Did you know...that this part is nearly twice the length of the last one? Which, in its turn, was nearly twice the length of the first one? If these keep doubling, we'll end up with a novella.
Not that that's a bad thing...
So, without further ado: Part 3!
Actually I'm going to ado just a little bit more, in a disclaimer. I don't own any of these canon characters. I also don't own any of the canon species. Furthermore, I don't even own the PPC! (Much less the various canons and fanfics referenced here). But, lovely people that you are, you probably knew this already, so...I shall stop adoing now and let you read on. Enjoy!
--
Part 3: “We need to find that meatloaf!”
Dawn scowled at her ragtag band of two Hunters, a supernatural creature, a teenaged witch, and a metafictional writer. She was not at all happy about DawnFire’s summary of the events taking place in HQ right now: the meatloaf was bad enough when it wasn’t a giant, people-eating monster. There was a reason she tended to avoid it (besides being vegetarian, that is). And, of course, she was stuck trying to lead a group that had Dean Winchester in it; and of course he insisted on leaving the safety (relative) of RC 18 and going to find the monster—because, apparently, an angel was an angel, and therefore Castiel was at risk. Dawn was a little more worried about how to send all the cats back home, and couldn’t even be bothered to add the moment to her list of moments that could be Destiel in nature.
And even worse, Hermione had regained her voice and her confidence, and was staying busy asking questions of DawnFire, who was doing her best to answer and not just stare at the Polyjuiced canon character. In between answers, however, she glanced around nervously. Dawn might have sympathized, or made some gesture of comfort or solidarity, if she had been less angry with the situation and less stressed by Dean’s demands.
Several corridors later, Sam had joined Hermione in questioning DawnFire, who was now fighting a losing battle with the staring, even in the dim light. After several minutes of conversation—during which Sam’s expression turned from politely curious to slightly uncomfortable and then shifted through the spectrum to confused—he lengthened his stride and caught up to Dean, frowning.
“Dean. Dean, this place…”
“Sam unless it’s a death trap, I don’t want to hear it. We’ve got to focus on finding Cas before the meatloaf does.”
“Dean, DawnFire says this is a story she was writing.”
This caught Dean’s attention. “What, you mean she’s a prophet? Dude, we don’t have time for this.”
“She’s not a prophet,” Dawn cut in. She glanced nervously around a corner, and decided it looked safe enough; the Laws of Narrative Comedy took note, and snickered. “She’s just a Boarder. It’s very meta, but she sort of created me and a bunch of other agents, only we’re sentient and she chronicles us more than she controls us, really, but—” she stopped in the middle of ‘it’s still the creepiest idea ever’, and blinked several times.
“Er,” said the chubby, blond man in the tartan suit. He had a pronounced English accent, and had just rounded a different corner. He was also apparently talking to himself. “Oh dear. It’s so dreadfully grey in here, isn’t it?” He spotted Dawn, and smiled. “Oh, hello! Are you also lost?”
Dawn stared. “Um,” she said. “Uh, these are not the droids you are looking for?”
“What?” Sam gave her an odd look, and smiled tentatively at the newcomer. “Hi. Uh, sorry about her, she can be a bit strange. I don’t think we’re lost…”
“Wonderful!” The blond man beamed at them. “Then perhaps you could direct me to the way out? I should really be getting back to my bookshop.”
“Wait, bookshop?” DawnFire stared more closely at the unidentified man, who looked back innocently. “You’re—wow, you’re actually Aziraphale, aren’t you? How did you get here? Was it another plothole?”
Aziraphale stared at her. “Plothole? My dear, are you feeling quite well?” He paused, frowning. “And how is it you know my name? I don’t believe we’ve met…”
“Smite you, in the face?” Dawn offered, then shook herself out of it. “Sorry. Seriously, Aziraphale? How many angels do we have to deal with?”
“Wait, he’s an angel?” Dean demanded. He pointed at the British bookseller. “Seriously? Him?”
“Oh, just because he’s not from your home canon,” Dawn snapped.
“Aziraphale is a fictional angel,” Hermione pointed out. “He’s from a book called Good Omens. Now, I understand that the Protectors of the Plot Continuum protect canons, but he shouldn’t be here, should he?”
“The Protectors of the Plot Continuum?” Aziraphale repeated. “Good heavens, is that where I am?”
Dawn stared at him. “Please tell me you don’t know who we are.”
“Well, no,” the angel admitted. “The name does sound rather familiar, though.” He was about to continue, when a man in a black suit and snakeskin books ran around a third corner and barrelled into him.
“Good Lord!” Aziraphale exclaimed. He untangled himself from the small heap that had accidentally been formed, and stared. “My dear, wherever have you been?”
“Meatloaf,” babbled the newcomer. He accepted Aziraphale’s hand, and let the angel pull him to his feet. “Giant. Growling. Couldn’t stop it.”
Aziraphale frowned. “Crowley, are you feeling quite all right?”
“Wait, Crowley?” Dean said. “That’s not Crowley.”
The newest addition to the group turned, presumably glaring at Dean through his sunglasses. “I’ve been A. J. Crowley for six thousand years, thank you very much.”
“Since when does Crowley have initials?” Sam muttered to Dean. “Or wear sunglasses?”
“Wait,” DawnFire said. To her credit, she barely stuttered; of course, it was possible she had simply gone into a mild case of shock. “Did you—you ran into the meatloaf monster?” She shuddered.
“Yeah.” Crowley straightened his suit jacket and tie, looking rather haunted. “It wouldn’t listen when I tried to talk to it, and blowing it up didn’t work either, so I ran. Look, I’m not suicidal,” he added defensively. “Who knows how long being discorporated would last here? Wherever here even is?”
“Not too long,” Dawn said, “Medical could probably patch you up. Say, you didn’t happen to notice any working lights, did you?”
Crowley just stared at her. “Is that a trick question?”
“Oh, do you normally have better lighting?” Aziraphale asked. He looked at Crowley, and sighed. “My dear, you’ve forgotten your hair.”
“What?”
Dean rolled his eyes. “Are you—you’re kidding me, right? Come on, we’ve got an angel to find.” He stalked past the Good Omens characters, scowling. Sam followed him with a somewhat awkward smile that tried to convey ‘What can I do? He’s my brother. And he’s right.’
“Are you mad?” Hermione exclaimed. She hurried after the departing Winchesters. “We can’t split up! There’s a monster on the loose!”
“Yeah, and it eats angels,” Dean retorted. “So if I can find it—”
“It doesn’t eat all sorts of angels, DawnFire said—”
Sam coughed. “Actually, DawnFire said it eats everything.”
“Ok, can we not talk about Prophet Girl right now?” Dean snapped. “We need to find that meatloaf!”
DawnFire sighed. Dawn rolled her eyes, and started walking, trailing the Boarder, two demons, and an angel. It was one of the oddest processions she’d ever been part of.
“If it helps,” DawnFire said quietly, mostly to herself, “the meatloaf’s name is Slorp.”
Judging by Crowley’s face, the only thing she had helped was his building case for proving her insanity. “It’s a meatloaf.”
“It’s a sentient meatloaf made out of Sues,” DawnFire corrected. She then considered this, and grimaced in disgust.
“I really do think you’re overreacting,” Aziraphale interjected. “I mean, it’s a bit silly, really, isn’t it? A giant meatloaf monster?”
Dawn grinned at him. “Welcome to the PPC.”
DawnFire laughed half-heartedly, glancing into the numerous shadows. Meg rolled her eyes, and quickened her pace to catch up with the Winchesters and Hermione.
“If it helps,” Dawn told her writer, “we know what places to avoid, and we’re a team of two Hunters, two demons, a witch, an angel, and an Assassin. I’d say we’re pretty well prepared.”
“Hermione’s twelve years old, Polyjuiced, and lacking a wand,” DawnFire retorted. “And the Winchesters think I’m a prophet. I get the feeling we’re going to need Cas to set them straight.” She shook her head. “Seriously, this day…well, it’s not going the way I planned.”
“At least you didn’t run into a giant meatloaf,” Crowley muttered, and was patted sympathetically on the back by Aziraphale.
“There, there,” the angel said soothingly. Crowley glared.
“You don’t believe me.”
“I’m sure it was very frightening,” the angel said.
“It was,” the demon replied.
“Even if it does sound rather silly,” Aziraphale continued.
“Exact—” Crowley stopped talking, and eyed the angel suspiciously. “It was enormous!”
“I’m sure it was,” Aziraphale replied calmly.
“And it stank!”
“I’m sure it did.”
“Angel, it tried to eat me!”
Aziraphale gave him a stern look. “My dear, don’t you think you might be exaggerating a little?”
“Ssso you don’t believe me?” Crowley demanded. “It wasss real, angel.”
DawnFire surreptitiously moved closer to Dawn; the hissing was a good deal more unnerving to hear than it was to read. Aziraphale just sighed. “Crowley, think about what you said. A giant meatloaf monster?”
“Named Slorp,” Dawn put in. DawnFire noted that she seemed almost to be enjoying herself now.
“Meatloafssss don’t have namessss!” Crowley shouted. DawnFire flinched, suddenly hoping that the demon’s sunglasses stayed where they were: she didn’t think she could take golden snake eyes in a human face on top of the hissing and the canon characters and the danger of Slorp roaming the halls. “They’re ssssupossssed to be food! Bad food, but ssstill food! Not giant monssterssssss!”
“Crowley, calm down,” Aziraphale said firmly. “You’re scaring the poor girl.”
“I’m ssscaring her?” Crowley spun around to glare at the angel, ignoring the looks he was getting from the faster-walking group. “Angel, she knowsss about the meatloaf! What if she’sss controlling it?”
“Now, I’m sure she’s not—” Aziraphale began, but was cut off by a new, also English-accented, voice.
“Not to be rude,” it said, “but why, exactly, are you shouting about meatloaf?”
The four beings turned around.
“Actually,” the man in the jumper continued, “I suppose a better question would by ‘why are you shouting about someone controlling a meatloaf’, but, well. Um.”
DawnFire stared, and clutched at Dawn’s arm. She tried to say something, but couldn’t quite find the words.
“If you had listened better, John,” said the man who had just followed man in the jumper around the corner, “you would know that he was shouting about a ‘giant meatloaf monster’ named ‘Slorp’.” He considered this. “That does sound rather silly, doesn’t it? Also, if you had paid more attention, you might have noticed the inconsistent scorch marks on the walls, most likely caused by a flamethrower. Wherever we are, time and space don’t seem to be nailed down.” He came to a halt next to John, and surveyed the quartet. “Now. Who are all of you, and why do you not care that your companions have disappeared?”
“Wha—buh—Sherlock,” DawnFire finally managed to squeak. Dawn sighed. “And, and—and John.”
“What?” Aziraphale eyed the newcomers with sudden interest. “From Conan Doyle’s books? Surely not.”
John glanced up at his friend. “You see, Sherlock? Even here, wherever here is, people read my blog.”
“Oh, shut up,” Sherlock retorted.
“Can we maybe go back to avoiding the meatloaf?” Crowley snapped. Sherlock frowned slightly at him.
“You’ve stopped hissing,” he observed.
“Wait, our companions have disappeared?” Dawn frantically looked at where the Winchesters, Hermione, and Meg had been, and started to swear…PPC-style. “Flaming Denethor! They could be anywhere!”
“Wouldn’t they just be around the corner?” John pointed out.
“Not in HQ!” Dawn set off at a fast walk. “This is awful! The SO’s going to kill me when we get the power back, isn’t he. How have we managed to lose so many canon characters?”
“It wasn’t really your fault,” DawnFire offered. Behind them, Aziraphale and Crowley sighed, and followed. Behind them, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson exchanged glances.
“Follow them?”
Sherlock shrugged. “We might as well.” The two started walking, and quickly caught up. “You,” the consulting detective said. “Crowley, was it?”
“What’s it to you?” the demon snapped.
“Your hair has slime in it. I thought you might want to know. Unless you decided it would make a good fashion change from your usual slimeless look?”
Crowley blessed, and miracled the slime away.
“Neat trick,” John commented. “Don’t suppose you could teach me how to do that? Might help with cleaning out the teapot after this one’s been at it.”
Crowley glared at the ex-soldier. “Are you a demon?”
John blinked. “Not that I’m aware of, no.”
“Then no, I can’t.”
John stared at him, decided he wasn’t joking, and coughed nervously. “Right. I’ll just…” He made some sort of gesture with his right hand, and edged away. Crowley stalked on, glaring into the shadows as though any of them might conceal carnivorous meatloaf.
Aziraphale smiled awkwardly at the Sherlock characters, thought better of making excuses for Crowley, and instead hurried to catch up with Dawn and DawnFire.
*
In another part of HQ, a Klingon was examining a note.
“‘Tonight will be a night of terror’,” he read, and frowned. “PPC HQ has no nights.”
“If I remember correctly, it’s a quote,” his partner said. She was a young brunette who stood almost a full foot shorter than the smooth-faced Klingon. She scanned the note again, and then started to look around.
“What are you looking for?”
The woman turned to give him a small smile. “It’s going to sound silly, but…a lamppost.”
“A lamppost?” The Klingon followed her, folding the note and placing it in a pocket as he went. “Reader, I have never seen a lamppost in HQ.”
“Well, one would be useful right around now,” the Reader replied. “What with the Blackout, and all, I mean. Kosar, distract me.”
The Klingon sighed. “I was once assigned to a mission in Narnia where killing the Sue was not enough to release the canon. Susan had been possessed by a secondary Sue-wraith, and I was forced to hit her head against the lamppost in order to force it out.”
“You…” The Reader turned and stared at him. “You slammed Susan’s head against the lamppost? Really?”
Kosar shrugged. “I was alone, and lacked a canon source. The lamppost was the closest thing.”
“But—” The Reader winced. “The lamppost. Really. Why wasn’t your partner with you?”
“I had no partner. This occurred some time before we met.”
“Yes, but you had a partner before that, didn’t you?”
Now it was Kosar’s turn to wince. “I did, yes, but this was after I left her.”
“Oh, right, the tribble problem.” The Reader turned a corner, trailing an annoyed Klingon.
“You mock me again. Those—creatures—are parasites, Reader. They—” He stopped.
“Well, what do you know,” the Reader said softly. “A pair of Assassins, hanging upside-down from a lamppost.”
“You were expecting to find this.”
“Well, it does fit with the quote,” the Reader replied. She examined the agents, head tilted to one side. “The question is, who has decided to imitate Holy Musical B@man? And why are they doing it in HQ?”
To be continued!
--
End notes: Good Omens was published in 1990, hence Hermione's knowledge of it. I also seem to be utterly insane; I'm writing for the first time in the following fandoms: Supernatural, Good Omens, Sherlock, and I don't even know what else, but that's already a lot. Hope everyone's in character, let me know if something seems off...
And yes. This is now SuperWhoLockOmens+all the cats' canons and the Potterverse. How crazy-awesome is that?
~DawnFire
