Date: Wed, 25 Sep 1996 20:49:38 -0400 From: Nyx Fixx "The Seventh Level" (XOVER-lite) Part One by Nyx Fixx Disclaimer: All characters mentioned herein are the exclusive property of Tristar. Any mention of actual persons herein is meant in a spirit of playfullness. I crave the indulgence of TPTB, and ask that my humble offering be taken in the spirit in which it was intended. Introduction: I feel I should warn potential readers that what follows is my first attempt at FK fan fiction. Bear with me, if you will. I'm not even completely sure I'm sending this out properly. Perhaps I should further warn that readers will encounter two "bad words" in the pages below. One is relatively harmless, the other is considered very rude indeed. I apologize in advance for any offense. Comments, criticism, screams of protest, lawsuits or whatever can be directed to nyxfixx@aol.com The Setting: Nick's loft, around seven in the evening. It is winter in Toronto. It also may seem that a WAR is about to commence, but things are not always as they seem. "The Seventh Level" by Nyx Fixx ****************************************************************************** Nick was just settling down for the evening with a bottle of moo-juice, a cozy fire, and a volume of Goethe when there was aloud clatter at the loft door, followed by a series of dull thuds. He put "The Sorrows of Werther" aside and went to see what all the noise was. Someone in the elevator. He slid the door open to reveal a tall, dark-haired woman, heavily festooned with a bewildering variety of luggage. She staggered inside the loft. Snow was melting in her hair and dripping in her eyes. She'd clenched her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering. Several over-stuffed travel bags depended from her right shoulder. A huge handbag and a fat garment carrier balanced her out of the left. A laptop computer was nestled under her left arm, and she clutched an enormous suitcase in her left hand. In her right hand was a large blue plastic case with a hinged grille door.The sound of vehement feline protest issued from this case. The woman completed a quick visual assessment of the room, and then made a bee-line, burdens and all, for the fireplace. No one spoke. Nick watched her erratic progress toward the fire. He was reminded of a parade. Once at the fire, she set the blue case down carefully, then began to divest herself of her other freight. "Taxi strike," she said between chattering teeth. "American money. No bus fare. Lost directions. 40 below. Freaking blizzard. Sorry I'm late." She was attempting to pull a pair of wet gloves off her trembling hands. "Actually, you're the first," Nick said, joining the freezing woman at the fireplace. "Here. Let me help." He took her right wrist to steady the hand and pulled the glove off. "Thanks," she chattered. "GREAT place. Ever considered Palm Springs?" He laughed and took the other wrist. "Never seriously. And you are?" "Oh, sorry. Nyx Fixx." "Not REALLY?" "Hey, that's my name. It's --" The occupants of the blue case chose this moment to set up a cooperative caterwaul and whatever she had been about to say was completely drowned out. Nick looked at the case for a moment, then back at Nyx. "Um, well, yeah," she mumbled, thrusting her hands toward the fire. "My pet- sitter flaked out on me at the last minute." They both listened to the tandem chorus of complaint for a moment. "How many cats have you got in there, anyway?" Nick asked. Now Nyx smiled, embarrassed. "Only two. I really am sorry about this. I'll find a kennel in town tomorrow." "Only two," Nick repeated, wonderingly. "Would you mind if I let them out? They'll never stop unitl I do." "How dangerous are they?" he asked. She laughed and crouched down by the door of the case. "Not too bad. The black one is fairly well-behaved. The other . . . well . . ." She unlatched the grille door. Nick watched curiously as a glossy black nose with white whiskers emerged, tentatively, from the case. In a moment, the whole cat followed. A black female with a white ruff. "8-Ball," introduced Nyx. As 8-Ball cautiously crept forward, a grayish streak erupted from the case, bulleted across the room, and disappeared under the couch. "The GF, " Nyx announced. Lunatic green eyes glowed from the shadows beneth the sofa. Nick raised an eyebrow as he looked away from the GF and back toward Nyx. "GF?" he asked. "Gray Fiend," she explained sheepishly. One of the most unusual trios who'd ever attended a WAR, Nick was thinking. They had come for the WAR, hadn't they? "Your things are wet," he said, and crossed the room to the kitchen. "Better get out of them. Like I said, you're the first to arrive. Apparently weather has been a problem." He began to rummage through one of the kitchen cabinets. "You're telling me," Nyx muttered, removing her coat, hat, muffler, top two sweaters, and boots. All of them soaked. "Your flight must have landed just before they closed the airport. I heard it on the radio about an hour ago. No more flights in or out until the blizzard passes." He located what he had been looking for and drew it out of the cabinet. A dusty bottle of Remy-Martin. Nat swore by the stuff. Maybe this Nyx could use some. "Nope," Nyx answered. "I got in at three. It just took me four hours to find your apartment." There was an aggravated burr in her voice as she made this remark, so Nick tried not to smile at the image her words conjured in his mind: one bedraggled woman, two angry cats, and about 150 pounds of luggage struggling through the icy Toronto streets. It was hard not to smile. He busied himself sorting through the shelf where he kept his glassware. What sort of glasses had he seen people drinking brandy out of? Stemmed ones, he was pretty sure. "Where can I hang this stuff up? It's dripping," she warned. "Through that red door, down the hall, first door on the left. Guest bath. Fresh towels." Nyx left the warmth of the fire to find the bathroom he'd described. He settled on a short, fat stemmed glass and filled it with the brandy, then came back into the living room area. 8-Ball halted the floor-level investigation of the room she'd been conducting to stare at him. Golden eyes. Rather a pretty cat, really. Of the Gray Fiend, there was no sign. Nyx returned from the bath, looking considerably less disheveled. "Here," he said, and handed her the drink. "I understand this is good for a cold night." She took it and scented the liquor appreciatvely. "Cognac. It IS good. Thanks" She returned to the fireside, folded up her long body in a neat, economical movement, and sat on the floor, as close to the flames as she could get without being burned. She took a sip from her glass. Visibly relaxed. Sighed. Shook her head ruefully. Nick took a seat on the couch. "So," he said. "A rough trip?" "This kind of thing always happens when I travel," she answered. "I don't know why. Some sort of Freudian self-punishment deal, I guess." "Toronto can be confusing." "Is that so?' she asked, dryly. "Even without a howling blizzard?" He laughed. "Even in August. This is your first WAR, isn't it?" "Sure." She took another pull on the brandy and stared at him. A frank, curious appraisal. He was reminded of 8-Ball's earlier curious gaze. After a moment, he felt uncomfortable. "Well?" he said, smiling a little. She laughed. "You're taller than I'd imagined." "A succinct summation." "I really don't mean to be rude. It's just such an odd situation. I don't know how to act. I know you . . . but I don't." "A lot of 'newbies' are thrown off, at first. So many different levels of reality." Nick felt a subtle touch near his ankle. A small gray and white cat was busily sniffing at his shoes. The GF, he thought. Doesn't look all that intimidating. Then the GF pounced on his right foot and bit his ankle. "She likes you," said Nyx. "I'm flattered," he answered, and moved his foot out of the little cat's way. "Anyway," said Nyx. "I was thinking about that - what you said, you know? - on the airplane. I count 3 levels of existence here. Real life. A television show. And VR. The truth is, I've never met a fictional character before. I'm not entirely certain I'm meeting one now." "I can assure you, I am entirely here." "But where is 'here'?" Nyx said. "'Here' is the fifth level of reality," said 8-Ball. "Actually, you miscounted by two, Nyx." Both people gaped at the black and white cat in astonishment. ****************************************************************************** (End of part one. To be continued) "The Seventh Level" Part Two by Nyx Fixx (See disclaimer, introduction, abject apology, etc. in Part One) ****************************************************************************** 8-Ball went on: You've forgotten that this is a piece of fan fiction, Nyx. Which is set in VR, which is about a television show, which exists in RL." An excruciating long moment passed. "That's only four levels," Nyx said in a small, stunned voice. Nick turned away from 8-Ball and looked at Nyx, as though she might be a dangerous maniac. "But . . . " he began, pointing at the cat. Then he closed his mouth, unable to imagine just what it was he'd meant to say. "Well," 8-Ball continued, "you, Nyx, are a fictional character yourself. You were invented to act as an online persona for the actual User. The fifth level," she finished triumphantly, and started licking her right paw. The GF sniffed at Nick's ankle again, then leapt up to the arm of the sofa for a better look at him. "Hey," said the GF. "You smell weird. What are you? Are you a cat?" Nick stared, completely nonplused, at the fluffy gray feline. She stared right back, her pinkish nose quivering. 8-Ball calmly washed her paw. Nyx seemed to have gone catatonic. "Well?" demanded the GF. "Where's your fur? What happened to your tail?" "He's not a cat, you little twit," said 8-Ball. "He's a vampire." "Don't you call ME names, 8. I'm just asking him." She turned her pointy little face back to Nick. "What's a vampire? Is it LIKE a cat?" 8-Ball's tail swished in annoyance as she said: "A vampire is a nocturnal predator that hunts blood, GF. Don't you know anything?" The GF's eyes lit up. "See! That IS like a cat!" Nick's growing sense of alarm reached critical mass and he shot up off the sofa (in a manner not unlike a scalded cat, which merely served to confirm the GF's suppositions) and backed away from the bickering felines toward the fire. When he reached the mantle his knees gave way and he sat down, hard, next to Nyx. He glared at her for a moment, and then screamed "WHY ARE YOUR CATS TALKING?" Nyx looked back at him blankly. She was still trying to encompass the surprising news that she was not, in actual fact, real. 8-Ball jumped up onto the sofa and took the seat Nick had just vacated. "'When more than four planes of reality intersect at a single point in the space/time/fiction/reality continuum,'" 8-Ball quoted impatiently, "'natural law begins to derange.' Nilo Quanta said that in his infamous lecture at Celsius Tech." "Nilo Quanta?" asked Nick, overturning his recent resolution not to talk to these cats, at all, under any circumstances. "Celsius Tech?" Nyx asked, gradually coming out of her shock induced fog. "A character I read about in a science fiction novel." 8-Ball explained. "Cool!" yelped the GF. "That's level SIX!" "So it is!" said 8-Ball, pleased. "we're two levels above the cut-off point. 'Natural law begins to derange'!" She was so gratified by this prospect that she took a friendly swipe at the GF's tail. The Gray Fiend retaliated with a head-but and a series of rear-paw kicks. The two cats merged into a swirl of wrestling gray, black, and white fur. Nick said: "This isn't a WAR at all, is it?" Nyx looked at him, unable to answer. "It's a fucking NIGHTMARE." He buried his face in his hands. Another derangement of the normal pattern of things, Nyx was thinking. To the best of her knowledge, this was the first time, in all of Nick Knight's existence, that he had ever uttered a four letter word. "Nick," she began "we've got to pull ourselves together. We've got to DO something." "What do you suggest?" he snapped. "Change channels?" "Can't do that!" called 8-Ball. The GF had her in a full Nelson, so her voice was a little muffled. "Can't do that," she repeated. "This isn't television. It's level six. Anything can happen, yes. But you have to find the source to put a stop to it. And we're so many levels removed from the source at this point, there's no real telling just what the source is. My guess is that the User's doing it, but even I could be wrong." The GF leapt out of the fray with 8, performed a mid-air somersault, landed at the side of the couch, and began to sharpen her claws on the leather. Whheee-OWW!" she exclaimed. "Why put a stop to it? It's FUN!" An utter nihilist," Nick observed to Nyx. "No wonder you call her a fiend. Stop destroying my sofa, you little monster!" The GF glared at him, indignant, and began an ominous side-walking stalk in his direction. Nyx was regarding 8-Ball suspiciously. "How come YOU know so much?" Nyx asked. 8-Ball revealed her fangs in a self-satisfied feline grin. "One: I'm closer to RL than you. I'M based on a real cat, whereas the two of you are just figments of someone's imagination." Nick revealed HIS fangs as he snarled at the GF, who had just sunk her claws into his knee. The Gray Fiend screamed and ran back under the couch. "Two:" 8-Ball went on, unruffled. "I'm really, really smart." "Oh, this is just GREAT." Nick said. "If you're so smart," Nyx asked the smug kitty, "what happens next?" "Well . . ." 8-Ball began. "ANYTHING!" A malicious hiss from under the couch. "Anything at all! And don't think I'm afraid of YOU, you big jerk!" the GF added from her safe haven. "I suppose SHE'S based on a real cat, too?" rasped Nick. "How should I know? I thought I was real," Nyx said disconsolately. "AS I was saying," 8-Ball continued. "Next, I think, we can expect a visit--" A series of tentative raps on the loft door interrupted 8-Ball's remark. "A visitor," she finished, with another fanged smile. "Oh -- MAN . . ." Nyx whispered. "Who do you think it is?" Nick asked, and clutched Nyx' arm. "Should we answer it?" "No! Yes . . . I don't know.Hey . . . hey, you're pinching." "Oh. Sorry." He released her arm. They both stared at the door with apprehension. "Come on in!" shouted the GF in a sprightly voice. "It's open!" The metal door slid back on its track, and a man stepped, hesitantly, through it. He took in the loft. His mouth dropped open. "Is this some kind of a JOKE?" he said. 8-Ball and the GF burst out laughing. Nyx looked from the visitor to Nick's stricken face. Then back again. "Oh, my god . . . " she breathed. "It's . . . HIM," Nick ground out through gritted fangs. He rose to his feet in one fluid move, full of deadly grace. The man at the door marked Nick's movement by the fireplace, and saw him for the first time. He turned white. "YOU . . .!" "Yes, ME!" Nick's eyes had gone a malevolent red. He was trembling with barely controlled rage. "Oh, NO. Uh-uh. No way. This isn't happening," the man asserted, gazing at Nick. "YOU'RE THE ONE! YOU'RE THE MISERABLE WRETCH THAT RUINED MY LIFE!!" Nick shrieked, and flew across the room. He was so fast, his image blurred, and the next thing Nyx and the cats saw was Geraint Wyn Davies dangling from Nick's impassioned grip on his throat. "Nick -- STOP!" Nyx shouted, scrambling to her feet. "Ack," said the actor. "I'm going to KILL this guy!" Nick screamed. "Don't even try to talk me out of it!" "No, Nick, you can't --" Nyx began, desparately. "If you do --" Davies cut his eyes hopefully toward Nyx, as, actor in hand, Nick rounded on her. "What do you mean, I can't? WATCH me!"" Davies feet were at least six inches off the floor. His face had gone an alarming shade of red. "Actually," said 8-Ball calmly, "you can't. You're too ethical. It's an unbreakable character convention." That set Nick back a bit. "Well, what about the sixth level?" he asked the cat. "Natural law deranging? I probably COULD kill him under these circumstances, couldn't I?" "No, we're tallking character consistency here. Fictional law. Not the same thing at all." Nick looked back at his nemesis, seething. "Where's your famous voice NOW?" he asked, nastily, and gave Davies a petulant shake. Then he dropped the actor unceremoniously to the floor. Davies fell like a sack of potatoes and began to retch as Nick stalked off. Nyx ran to help the choking actor sit up. "Are you okay?" she asked. "No." croaked Davies, annoyed. "Nick," she said. "This man is your flesh and blood. If you'd killed him, what do you think would have happed to YOU?" "Total reality disruption," 8-Ball answered. "Nick would have simply ceased to exist. Now, in the past, or in the future. I know Rick Springfield played him once but Nick has now become completely identified with Davies." Davies was coughing too hard to hear 8-Ball. "You ungrateful bastard," he hacked out, in between bouts of coughing. Nick glared evilly at his twin. "I might just kill you, anyway. It's not that great an existence." ****************************************************************************** (end of Part Two. Part Three, coming soon) "The Seventh Level" Part Three by Nyx Fixx (See disclaimer, so forth, in Part One) Additional Note: To whom it may concern: PLEASE don't sue me. I'm only kidding. ****************************************************************************** Davies appealed to Nyx: "Can you believe this guy? He co-opts my face, takes over my life, undermines my credibility as a serious actor, and blames ME for it. He's the most incredibly self-centered ass I've ever played." "And whose fault is THAT?" Nick exploded. "Do you think I CHOSE this personality? Do you think I LIKE being an unmitigated AIRHEAD? Do you think I ENJOY carrying a load of guilt the size of Nebraska? Is that what you think?" Davies, to his credit, looked a bit taken aback. "I hate this apartment! I hate hanging around that revolting bar all the time! I've been clinically depressed for hundreds of years, I have NO self-esteem, and psycho-therapeutic drugs don't affect my system. Whose fault is THAT?" "Well --" Davies began. But Nick rolled right over him. "I have a Canadian accent. Why? I'm FRENCH! I speak forty languages, but I can't pronounce a long 'o', and I can't stop whining in any of them. Whose fault is THAT?" Davies actually blushed about the Canadian accent thing. "What about LaCroix! Explain LaCroix! And don't think I don't see the way he looks at me either. Whose fault is that? "Nick --" said Davies, uncomfortably. "What about my sex-life? What about that? I can tumble ANYONE into bed in under thirty seconds. All I have to do is smile. But I'm so inconceivably screwed up that I can hardly ever bring myself to touch a woman from in front. Whose fault is THAT? "Well, the camera angles, Nick," Davies said, apologetically. "You see, we have to-" "That's another thing. I have no privacy. My every encounter, no matter how initmate, takes place while thirty million people look on. Do you have ANY idea how embarrassing that is?' "Well, to tell you the truth, Nick, I have a darn good idea," said the actor hotly. "Besides, I don't think we ever had THAT much of a share." "You're not listening to me. SOMEONE'S to blame." "Nick, I am NOT solely responsible. What about Parriot and Cohen? LaLonde and Bedard? Sadowski? Jon Slan? You obviously think I have more power than I actually do." Nick's eyes had taken on a murderous green/yellow glow as he'd recited the list of his woes. He was beginning to glide toward Davies again, his every move betokening bad intentions. "They are not here. YOU, on the other hand, are," he pointed out, in a lethally reasonable tone of voice. Nyx wasn't liking what she was seeing. "Can't you shut UP?" she whispered to Davies out of the side of her mouth. "Why are you provoking him? You know what his temper's like." "I heard that!" Nick interjected. His voice had dropped three octaves in pitch and taken on a weird resonance. "That's ANOTHER thing. Whose fault is that?" Nyx did the only thing she could think of to do. She stepped in between the aggrieved vampire and his earthly avatar. A precarious position. A terribly disconcerting position as well, since, with the execeptions of Davies' better color, and Nick's lambent eyes, the two were identical. "Uh . . . wait," she said, inconsequently. "Wait?" asked Davies. "Wait for what?" asked Nick. Nyx wasn't quite sure which one of them was asking which question. Their voices were very nearly identical too. And she didn't have any kind of reasonable answer for either, anyway. "Well," said 8-Ball. "You might want to ask Mr. Davies here how he happened to come by just now. Just a suggestion." The Gray Fiend had been examining Davies' shoes. Now she looked up and said: "You know, you look a lot like that other guy." Davies gaped at the two cats. Nyx said: "That's right! We do need to find out about that! Don't we, Nick?" Some of Nick's visible ire dissipated as he considered her question, just as she'd hoped it might. "What about it?" Nick asked the actor. ""Why DID you come here, tonight?" Davies wasn't hearing them. He was staring at 8-Ball and the GF. "Um . . . " he said. "Did these cats SAY something?" "Forget about that," Nyx said, impatiently. "It's level six, that's all. Why did you come here?" "Level six?" "Will you stop asking about the cats and answer her?" Nick cried. "Well, no, Nyx," 8-Ball interrupted. "When he showed up," here she waved a paw at Davies, "yet another dimension of reality intersected with the other six. It's actually the seventh level now." "Oh, god," Nyx said. Then she turned back to Davies. "Will you please just answer the question? Before something else happens?" "Uh . . . yeah. Right. I got this note." He reached into his breast pocket and produced a sheet of frighteningly official looking stationery. Then he cleared his throat and began to read it to them. He was, of course, very good at reading things. " 'Dear Mr. Davies: We require your assistance with a very important federal investigation. Please meet us at the enclosed address at 7:30 this evening. Signed: Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, FBI.' " "Oh, NO!" gasped Nyx.. "It CAN'T be!" moaned Nick. "What's the problem?" asked Davies. "You IDIOT!" Nick hissed. "Don't you watch the 'X-Files' ?" "I'm working. 'Timon of Athens'. I really don't see much TV. What's the big deal?" Nyx turned to 8-Ball, distraught. "What level, 8?" "Nyx, the fact is, I'm not sure," said 8-Ball. "The 'X-Files' are so big online. We could be at level thirty by now." Even 8-Ball looked worried. As if to confirm her fears, a flock of carrier pigeons suddenly materialized near the ceiling and bombarded the loft with a flurry of messages. Each one read: "Buy 'Rush Limbaugh Is a Big Fat Idiot' -Waldenbooks" Then the pigeons swooped up and down the stairs. "Look, 8," said the GF, enraptured. "BIRDS!" Yellow gnome and vine wallpaper sprouted in patches out of the brick walls and began to spread like a virulent skin disease. Every stick of furniture transmuted into rattan, and a surprisingly healthy crop of alfalfa burgeoned out of the floor. Upstairs, in Nick's closet, a plaid sports jacket from Sears took shape on the hanger rod. The rest of Nick's wardrobe slid precipitously away from the newcomer and huddled, in terror, at the far end of the rod. All the shoes marched, in a line, out of the closet, into the bathroom, and proceeded to defenstrate themselves, lemming-like, from the bathroom window. Near the fireplace, all of Nyx' luggage became animate, and elected the suitcase spokesman. The suitcase sprouted legs, advanced on Nyx, and demanded: "Why did you bring us here? This is pan-dimensional chaos! No more will we submit to your dominion, opposable thumbed oppressor! We declare ourselves FREE!" All the rest of the baggage shouted "STRIKE!" in unison, and simultaneously disgorged all their contents. The rebel luggage then overturned the dinette set and set about constructing a barricade. Nick said: "What's that noise?" Davies and Nyx weren't sure which noise he meant; the chittering of the pigeons, the papery crackling of the emergent wallpaper, or the wild cries of the emancipated luggage mob. "What noise?" Nyx shouted above the din. "The birds or the bags?" "No. Outside. A low pitched . . .roar? Can't you hear it?" Actually, they couldn't, at first. Nick's hearing was infinitely superior to theirs. Then, Davies said: "You're right! I I do hear something. From out there." He ran to peer out the window. After a moment, his shoulders sagged and he put a hand to the casement to steady himself. "What?" said Nick. "What's out there?" asked Nyx. "Don't ask," said the actor. They quickly joined him at the window and looked out. An aghast three-way silence ensued. Finally, Nyx broke the silence. "It's a tidal wave," she admitted. "Engulfing the city and headed directly this way," Davies added. "Composed entirely of orange juice," Nick amplified. "I think I saw something like that in a soft-drink commercial once. They callled it a 'tidal wave of flavor'." He laughed harshly. "We're finished," said Nyx. ****************************************************************************** (end of Part Three. Read the exiting conclusion in Part Four) "The Seventh Level" Part Four (Conclusion) by Nyx Fixx (disclaimer, intro, heartfelt plea for leniency, etc. available in Part One) ****************************************************************************** 8-Ball jumped to the windowsill and spoke gently: "Sorry, Nyx. It's been fun. Think I'm going to go kill some birds. Best way to go out I can think of." She leapt away from the window and began to stalk a nice fat pigeon that had roosted in the piano. The GF was already tormenting a bird she had cornered in the kitchen. "At least you had a back-story," Nyx said to Nick. "I was apparently little more than a log-on name. And a silly one, at that." "No. It's a NICE name," he said, kindly. "I'm . . . I'm sorry I called you a self-centered ass, Nick," said Davies. He hesitantly patted his twin on the shoulder. "The truth is, I really kind of like you." Nick smiled. "I know that. I wouldn't really have killed you, either, you know." Davies smiled. "Of course I knew it. Don't I know you better than anyone else does?" The three people and two cats waited out the dwindling moments with a simple grace that was irreducible, and worthy of admiration, on any level, in any dimension. Yet, in another dimension, on another plane, just before the "tidal wave of flavor" would have inundated the various lives in the loft, a soft cry filled a darkened room, and the User sat bolt upright in bed. "What an absurd dream!" said the User in a shaky voice. "I've got to stop watching those "Forever Knight" tapes just before bed." A black and white cat was curled up at the foot of the bed. This feline stretched, rolled over, and said: "Be quiet, will you? I'm trying to sleep." Whether this exchange took place on the eighth level, the ninth, or the fifty- second would, of course, be a matter only the eminent Nilo Quanta, of Celsius Tech, could sort out. THE END Nyx Fixx NVC