(This story was picked as an example of something that makes the Great Swiss Witch very angry. This is a
clear case of an author, who has the gift to write Scully very well, abusing the character to further the plot they
want to write. This Scully, although sounding so close, is still taken so far from herself
because the author wished to bend her so.
This is a problem with many a story out there. The characters are pushed into doing things they
wouldn’t do within the confines of 1013 world because the
author would like to live vicariously through them. Yes, people will say "it's just fanfic", but one
of the things that sets a wonderful author apart from the rest in any
forum is the ability to create the familiar characters we know and love, have them do outlandish
things and still manage to keep them as themselves. High
“Mary Sue” quotient can maim even the best writers, as the Swiss Witch
believes has happened in this case.
With this is mind, let us all bow our heads and learn from the following.)
(also known as, “When Literate, Normally Decent Authors Make Silly Plot Decisions and Go Horribly Awry”)
Brandon D. Ray
[email protected]
DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Do not archive at gossamer; I've already sent
it there. Anywhere else is fine, so long as my name stays on it and
no money changes hands. (Your name is on it and I haven't taken a dime.)
FEEDBACK: Go ahead; knock yourself out.
(JUST REMEMBER: YOU ASKED FOR IT.)
Ephemeral: *FEEDBACK* [email protected]
SPOILER STATEMENT: Anasazi/The Blessing Way/Paper Clip;
Gethsemane/Redux I/Redux II; small ones for Pusher, The Field Where I
Died, Paper Hearts, Never Again and Detour. (I, II, III John, Jude and Revelations.)
TIMELINE: This story takes place sometime between Redux II and
Detour. (Actually, there is no respectable time frame this story would take place in.)
RATING: PG-13, mostly for language
CONTENT STATEMENT: Scully/Frohike friendship. M/S UST. ScullyAngst,
FrohikeAngst
CLASSIFICATION: VA
SUMMARY: Sometimes it gets to be too much, and you just have to have someone to talk to.
(Yes, that’s true, but the character of Scully wouldn’t do this EVER. If she and Frohike were the last people on earth, she still wouldn’t do this!)
THANKS: To Brynna, Robbie & Trixie (who must have been too polite to steer the author clear of this idea)
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story occurs in the same universe as "Tebori", my
recently-completed casefile. It is not necessary to read "Tebori" in
order to appreciate this one, but this story *does* spoil a minor plot
point in the casefile. Of course, if you *do* want to read "Tebori",
you can find it here:
http://www.avalon.net/~publius/Tebori/Tebori.html ;)
(A new bone of contention for the Great and Glamorous Swiss Witch: Authors who plug their own work within a story like this. Stephen King, with
all his prolific tendencies, and interweaving plots and characters, doesn’t even do that. Why do we put up with it in fanfic? Grr. )
DISCLAIMER: In my dreams...(that’s exactly right.)
______________________________________________________________________________
Unusual (freakish, unnatural and totally forced) Liaisons
by Brandon D. Ray
She doesn't call me very often. But when she does, I always respond.
How could I refuse? Dana Scully is smart, she's tough, she's beautiful and she's almost unbearably sexy. In short, she's everything I've ever wanted in a woman,
and I fell for her -- hard -- within five minutes of first meeting her. (Ok. We see this author at least understands the basic concept of the character of Frohike.)
Unfortunately, she didn't fall for me, and she's made that abundantly clear, without ever quite saying anything directly. (Ok. We see now the author has the basic
concept of Scully’s reaction to Frohike’s affection.) So I've tried to cover myself and my feelings by resorting to jokes and innuendo.
Anything to avoid acknowledging -- especially to myself – that something I want very badly just isn't ever going to happen. Most of the time, it works.
Most of the time.
(You’re drawn in, aren’t you? I was. Everything seems fine in the 1013 canon. People are written well, punctuation is used in a proper sense. The language
isn’t all that bad.
Hang on. It’s amazing how something so deceptively on track can go so horribly awry.)
In any case, this afternoon she called me for only the third time in our non-relationship. Not that I'm keeping track, or anything. Of course, she didn't just call and
ask for help; that wouldn't be Scully. (See, it’s still holding water. All looks good.) Dealing with her, you have to learn to read between the lines-- which is yet
another reason for me to be in love with her. I can never resist a good mystery.
I was at the office, working on an article for the next issue of the Lone Gunman. It was a silly-ass thing -- an idea Langly cooked up and then dumped off on me.
He fancies himself an "idea man", but at least half the time I wind up writing his "concepts" -- and *more* than half the time Byers winds up spiking the whole damned
thing, or at least demanding a major rewrite. So I wasn't too displeased when the phone rang; a bit of a distraction is always welcome when I'm dealing with
one of Langly's brainfarts.
"Lone Guman," (shouldn’t that be “Gunman”? Is guman singular for Gunman or is that what Frohike calls himself when he gets all “hetted up”?) I said, cradling the
phone on my shoulder and leaning back in my swivel chair. (Preparing to enter a story that will jump completely off course.)
"Frohike, it's me. I was hoping you'd be there." (I’m going to do something completely off base.)
I recognized her voice immediately, and I reached over and turned off the tape without being asked. "Well, if it isn't the lovely Agent Scully," I replied. Almost against
my will, a happy (poor adjective use, this author knows better) smile started spreading across my face. "What can I do for you this fine afternoon?"
I actually had a pretty damned good idea what she wanted, of course (not this time, dear Frohike. You should be running to the hills for what the plot holds) . As
I said, Scully doesn't call me very often, (or ever, unless she’s working on a case) but when she does, it's always for the same reason. Mulder. ( To date,
Scully hasn’t discussed her partner or her feelings about him with anyone. It is highly unlikely that now she would discuss Mulder with, of all people, Frohike.)
"I was wondering if you had any plans for this evening," she said, her voice cool and professional. As if she were following up on a tip, or something equally innocuous.
And of course, I did have plans -- contrary to popular belief, I actually do have a life (this is a nice touch. He's a good writer. Why, oh why did this go so awry?) .
But as I've already mentioned, I can't refuse this woman anything, so all I said was, "Nothing special. Whaddaya need?"
"Do you think you could spare a couple of hours?" she asked calmly. "I've got a few matters I need to clear up about one of our old cases, and
I could use your help."
"Sure," I replied. "What time?"
"Around eight?" she suggested. "Is that okay?"
"Sure," I repeated. "Do I need to bring anything?"
"That won't be necessary," she said. "I think I have everything we'll need." (Now, Gentle Reader, did something weird just tickle the back of your mind when you
read that line? It did mine. In fact, the exact thing that pricked the great Swiss Witch’s ears up was the thought: “This author’s really not going to even TRY to go
there, are they?”) And the connection was broken.
I hung up the phone, and sat looking blankly at the computer screen, just letting my thoughts drift for a few minutes. Remembering how we got to this. (Now comes
the great display of knowledge of the series, “The X-Files”. Get ready.)
It all started because of the shit that came down as a result of Ken Suna (1st display of knowledge) hacking into the DOD's computer net. After Mulder apparently
died in that boxcar fire in New Mexico -- well, I took it kind of hard. I wanted to let out my grief with someone who would appreciate it, and maybe share it --
and that's a short list.
So I wound up at Scully's that night, drunk as a skunk. (This is canon. He did show up drunk at her door. That doesn’t merit what happens in this story though.)
Fortunately, she took me in and let me talk -- and after a while she started talking, too. (This is where canon goes away, but we’ll stay with it for now.) We reminisced
and we commiserated, and finally she made some coffee, got me sobered up, and sent me on my way. A few days later Mulder showed up again, alive, and
everything pretty much got back to normal.
Or so I thought.
A few months later *she* called *me* for the first time. It was after the Modell case -- the guy who called himself "Pusher". (2nd display of knowledge.) She and
Mulder had both had a rough time, but when she tried to reach out to him and make it better, he wouldn't allow it. No one could have been more surprised than I was
when she called and asked me to come over, but once I figured out what was going on, I did my best to pick up the pieces. We talked and we drank, and then we
talked some more and she cried a bit -- and somewhat to my surprise, I cried as well. And after a while, just like the first time, she made me some coffee and I went
home. (Ok, this is the first sign how far we’re going off track. Nothing like this has been set up in the Frohike relationship in the canon. In fact, Scully seems to be
aware that Frohike has feelings for her. Being Scully, she wouldn’t go out of her way to cry over Mulder to a man that obviously has feelings for her she’s aware of.
That’s pretty low behavior in anyone. Scully isn’t low.)
The second time Scully called was the better part of a year later, right after the two of them got back from the Melissa Ephesian case. (3rd display of knowledge) It had
been so long since the first time that I'd written that off as a fluke, and figured it would never be repeated. But there she was on the phone again, in her cool, reserved
way, asking me if I could drop by and consult with her on some technical matter. And of course, I dropped everything and went.
But that was more than a year ago, and there's been a lot of water under the bridge since then. (And the author will regurgitate it all to show us what they know.)
Mulder's apparent suicide, the business with John Lee Roche -- and of course, Scully's bout with cancer. (4th, 5th and 6th.. Hopefully, any novice reader or
watcher out there stumbling on this piece will be familiar with all these events or a trip to Deep Background will be in order to continue reading. This is a clear
example of the author name dropping to show us what they know instead telling us a story. Had they spent more time creating ways to make this idea work and
less times showing us how educated they are in the realm of the X-Files, the piece would have been better off for it.) It was only a couple of weeks ago that the
cancer went into remission, opening up a future that has her in it, when all of us -- except, perhaps, for Mulder -- had pretty much given up. And so I guess I
shouldn't really be surprised that now she's suddenly called me again.
In any case, here I am, (this tense shift is jarring, needs more work) sitting on Dana Scully's living room sofa. I've been here for over an hour, matching her
drink for drink (because we all know Scully's a notorious boozehound) as she works her way through a bottle of rather expensive brandy. Make that *very*
expensive brandy -- a European import, one of the brands that's actually made from wine, rather than just distilling it from grape juice.
Straight up, of course; I don't think Scully drinks very often, (at least he qualified this) but when she does, she gets it right. (Scully and Frohike getting
drunk on brandy in her apartment. How civil. How unlikely. See “Describing Scully” and the references to the bar.)
Scully finishes her latest shot and sets the glass carefully on the coffee table, then settles back into the sofa cushions and turns her head to look at me. She
has a faint smile on her face, but there's no joy or humor in it. I've seen this expression on her features a few times before, and I know that we're finally
about to get down to it.
"So, Hickey," (ick She only called him this when she was out of her mind in Vegas.) she says at last. "I suppose you're wondering what it's all about *this* time."
(His curiosity is probably matched only by the readers impending dread of what’s coming next.)
I simply shrug. I know from past experience that attempting a response would simply divert her, and make it that much harder for her to come to the point.
(Frohike, expert on Dana Scully. NO.) I can see her searching my face, measuring ...something. Apparently she finds what she's looking for, because finally she
nods, and leans her head against the back of the sofa, closing her eyes.
"I have a problem, Hickey," she announces (I've been written badly and will proceed in just a second to behave awfully, get out while you still can) , with
the same solemn precision that she uses in discussing a case. She's always so serious; so intense; and it occurs to me -- not for the first time -- that
I have never seen Scully laugh. I wonder if Mulder has?
"Yes, I have a problem," she continues, dragging me out of my brief reverie. A short pause; then: "I'm going to live." (And THAT’S a real problem because
all that money from the "Make A Wish" foundation will need to go back and I've already bought the Ferrari..)
I feel my eyebrows rising up on my forehead, and despite the promise I made to myself on the way over -- that I would simply sit and listen -- I can't keep myself from
commenting. "Most people wouldn't regard that as a problem," (it’s not. Not even for Scully, under normal circumstances, but we’re off the beaten path by now.) I
say, trying to keep my voice noncommittal.
"Yeah, well, most people don't know what they're talking about," she replies, the words slightly slurred by alcohol. She opens her eyes, and turns her head to look
at me again. "In fact, most people are full of shit."
I can't argue with that, so I simply nod in agreement. After a moment she continues, in a meditative tone of voice, "When I was dying, everything seemed so simple.
You know? I didn't have to worry about the future, because there wasn't going to be one. And I didn't have to worry about the past or present, because I wasn't
going to be around to deal with the consequences." She shakes her head and closes her eyes again. "I guess that's a pretty selfish attitude." (Nor does it strike the
Swiss Witch as anything close to Scully like. Scully cleans up her loose ends. She’s a doer. She didn’t meet the prospect of death with anything near complacency
on the show, if fact, if anything she's vehement about sticking with her job and duties. Since the author has dropped many assorted references to the show in the last
500 words to show they are an avid watcher, I assume this point was lost on them?)
I hesitate for a moment. It's always hard for me to find fault with anything Scully says or does -- I'm that far gone on her. (You must be over the hill to not notice this
mischaracterization. For starters, ask yourself what you’re doing in that apartment with a drunk Scully in the first place?) On the other hand, if I know anything about
Dana Scully, it's that she values honesty above all else. And so at last, very reluctantly, I say, "I guess maybe it is."
I force myself to look at her face, and I see that now her smile has turned bitter. "It's okay, Frohike," she says, with a tone that matches her facial expression. "It's okay.
I'm fine." (The great generic woman dismissive.) She leans forward and grabs the bottle, and pours herself another drink, then downs half of it in one quick gulp
before leaning back into the sofa cushions again, her glass cupped in her hands. (Scully, the liquor chugger? By the by, has anyone ever chugged brandy? Trust me,
leave it to the professionals, and of course, this Scully.)
For a few minutes we sit together in silence. I've never quite figured out how to get past the walls she builds around herself (which is why this never would happen,
the two of them aren’t close) ; I don't think she even lets Mulder into her inner sanctum. And her use of the phrase "I'm fine" is usually a signal that the drawbridge is
up, and the moat is filled with burning oil. The only thing to do in that situation is to be patient, so I take another sip from my own drink, and wait. (Although not known
for his patience, Frohike has somehow turned into Gandhi.)
Finally, she shakes her head again, opens her eyes, and murmurs, "Sorry, Hickey. (ick again) Mulder hates it when I do that." She drinks a little more brandy,
and goes on, "So my problem is that I'm going to live. And that means that I'm going to have to deal with a whole bunch of.... of *shit* that I had locked away in a
box because it didn't seem like it was ever going to matter." Her eyes gradually drift shut as she delivers these words; abruptly, they pop open again. "You see
what I mean?" (I’m afraid to. How do you feel, Gentle Reader?)
I nod cautiously. "I guess so," I say. I take another drink. "Of course, I really don't know what --"
"Oh, bullshit, Hickey!" she interjects, an edge of anger in her voice. "Don't give me that crap. You know what I'm talking about --at least, in general."
I sigh, and nod, and now it's my turn to apologize. "Sorry, Scully. You mean Mulder, of course."
"Yes, I mean Mulder, of course," (oh this is just so wrong. Let me state again: Scully would never get drunk and whine about Mulder to Frohike. That’s just
mean.) she says with a grimace. She looks at her glass, which is once again empty, then eyes the bottle sitting on the table -- but apparently she thinks better of it,
and looks back at me and shrugs. "What I want to know, Hickey, is just when that son of a bitch got to be the center of the universe." She shakes her head once
more. "No. Not the center of *the* universe -- the center of *my* universe." (ACK. I choked on my cocoa when I read that. That is so out of character. If we
continue on in this vein, this Scully will light a smoke any moment and suggest she and Frohike go “shoot some stick”.) And then she does lean forward to grab the
bottle again, and pours herself another drink. (They’ve gone through at least a gallon of the expensive imported brandy by now. With all she’s been pounding, with
her size and frame, Frohike should be finishing this story in the hospital getting Scully’s stomach pumped for alcohol poisoning.)
"I mean, I even told him once that he wasn't," she continues, swirling the pale amber liquid in her glass. "The center of the universe, I mean." She stops and takes a
sip. "'Not everything is about you,Mulder,' I said. Can you believe it? I actually said that: 'Not everything is about you.'" (7th. I had hoped we were done with this.)
She stops again and looks at me, and now I almost feel as if I'm reading from a script. "Well," I say, trying to choose my words carefully, "that's true enough, of course.
Isn't it? Not everything is --"
"Dammit, Frohike!" (Don’t back talk me when I’m abusing you!) She stops and sighs, and puts down her glass. "Sorry. Maybe I've had enough." (That’s all right. So
have we.) She leans back into the sofa again, and stretches one arm out along the back as she turns to face me.
"You're right, Hickey," (ick) she goes on. "I'm right. We're right. (No. None of these characters are right. They need to come to Switzerland and sit in an outdoor
spa for a while after this.) Not everything is about Mulder." She smiles crookedly, and without humor. "Even if I *did* get a tattoo of an Oroborous (8th, ENOUGH
ALREADY, WE KNOW YOU WATCH THE SHOW) one night because of the bastard." I feel my eyebrows shoot up in surprise, but this isn't the time or place to
pursue the matter, because suddenly her eyes are glistening with unshed tears. And she adds, in a choked whisper, "But if that's really true -- if everything really isn't
about him -- then why does it hurt so much whenever I say that?"
"I think you know the answer to that one, Scully," I reply quietly. And on this point, at least, I'm holding nothing back, because I know *exactly* how she feels.
"You know why it hurts. It's because ...." (you're written completely out of character.) I feel my throat constrict, and I find myself unable to complete the sentence.
"Just because," I repeat, feeling lame, and more than a little woozy. Maybe I've had enough, too. (Or maybe it’s just the fumes from being so near such a gross
mischaracterization.)
Once more, silence descends on the room. A minute goes by; then two. (Nobody does anything out of character. All is quiet. Ma, is that a storm coming in?)
And again, it's Scully who finally breaks it. "Yes, I do know why," she says, very softly. "And I know that you know why." (But do we know that he
knows that you know that we know that he knows why?) Something in her voice forces me to look at her, and I find myself staring into her eyes.
God ... I could spend the rest of my life looking into her eyes. I could write poetry about them. (Leave that to Susan Frankovich. She’s good at it.) They're
so bright, and blue; even in her current drunken state, her intelligence shines through like a searchlight. It would be easy to lose myself in them. So very easy --
I force myself to look away. There's nothing there for me, I remind myself. Nothing but very occasional companionship, and only when she calls; only on her terms.
I shake my glass slightly, and try to focus on the brandy sloshing back and forth. There's nothing there. I repeat the words in my mind. There's nothing there,
there's nothing there ....
(The Swiss Witch has activated the “Fasten seat belts” sign. There some major turbulence ahead.)
I'm so absorbed in my mantra that at first I don't notice her moving, sliding closer to me on the sofa. (Oh please, PLEASE don’t make Scully do this. She
would never be this cruel!) And when I do notice, it's too late -- I feel her breath against my cheek, warm and moist and smelling of very expensive brandy.
(Please, don’t go through with this, PLEASE, in the name of humanity!) And then her lips are brushing lightly against mine, (oh no. You just had to drag them
there, didn’t you?) and it's heaven, it's everything I've ever dreamed of, everything I've ever wanted, but it's not mine, it will never be mine, (and that’s the only
statement that resembles ANY kind of truth in the above paragraph. NO. Dana Scully would never kiss Frohike because she does respect him and it would
hurt him and she wouldn’t confide in him and she would never betray him this way because she’s clued in HE CARES. She just wouldn’t. She doesn’t
work that way.) and I should stop this (yes you should) , I have to stop this right now (then DO IT already) , but I can't, I just can't --
And as suddenly as it started, it's over. As my eyes focus once again, I see Scully sitting a foot or so away on the sofa, looking at me with big, sad eyes. The
expression on her face is unreadable -- some strange mix of emotions I don't really want to explore. Confusion. Surprise. Despair. Grief. (Disgust with herself for
having to be in this situation in the first place.)
But no love. (AAAAAAAAAAHHHGHGHGGHHGHGHGHGHGHGHGHGHGHGHGHGHG.)
Not that I expected there to be any.
(Gentle Reader, the Swiss Witch is pained by the callous treatment that dear Scully has received by a decent and normally talented writer. She has been liquored up and
abused. Never fear. The Swiss Witch has called 911 and will feed her chocolate until the paramedics arrive. As for the author, she will oil up the buggy whip.)
It's time for me to leave. (In this story, that is a gross and terrible understatement.)
I'm halfway to the door before I hear her stirring behind me. I tense my shoulders slightly, but I keep on walking. She's not coming after me, I remind myself. Not me.
If I were someone else -- if I were Mulder -- then maybe she would stop me from leaving. If I were Mulder – (it would make more sense for you to be
here in the first place!)
"Frohike?" (Run while you still can.)
I freeze in place, my hand resting on the doorknob, and I sigh in resignation as I slowly turn to face her. She's still sitting on the sofa, her face so very sad and solemn.
I wish I could be the one to erase that sadness; I wish I could be the one to bring a little joy to her life. I wish it could be me. I wish I could at least find the balls to
walk on out of here, but even as the thought crosses my mind, she's speaking.
"Frohike," she says, very softly. "I'm sorry. That was cruel." (That’s right. It was. That the author knows this somehow makes this worse.)
I shake my head, and somehow I find it in me to smile. "it's okay. But I think I'd better go." (St. Frohike, the benevolent and unendingly patient,
deigns to leave Bizarro Scully’s apartment after she has taken an emotional dump upon him. Ugh. The Swiss Witch grows nauseous.)
"I'm sorry," she repeats. (She should be. And you author, owe us an apology for misusing your talents for evil.) She starts to rise from the sofa, but
something -- perhaps it's in my eyes – (or the fact she’s drank half a gallon of brandy by now) dissuades her. "Wouldn't you like some coffee first?"
Again I shake my head. "Better not," I reply. "I have to .... to finish an article for the paper. And it's getting late."
"Okay." She studies me for a moment, and her expression becomes even sadder. "Frohike, what did I just do to you?" (Oh, I don’t know, Scully. Let’s go
down the list. Used me, hurt me, tried to seduce me, yelled at me, plied me with liquor and kissed me. That’s what I’ve got off the top of my head. But that’s
ok because you love Mulder. I understand. Now, I must go and divide the loaves and fishes for the masses on the Mall. Peace. Hope you’re not too hung
over in the morning. )
Again, somehow, I manage to smile. "You gave me a great gift, Scully," I say softly. "You .... you gave a man who's been blind from birth a chance to see,
even if it was only for a moment." (And now, I shall go and preach to the birds and little animals. WHO’S this supposed to BE?? Oh GAK! GAK I SAY!) I stop
and swallow the lump that's suddenly taken up residence in my throat. "That's pretty special." (And an utter load of crap.)
She nods slowly. She isn't buying it; (first thing she's done in character all story) I can see that she isn't buying it. (Neither is anyone else.) But at least she's
giving me the dignity of pretending that she believes me. (Because the character of Scully is notoriously selfish and self-placating.) "Okay," she says at last.
I want to leave; I should leave. This room has gotten very uncomfortable, and I need to get out. But I have one more thing I have to say. (NOOO!!!) "Scully?"
I wait until I'm sure I've got her attention. "Tell him." She raises an eyebrow at me, and I repeat, "Tell him. I know it's hard; I know there's been a lot of ... history.
But if it's going to end, you're going to have to end it, because he never will. So just ... tell him." (My. How noble of Frohike. Switzerland will have to write
her dear neighbor, John Paul, to see about getting him canonized for this level of selflessness.)
I know better than to expect an answer to that; somehow I just know that Scully is going to be sitting there on her sofa for a long time tonight. (She should be
passed out face down from the amount of brandy she’s consumed to act so appallingly.) Long after I've gone. In another world, perhaps I would be sitting
with her – (no. Only in this one. And hopefully it will collide with a comet soon.)
I shake my head sharply. There's nothing there, I remind myself yet again. Nothing for me, at any rate. (At least at 1013.) I take one more look at Scully,
sitting quietly on the sofa, her hands folded in her lap. She looks so calm and peaceful, but her eyes -- her eyes are someplace far away.
"Tell him," I say, one last time. From the lost, hurting expression on her face, I'm not sure she's really listening anymore, but I go on anyway. "You can do it, Scully.
Just ... show up at his door some night with some cheese and a bottle of wine." (Liquor him up and kiss him like you did me. And show a little more skin next time,
sister. A little cleavage goes a long way with a guy like Mulder!) I gesture at the nearly empty bottle on the table in front of her. (And next time, have more liquor
in the house. What kind of sloppy hostess are you? Oh that's right. In this world, you're not a sloppy hostess, just a sloppy drunk.) "And tell him."
She glances briefly down at the bottle, (chugs the rest and then hurls on her fragile, dainty self) then looks back up at me again -- and the sad little smile tugging
at the corners of her mouth tells me that maybe, just maybe, I've gotten through to her. She still doesn't say anything, though, and after another moment I turn
away and pull the door open. I step on out into the hall, and shut it quietly behind me.
And even now, deep in my soul, a part of me is holding out hope that maybe Scully will come after me. But as I approach the elevator, I don't hear anything
moving behind me. Her door doesn't open, and I don't hear the soft pad of footsteps hurrying closer. There's no hand tugging gently on my elbow, and a low,
feminine voice is not speaking my name.
Not in this reality, anyway. (Not in any reality. I’ll say it again: Not in any reality.)
The elevator ride to the ground floor seems to take a long, long time. (Probably not as long as much stomach did to settle again after reading this.)
Fini
Evilness Rating
3
It’s readable, but completely unbelievable, so I’ll have to give it a 3.
Who ARE these people?
5
5 for St. Frohike and Evil Selfish Drunken Scully.
I speech goodly
0
The language is fine. 0.
I R a gud speler
1
One typo, but a writer like this one shouldn’t have any. I give it a 1.
GAK-o-Tron
4
This is high. 4 for gross sentimentality and icky characterization.
Laziness Quotient
0
Although the plot is hackneyed, not a great user of cliché’s. 0.
Mary Sue Quotient:
5
The author's will to bend the characters to their desire was all over this piece.
Death to Clones
5
We’ve seen this is a million motion pictures, in fact, the last one I saw with a scene like this was “The Mummy”. It’s been done to death and at
least in “The Mummy” the characters stayed in character. 5.
And your point was...?" :
2
The plot, although present and well written, has been done. But due to the author’s apparent knowledge of the show, we’ll give them a 2.
5
General Evil ranking:
I’m going to be tough on this author because I know they can do better than this. 5, strictly for gross mischaracterization and high Mary Sue comment.
None. I’ve kvetched enough about the misuse of character for author’s whim. If I was writing a wild card, that’s what it would be about.
