fic is serious business, Agents. I don’t want you messing it up like Santa Destroy.

Santa Destroy. I gritted my teeth. That failed No More Heroes mission was dead now, dead and buried like a zombie that hadn’t come back to life, but it still followed us around, haunting us like a zombie that had come back to life.

“We’ll get it done, Hyacinth. You just make sure and pony up the dough.”

Another chuckle. I’ll tell Human Resources to get right on it. I was fairly certain there was no Human Resources, but before I could tell her that, she was already walking out, cool as a cucumber in the heart of a glacier.

I turned to Myall. “Come on. Let’s skedaddle before the boss lady decides to come back for round two.”

We grabbed our trusty gear – well-worn, all half broken, but then what wasn’t, in this end of the PPC (or the entire PPC) – and set the controls. The portal popped open like the gates of Hell themselves – but this wasn’t Hell. This was badfic, and badfic could be much worse, like a thing that is much worse.

We stepped through the portal and into pre-fic space, empty as a politician’s soul and white as a polar bear eating vanilla ice cream out of a plain china bowl with a plastic disposable spoon in the middle of a blizzard, and waited for the nightmare to begin. Or the fic, rather.

Next prompt: TEXT ADVENTURE.

Once the Console had been restored to good repair and the two Agents had the full report available, they knew they had a particularly vicious and complicated case on their hands: several breaches of canon, and heinous crimes against good taste. The intelligence report indicated that the continuity involved was Harry Potter. This was a continuity riddled with such problems due to its massive popularity, and required constant vigilance on the part of the Protectors of the Plot Continuum. Agents Wirewood and Bromia did not have any particular experience in solving canon breaches involving the Harry Potter continuity, but the mission briefing assured them that their knowledge of the continuity would suffice; and due to the aforementioned frequency of Harry Potter missions, most Agents had some experience working with the continuity regardless. On the other hand, the fact that no specialist was necessary spoke of the seriousness of the crime.

The story involved a Mary Sue of unknown magnitude, many instances of wild Out of Character behaviour, and overuse of adverbs. To the Agents’ chagrin, large parts of the report had been corrupted by “technical difficulties”, meaning they would be going in partially blind. A lot of the Agents’ work, and even their very survival, would hinge on their own reconnaissance of the story. It was clear, then, that they would need to infiltrate the story itself to compile the needed evidence and then finally be judge, jury and executioner to the Mary Sue, whose identity was unknown at the time. This was their job, and they were reasonably ready for it.

To deal with breaches of Canon and crimes against it, the Protectors of the Plot Continuum have a multitude of devices and technologies at their disposal. The Console is able to generate a portal that allows the Agents access into the various dimensions of the multiverse. This portal can be activated even from within the fic, at will, using a remote activator. Once on the ground, they could use Character Analysis Devices to determine the level of canonicity or OOCity in the mission.

However, it was Agent Bromia’s firm opinion that the best and most useful tool in an Agent’s arsenal was the notepad and the pen. Agent Wirewood was not similarly convinced, and the two would often argue on the merits of gathering charges “in your head” or by simply writing them down. The debate between the two schools of thought rages to this day.

After familiarizing themselves with the intelligence -- what there was of it -- the Agents prepared for the task ahead, both mentally and in practice. The division of labour was that Agent Bromia would gather up the necessary foodstuffs, estimating the length of the mission to be, while Agent Wirewood would collect their various investigative devices and ensure that they were still functional. This was a complicated and thorough process, which needed to be done properly because the Agents’ success depended on their equipment being in as sharp a condition as possible. Agent Wirewood spent roughly five minutes on it before every mission, and most of those minutes were consumed by finding where the CAD had been stowed: it was, after all, a device with many uses, and on this occasion it had been employed as a doorstop.

Everything finally ready, it was time to open the portal and enter the story itself.

[The genre prompt for the next one is noir.]

Cris leaped out from her sleeping quarters and strode to the console. Sitting in the chair—barely beating Myall, who had attempted to race her into it—Cris pressed the Accept button. She began to read the Intelligence report when the console’s viewing screen flickered and static obscured the report.

Cris frowned. “What’s happening?”

Myall forced down a mouthful of burrito before saying, “There must have been some kind of power fluctuation at DoDAEG! Hang on.” She knelt down and yanked on a side panel of the console that had clearly seen many such yanks before. “I think I can increase the power flow to our RC if I cross these wires.”

The inside of the console was a mess of wires, and also a rat skeleton, leading away into shadows that seemed just a little too dark and vast, even for a machine as large as a console. Metal boxes were suspended from the underside of the keyboard, and others were rising from the floor, all with tangles of wires interconnecting them all or leading to the monitor above. Some wires hung limply with only one end plugged into something. Others were suspended in midair, plugged into themselves. Numerous circuit boards were leaning against one another, with motherboards accompanied by fatherboards and babyboards, all held immobile by the tractor beams of mothershipboards. A tower of miniature subwoofers occupied a near corner, stacked atop each other and leaning against the console’s casing and the various wires and boxes and circuits. In the dead center of the space that the console actually appeared to inhabit was the CPU, a shining metal canister covered in removable panels with lights like those on a Tron suit racing all around it. Occasionally, small bolts of electricity arced outwards from the CPU, and the smell of burning rubber was slowly beginning to fill the air.

Myall reached inside, and Cris watched in confusion as she started rearranging wires with one hand, since the other was still holding the half-eaten burrito. “Oh, that leaves too many ports exposed. If I open this panel, I can get some more wires from the inside to the outside, so long as this doesn’t start sparking. I wish we had remembered to pick up that bag of fuses before we left that deletion! I’ve never seen this before, I wonder mah mah mum mum.”
Her speech degenerated into mumbles as the burrito found its way into her mouth once again.

Impatient, Cris rolled her eyes and looked back the console, hoping to see some sign of life from the machine. A red glow in the corner of her eye caught her attention instead.

“Uh. Myall. I think I see the source of the problem.”

Myall snickered. “No offense, Cris-y, but a PPC console is a very delicate piece of equipment, and—”

“And a toaster, by contrast, isn’t. Hence why it tends to cause problems when someone puts spoons in the bread slots and turns it on.”

Myall peeked out from behind the console, a bit of lettuce hanging out of her mouth. “Problems?”

“Yes, problems, like futzing with anything else nearby running off the same energy source.” Cris rolled herself over to the toaster with a push against the front of the console and yanked the toaster cord out of the wall.

After a moment, the console’s screen once again displayed the intelligence report for their new mission.

“What were you trying to do, exactly?”

“Melt spoons down into sporks.”

Next genre prompt:
true crime