Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty

46... 47... 48.

"Wow," Patricia said softly, staring at the notebook page held between her fingers. That meant, at a rough average of 175 words per page, that she had written 8400 words in her notebook since she had left Vancouver.

And that meant that not only had she finished her story, with her widow confronting the killer of her husband in a scene which had ended with the hard-boiled detective and his unusually cooperative police officer friend shooting the killer to prevent him from killing her, but she had also reached the 50,000 word goal.

"Wow," she repeated, and stood. She was going to ring the cowbell, and this time it was for the bell's actual purpose.

Her tablemates had gone from asking what she was wowing about to cheering her on, even without any actual response from her – she was heading for the podium with a definite purpose, and on that night, in the middle of a word war, there was only one thing that could mean.

But before she could reach it, and in the midst of a "hip, hip hurray for Patricia", she felt a sudden craving for carrots – and then Patricia fell to the floor in a dead faint.






Alfalfa was keeping out of the way, absent-mindedly munching brain carrots from Chris Baty, who had a refreshing tendency to take the most divergent ideas and rumple them into something hilariously rambunctious. He also always had romance in his stories, for he was a sucker for that sort of thing, and so he always seemed to welcome Alfalfa's narrative. Bun-Bun had told him to stay out of the way, and since the elder archetypes had decided to exclude the Office of Letters and Light team from narrative confusion, creative endeavours with Chris Baty seemed a good way to pass the time. Besides, Alfalfa had gathered a taste for his creativity over the past year of watching over the OLL.

And Patricia wouldn't even be annoyed, he thought cheerfully, for the creative energy he gained from Chris didn't go back to Bunniption Base. Not that she knew all the details about that, but Alfalfa felt better for it.

But that cheerfulness disappeared when Patricia went crashing down.

Alfalfa was halfway across the room towards her by the time she hit the floor – wasn't she considered old, by humans? Was she in danger just from a fall? Oh, why didn't he know more about humans!

Think, Alfalfa, he told himself, and forced himself to halt his headlong rush across the room, hiding under the candy buffet. What could he do for her? The humans were clustering around her now, and surely they could take care of her.

The important thing was... why. Why had she fallen. She hadn't displayed any tendency to faint during the whole time that he had known her, and none of the narratives in which she had become tangled (not that she knew, poor dear lady!) had any faint-prone women.

That meant he had to consider rabbit influence, and that might mean Flopsy had lost. But what could he do against them? Alfalfa's narrative was about love triangles, for harvest's sake, and while he had some power stored from working with Patricia and Chris, who would he even use it on?

No, it was time to call in the troops. Alfalfa scampered out of the room to the coat check – Bun-Bun's black-spotted white shape lay complacently floating in the middle of the rack of coats, not bothering to be physical at all while he happily fed murderous thoughts to the writing of the woman running the coat check. She didn't even look up as Alfalfa crossed the lobby and Alf offered a grateful shake of his ears and whiskers to Bun-Bun in appreciation of the engrossing nature of his narrative.

"What's up, doc?" Bun-Bun asked, nonchalantly biting the tip off another brain carrot. The woman must be prolific, Alf thought appreciatively.

"Patricia just fell over for no apparent reason," Alf answered.

"Cleaners," Bun-Bun said, springing upright and alert. "Sorry, toots," he told the coat check lady as if she could hear him. "Gota go. C'mon sprout, they'll get you if I leave you alone – you're probably their target, unless it's me – I didn't hear anything about this, and neither did my team – oh famine, Bunnicula, why did you have to pull this now – that girl was just my type -"

Bunnicula? Cleaners? Alfalfa shook his head, and followed the lop-eared Bun-Bun towards the ballroom.

The two passed the curtain-draped entrance to find a scene of chaos.

Someone was losing his head to a series of explosive sneezes, Alfalfa noticed first, then saw the cluster of humans still hovered anxiously near the stage where Patricia had fallen, but all the humans besides these were staring in horror at the candy buffet.

Rabbits were appearing, one by one, and although Alf didn't recognise any of them, they all had the stupid pirate patch that had recently entered vogue. He glanced at Bun-Bun; sure enough, one of the black spots on his white fur surrounded an eye. Somehow Alfalfa was sure that Bun-Bun's was at least natural – and, interestingly, his was on the left while the one on each of these others was around the right eye.

Perhaps it indicated group identity – what had Bun-Bun said? Cleaners.

Oh, he realised, shrinking deeper into the curtains by the door, a euphemism.

"Stay here," Bun-Bun growled at him, and disappeared from view.

But while Alfalfa had no intention of being "cleaned", neither did he have any way of checking on Patricia from here. Still, he thought, watching the pirate plot bunnies (there must be dozens of them!) spread across the ballroom, Bun-Bun and his team would surely counter-attack soon, and then his attempt to reach Patricia would be hidden. He hoped.

Even as Alfalfa formed his plan, Bun-Bun's team was acting. They had of course been in the ballroom to monitor events; they must have had contingency plans.

Those plans were obviously working in conjunction with violent narratives, Alfalfa noted, as gunfire and screams and thus echoed across the ballroom.

None of the injured seemed to be human though, Alfalfa noted in absentminded appreciation of professionalism. Someone obviously had a tight lock on the "no humans harmed in the making of this narrative" rating, and Alfalfa hoped that was maintained.

He also noted a clear path through the melee where plot bunnies on both sides had moved to help buddies on other stations, and Alfalfa was already moving through it. This attack had started with Patricia, and he needed to check on her.

Alfalfa had just reached the table nearest her, and was huddled behind the skirt formed by its tablecloth, carefully nestling where he was free of the power cables plugged into the outlets attached to the legs of the table. If he needed to move, he didn't want to be trapped by their tangle.

The small brown rabbit was dark enough to blend into the shadows beneath the table, so he allowed himself to move to a gap in the tablecloth where he could check his surroundings. Nothing nearby – he winced at a particularly loud gunshot nearby – above him? Perhaps on the table. Yes, he thought sadly, watching the brief shower of Mistral-set type. Alfalfa spared a moment's thought for the stories that plot bunny would no longer have the chance to write.

He would have to be careful, Alfalfa told himself, but he couldn't see Patricia from this gap in the tablecloth.

Alfalfa waited for a count of ten: nothing else nearby, no gunshots, no thuds, no screams. He decided to risk it. What would one more bunny be in the crowd already out there?

He darted out from the gap, just enough to look at where he had last seen Patricia, intending to hop right back in, but – he froze for just an instant, there was no one there. Where was she?

A familiar grip surrounded Alfalfa's midsection and lifted him up, and he relaxed. Patricia! If she was up, she must have recovered.

Alfalfa twisted in her grip to look up at her, to signal hello to her with his ears – and froze again.

The hands were hers.

The face was hers.

But those eyes, seeming somehow to have an orange sheen, belonged to someone else.

He had seen her like that before, but then it had been his own team who had done it to her.

Patricia had been taken over by plot bunnies.

"Bye-bye, Alfalfa," said the voice of the woman Alfalfa had worked with for the past month, and he closed his eyes. That it would end here – like this – without evening knowing who it was who was controlling her...

But nothing had happened. The room had gone quiet. No gunshots. No thuds. Not even any screams.

Alfalfa opened his eyes again, and looked straight into ... Patricia's eyes. Her own, not controlled by some plot bunny, and he stared in wonder. She stared back, and he thought, perhaps, that he saw a softness there... but had she forgotten Alfred? he wondered, and wished he hadn't. He was a plot bunny. What could possibly be between the two of them?

"Earry?!" a soft feminine voice came from behind and above him, and Alfalfa tore his gaze away from the lovely grey eyes that blinked at him so delicately.

Flopsy? When had she arrived? His team lead was sitting on the podium, and looking straight at him. He did the best he could to crouch from his position in Patricia's grip, and sensing his struggle, she set him on top of the nearest table – the one he had crouched beneath, and he edged away from the type scattered across its surface. She couldn't see it, he reminded himself, and she didn't know what it was, or she wouldn't have set him on top of it.

Alfalfa looked around the room – all the plot bunnies present were staring at him – no, at Patricia. What had happened? Earry, Flopsy had said, he thought, but where was he?

"Ahem," the small white rabbit's voice came from close by, and Alfalfa turned back to Patricia: Earry was sitting on Patricia's shoulder. "Sorry about that, Alf, but I had to make them think you were going to die or they would have killed you."

What? Who? Alf wondered, then realised he'd asked aloud.

"The cleaners, Alf," Earry explained. "You were their target, for you were the only one here who scared Bunnicula. When you disappeared at the beginning of the month, Bunnicula put out a kill order on you, and he only rescinded it to see what you were up to here – but when he heard that the sergeant had been killed, he put it on again. He was sure you the one who had killed him, and he used that against Flopsy – even though you hadn't done it."

"Bunnicula?" Alfalfa repeated.

"The vampire the elder archetypes had invited into their midst in order to stop the deaths of plot bunnies due to National Novel Writing Month. The leader who has been absorbing all our energy this month, rather than pouring it into plotlet kits – and who Flopsy has now destroyed."

"Flopsy?" Alfalfa said, before he could stop himself from sounding like an idiot.

"Yes. You can catch up later, Alf. You can communicate with your human, can't you?" Flopsy asked.

"Yes ma'am," he said. "To a point."

"Well, it's time that we started, then," Flopsy said, and stared around the room from the top of the podium. "Plot bunnies, the elder archetypes have given me the authority to end this battle in whatever way I see fit. That means you, cleaners," she said, glaring at the bunnies she could see with eye patches. "And I'll have you know that your leader, Bunnicula, is now enjoying the harvest without you, so you'd best settle down or you'll find yourself doing proper cleaning under the direction of my dam and kept in line by Bun-Bun, both of whom are more than capable of making your lives miserable. Is that clear?"

The plot bunnies scattered around the room all assented.

"Right," she said. "You lot, all of you, gather on that middle table there," she indicated the table on which the candy buffet had once stood, but which was now not even covered by its maroon tablecloth. The rapid influx of plot bunnies had cleared everything from it, and now all the chocolate squares and caffeinated marshmallows and cinnamon-flavoured hard candies and chewy watermelons and all the other delectable treats had joined the sour rabbits in turning the floor treacherous for the humans. The plot bunnies obediently made their way there, carefully skirting around the humans but, some of them at least, sheepishly avoiding their gazes.

The humans seemed confused, because of course they couldn't hear what was said by the plot bunnies, but they were mostly silent, seeming to understand that something important was happening, only talking quietly to one another and pointing to the rabbits. Except the man at the table near the corner, who was standing with a cloth over his mouth and nose but was still sneezing violently.

"Alright Alfalfa," Flopsy said. "We are after a peaceful result with the humans, and it's up to you to make it happen. Now, the elder archetypes have authorized an expenditure of energy from Bunniption Base for this, so you'll have a voice the humans can hear. Are you ready?"

"Um," Alfalfa stammered. What was he supposed to do?

"Not to worry, Alf," piped a rabbit voice from near the central table, and Alfalfa turned his head sharply.

"Hops! Harey!" he cried, for the dark pair were settled comfortably beneath the candy buffet, absentmindedly flicking bits of sugared confection at one another.

"Gang's all here," said Harey. "Now get up on that podium with your lady-friend, and work out a deal with the novelists. Even if you can't come up with anything, surely she can – she's been rather smart so far."

"Right," said Alfalfa, and he looked at Patricia, then raised himself up on his haunches and settled again, and repeated it for a total of three times, giving the signal that he had something to tell her.

"Yes?" Patricia asked, and Alfalfa turned and hopped to the podium, with her following.

"Alright," Alfalfa said to Flopsy, and she executed some strange maneuver that he couldn't quite follow.

"Patricia?" Alfalfa said, tentatively, and the stately lady started. His ears twitched in amusement. "I only have a few minutes of talking time, and you and I have to come up with a solution to the dispute between the plot bunnies and the novelists."

Alfalfa turned to the microphone on the podium. "Novelists, I represent the plot bunnies. Each November, your novelling creates a big surplus of creative energy for our people, and we have a sudden rush of plotlet kits becoming grown plot bunnies. However, by the time the month finishes, novelists drop out or finish their writing and move back to their lives – leaving us with not enough creative energy to support our new higher numbers.

"So this year, one of our leaders decided to try something different, and in the process managed to both betray our entire species and to lead us to try to disrupt your work – but it doesn't have to be that way. That leader has now been killed, although I haven't had the full story on that yet," Alfalfa paused to give Flopsy a dirty look, then continued, watching Patricia and not noticing the stunned expressions on the faces of the humans in the ballroom.

"Our remaining leaders have expended significant creative energy in order to give me the power to speak with you now, and to hopefully resolve our differences."

Now Alfalfa looked out at the novelists in the room. "You are a group of people who feed us, nourish us, and this month we decided to take that out on you. It doesn't make any sense, and it is ungrateful of us. We enjoy the fruit of your labour as you benefit from our input into your creative pursuits.

"My people have given me the honour of representing them in order to come up with an answer to our difficulties, but I need your help. What can we do together to ensure that our population is not decimated by the fluctuations in creative energy caused by the National Novel Writing Month endeavour?"

Alfalfa looked up at Patricia, who was watching him with glowing eyes. "Patricia?" he asked.

"I did have an idea..." Patricia said slowly. "Novelists?" She said into the microphone, looking around at the room. "The plot bunnies want a solution that allows us to co-exist productively. I have an idea, but it might take a bit of work on our part. The plot bunnies have accepted Alfalfa's role as mediator on their behalf; will you accept me in this role? Will you accept my suggestion?"

The novelists in the room looked around at each other, and then one woman from the back called out, "If Chris Baty agrees, I'll follow along!" - and there was general agreement throughout the room. Chris Baty headed to the stage, and stood listening to Patricia whisper for a few moments. Alfalfa watched her, admiring her straight back and high-held head. He supposed, after this, he would go back to his usual rounds, or perhaps something new with Flopsy, and wouldn't get to see her any more.

Somehow the thought completely lacked in appeal.

Patricia finished discussing with Chris Baty, and the two humans returned to the podium. Chris nodded to Alfalfa, and leaned past him to the microphone. "Novelists and plot bunnies, I believe Patricia has come up with an idea which will satisfy all of our needs. Patricia?" He stepped back, making way for her, and she stepped forward, softly caressing Alfalfa's head with a special smile for him before turning to the novelists in the room.

"Novelists, this plot bunny, Alfalfa, has lived with me this month, due to a bizarre arrangement of circumstances that perhaps ought to be a NaNoWriMo novel next year. He has helped me write a completely new type of story in addition to my novel, with a love triangle and romance and all kinds of things I never would have written about, for my NaNoWriMo novel is a murder mystery in the Film Noir style. He's been a huge inspiration to me, and I have thoroughly enjoyed having him in my life.

"So I propose something a little unorthodox, and which will hopefully continue to bring our two peoples together: a plot bunny daycare centre." Patricia paused, and looked around again. "The plot bunnies need humans to write and tell stories based on their narratives, because that gives them the energy they need to live. We can give them that without needing to write novels all the time. We just need to form storytelling groups, which this daycare centre would help encourage. Plot bunnies who needed extra energy because their narratives had been somewhat out of print for a while would simply need to come to the daycare and a storytelling or writing group would adopt him into their fold.

"We would need someone to take charge of the daycare, and I propose Alfalfa and myself for the task. We already know how to communicate with one another – even when Alfalfa isn't expending his people's hard-earned energy on being able to speak.

"Chris Baty has agreed – Alfalfa, do you think this would work, and would you be willing to work with me for its success?"

"Yes," Alfalfa said, thrilled at the prospect of continuing to work with her. She had the warmest, brightest energy he had ever had the pleasure of working with, and this project would enable him to share her energy with the other plot bunnies – something he was sure would help to bring the plot bunnies and humans together.

"Novelists?" asked Patricia, and there was applause, starting from Chris Baty standing at the back of the stage and spreading quickly throughout the room, even to the plot bunnies crowding the candy buffet table, who in place of clapping, jumped up and down in place – even the rabbits with the patches covering one eye.

Alfalfa carefully didn't look at the black-spotted white bunny glaring at the rest of the pirate-patched rabbits from his perch on a table next to the candy buffet.

"And now," Patricia said, reaching for the cowbell. "I was interrupted before I could do this..."

And she rang the cowbell briskly, to increased applause throughout the room. As it started to die down, Patricia leaned into the microphone again. "Now, novelists and plot bunnies both, we have nearly an hour left before the end of the evening – let's work together, this time, and get some word count in!"