The world of fan fiction has always been something of a mystery to me. My old roommate used to spend hours pouring through these non-canonical side stories to his favorite games and anime series, but I never saw the point. What do I care what some overly compulsive super-fan thinks would happen if Ash for the Evil Dead films had wandered into Raccoon City, or would have happened if Shinji and Rei would have hooked up at the end of Evangelion instead of whatever the hell was supposed to have happened at the end of that mindf*ck. I would sit there and listen to him ramble on for hours about his favorite stories and authors, how much he enjoyed so-and-so’s work or how he’d wished to see a new chapter of the Harry Potter/Simon the Sorcerer crossover piece he really liked.
I was surprised to discover that not only did people willingly read this stuff, they actually ate it up. It seemed that fan fiction writers enjoyed a level of Internet fame normally reserved for videogame bloggers and people who make goofy YouTube videos. As someone who has aspired to be both of the former, the prospect of finally getting the love and respect I so rightly deserve really appeals to me. So I now present to you some excerpts from a few of the stories I am currently working on that will hopefully catapult me into the upper echelon of fan fiction stardom.
Derek Stiles sat in his cramped office in Hope Hospital pouring over various medical texts. His eyes hurriedly scanned the dense tomes searching for answers that he wasn’t sure were really there. This strain of GUILT wasn’t like the others. His Healing Touch seemed to have no effect and it seemed to be more intelligent than the others the parasite almost seemed to be mocking his vain attempts to destroy it.
“Are you okay Derek?” Angie asked, peeking her head through the door. “You’ve been cooped up in here for a while now.”
“It’s just this damn strain of GUILT,” Derek replied, looking up from his pile of books, “nothing seems to work on it.”
“Maybe you should get some rest.” Angie said as she stepped into the office. “It’ll come to you in the morning.”
“No, I can’t let GUILT claim another damn victim.” Derek snapped. “I need to know what makes this strain so different from the others. I just don’t understand how…”
Dr. Stiles was interrupted by a cranky looking man limping into the doorway.
“Well, despite your brilliant diagnosis, Dr. Idiot, I feel the need to point out that the reason that it’s giving you so much trouble because it isn’t GUILT,” Dr. House said smugly, “It’s Lupus.” [Editor's note: PffffttttHAHAHAHAHH -- CTZ]
Cloud Strife stood atop the windswept cliff, Buster Sword drawn. In front of him was Sephiroth, the man who had killed his soul mate, gazing defiantly. The rain poured down on the stoic warriors as if the heavens themselves were mourning Cloud’s loss. Lightning flickered across the sky, briefly illuminating the bleak night sky, but not even the awesome power of Mother Nature could shine any light on the darkness in these men’s souls.
Cloud charged the silhouetted form of his mortal enemy hoping that his blade would at last find peace in his cold heart. Sephiroth skillfully deflected Cloud’s blow with his own blade, Masamune. Tears welled in Cloud’s eyes as he angrily lashed out, thoughts of Aerith rushing through his head. These memories were but fleeting images of a happier time, a time long past, a time he could never have back again. The pain drove him, fueled his every thrust and slash but Sephiroth was just too skilled a swordsman.
“What exactly do you hope to accomplish?” Sephiroth asked, parrying another of Cloud’s attacks.
“You took her from me” Cloud shot back, his voice filled with torment, “and now you must pay.”
Sephiroth looked puzzled for a moment. “Who? The flower girl? I assure you she’s very much alive.”
“You liar!” Cloud cried out in anguish.
“No, she survived and is being held at a Shinra research facility.” Sephiroth continued. “In fact, that’s why I came to you tonight. I need your help rescuing her.”
I stood there, staring in shock as blacken hunks of charcoal that used to be pork cutlets sank into the oil. There was my latest culinary abortion disappearing forever into the boiling amber sea. I knew that it would probably end up this way when I had decided to try my hand at deep fried dish. After all, I’d been practicing for months but no matter how hard I tried I was barely capable of frying an egg, so I’m not sure what convinced me that I was ready to attempt some of the more complicated recipes.
“Don’t worry. Mama will fix it.” Her reassuring voice chimed in behind me.
Mama, as she preferred to be called, was a fascinating woman. When I first met her the reason as to why she insisted on being called Mama was something of a mystery to me. She didn’t have any children that she mentioned and as far as I could tell she wasn’t even married. After spending some time with her I could begin to see why the name stuck. She had a natural maternal and nurturing way about her. She would correct you without seeming condescending and no matter how badly I screwed up, she always seemed to make me feel better about the mistakes I made.
She motioned for me to step back as she went to work correcting my many errors. I sat watching in awe as she busily prepared a fresh batch of cutlets. Her small frame darted around the kitchen. Her limbs were a blur as she chopped, tenderized, and performed the other little kitchen tasks that I seemed to be incapable of doing properly. I moved in closer to get a better look, hoping that maybe some of her technique would rub off on me. Unfortunately, I got a little too close to the culinary frenzy and when she spun around to drop the cutlets in the fryer we collided, sending us both tumbling to the floor.
I sat there dazed for a few moments on the cool linoleum. After I finally managed snap out of my fall induced haze I looked over at Mama to make sure she was alright. She was sprawled out on the floor with a bewildered look on her face and cutlet breading matted in her auburn hair. I immediately began to apologize for my clumsiness, explaining that I just wanted to get a closer look at her handiwork. As I was begging for her forgiveness she silently picked herslef up, brushed herself off, and knelt next to me. She gently placed her hand on my shoulder, effectively silencing my desperate plea for repentance.
“It’s okay. Mama will make it better.” She said softly, gazing warmly at me. I just sat there in stunned silence staring into her beautiful, sparkling eyes. She then leaned in and kissed me passionately, her tongue skillfully maneuvering around mine. I didn’t know how to react, I was overwhelmed by how spontaneous it was. She smelled like strawberries with a just a small hint of egg and pork from the cutlets, this was not a bad aroma, just odd enough to really stick in my mind. At that point I knew that Mama had so much more to teach me than how to make Spaghetti Neapolitan.
Well, there you go. A quick look at some of the literary treasures that I plan to unleash upon the world as a hot new fan fiction author. I really hope that this scheme works out for me because at this point the only methods of gaining Internet popularity that I haven’t tried are music and erotic fan art. But, I’m not too sure there’s a huge audience clamoring to listen to me bang on a saucepan or pictures of crudely drawn stick figures nailing each other. Wish me luck.