Chapter 3: Welcome to Sunny Springs

The Sunny Springs Inn was a clean, well-kept place that had probably not seen a new paint job since Nixon and Kennedy debated on live television.  Despite the flakes in the paint, and the old sun-faded wallpaper, the place had a comfortable, old-fashioned warmth, like a baking apple pie on a windowsill.
     In room 40, Annabel Lee was examining herself in the mirror obsessively brushing her shoulder length red hair into a job interview acceptable shape. 

“Come on, it’s only an interview for a professorship at a small time college.  I mean, I bet I’ll be one of the few with a doctorate who even applied here.”

As she verbalized these thoughts to herself in the mirror she suddenly stopped brushing her hair, “But what if they want to see a sample lesson plan!?  I didn’t plan for that!” 

The hairbrush was now clasped tightly against her chest,  “What if they want to see me interact with students first?  What if they don’t like my suit jacket!?” 

            “Don’t worry, you already have the job, I guarantee it.”  Annabel jumped and whirled around to see who had answered her nervous verbal musings.  Seeing no one she inched back towards the dresser, her eyes wide, “N-no, I must’ve just imagined that, silly nerves.”

            “I’m sure you have a vivid imagination my dear, but you did not imagine it.”

She dropped her hairbrush and peered around looking for the source of the voice as she quickly wrapped her fingers around a very large copy of The Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe. 

“Umm… I’m over here, to your left.” 

Annabel spun around, the book in hand, and felt it connect with something rather bony.  She watched in horror as the cat she had hit flew off of the dresser and smacked into the wall. 

“Oh my word!” 

Annabel, book still in hand, quickly flew to the other side of the bed where she found a very dazed grey and black striped cat, “Oh, I’m sorry kitty, you startled me, I didn’t mean to hit you! Please, be ok! I’m sorry!” 

The cat’s eyes opened and it looked up at her, “Miss, if you would please refrai-“  Annabel gave a startled yelp and hit the cat with the book again. 

“Ow!  MISS, STOP HITTING ME!  Yes I am a talking cat, but it is not likely that I’m going overpower you, especially while you wield such a dangerous tome.”

Annabel rocked back off of her heels and onto her butt, quickly scooting towards the wall, still clutching the book, her eyes wide.  The cat righted himself and brought a paw up to its head, sighing a little, “Well that stung a bit. I guess no one will ever best you in battle if they catch you in a library.” 

There was silence, as the cat blinked at Annabel.  After a minute the cat raised a paw, “Hello miss, we don’t have all day for you to learn how to act like your species again.”

Annabel heard a voice, her voice, high and shrill, reply, but she couldn’t recall actually commanding her vocal chords to work, “I-I’m sorry, I just don’t normally run into talking cats.” 

“Obviously, now if you will please set down your weaponized book we have a lot to get done.”

“Excuse me?  Umm… What?  A-and who, or what, are you?” 

“My name is the Cheshire Cat,” he gave a little bow, “and I am here to take you to where all will be explained to you, Ms. Annabel Lee.”

“Ok, that made no sense, or did it?  How do you know my name!?  Wait, I’m talking to a cat, who claims to be the Cheshire Cat! I know what this is, I’m having another panic attack, aren’t I!?  This is me being nervous, if I just sit down on the bed and breath deeply you will go away, or at least stop talking...” 

Annabel jumped up, dropping the book with a “thud,” and perched on the edge of the bed, and began to breath deeply with her eyes closed.  After a couple of minutes of deep breathing Annabel opened her eyes and looked at Cheshire, “See, now you are just a normal cat who somehow managed to get into my room.  Aren’t you such a nice sweet… erm… e-ear pierced kitty…”

“Yes, well, if telling yourself that I am a normal feline helps you, then please go ahead and believe it, but really, we must be going.”

Annabel froze, her whole body tensing.  Cheshire let out a low annoyed growl, “My dear, I can guarantee you your job, and your sanity, well most of it anyways.  Now come along.”  Annabel did not budge from her spot on the edge of the bed, nor did she release her death grip on the edge of the mattress. 

Cheshire shook his head and muttered, “Bloody outsiders,” before turning back to Annabel.  

“Alright, you have two choices, either you follow the strange talking cat, or the strange talking cat will get some very large men to escort you downstairs and into the waiting car.  I’m also feeling a hairball coming on and I will leave it on your pillow if we are not out of here in a few short seconds.” 

Looking out the window, Annabel could see three very burly men standing around a dark sedan, gulped and grabbed her bag.

Annabel stepped out into the daylight eyeing the car with its black tinted windows, “I-is this some kind of mafia or government thing? Have I been being tested with some experimental hallucinogen?” 

Cheshire let out a deep breath, “Well, we are a tad paranoid, now aren’t we? No, no drugs I promise.  Though maybe a little bourbon would do you some good.”

Looking at the car, and motioning to it with his paw he purred out, “I realize it is cliché form of transportation, but I guarantee the ride will not be an elongated one.” 

The ride was not long, of course driving all the way through Sunny Springs took no more than twenty minutes, so this was no great shock.  The short trip was a positive thing though, due to the fact that Annabel was wedged between two very large silent suited men. 

Annabel could see, through tinted glass, the edge of a picture perfect campus.  She recognized a couple of the buildings as belonging to Sunny Springs Community College from the brochures she had stared at as she had applied for her job here. Never had she imagined that she would be getting her first glimpse of the campus by peering over a suited gorilla’s chest.

That incandescent ball of gas in the sky lit upon quaint looking buildings, surrounded by trim green lawns, dotted with students reading, playing Frisbee and an adorable couple taking a nap together in the sunshine.  Despite being squeezed uncomfortably between two, broad shouldered, unmoving men, Annabel felt the cool edge of confusion and terror begin to melt a little as she saw the familiar signs of academia spread out around her. 

The car rolled to a stop, and the chill returned in full force to Annabel’s spine.  The building they pulled up in front of was Spartan to say the least.  It was a concrete bunker on the edge of the campus, tucked away behind the storage sheds, beyond some out buildings. 

“I really don’t trust this, I mean, this looks like some kind of World War II bunker.” 

One of the men stepped out of the car and held the door for her, waving her towards the foreboding looking building.

“Just come in please, I promise there is a semi-reasonable explanation for this.” 

Annabel looked into the purple eyes of the cat, “I-I just don’t know.” 

Cheshire grinned, the juxtaposing sunlight glinting off of his sharp fangs, “You will be curious until the day you die if you don’t follow me, come now Alice, down the rabbit hole we must go.” 

Annabel peered down at the cat, still not moving.

“Humf, well if curiosity is not enough to move you, then perhaps… Burt, is it?” 

One of the husky men barked out, “Bob.”

“Yes, well, perhaps Bob will assist you indoors.” 

Annabel craned her neck to meet the eyes set inside a square skull atop a neck thick enough to pass for a great pine’s trunk.  With a little shiver, she began moving towards the doors.

As Annabel approached the entrance to the bunker the door creaked open and the cat ran in ahead of her.  She thought about kicking off her heels and running for a split second, but realized that one of the two men on either side of her would probably lift her off the ground and throw her over their shoulder like some kind of medieval ogre before she could make it to the trees.

Annabel took another deep breath, steadied herself and began her descent. She climbed down a very long set of stairs that led to another door which stood open, mentally kicking herself for not having called the police the first second she had started talking to a cat. Then she realized how that would have sounded over the phone line, and gave herself a teensy bit of grace. 

Annabel paused at the foot of the stairs, and tried to mentally prepare herself for whatever dungeon she was about to face.

“Come along then, you couldn’t have gotten lost just on the staircase,” the cat’s voice seemed to reverberate all around her.  Annabel tentatively stepped through the doorway. 

She suddenly found herself in a surprisingly spacious room.  The heels she had worn for the interview began to sink into the carpet, and Annabel, already unsteady with her extra two inches of height, began to feel more than a little unbalanced. She half walked, half wobbled towards one of the many high back chairs and leaned against it to better inspect her surroundings.

The room was wall-to-wall mahogany with the kind of rich embellishments that one might expect in an old Victorian Mansion.  Large classically painted portraits hung on the walls and the space had a nice crisp clean smell to it.  The furniture looked expensive, the kind that might be found in a hotel where even mice might need a reservation. 

As she surveyed the room she noticed one other person, a woman lying down on one of the sofas who appeared to be completely asleep. 

The woman on the couch looked to be in her early twenties; an extremely pale girl, a fact that was accentuated by dark jeans and a black t-shirt.  Her blonde hair was tied back in a long braid that, when she was standing probably, reached her lower back.  Annabel, a couple yards away did not get much time to examine her fellow “captive” as the woman rolled over and groaned slightly. 

The sleeping girl’s eyelids flickered a little, then her eyes slowly opened and she peered around obviously trying to get her bearings.  She turned her head and let out a couple dry coughs, and then her green eyes focused on Annabel. 

Moving with all the speed she could muster, the woman pulled a knife out of her left boot and, slightly shakily, rolled off of the couch and came towards Annabel, “Where in hell did you have your flunkies take me!?  What is this!?”

She coughed a couple more times, swallowed and turned her focus back towards Annabel, “You think just because I’m new to town you can pull this shit with me!?!” 

Annabel began to back away unsteadily, “I-I…”

She wanted to explain to the crazy-lady holding the knife that she had no idea why either of them was there, she wanted to say that she had followed a talking cat to this place, she wanted to say that some burly men had escorted her from the car into the building, anything that might stop the crazy lady from stabbing her, but her vocal chords failed her utterly. 

The girl shook her head, an act that nearly took her off of her feet.  Despite this she held onto the knife like a small child’s security blanket, “You had me tranqued like some kind of animal, you psycho!”

            Annabel was about to turn tail and run when a voice sounded out, “Ms. Masters, put the knife away, no one here wants to hurt you, and she most certainly did not bring you here.  Do you think she looks conniving enough to use tranquilizers on anyone?” 

Both women turned to see a shrunken little old man leaning on a walker, complete with fluorescent tennis balls attached to the metal contraption’s feet. 

“Please, ladies, sit down, sit down. Ms. Masters, there will be no need for violence. Ms. Lee, please sit down before you fall down.” 

Annabel trembled up to a chair and in utter fear plopped herself into it.  The other woman sat down in one opposite her, still holding her knife. 

The old man smiled at both of them, “Let me introduce myself, I am Grand Council Overseer William Wendyl Wesley.  You are Ms. Annabel Lee, most recently of Seattle, Washington where you attended school and earned your doctoral degree in English Literature, and you are Ms. Lily Masters, most recently of… well where aren’t you from? And, you have some sort of bachelor’s degree, in something not really relevant to this field.”

Annabel’s eyes flicked over to the girl with the knife, she did not look like someone who got along with academia well.

“Yes, well now that we are all acquainted,” Wesley began to lower himself into a chair, “we can get down to business.”

            There was a pause as the old man finished settling himself into a high back chair.  “You are both most likely wondering why you are here by now.” 

            “Damn skippy we are, well I can’t speak for the stuttering pixie, but I most certainly am,” the voice was in a mid-range almost growling tone.

            “You both were brought here, by one method or another, because you are both very important to the safety of the world at large.  If you haven’t noticed already, this town has some, shall we say, strange facets to it?

            “Y-you mean like the fact that the animals talk?”  Annabel suddenly seemed very attentive.

            “That is a part of it, yes, and I am sorry about sending Cheshire to get both of you.  In retrospect, I can imagine that he would be quite a shock for anyone not from around these parts,” he didn’t seem particularly sorry, more just bemused that anyone would be shocked by a talking cat’s presence. 

            The girl that Wesley had called Lily was seeming a bit more lucid, “How about the fact that you tranqued me!?  Do you normally do that to new people in town?”

            “No, that was a regrettable measure that we were forced to take by your reluctance to come here.  I hear that it took two tranquilizers to knock you out though, most impressive for a person who only stands a hair over five feet tall.” 

Lily began to twirl the knife she was holding around her index finger, “Get to the point grandpa, otherwise I am walking out of here.”

            “Yes, well, I would be very interested to see you try. But that would be a waste of everyone’s time. Anyways, you see this town is not like most towns.  Sunny Springs was a normal town until around 80 years ago when an aspiring author wrote a novel here.  We are not sure what was so special about his novel, but it changed this area permanently.” 

“You see, words, written words, have always had some influence in the world.  We all know that works such as The Torah, The Bible, even the plays of William Shakespeare have influenced the very world in which we live through inspiration.  Here, they have more than inspirational influence, they have literal application.  Things read or written here have a chance of becoming something more than thoughts or ideas, they have the chance of becoming an actual physical reality.”

            The man paused for a second and Lily jumped in, “So wait, what your saying is that things in books can just come out of them?”

            “To some extent, yes. If the correct text is read.” 

Annabel, who had been sitting with her legs crossed and had been staring at the floor with an intense desire to sink into it spoke up, “So if someone in this town reads Dracula…”

            “Then it is very possible that a rendition of the Count will be released from the book along with any other number of characters.  It does not matter what book, every piece of literature, every anthology, every trashy novel all have a chance to release something on this world.”

Wesley paused a moment to let out some dry hacking coughs into a monogrammed handkerchief before continuing, “Of course what is released rather depends on the book or writing itself.  The closer to the original work the book is, the more true to the writing the character will be that can be released from the pages.  For instance, take Cheshire here,” at his words the cat materialized on the back of his chair, his purple eyes shining down on them both, “he is from a sixth edition copy of Alice in Wonderland.  Twenty years ago someone read that copy and he came out of it.  He retains many of the same qualities as the character was supposed to in the book, but he has some definite changes.” 

The cat let out a low growl, “Not too many.” 

The old man ignored him, “The farther away from the original manuscript the less like the character is from their original intended abilities and personalities.  Of course, this means that original manuscripts are very volatile things to have around here.  What is even worse is when someone in this town writes something, there is nothing more dangerous than a first draft of a manuscript.” 

Annabel’s eyes went wide, “I think I need to sit down.”

            “You are sitting down.”

            “Oh, good job me.”

            Lily sat back in her seat, driving the blade of the knife into the arm of the chair as she did so. She was now sitting black shirt clad arms folded over her chest, her weapon within easy grabbing distance, “So, not that I’m really buying this mumbo jumbo yet, but exactly what does all this books coming to life crap have to do with us?” 

            The cat smiled down at her, “I’m sorry that a talking cat isn’t enough proof of the ‘mumbo jumbo’ for you yet. Perhaps I can find you a troll or something as equally nasty to change your mind.”

            Wesley ignored Cheshire again, “Well, you see, this town is a unique portal to the written word, most of the time it is harmless.  We have rules to protect the citizens of this town that just sound like odd ordinances to them. For instance we strictly police any books being shipped in or out of this town and take any we have to special reading rooms where trained readers can go through them and dispel anything dangerous. We explain this away by claiming that some silly group that everyone is currently terrified of is trying to either bomb them or poison them via their books. In the 1940’s it was Nazis slipping explosive devices into the American public, in the 1950’s it was Commies smuggling information… you get the idea.”

“Wait, and people actually buy that garbage?”

“Ms. Masters, people are always afraid of some group of “others,” all we have to do is play off of that fear a little and most people are willing to accept anything.”

Annabel suddenly chimed in, “So what threat are you holding over the public now?”

Wesley smiled, “Terrorists, smuggling biological weapons, such as anthrax, in between the pages of their books.  Of course, we can’t catch everything.  That is where we, the council, the author and both of you come in.  The council is a group, which monitors the activities of things that come out of books or peoples’ writings.  Long ago we realized, however, that a group of ordinary men and women who were trying to simultaneously live their lives and keep the town in order were not a competent enough force to deal with forces of fiction.  That is when the tradition of the authors came to be.  An author is a person who is selected to write us a hero, a person who can come combat whatever pops out of the books that might be more malicious than fanciful.  These are always people, real non-fiction people.  The author writes what they desire in a hero and how they come to town, then the nearest person who fits that description is inexplicably drawn here.”

            “Wait, wait, what you’re saying is that one of us is the summoned “hero” here?”

            “No, you both are.  See once a hero has been vanquished it is customary to find a new author who tries to come up with a better-written recipe for an undefeatable human hero.  Our newest author had the idea of splitting the requisite skills needed into two people, so you are both written heroes.  Ms. Annabel Lee here, she has a vast knowledge of literature, and therefore can find out the way to defeat whatever is released.  You, Ms. Lily Masters, have the muscle and the cunning to use the knowledge she gains to your advantage and incapacitate whatever needs incapacitating.  By dividing the hero into two people, we get the requisite skills and knowledge, without having to worry about having a single person who is not as competent on one end or the other.”

            “W-what about the author?  If he, well, you know, wrote us in, does that mean he controls us?”

            “No, the only power the author has over you is bringing you here, keeping you here or banishing you from here.  He is however not useless to you, he can write things into existence to help you, or change the weather, or even the landscape to help you defeat whatever you face.”

            “So what makes this one author different than the average guy with a pen?”

            “Well first of all he was chosen by the council.”

Lily rolled her eyes. Wesley, who seemed to have ignoring people down to a science, continued, “Second, he has proven that he can write with enough detail to actually summon things.  You see, a person can write about fictional events in this town, but if they are too vague, random people here will end up playing out the parts of the characters.  Greater detail is necessary to actually pull something out of the book.  It takes an even higher amount of skill to summon someone from out of town, which our author was obviously able to do.”

            “What if we don’t want to do this?”

            “Well, unfortunately you really don’t have a choice, without the consent of the council you can’t leave, and I’m not sure that you’ll want to.  We tend to treat our heroes very well here.  Your accommodations have been arranged, you will both be given jobs, and you will have a small team to aid you in your work.”

            “A team?”

            “Why yes, you have already met one member,” Wesley said gesturing to the cat above his head who now appeared to be flitting in and out of physical existence, except for his mouth and eyes which glowingly remained, “You will meet the rest when we go to inspect your headquarters.”

            “Wait old man, you can’t keep us here, it’s against the law, hell this is kidnapping.” 

            “And I’m sure if the United States government could remember for more than a second that this place existed they would care, but one of the handy things about being in a town that is powered by the written word is that we can write ourselves out of any sticky governmental situations by simply writing ourselves off the map when we need.  Now if you will please follow me I want to show you where you will be living and working.” 

Chapter 2: Too Much Coffee

 

           It had been two weeks since the council had given James approval to write his heroes.  Since then, he had slept only occasionally and showered even less.  Cheshire watched James’ stubble turn into a small fluffy beard, and viewed the plethora of cartons containing Chinese takeout, which had been consumed along with enough coffee that he was fairly sure James would never sleep again, grow from a pile into a mountain. Cheshire had peered over the man’s shoulder for days, eyeing the speedily written pages, watching for any essential details he may have been left out. 

            From what Cheshire had been able to read, he had noted that James’s writing style differed greatly from the last author that had been selected.  James didn’t seem to care about the personalities of the heroes, instead he wrote his heroes for their abilities.  Cheshire had asked once about the lack of personality that James was penning, but James had merely shrugged him off and muttered something about priorities, coffee and another serving of orange chicken. 

Cheshire did not comment on it further, after all it wasn’t his job to make sure that the heroes would have pleasant dispositions.  No, he was there to ensure James didn’t write something about an alien invasion or about the destruction of the White House at the hands of mad penguins.  He watched as the man continued to furiously scribble.

“Bored now,” he thought as he curled up and did what cats do when they tire of humans, he fell asleep. 

            James was energetically writing, his hands veritably flying across the page leaving a long trail of ink.  Suddenly he stopped, stared at the page with an expression of joy, like he had just gotten the most amazing birthday gift on the planet, and jumped out of his seat. 

Had he had anything to drink in the last hour he probably would have given a little shout of glee, but the first time he tried any type of announcement it came out as a dry wheeze.  Instead he stood, holding the pages above his head, and jumping.  He finally cleared his throat enough to blow out, “It’s finished!” 

Cheshire twitched and opened his eyes languidly, “You finished?  Good for bloody you, it’s three in the morning.  Now if you will wait about five more hours you can repeat your little dance for the council.” 

James squeaked, “It’s finished!” and then fell face first on the floor and began snoring. 

Cheshire looked at James the newly written manuscript outstretched in his arms above his head as he lay snoring on the floor, “Absolutely disgusting.” 

            James awoke several hours later, a trail of drool coming from his mouth leading to the floor. 

“Get up, come on now.” 

A cup of coffee sat in front of James and the manuscript sat neatly in a stack on the end of the writing desk. 

“Drink the coffee, take a shower, shave for the love of heaven, you are beginning to look like the March Hare.” 

James rolled over, “I-I finished.” 

            “So you squeaked last night.”

            “Don’t we need to bring my manuscript before the council?”

            “If the council smells you as you presently are, many of them will keel over into death’s icy grip. Go, shower, make yourself presentable.  Most of the council doesn’t get up before ten in the morning anyways.” 

James took a sip of the coffee and winced. Cheshire chuckled, “That’s right my little princess, some straight black coffee is going to be a little bracing after all the sugar and creams with a hint of coffee you consumed while you wrote. Now come on, get up.”

            “How did you manage to brew coffee, I mean…”

            Cheshire’s condescending voice growled out, “Even those who lack your, oh so lauded, opposable thumbs can push buttons. Now get moving, you don’t want to make me miss my afternoon nap, it would be very unpleasant for you.”

            Wesley sat down carefully in his chair, careful to not bump his new hip on the podium.  After his joints had ceased their cracking he addressed the disheveled man who was literally vibrating in front of him. 

“You finished the manuscript?”

“Yep!”  Wesley and the rest of the council jumped at the emphatic nature of the statement.  Wesley shook his head a little, “So will you please tell the council under what circumstances we can look for our heroes?”

“Absolutely!” James suddenly realized that his exuberance may not have been as contagious as he had originally thought, his tone and volume decreased as he plowed rapidly, and definitely more anxiously, on, “R-right, the one with the necessary knowledge will be coming in as an English professor at Sunny Springs College, I thought it would be an appropriate place for the one with the knowledge we need.  He or she will be the first one to apply for the job opening.  The other will be moving; looking for an apartment not far from the college, he or she will be trying to find a job at the local hardware store first, but will eventually get a job at SSC as the assistant librarian.” 

            “The local hardware store?”

            “Yeah… well I looked it up in the classifieds and it was the first place that had an opening…” 

            “Alright, we will send Cheshire to watch for them and make sure that their jobs are open for their arrival.”

            “Alrighty then, w-we’re all set!” 

            “Mr. James, are you quite alright?”

            “I am fantastic!” 

The Cheshire Cat jumped up on the podium, “No, he’s not.  I left him alone for five minutes and he managed to down five cups of Turkish coffee.  He will eventually be fine when he is no longer the human rendition of a percolator.  Luckily, he wrote them coming and staying in the same hotel for a few days, so it shouldn’t be too terribly hard to get them together to explain things.  They should be here within two days according to his timeline.”

Cheshire looked over at James who was now literally wiggling where he stood, “He really was quite competent before he went on his caffeine binge.” 

Everyone looked over at James who was now frantically straightening his sweater-vest oblivious to the world around him.  The Cheshire Cat sighed and said, “If you will alert the others, I will go baby sit him, but by the Queen of Hearts’ crochet mallet he is not allowed any more caffeine, ever.” 

Chapter 1: Killer Robot Stories Need Not Apply

 

Grand Council Overseer William Wendyl Wesley looked over his alliterative nameplate to examine the man who had been ushered into his presence.  Peering through glasses so thick that they could have been used to deflect small missiles, he found himself having difficulty focusing on the figure standing before him.  It took him over a minute to realize that this was not because of the “ravages of age,” but because the man was so jittery he was literally vibrating.  Attempting to size him up, Wesley leaned forward, feeling his back creak and pop with every centimeter. 

There wasn’t much to “size up.” James Finkelburg was no more than five-feet two-inches tall. He possessed a slight build hidden beneath a baggy sweater-vest that threatened to engulf the thin arms and legs that protruded from it, like toothpicks in a marshmallow. 

Wesley turned to look at the seven other council members and sighed, rubbing his forehead with long bony fingers, and began with the first question he had asked at least twenty times already that morning,  “Do you know why you are here?” 

James coughed a little and cleared his throat, “Y-yes sir, it is finally my turn to try and write th-the hero?”

“Incorrect, it is finally your turn to be considered for the position of writing the hero. Now, unless I ask for elaboration you will answer any remaining questions I have with a simple one-word answer.  Am I clear?” 

James looked down at his rather worn shoes, “Y-yes.” 

            Wesley had enjoyed his position on the council, watching history write itself, but as the years had worn on, his optimism and appreciation for his vocation waned.  In the fifty years he had served on this board he and the regents had only found sixteen original ideas, and so far each one of them had failed. 

Oh sure, they had all survived for some amount of time.  For instance, the German boxing champion had lasted seventeen years before being lured by harpies to face off against a depressed Danish Dane who stabbed him with a poisoned fencing foil, but the council needed someone who could survive everything.  Wesley removed his glasses and began to clean them on the sleeve of his tweed jacket, “You know, then, what this task entails?”

“Y-yes.”

“Do you, sir, think that you can write the hero that will be able to keep this town, and those beyond its borders, safe?” 

The young man, apparently too anxious to stutter out a single syllable, simply nodded. 

“Do you know the rules associated with this task?”

“Yes,” James sounded less nervous and a little indignant that his knowledge of the rules be questioned. 

Wesley replaced his glasses, folded his hands in front of him and said in a an apathetic tone, “You will recite them to the scribe at my left and if they are satisfactory then we will proceed.”

            James turned to acknowledge the middle-aged woman who was sitting with a piece of paper in front of her.  Her hair was poofed out in a manner that made it look like she had styled it via sticking a fork in a light socket and giant, glittering nails attached to bony fingers.  She reminded James quite a bit of his grade-school Boy Scout den mother, and he lost himself for a second as he suddenly realized he no longer knew how to tie a rope into twelve different knots. 

            He was brought sharply back to reality by the snapping of two bony, shiny fingernail polished, fingers, “Mistah Finkelburg,” she rolled out in a deep Boston accent, “If ya wouldn’t mind gettin’ stahted, Aye’m not gettin' ahny youngah ya know.” 

James glanced up at her lofty seat, then quickly looked back down at his ill-fitting shoes, slammed his eyes shut, and began to speak rapidly, “The first rule is that the chosen author must have a completely original idea for his or her intended hero. Some of the attributes may be similar, but it must still differ enough from its predecessors to ensure that it will not face immediate failure.  The second rule says that, if the hero should fail, the author does not have the ability to write the hero back to life again, and if their hero fails they can never attempt to write another hero into being.”

James was twisting the sweatervest like he was trying to wring the memorized rules out, as he sped onwards at a pace that would make a cattle auctioneer envious, “The third rule is that, because the heroes are actual people, one cannot write beginning parameters for one that are beyond what a normal human would have. They must be specific enough to have the necessary skills, but not so specific that a human being matching the traits can’t be found.  The final rule states that, while the author can write to help the hero, they may not interfere with heroes free will. The only time in which they can change the course of the hero’s life is iftheymustbanishthemfromthescene.”

The scribe squinted at James, “Aye’m gonna guess that last paht was right. Sure, he’s got’um.”

Wesley rubbed his temples with his claw-like fingers, “Very well, you know the rules. Remember, if you are chosen you will be bound to those rules by this council.  Now, this is a very serious matter young man, can you be counted on to stay in these parameters?”

“Y-yes,” James nodded slightly, his rushed speech deteriorating into stutters once again, finally, cautiously reopening his eyes. 

“Alright, then we will listen to your idea for the hero, please address the record keeper to my right to make sure that your idea has not already been voiced.” 

James turned to an even older man who was half leaning on a stack of books.  Before he could speak however the man piped up in a wizened voice, “Young man, I will warn you, if this council has to hear about another hero plot that involves a killer robot, or someone who invents a killer robot, or someone who contemplates a killer robot over their morning coffee we will forcibly remove you. I might even have security tazer you for good measure.” 

James gulped and little beads of sweat began to appear around his reddish hairline, “I-I assure you sir, I didn’t even think of creating a killer r-robot.” 

The old man gave him a toothy smile and wheezed out, “Proceed then.”

James straightened his loose sweater vest and spoke with a little more confidence, almost like he was going to force every ounce of bravery out of his pores, “I have m-made a study of the past written heroes. The heroes that have been written in the past have all been, g-good, well written, and well rounded, but, and don’t get me wrong I admire the previous authors, but they have been inherently… umm, well f-flawed.  Unfortunately there is no perfect person, and since the hero must be an actual human, there is no way we will ever be able to summon a single person who has all the knowledge, physical prowess and basic qualifications that w-we need.”

“Are you here simply to tell the council that we will always fail, or do you have a point Mr. Finkelburg?” 

James gulped visibly and began to speak at a greater rate of speed, “W-well, I have said that no one single hero can embody all of those qualities, they will be too dominant in some aspects and too weak at others.  Therefore, I would like to suggest a sp-split, instead of the traditional single hero, I wish to write two c-complimentary heroes.  One would have the requisite knowledge and the other the requisite physical prowess.  By creating two complimentary heroes instead of j-just one solitary hero, then we can possibly prevent the flaws that were the downfall of the previous ones.” 

The room was silent for a few moments.  Wesley stopped rubbing his temples, he sat straighter in his chair, a few of his old joints cracking as he leaned towards the back of his chair, “We will need a sample of your writing, please sit down and proceed.” 

The middle-aged scribe held out a pad of paper and a pen for James which he took gingerly, as if it might suddenly turn into a rabid weasel, saying, “W-what, well, umm, what would the council like me to write?” 

“Anything,” Wesley shooed him towards a side desk with a wave of his ancient hand, “We just need to make sure that you can actually write with enough detail to feasibly create something.” 

James walked over to a small table and chair, the sounds of frantic scribbling echoing through the chamber before his pants even connected with the seat.  Within moments, the sound of hooves could be heard and the council room door sprang open with enough force it nearly took the heavy oak contraptions off of their hinges.  In the doorway stood a tall, white, unicorn, its majestic gold horn nearly touching the top of the tall doorway that lead into the council chambers. 

Wesley leaned forward in his chair, “Mr. Finkelburg, you can stop writing, if you will please come over here once more.” 

Wesley motioned to some men standing at the doorway, “Security, if you wouldn’t mind removing the creature before it messes on the carpet it would be greatly appreciated; those blue stains from the last unicorn took environmental services ages to clean up.” 

Three men in blue uniforms stepped forward, calmly haltered the unicorn and lead it out of the council room closing the partially destroyed doors behind them as best they could. 

“Well, Mr. James, a unicorn… isn’t that a little cliché?”

“I s-suppose so, b-but I thought you just wanted me to write with enough detail to make it work.”

“So we did,” Wesley leaned back in his chair and, returning to massaging his aching head, said, “This council must deliberate, if you will please remove yourself to the outer chambers, we will call you back in once a decision has been made.”

            The lobby outside of the council chamber was a plush one.  The carpet was thick enough that the soles of James’s shoes disappeared in the pile as he sat, nervously drumming his fingers on his legs.  James leaned forward in the dark green high-back chair looking up at the silver clock on the wall every few seconds. 

Over one hundred authors had been interviewed since the last hero had died, and here he sat in the dire hope that he would be the one that the council would pick for such an honor.  The more he thought about it the more nervous he got, the more nervous he got the more he looked at the clock, the more he looked at the clock the more he ignored what was going on in the room around him. 

“If you keep turning your head that quickly you are surely going to snap your rather scrawny neck.”

            James jumped at the sound of the smooth low rolling voice, which suddenly appeared at his left arm.  He swung around only to be met with two bright purple eyes set amid short grey hair.  James leapt back out of the chair nearly falling on a wooden coffee table. 

“Myyyyyy how you are jumpy.  You are worse than that damnable Mad-Hatter.”  

On the arm of the chair sat a grey and black striped cat, with bright purple eyes and a silver earring piercing its right ear. 

“W-who are y-y-you?”  James said trying to regain his composure.

“I-I-I am the Cheshire Cat of course,” the tone was deadly derisive as it rolled out between sharp looking teeth.

“If y-you are the Cheshire C-cat aren’t you supposed to speak in incomprehensible riddles and twists of logic?” James said attempting to straighten his slightly askew glasses.

“I came out of a sixth edition volume of Alice in Wonderland, I’m afraid. After so many printings some of the qualities of my character got washed out a bit.  However, if you would prefer, I could start speaking in riddles,” the cat’s eyes literally lit up as a fiendish grin crossed his face.

“No, thank you.” 

The cat stretched, yawned and smirked, his fangs catching the light in the room. 

“You are James Finkelburg, correct?”  James wasn’t sure if he should be speaking to a sixth edition escapee, and the cat noticed his hesitation. 

“I was in the council room, you were too frightened to notice me I imagine,” James still looked hesitant and Cheshire let out a low growl, “Well, if it eases your paranoid, little mind, I work for the council.”

James did not respond, instead he seemed to tense even further. 

“I heard your idea, two heroes, well that is a twist that even the record keeper hasn’t heard.  I find it… shall we say, refreshing?”

            James blinked a couple of times before enthusiastically sputtering out, “D-do you think the council likes it?” 

The cat turned his head impossibly far to the right and then said, “Well, not to get your itty-bitty hopes up, they have been in there for some time, normally when they reject someone they do so quickly.” 

At that moment the council doors opened and a security guard said, “If Mr. Finkelburg, and yes, you too Cheshire, would follow me into the council chamber, then the council can render its final decision.” 

James wiped his sweaty palms on his khakis and shuffled into the council’s presence.

             Wesley watched the man in front perspire and wiggle under his own anxious strain as he waited for the council’s answer.  He struggled to remind himself that this was not actually the man who would be in the front lines of battle, he would simply be writing for those who would be. 

After a few moments he leaned forward, “James Finkelburg, the council has made a decision.  You will proceed with writing the next hero into our situation, or in your case the next heroes.” 

James had a look of absolute shock plastered across his face, this was not a man who was chosen for anything, from sports teams, to dates to successfully carry a pile of twigs. 

“You will start today and you will not leave the author’s apartment we have set up for you until you are finished.  Do you have any questions?”

            “No s-sir.”

            “Good, Cheshire here will be watching your progress and when everything has been completed to his satisfaction he will alert us.  He will also be the one to head up the search to find your heroes once you have written them in.  Now if you will follow Cheshire he will show you to your home until the task is completed.”

            Cheshire appeared at Wesley’s side, “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how heroes are born.”