It was not the badfic alert siren that went off this time. Instead, it was an ordinary bedside alarm clock, conveniently shaped like a jolly smiling hamster. Its cheerful chimes were greeted with less than enthusiastic response by the occupant of the bed, one Diocletian Astreth, who opened one bleary eye, considered the clock, and then swatted it hard enough to put a crack right down the jolly hamster's jolly abdomen.
"Su," Diocletian said, rolling over. "It's the OTHER alarm."
This was addressed to a large hammock hung up near the roof of the small room. In it reposed two hundred and ten pounds of groaning Scythian, who had drunk far too much everything at the "Our Writer's Retiring, We Can Finally Get Some Sleep" party of the night before.
"Mnrgh," was his response.
"Su!" Diocletian repeated.
"Gnraaargh!" the Scythian responded, punctuating his statement with a thrown bottle of Kahlua. Diocletian took a deep breath and silently begged forgiveness for what she was about to do.
"WRITER KIDNAPPING!" she screamed, putting just enough of her Sueish soprano into it for maximum pain. Suicide jerked upright in a humorous fashion and promptly bashed his head on the ceiling, which sent the bundled hammock swinging like the cocoon of a gleeful caterpillar just about to move out into his own set of wings. Indeterminate swearing drifted down to Diocletian, who was scrambling out of bed and looking wildly for a pair of non-crusty socks.
"Dio, I will ----in' KILL YOU," Suicide said, when he had managed to stop swinging. His face was slightly green under its heavy tan. "Ugh. My mouth tastes like tin and mini-Balrog."
"No time!" his partner responded. Since the sock graveyard of the floor had yielded nothing usable, she clambered over the lower laundry foothills in search of the lost washing basket. It was around there somewhere, she knew. "A writer's been kidnapped. Get dressed, Su!"
"Good," Suicide responded.
"No, not good. Writers control our existence, you dolt!" Diocletian yelled.
"Yours, maybe. I'm a published OC, thankyouverymuch."
"Not right now, Su--you're a fanfic character! And if a writer gets kidnapped by ravenous minis, it could throw our entire existence out of whack! Are these boots yours? They've got something crusty and black on them."
"Oh, yeah. Don't ask." Suicide was suddenly a lot more alert. "Which one was it?"
"Gandalf the Beige." There was no washing basket to be found. In despair, Diocletian just shoved her sockless feet into her sneakers.
Suicide rolled over. "No worries, then."
A second sneaker beaned the hungover Scythian upside the head. "Care to rephrase that, soon-to-be-deleted-and-relying-on-the-charity-of-fellow-Board-members-for-continued-existence boy?"
"Okay, okay, okay! What kind of minis?"
"Mini-sloths."
"What, the sin?"
"No, the animal. I think. It's hard to tell in a text-based medium."
Suicide clambered awkwardly out of his hammock, revealing a pair of official HFA boxers with the Tootsitramp crest on the hip pocket. Diocletian, not interested in starting a fight, valiantly suppressed the urge to snicker like a fangirl and instead tossed him a pair of somewhat clean jeans. (They had celebrated their supposed freedom by burning their uniforms, along with an effigy of the Sunflower Official. That would be an interesting Departmental Memo.)
"Suit up, Su."
"Shotgun?" Suicide said.
"Shotgun."
"Needles?"
"Needles."
"Hitchhiker's Guide to the Continuum?"
"Check."
"Why didn't you repeat that one?"
"Too long."
"Um . . ."
"Yes?"
"A shirt would be nice, too."
"After appearing in that tabloid, you're not allowed to have shame. Let's go!"