Danger, Willing Readers! Danger!

This little fic has not been Beta'd, Washed, Ironed, or Folded! Kyer is too tired to care. (which means when I actually read this myself I'm probably going to be hiding my head under a paper bag for a week.)

Kyer owns not anyone mentioned in this fic. Really. She's jest borrowing for a minute or two. Comments can be sent to: [email protected] or [email protected] if Prodigy has gone kablooey.

Did I forget anything else? ... Gads! Gotta think up a title. :) Umm... 

The supreme predator looked down upon his chosen prey with deep satisfaction. The coroner continued to work with her back to him, blithfully unaware of his presence even as the vampire felt his itching fangs descend, his Beast yearning to be set fully free and take her warm, rich blood into himself. Oh, yes... and he *would* take her, he thought hungrily as he slowly stalked his unwitting victim. With a burst of his natural and superior speed he swooped down upon her ready to-- Stopping in his tracks, Nick's face grimaced in distaste as he turned his head to look back and upwards from whence he he was standing.

"You've gotta be kidding. What kind of trash is this?"

LaCroix flashed him an annoyed look then returned to studying his computer monitor, hands poised over the keyboard.

-- sink his thirsty fangs into her sof--

"Forget it," Nick huffed, crossing his arms in a look of pure defiance.

"Nicholas..." Warning tone.

"I said, forget it, LaCroix! I'm not doing it. I refuse." The former Crusader knight took on a defensive fighter's stance: feet firmly planted and body balanced to move in any direction at a moment's notice.

"I'm afraid, mon fils," his master rejoined silkenly, feeling annoyed by this unexpected turn of events but stubbornly refusing to show it, "that you have no choice in the matter. This is, after all, *my* fanfic. I am the master writer and you and the good doctor are not but instruments in my writing; pawns as it were." Self-satisfied smirk. He reset his fingers over his keyboard.

"Like Hell we are!" Natalie threw down the organ she had been about to weigh, exchanging the lung for a well-sharpened scalpel before whirling around and confronted her would-be writer with angry eyes, "Honestly, LaCroix," she began, gesturing with the metal implement for emphasis, "you couldn't write your way out of a two-bit romance fic!"

"Is that so?"

"You bet your tibula! Look," she pointed out, "you've got Nick ready to drain me dry. Whatever for? If he's hungry there's plenty of bagged blood in the fridge. Where's the motivation?"

"She's got you there," Nick nodded in agreement. "I wouldn't presume to drain Nat without some pretty hefty angst or extremely sever wounds to drive me over the edge. This scene is just unworkable."

LaCroix felt his eyes turn almost, but not quite crimson. "What?"

"And the body I'm supposed to be dissecting," Lambert went on, "what's the story there? Is it part of a case? Has the sex even been determined." She let out a loud yell, "Grace!"

The black woman duly poked her head into the room and immediately centered on Natalie. "You called, honey?"

"Grace, whose the body I'm dissecting? What's the history? Jane Doe; John Doe..?"

The burly woman shrugged. "Beats me. I didn't even know we had a stiff." She gave LaCroix a stern glance. "*Somebody* hasn't brushed up on his Morgue 'Procedures and Background'."

"And it get's worse," Nat grimaced she opened a drawer, and held up a plastic baggy of licorice. "Evidence 'B'." Her assistant gave a small gasp of horror. "You mean he...?"

"Yep. Didn't even bother to write me up some chocolate. Everyone knows I'm a chocolate junkie. Who eats licorice? Nobody, that's who."

"Well..."

Without looking, Natalie tossed the licorice over to where Schanke had entered the room. He caught it with eager hands.

"Gee, Natalie, thanks! Red? Hmm.. not my favorite, but there doesn't seem to be a souvlaki or donut stand written into this thing yet so I had to skip breakfast on the bus drive here."

"Bus drive? What happened to your car?"

"That's what I'd like to know. I kiss Myra goodnight, head for the garage and... nada!"

Nick sadly shook his head. "Really, LaCroix-- you've got to get your facts straight. The fanfic readers aren't stupid, you know. And give Schanke back his wheels."

Fuming silently, Lucien backspaced and retyped without a word. Outside in the morgue parking lot, a battered, old car appeared; while inside, bag of licorice winked out to be replaced by a King-Sized chocolate bar. Nat eagerly stashed it in her purse before Schanke could recover.

"Hey!"

"Alls fair in fanfic and chocolate," she told him. To the would be Writer, she grinned: "Make it two and I won't mention this little oversight to the Natpackers or the FODs."

"Don't push it, Doctor," the General growled. "I had no intention of dragging that buffoon into *my* story." He sighed. "But since at the moment it doesn't appear to be *my* story.... I suppose you each and all have ideas for what *you* want this story to do?"

"I cure Nick and we get married and live happily ever after with some cute blonde tyke of either sex."
"I and Nick get awarded for our work prowess by being transferred to somewhere in the States. Preferably someplace it doesn't snow. Oh, yeah--- and a free trip to Graceland with complimentary Elvis watch."
"I win a ticket to Hollywood where I get swept off my feet by that actor who plays Mace Windu in Star Wars.. Sam Jackson."
"I escape from you with Nat, Janette, Urs, and all those past bimbos from other stories (at least the ones not trying to kill me) who help me fill my time while we plan what exotic locale to flee to next."

Nat glowered at Nick with deadly eyes. "Janette, Urs, and all those past bimbos?", she repeated archly.

"Um... can I help it I'm sick to death (so to speak) of sappy endings and cute kids? Believe me, Nat, after having suffered thru hundreds of such stories, I'm not so anxious to have children and dwell in wedded 'bliss' as I once was. And have you read the latest stats on the marriage versus divorce ratio?" He shuddered, but looked contrite as Natalie burst into tears.

"B--b-but we were going to be so h-happy!"

"Okay, okay. How about we bring along those Liam Neeson and DiCaprio guys?"

"Done!"

Nick smiled with relief. He hated it when someone cried. Sometimes the salty liquid would leak out and fry the writer's computer thus putting the story on hold indefinitely. Not good.

"Okay, LaCroix! We're ready for you to write up our fanfic."

Silence.

"LaCroix?"

"Now where did he take off to?"

Returning to to his armchair after his trip to his private winecellar, Lucien poured himself a glass from his favorite vintage and settled down for a long, pleasurable day of X-Files Marathon tapes, deciding that after due consideration, it was much more fun waiting to screw up someone else's story than to be bothered with writing one himself. Yes... much more satisfactory. He clicked on the vcr.

{ "Trust no one." }

"Wise words, my dear Mr. Mulder. Wise words."

---------------------- end ----------------------------------------

Grinned, :)=

Kyer, The Schitzoid Knightie who's currently half asleep.