Date: 96-11-02 22:40:01 EST Poster: Allison Percy Subject: The Return of the Uninvited (1/2) ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ - I'm posting this story for the author, Nyx Fixx, who has lost her online access. The listowner has given me permission to post this to the list, because Nyx was a former FKFIC-L listmember who only recently lost her online account. All praise and blame for this story goes to the author, not me! If you have any comments to share with Nyx, you can send them to me at and I'll print them out and send them to her via snail-mail. This story follows from another, "The Seventh Level," posted here by Nyx some weeks ago. You can find "The Seventh Level" at: http://www.clark.net/pub/moser/fk/r2v/sevlev.txt If you don't have time to read "The Seventh Level," here is a bit of background on the cast of characters: Nyx Fixx is the online persona of the author; The User is the "Real Person" behind this online persona; the Gray Fiend and 8-Ball are Nyx's two cats (or is that The User's two cats?). In this story and the previous tale, some reality warping and pan-dimensional chaos have resulted in some rather unique abilities of the cats and some rather strange occurrences at Nick's loft. ---- The Return of the Uninvited (1/2) (a sequel to "The Seventh Level" by Nyx Fixx) It was unbearably hot. A freak heat wave had hit the city a week earlier and temperatures had climbed higher and higher on every day since. The evening temperatures were well into the nineties. Nobody in Toronto had ever had much occasion to think about air conditioning, so the vast majority of the citizens could only suffer. Every window in the loft was wide open. A portable fan had been set up on the counter in the kitchenette, and stirred the sluggish air faintly. Natalie said: "There's no such word! You're cheating!" Nick said: "Certainly there is! A 'mahout' is the driver of an elephant. Everybody knows that one, Nat. Now, let's see, that's two double letter squares and three triple word scores. 175 points for me." Natalie realized there was no escaping the obvious. It just didn't pay to play Scrabble with a 768 year old amateur linguist. He was clobbering her. "You're not going to give me any kind of a break at all, are you?" "That wouldn't be fair, Natalie." "What's the score?" "1,132 to 75." I hate him, she was thinking. He doesn't even look hot. This was quite true. The horrific summer temperatures didn't really affect Nick all that much. He looked much the same as he always did, not a hair out of place, not a crease askew. Nat, on the other hand, was a mess. She was wearing a pair of baggy shorts and a Banana Republic t-shirt, and had piled her heavy hair on the very top of her head. Not that it helped. Two hours earlier, she had tired of trying to sleep in her sweltering apartment, and called the only friend she could be certain would still be up at two in the morning. "Help," she'd said. "I am bored beyond endurance." "Come on over. I'll tell you the story of my life. It all began one day when --" "Okay," she'd interrupted hastily. "About twenty minutes." She hadn't thought he was serious about the story of his life, but Nick was an extremely eccentric being, to put it mildly, and she was never quite sure when he was joking, and when he was in dead earnest. So she'd brought her Scrabble set along just in case. Nick, Natalie discovered, had never played Scrabble before. Vampires were not really much for board games, even if many of them loved head games to distraction. They'd set the board up at the kitchen table, directed the fan's wan breeze at Natalie's side of the board, and begun to play. Nick had been intrigued by the game immediately, and had taken to it with frightening speed and disastrous results for his hapless opponent. "Nat? Don't you want to finish the game?" "With that score? I'll concede." "Too bad. I really thought you were rallying toward the end there." "You did, did you?" "Sure." He smiled. "It's a fun game. Thanks." She liked to see him smile like that. Uncomplicated, unfiltered through doubt or regret. A fairly rare occurrence, that particular smile. Nat was asking herself what Nick might think of checkers when there was a strange scratching sound at the door of the loft. Near the bottom of the door of the loft, to be exact. Natalie noticed that Nick was surreptitiously casting for a scent of whoever was at the door. He was trying not to make a show of it, mainly because she had once, in a temper, told him he looked like a golden retriever when he did that, and she hated it. Nick had been furious with her for a week, but they'd eventually patched it up, and she'd said she was sorry. But, of course, he'd taken the whole silly thing directly to heart, and never taken another scent when she was present. Net result: Nick obtained yet another telling proof of his total lack of worth. She could hear his probable thinking on the matter now, in her mind's ear, just as she'd heard it then: I'm a blood-sucking fiend from hell, everything is all my fault, and NOW the woman I love thinks I look like a mutt. She'd wound up feeling like an axe murderer. Not that a retriever is a mutt, she thought. All the world loves a golden retriever. Nick had apparently picked up a scent of some kind. He shuddered. "There's a -- cat at the door," he said. Something else Natalie had yet to get to the bottom of. Sometime last winter, Nick had developed a sudden, overwhelming distaste for cats. He'd flatly refused to talk about it, beyond a curt assertion about some mysterious nightmare, and a few dark mutterings that sounded like "seven slevel". Which made absolutely no sense. A shrill voice called out: "Open up, Nick. We know you're in there!" An even shriller voice added: "Hey, this is that weird guy's house! The one with all the teeth!" It seemed to Nat that both voices drifted into the room from under the door. Were they lying down on the floor out there? She looked over at Nick and was startled to see that he had clapped a trembling hand over his mouth. "Nick?" "It's them!" "Them?" "8-Ball. The Gray Fiend. This can't be. Not now. Not again." "C'mon, let us in, will you? It's hot out here." "Who are they?" Natalie asked, alarmed by Nick's obvious fright. "Are they vampires?" "No . . .no. They're . . .CATS!" "Cats don't talk, Nick," Natalie said, very, very carefully. He's finally lost his mind, she thought dismally. I suppose it was bound to happen one day. He wasn't paying attention to her. He left his seat at the table and glided, absolutely silently, to the doorway. Once at the door, he stood, poised, listening fearfully. "Nick, this is ridiculous. Open up." "He's hiding right on the other side of this door, 8. Pretending he doesn't hear us! What a big chicken!" "Is Nyx with you?" Nick asked, stung by this last remark. "No, the User's got her bogged down in some boring retirement planning loop. She asked us to get a message to you." "What message?"" asked Nick, still determined not to let the two of them in. "Nick, please. It's complicated. Open the door." A chorus of piteous meowing followed this last plea. Natalie was beginning to wonder if she'd been hasty in her assessment of Nick's mental state. Maybe she was the one who was crazy. "8-Ball, the last thing I want to hear from you is a 'complicated' message. Go away." Nick said. The meowing redoubled in volume and heart-wrenching pathos. "Go away, please?" Nick assayed. More meowing. Nick and Nat listened to the canticle of feline lamentation for a moment. "I can't stand it." Natalie finally cried. "They sound like they're DYING out there. Open the door." Nick sighed, defeated, and slid the door open. Natalie had hoped she might see a bevy of grinning pranksters lying on the floor of the elevator and meowing madly, but her hopes were dashed as the door came open. Two cats came in; a sleek black and white female and a small gray fluffy cat with a pink nose. The black cat was dragging a threadbare old afghan with her teeth. The gray one pushed a cardboard box filled with cat toys ahead of her. "Hi, Nick," said the black and white cat, dropping her blanket so she could speak more clearly. "Long time. Where's the Fancy Feast ? We're starved." The gray cat pushed her toys into the precise center of the room, then went directly to the kitchen table, and leapt to the top to sniff curiously at Natalie. "Who's this?" the sniffing kitty asked, turning to Nick. "Is this your mate?" She looked back at Nat. "Are you mating with this guy? Are you fixed? Nyx had me fixed right after my first heat," she added proudly. Nick groaned in total mortification. Natalie stopped staring at her small interrogator and slowly turned toward Nick. "Is there any part of this you can explain to me?" she asked him hopefully. "Do you KNOW these cats?" The gray cat whispered confidentially to Natalie: "Sure we know him. He's one of these whatchamacallits, you know. Vampiles." "That's 'vampires', GF," said the other cat, raising her eyes to heaven. "With an 'R'." "Can't you do anything about her MOUTH, 8-Ball?" Nick asked the black and white cat, angrily. "Are you joking? This is the Gray Fiend we're talking about." "Boy, he's a cranky one, isn't he?" said the GF to Natalie. "Do YOU have some Fancy Feast?" "Uh, not with me," Nat was dismayed to find herself answering. "Nick, can I talk to you for a second?" Nick shrugged helplessly. "Don't ask me to explain, Nat. Please. Just don't ask me." "You can ask me," said 8-Ball. "I know lots of stuff. Where can I put my blanky, Nick? Do you usually sleep upstairs?" As Nick began to take in the implications of 8-Ball's questions, whatever minimal color he had began to drain out of his face. The GF tried pushing one of the Scrabble tiles off the table and onto the floor experimentally. The result was apparently pleasing, since she then attacked the entire board in earnest. "No." Nick whispered, still formulating an undesirable interpretation of the significance of 8-Ball's blanky. "Nick, what IS all this?" Natalie exclaimed, determined to get some answers, sometime, somehow, from someone. "Oh, NO." Nick said, not hearing her. "You can leave my toys right there, Nick," said the Gray Fiend, still scattering Scrabble tiles relentlessly. "Just don't try playing with them. They're MINE, understand?" Nick was shaking his head, in a sort of dazed gesture of utter negation. "You're not really thinking of . . ." Nick began, then trailed off, too appalled to finish. ...to be continued in part 2/2... -- Allie (percy91@wharton.upenn.edu) -- --------------------- The Return of the Uninvited (2/2) (a sequel to "The Seventh Level" by Nyx Fixx) "You're not really thinking of . . ." Nick began, then trailed off, too appalled to finish. "We've come to help you out, Nick. It's the least we could do, after what happened last time," 8-Ball said. "No. NO. I don't want any help. I don't NEED any help. I don't -" "Last time?" Natalie asked. "What happened 'last time'?" "Pan-dimensional chaos," answered 8-Ball "This apartment was the site of a severe reality break last winter. We, that is, me, the Gray Fiend here, and Nyx, our former caretaker, found out that a reality/fiction crisis like the one that happened in here weakens the entire dimensional structure of a setting," Nick refused to be side-tracked. "What do you mean, FORMER caretaker?" "- which," Ball went on, ignoring Nick's question. "means that anyone, or anything, could be materializing in here, at any time. If it's fiction, it's likely to turn up right here. So -" "If you despicable creatures think that I'm going to tolerate this -" Nick began. "So," 8-Ball continued. "Nyx sent us here to help Nick deal with the problem. I'm a really smart kitty, the GF is fearless, and mean as a snake too, and since Nick IS kind of flighty, Nyx thought he could use the help. She feels responsible, Nick. She asked us to look out for you." Nick tried using the most intimidating vampirism-amplified voice he could summon. "YOU CATS ARE NOT MOVING IN HERE." He broadcast a large dose of the Whammy along with it for good measure. What he didn't know is that all cats are natural resisters. Nat, though, was far more easily swayed, and automatically marched right toward the exit, a blank (but weirdly cat-like) expression on her face. "Oh, damn," Nick cried, annoyed, and caught Natalie by the arm before she could slide the door open and walk out. "Not you." "Cool!" said the GF, admiringly. "Could you teach me to do that? FANCY FEAST," she commanded, trying to imitate Nick's hypnotic tones. "GIVE ME FANCY FEAST AT ONCE." "Nick," said 8-Ball. "You need us. You're just too nervous a guy to handle this on your own. What are you going to do when the Creature from the Black Lagoon comes popping out of your garbage disposal?" "Are you saying that's likely to happen, 8-Ball?" Nick sneered, sarcastically. "Anything can happen. THAT'S what I'm saying." "I suppose the talking cats don't count," said Nat, coming out of her hypnotic trance with a nasty residual headache and a surly attitude. "I really wish you wouldn't do that Whammy thing, Nick. It's not like we haven't discussed this before." "I didn't mean YOU, Nat," Nick snapped, out of patience. "Well, don't bite my head off! I'm just saying -" "Besides," interrupted the GF, "Me and 8 want to do police work! You can take us to the precinct with you. We'll solve cases!" "That's it," said Nick. "I'm killing myself. Hand me that stake in the corner there, would you, Natalie?" "See," 8-Ball said to Nat, nodding wisely. "What did I tell you? Flighty. High-strung." "Well, he IS sort of prone to hysteria . . ." Natalie said thoughtfully. "Oh fine, now you're on THEIR side!" Nick accused, disgusted. He flung himself into the armchair by the fireplace and started muttering to himself. Natalie and the cats watched him for a moment. Eventually, a strange feeling of helpless affection came over all three of them and each felt an intense compulsion to smooth his ruffled feathers. No one in the world can avoid liking Nick, Nat was thinking. Not even a pair of talking cats. And none of us really knows why. God knows, there's no logical reason for it. The GF left the Scrabble board (which was now entirely denuded of tiles) and trotted over to Nick. She began to purr winningly and jumped up into his lap. "Don't you want us to solve cases, Nick?" she said, and started butting his hands with her wedge shaped head. "We only want to help. Don't be mad, OK? I'll let you play with my toys if you want." "You know, Nick," said 8-Ball. "Nyx asked us to come, but we wouldn't have done it if we didn't like you." "I'm not really . . . allowed to have pets, 8, GF." he said, and smiled, a little. It was probably the most abysmally sad smile any of them had ever seen on a human countenance "I know you think you're helping, but -" "Nonsense," Natalie said, uncomfortably. "Of course you can have pets in here, Nick. You know you own the building." "I'm not talking about the LEASE, Nat. I'm talking about . . ." he stopped, apparently too overcome to finish whatever he'd been about to say. "Well, anyway, I just don't think it's a good idea." Nick put an elegant hand to the GF's head and scratched behind her ears, not quite able to stop himself. The GF purred madly in response, and cuddled, in inimitable cat fashion, into the crook of his arm. It was enough. Nick was completely undone, and a profoundly gentle expression stole, unstoppably, over his features. Nat was sorely tempted to say "Aww-ww," but managed to restrain herself. The pleasant scene was interrupted by a loud shout of: "Open Sesame!" which emanated from the white louver panel doors off the kitchen. Natalie, who had always supposed that those doors concealed a washer and dryer, was surprised to see the doors burst open and admit a large number of swarthy gentlemen in turbans to the room. Nick and the GF both jumped out of their chair as the visitors continued to pour in. Each one of them was dressed in Arabian finery. Many were armed with scimitars. When a full forty of them had emerged, the louver doors snapped shut in response to a cry of "Meases Nepo!" from the largest, most disreputable looking member of the troupe. "I TOLD you, Nick!" 8-ball said. The forty Arabian fellows started to mill about the loft, chattering rapidly in an archaic Middle Eastern dialect, and boldly pilfering any small objects that weren't nailed down. Many of them turned frankly admiring, lusty looks on Natalie, and communicated their appraisals of her appearance to one another with certain vulgar gestures that transcended all language barriers. The apparent leader (the big one with the eye-patch) put his hands to his hips and addressed Nick in peremptory tones. To Nat, he sounded like a coyote attempting to howl "Ave Maria" while gargling peanut butter, but Nick understood the antique language perfectly. "This isn't the Souk!" said the large brigand indignantly. "What are you trying to pull, O son of a jackal?" A small, weasel featured member of the Arab contingent said to the leader: "Ask the Infidel if he's seen that pesky Ali Baba. We owe that little goatshead, big-time." "Well, Infidel dog? Did anyone come through here before us?" A pudgy fellow with a monstrously long mustache and a wild gleam in his eye spoke conspiratorially to Nick. "How much for the woman, Effendi?" he asked, peeking at Natalie, who'd hidden behind Nick in a panic. "Would you consider rental terms?" It was too much. Nick simply went ballistic. His eyes turned red, wickedly sharp fangs erupted from his mouth, his hair stood on end and he was so infuriated that he rose three feet in the air spontaneously and floated, wrathfully, above the forty thieves. He looked like some unthinkable cross between a rabid timberwolf and a violent electrical storm. "GET. OUT. NOW," he shrieked, in dialect, and his voice carried to every corner of the loft, blasted coherent thought out of brains, rattled teeth and set eardrums vibrating, penetrated flesh and sank into spines, froze blood in veins, and utterly demoralized every living thing in the room. The forty Middle Eastern gentlemen screamed for Allah, and made a chaotic, tumbling exit, en masse, through the louver doors. Natalie and the cats watched, paralyzed, as Nick gradually floated back to the floor, stomped over to the piano, picked it up, carried it past the kitchenette, and stuffed it into the small doorway, effectively blocking (and demolishing) the louver doors for good. "Flighty, am I? Nervous, am I? High-strung, am I?" Nick demanded, brushing splintered shards of baby grand off his hands. "I guess you three don't think I'm such a helpless neurotic NOW, DO you?" The GF spoke up, in sincere wonderment: "That was the coolest thing I've ever seen in my life! That was TOTALLY awesome." 8-Ball nodded her concurrence, lost in admiration. Natalie gave the vindicated vampire a friendly squeeze. "That's why you're my hero, handsome. Or anti-hero, as the case may be," she said, and added a really thorough smooch, without even waiting for the fangs to subside, the way she usually did. Nick had very little resistance to such blandishments, and every speck of resentment faded right out of his mind. "Um . . . let's just try that again, Natalie," he said, in that peculiarly intimate tone he reserved only for talking to her. The one that was like being wrapped in yards of fine saffron silk. He quietly drew her in a little closer. The Gray Fiend came to Nick, and sat, worshipfully, on his right foot. "He's my idol," she confided to 8-Ball "I've never seen ANYONE look that vicious. You will let us stay, won't you Nick?" "This won't be the last time something like this happens, Nick," 8-Ball warned. "The dimensional structure of this place has been seriously compromised. You do realize that, don't you?" The GF rubbed her head on Nick's ankle and purred. 8-Ball gazed earnestly at her new caretaker. Natalie nibbled affectionately at his ear. Oh, they were softening him up, allright. "I still have a big problem with pets," he murmured, lips muffled in Nat's hair. "And his name is - " "Nick, don't worry about that. Nyx warned us about Uncle. We'll take care of HIM next time," 8-Ball interrupted. "You can count on it." And Nick, who was more than a little distracted, and inclined to feel pretty good about things in general at just that moment, decided that maybe he could, after all, count on it. "8," he said, moving the deliciously pliant Nat a bit closer still. "Go take your blanky upstairs. And take the GF with you," he added, significantly. Natalie chuckled seductively as the two cats, nudging each other and grinning impertinently, went to inspect their new sleeping quarters. "Ah," purred Nick, "There. I like that. Do that some more." "Here? Ah, here . . . Those cats, Nick. Do you think they'd like to meet Sydney?" Nat asked, somewhat breathlessly. "I think . . . umm, yes, that's perfect . . . I think you can probably count on it." ---end -- Allie (percy91@wharton.upenn.edu) --