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The Re-education of Mary Sue

By

Brenna “Sophia Cole” Beattie

 

Prologue: “Sensory Overload”

 

            The scent of magnolias drifted on the summer breeze, only slightly tainted by a passing diesel engine’s exhaust. The tree’s glossy leaves trembled as much as the woman beneath, who twisted a small gray cloche hat in her hands. She gazed up into the tree anxiously.

            “Gerard, cher,” she called, “when I thought I said, ‘I love the smell of magnolia’, I must have said, ‘go risk your neck on that very old tree and pick a flower for me’. Is that it?” The only response was a grunt and a violent quaking of branches. “Gerard? Are you even listening to me?”

            “Got one! Don’t move, Rowen,” called a triumphant voice. There was a *thud* as Gerard landed behind her. The woman turned and smiled with a weary affection.

            “What the hell’s gotten into you lately?” she giggled, “You’re playful, exuberant, and you throw your dignity to the wind… Is there something you need to tell me?”

            “Only that this week marks the first time I’ve seen a sunset since 1923 and I feel like--!”

            “You’re king of the world?”

            Gerard merely tucked the blossom behind her ear and kissed her forehead. Suddenly, they froze, his hands tensing painfully on her upper arms, her chin jerking up to just miss ramming his chin with her skull.

“Did you feel that?” hissed Gerard. Rowen nodded and twisted free.

The only sound was the drone of passing traffic and the rustle of magnolia leaves. Yet, there was the sudden feeling that something unnatural had flown past them, like a moth from hell. Richmond was full of demons, from the oiliness of greed demons, to the heat of lust. But this was vastly different. There was the lingering smell of marzipan and too many rotting roses and the feeling that hands had just been pawing at them. A taste of sugar inexplicably affixed itself to their tongues. Something about it made them go for their weapons. It seemed to be a mockery of innocence. The feeling oozed away from them, inexplicably rolling back the way it came.

They exchanged glances, released their sidearms and began to head east down Broad Street. Rowen and Gerard took turns scanning, all the while trying to seem like a normal courting couple. The stench of it clung to everything like mildew. Neither one was sure whether it was a demon, a spirit or something worse. It had the feel of lust, greed, pride, and envy all wrapped up together and the closer they got to the source, the more of a headache they got.

The sudden shrill scream didn’t help much either. It sounded female, which made Gerard break into a run. He was too much of a gentleman and an old soldier to ignore a girl’s cries for help. Rowen dashed after him, glad that she didn’t need to breathe anymore.

The screaming had come from an alley, one which was remarkably crowded. Gerard noted uneasily that the gangbangers packing into the alley were wearing four rival colors, none of whom claimed any part of Broad Street as turf. The screaming was coming from the back, where a rusty chain link fence made escape impossible. The girl seemed to have been swallowed by the crowd, but her shrieks were quite audible and enough to make a crow cover its ears in pain.

Perhaps it was the lingering smell of moldy flowers and almonds, or maybe it was the sudden swelling of foolish bravado that made him behave like a hero in a cheap novel. Whatever it was, it should have been overruled by common sense.

“Leave her alone!” he snarled.

One by one, heads turned. Gerard mentally slapped his forehead. He should have called for back up, at least. And why the hell did he suddenly feel like popping fangs and claws and shredding every male there like a territorial tomcat? He didn’t even HAVE Animalism!

Rowen grabbed him by the belt and tried to haul him away, only to be dragged along as impulse took over and Gerard charged forward.

Rowen’s senses were bombarded once again, only this time, the smell and the pulling had added on the sound of an off-key angelic choir with no sense of harmony, the illusion of pink glittery snow everywhere, and the taste of A.B.C. bubblegum and stale lollipops in her mouth. It was painful and it forced her to her knees. Yet the battle seemed to be ignoring her. A wave of nausea finally sent her down.

She managed to lift her head enough to see Gerard clawing through a man’s throat. The first thought that sprang to mind was: Claws?

Then she saw the girl at the back of the alley. Rowen was suddenly too weak to scream in horror or even keep her eyes up. The last thought that came to mind was: Sweet Lady of Roses, she’s--!

Darkness swallowed Rowen and the world spun away.

 

Chapter 1

Unauthorized Clusterfrell

 

            D.J. was already at the console by the time a bewildered, sleepy and shaken Branwen staggered in. He had clearly dressed in a hurry and hadn’t bothered to button his shirt. Branwen herself had merely thrown on the nearest skirt lying on the floor over her nightie and was shivering with cold as much as rattled nerves.

            “What the hell is going on?” she murmured, “And why at three A.M.?”

            “We have a Code Red in Fandom 42,” said D.J. sharply, “Take a look.” Branwen came up behind him and peered over his shoulder. She was shaking even more now. Code Red was for Unauthorized Clusterfrells, like a sudden orgy between incompatible characters that neither author had known about, much less given the go-ahead. There were only three Codes worse than Red

            The scene was an alley in Richmond, late at night. Bodies in gang colors were littered about with the garbage. There was blood everywhere. One body was not dressed like a gangster. It was female and dressed in a perfectly respectable gray suit, with a gray cloche hat gripped in one hand and a crushed magnolia behind her ear.

            “I don’t recognize anyone!” Branwen said in confusion.

            “Put a red fedora on the girl with suit and you’ll figure it out.” D.J. pulled up the bio-file for “Sinclair, Rowen M.”

“Name: Sinclair, Rowen Mariana, Aliases: Rowen Carpenter, Rowen Blackrose, Veil, Desdemona the Disgruntled, Current Identifying Marks: Gray suit and hat, magnolia behind ear, black rose pinned to lapel…”

            “Damn,” Branwen spat, “Damn, damn, damn!”

            “Notice anything else wrong with this picture?” D.J. tapped the monitor. “No Sarge. Gerard is gone with a capitol ‘G’. Nothing left of him.”

            “It’s Rowen’s Death-day,” said Branwen, suddenly feeling sick, “They had a date. Movie, dinner, a walk down Broad Street, maybe even a visit to Foster Tower…”

            “We’d better go get her,” said D.J. “If she wakes up, we might be able to figure out what happened.” He buttoned his shirt and tossed Branwen a pair of boots. “You missed the first one anyway.”

            “There was another Code Red?!” Branwen’s jaw dropped. “Where?”

            “Fandom 17,” replied D.J. “You missed someone or something trying to turn our resident gay Sith Lord straight.”

            “Jesus Christ.” Branwen began programming the Fandom Extractor for Fandom 42, muttering a few more oaths.

            “When did we become fandom babysitters?” asked Branwen. She stepped onto the target, trying pull on her boots at the same time.

            “When we gave the Sinclairs a second shot at undeath,” replied D.J. He went and stood next to her, just as the rift opened beneath them.

*

            “Dumpsters make very poor landing pads,” Branwen observed after the echoes of crunching trash and yelps of pain died away, “I didn’t sit on you too hard, did I?”

            “No,” croaked D.J., “No exploding diapers this time either. Now, get off my hair.”

            The two authors climbed out of the dumpster and dusted themselves off. Rowen still lay motionless on the ground, her long, unruly chestnut hair escaping its bun. She’d been miraculously unscathed by blood and didn’t appear to have been attacked.

            “She still has a full clip,” said D.J., “No faith-based residue either. That’s not like her, unless somehow she reverted back to her ghoul state.”

            Branwen rolled her over and appeared to cop a feel. She came away with a bodice dagger, its edge gleaming under the streetlights. “She didn’t even touch it!” Branwen whispered in shock, “What the blazes went on here?”

            Rowen stirred and moaned, curling into a ball.

“Rowen?” said Branwen, “Rowen, are you okay?” Rowen didn’t respond, only balling herself tighter with another groan.

“I’ll handle this,” said D.J. He stood up and took a deep breath. “ATTEN—TION!”

If it had been possible for Rowen to go from ball of agony on the ground to standing at full attention, she would have. As it was, she made a good effort.

“At ease, Veil,” said Branwen gently, “What happened here?”

Rowen relaxed at the sound of her deed name and began to sag again. “My god,” she whispered, “That face…Those eyes…”

With that, she sank to the ground in a feeble heap.

*

            The girl watched her charge from the shadows like Selene watching her fair Endymion. She had felt his coming in her sleep, heard his thoughts in her dreams, and now that she looked upon his face, she knew he was her Truest True Love. They were destined for each other, yet, like the sun and the moon, they had merely run in circles, missing each other by mere steps. Now, he had saved her from certain death. Surely, that made it destiny. That horrible whiny siren, Roana or whatever-her-name-was, would never be able to stand up to their love.

            He was a fine greyhound of a man, long-limbed and slender, with an aristocratic beauty she found irresistible. His soft, dark locks curled about his shoulders like mist and his eyes, when open, were blue enough to drown in. She could still feel his milk-white skin beneath her fingertips, as smooth and soft as a dream. Even his name was magnificent: Jared Sinclair. She sighed gustily and leaned back.

            Everything would be perfect now.