My dear readers, this work is what's called a Parody. What is a parody? you ask as you cock your head to the side and wonder.
Well, allow me (and the dictionary) to explain.
1. A parody is a work that imitates another work in order to ridicule, ironically comment on, or poke some affectionate fun at the work itself, the subject of the work, the author or fictional voice of the parody, or another subject.
You understand? Yes? No? Good. Then I must move on to other matters, for time is short.
Regrettably, I must first begin with the standard disclaimers and warnings, ‘else I am liable to Get Sued. And not in a good way.
Firstly, I am obligated to warn you that this hereby termed fanfic will contain several things which May Not Appeal To You. This work includes a glamorous conglomeration of things which may disturb and otherwise appall those of a more...discerning readership. This includes writing that is (not) taken seriously (enough), Mary-Sues, Gary-Stus, overage and underage trainers, legendary pokémon, language, oblique references, inside jokes, mockery, foreshadowing, and illogical happenings that break canon like canonballs break bodies. Nothing is sacred here, even you. Thus, I shall bestow upon this story a rating of PG unless otherwise noted.
Secondly, The Author does not own pokémon, or any fandom/character/person somehow copyrighted herein.
Thirdly, any similarities to persons, creative works, etc. existent or non-existent is entirely confidential – so don’t ask me, ‘cause I can’t tell you. My lips are sealed.
And lastly, treat this parody as you would any other parody.
Got it memorized?
Then begin, dear reader. The Fourth Wall is broken. The world is yours. Step carefully.
The Fanfic Wars:
‘Cause we all know that Fanfiction is Serious Business
Chapter 1: The FF4E1 Alliance
~++//**&$=!DECLAIREASHUN ŘF WARRRZZZZZZ!!!!!111!=$&**//++~
This IS a true DECLAireashun of war!!!!1
We wont take it anymore
this is teh last straw! we MEAN it tw0!!!
We r tired of ur flamez u say u r helping us but u r not Ur ony jealous becuz we right better then u!!! If u don’t leik our workz then dotn READ THEM!! But this is the last final only remaining very last ultimate WARning (U GIT IT:? HAHAHAHABWA) If, u, du, nut, apologizee, too, us, imedatiately, we, will, take, action1 And crush u two peaces b4 u can say were bad and wrong! We have strong pokes mans on our side, so beware!
we will be nice n mercyful and give u too 4 oh clock in for all of u @%%&*é$ to say ur sorry.
WE REALLY MEANIT! SERIESOUSLY!
ANOYMOUSESES OF THE FF4E1
pss our stories r bett3r then urs
pssss if u dun t algae its gonna be war & well keel u, and ull dye if ur killed.
To say Psy Umber the Alakazam was disturbed at the contents of this particular PM would be a very profound understatement. To say he would be morbidly amused would be closer to the particular emotion he was feeling, but not quite. If one were to convey his particular feelings of disgust, amusement, shock, and horror in words, they would have to search a particularly verbose thesaurus in order to find the correct one to accurately represent it.
And believe me, such a thesaurus doesn’t exist—if it had, it would have been burned a long time ago. Because there was no single word to adequately describe his current feelings, half-of the Alakazam's mind was hell-bent on making a word up, while the other half was insisting he just file it under a word in his own personally-created mental lexicon, under the entry “Absolutely Gibacoil”. Nevertheless, our protagonist resisted such an urge and moved on to less random things.
Now, Psy Umber had hoped that today would be particularly free of this sort of mindless drabble that continuously fluttered into his inbox on an hourly basis. Most of the trash disguised as serious and important business that Psy received he deleted immediately, as it was the kind of unrecyclable trash that a Mary-Sue’s innards are made of, but an ever-so-tiny portion of it he kept, prizing that portion like he treasured certain pages from grocery store tabloids. Anything that was random and strange enough to make even his brain stop working for a few seconds deserved to have itself plastered onto his bedroom wall for fond remembrance.
This particular PM deserved a whole wall to itself. It made his gladf;ksr Chronicles look like the ramblings of a sane man.
When the PM first arrived in his inbox at exactly 2:15 a.m., it had taken the Alakazam exactly thirty-three point four seconds to read it, and another thirty seconds to decipher what it meant. Ten minutes had now passed from that point, and now it was his obligation to take action. He quickly sent a telepathic wake-up call every author on the fanfiction forum's castle premises that was a member of the esteemed Fanfiiction Writers' Guild. He hoped his call was strong and shocking enough to convey the absolute urgency of the matter.
After all, this was a declaration of war... even if it was just about as intimidating as a slug yelling threats and obscenities at a fat woman armed with a saltshaker. Still, even a lowly slug deserved to have his threats taken seriously. And Psy Umber would gladly oblige.
Everyone to the Café! he ordered in a booming, ominous voice as the many minds he was now connected to began to metaphorically turn on like a string of Christmas lights wrapped around a tree. Their inner voices echoed in his head, bouncing around like pinballs, as each user awoke from sleep one by one.
What the hell?! came a voice. You again? Get out of my head, you damn pansy!
This had better be important.
You’re such an annoying prick, you know that, Psy? This is--
--like the third time this week?
What’s up this time?
What time is it, anyway? Two?! You've got to be kidding me.
Seriously, what did you wake us up for?
Can I go back to sleep now?
This dream sucks...
I wish I was a Dark-type right about –
It was then Psy chose to finish his message. We have received a declaration of war.
The Authors’ Café was in chaos.
Not that there was anything wrong with that. Why should there be? Situations such as the one presently occuring in the fanfiction lounge often brought out the best—and worst—in people. It separated the heroes from the anti-heroes, the antagonists from the chaotic neutrals, and the idiots from the imbeciles.
It also served to get the plot’s ass moving at high speed.
“All right, mate, spit it out!” a female Typhlosion demanded, fire around her neck blazing a fierce red-orange. “You said “declaration of war” didn’t you? Well? Where's this declaration?”
Psy grunted and cleared his throat in a dramatic manner. The chatter died down to a quiet murmur. Their attention was on him now. He held a print-out of the PM in one of his paws. “At exactly 2:15 a.m.,” he began in an even, stoic voice as he simultaneously levitated a pair of Bronzong-colored spectacles into his free paw, slipping them on for effect, “I received the following PM from a group of anonymous users representing the FF4E1…”
A number of individuals rolled their eyes. And for good reason. You see, dear readers, though the notorious so-called vigilante group preferred to be known as the “Fan Fiction For Everyone” alliance, most of the prominent members of the Fanfiction Writers' Guild—and by prominent, I refer the members who could successfully distinguish and use Lay/Lie properly--preferred to call them the BFF. That is, the Bad Fan Ficcers. This, of course, was for their own secret amusement, as the FF4E1 had yet to realize that by BFF, the Guild did not mean “Best Friends Forever".
Psy Umber continued to read the message he had received to the now silent crowd. He quickly finished, and no one uttered a single syllable for some time, every author shooting looks at one another from across the oak table that lay between them. Psy began to wonder if he should read it again (just to get he point across, of course) for good measure when a female voice piped up from the crowd.
“Umm, Psy…” said the a Plusle in a slow, hesitant fashion, “are you sure that that was… well… English?”
“Yeah.” The Typlosion nodded rapidly in agreement as she, too, broke the silence. “I mean, seriously, W-T-F, mate.”
“I read it exactly how it was scribed,” the Alakazam replied, taking off his spectacles as they were no longer needed. “Down to the last homonym misuse.”
“You call it misuse,” the Typhlosion grumbled, “I call it a freakin’--“
“No need to get rowdy,” cut in an old, fire-breathing tortoise that went by the name of Pine. “The poor dears. Quite a misguided bunch. If only people weren’t so mean to them. I don’t think they would act this way if—”
“Yeah, yeah,” a Sneasel who was missing one eye hissed, unconvinced. “Whatever. I say we just wait ‘til they come here with their freakin’ little “army”, and we pound ‘em into the ground like a Steelix bodyslamming the heck outta a Caterpie.
A few people murmured in hushed agreement. Some smiled. Morbidly.
“Are they even a threat?” said Matsuri, the Aipom dangling tail-first from the Café's chandelier. “I’ve gotten and seen my share of those sorts of PMs. They could just be trying to get attention.”
“If the FF4E1 somehow did manage to rally enough supporters for this so-called rebellion of sorts…” the Alakazam took a deep breath, brain whirring.They actually hadn't made any disturbances in the fanfiction forum for some time. Months now that he thought of it... “--then, yes, I would consider them a threat. Statistically, the number of users they consort with that would likely aid their cause would far outnumber the ones we could rally to our own by a phenomenal percentage.”
“Sturgeon’s law,” said the forum’s resident shapeshifter, Kergen, who was currently in her favored shiny Slugma form.
Psy nodded. “Exactly.” He then turned his fox-like head to face the Typhlosion. “Well, Tai, you’re an expert on rebellions. You documented the last one in Johto to its end quite well. What do you think?”
Tai looked at him, rolled her eyes, and sighed. “I don’t analyze psychopaths and their rebellions, mate, I just write about ‘em after the fact, but...” She paused for a moment, tapping her paws on the table, gathering her thoughts. “Well, I’ve met and interviewed a bunch of pokémon in the rebellions and know a fair bit of what happened and how they think—or in some cases, don't-- right? But see, they’re still unpredictable buggers. One minute you’re talkin’ with the blokes peacefully, and the next you’re watching them trying to recreate the next region war by blowin’ up a radio tower. See where I’m goin’? You can’t expect me to predict what the badficcers are going to do next. I mean, how long’s a piece of string, mate?”
Pine shuffled her feet. “Why don't we just apologize? Do what they ask?”
“We have nothing to apologize for,” an Arcanine snarled, murmurs of agreement rippling through the crowd. “They’re all just a bunch of immature ten-year-olds—”
“And we’re not,” the Torkoal cut in, meeting the Arcanine’s eyes with her steady gaze.
“So?” the canine snorted, tiny embers jetting through the air before dying. “I’m not apologizing to a bunch of brats.”
A Machamp grinned widely. “I conquer!”
Over in the far left corner, a Mr. Mime was wearing a sly smirk. “I don’t think we have a thing to worry about,” said Pantomime, making strange, robotic gestures with her white-gloved hands. She was an expert at breaking clichés. Had been since her birth.
A few pairs of eyes narrowed, shooting identical looks at the Machamp. A few pokémon made shushing noises.
“After all, they’re all talk,” the Mr. Mime continued, gaining momentum as many of authors rushed to agree with her views. Pantomime was in her element. “The little brats are all about telling and not about showing. If they want us to apologize that badly, they had better show us they mean it.”
“Then you won’t object to leading our forces into battle if they insist on making good on their word, then?” Kergen said sharply, cutting the Machamp off before he could utter another 'conquer'. Her silver head turned as she made contact with the Machamp's eyes. "After all, you seem so eager to express to us your ability to win.”
The Machamp shrugged his shoulders, looking a little put-off despite his apparent nonchalance. “Uh.. Of course.”
After all, it wouldn’t happen. What did he need to be afraid of?
The majority of the authors present agreed. But they were about to be proven very, very wrong.
Exactly 150,034 collective words away, an army was marching under the bright light of the full moon. Hundreds strong, they moved through the veritable jungle of story threads towards their final destination, a single goal in mind. They were united. They were One. They were the Neo FF4E1, and they were ready for war.
The army was led by a deceptively small human girl with pink hair and fierce, two-toned eyes that did more than just change color. Her smile was like that of a predatory feline. She was smug, confident, perfect. She was about to prove why no one should mess with a Hybrid-Sue. Followed by her army of wannabe doppelgangers, she was a master of manipulating canon. Nothing was sacred. She would tear the world of fanfiction apart with her bare hands, and no one was going to stop her. In her world, no one could. And this was her world. She was irresistible. She would be their God. The naysayers would search for her flaws and imperfections, but they would find none. They would bow to her—love her—like legions of others had done before them.
The authors up in that castle would curse the day they had mocked her story all those years ago. Oh yes, they would rue it. She had only been ten then—an innocent girl with innocent dreams. Now she was thirteen, and ready to rule the world.