This is the story I jokingly call 'the ultimate Mary Sue'. Some time back on Long Title, there was a rash of stories about fanfic writers getting thrown into their own universes. I put myself into an alternate version of one of my favourite places to be. So, here we go --- Enola Jones meets the Power Monkees!
Enola was sleeping soundly when she was jerked into a sitting position by a rough hand holding onto her hair. "Ow!" she screeched. "Hey!"
"Shut up," a female voice hissed in her ear. "Shut up or your dear husband will be next week's crispy critters!"
Enola cast a frightened look beside her. Her husband Steven lay asleep, mercifully oblivious to what was happening. "Who are you?" she whispered.
"I'm the one you've maligned so often," the voice hissed. "I'm the one who's going to take you somewhere where I can have my revenge upon you and those popinjays you created!"
"I don't understand..."
"Oh, don't you?" A face as beautiful as an angel's, surrounded by hair as orange as a pumpkin's, suddenly flared into view. "Recognise me now?"
Enola shook her head, completely bewildered.
"Fine," she snarled. "You force me to reveal my name." She shimmered fully into view, and Enola saw the Grecian gown and the expression of pure evil on her face.
"Mara?" she screeched. "No... impossible! I made you up! You're not real!"
"Not real, am I?" the apparition snarled. "Then explain this!" And a bolt flared from her hand and blew up the computer on Enola's desk.
Enola stared in horror as her only connection to her friends and family was severed before her eyes. Then Mara laughed and made an elaborate arm motion. Psychedelic lights assaulted Enola's senses, and she mercifully passed out.
After what seemed like hours later, she heard a husky tenor say, "She's wakin' up!"
Enola groaned, a hand going to her head. She felt cold leather underneath her bare legs and shifted position. "Where..."
"Don't try to move yet," the voice said. "You look like you've been in a cyclone."
"Feel like it," she groaned.
"Aw, great," a distinctly British tenor groaned. "Another Southerner."
"Shut up," the first voice snarled. "Can you open your eyes, miss?"
Enola did. She smiled at the face before her. "Hi, love," she said with a smile.
The man with the black hair blinked and looked to his right, then shook his head. "Sorry, miss...I don't know what you're talking about."
"You don't..." Enola looked closer. This man had brown eyes... Steve had blue. His voice was completely different, the only similarity to her husband's being the rich accent. She jerked to a sitting position, suddenly recognising him. "Oh my stars!" she erupted. "Mike Nesmith?"
He recoiled, blinking. "You... have me at a decided disadvantage, Miss...."
"Jones," she gasped. "Enola Jones..." seeing the diminutive Brit in the corner give a start, she smiled crookedly. "No relation."
As the other two came in to see if she was okay, she suddenly looked fearfully at them. "But... which Monkees are you?"
They looked at each other. "What do you mean?" Peter Tork asked.
Enola's eyes widened as she stared wildly at Peter. "Oh my stars," she breathed. "Your ... your eyes are blue...you are the ones with powers... She sent me.... I'm in the world... oh my stars..."
And she collapsed in a dead faint.
Awareness returned very slowly. She became aware once more of cool leather beneath her bare arms and legs, of a gentle touch on her forehead. She attempted to try to force her eyes open.
"Mike!" came the unmistakable tenor shout. "She's waking up!"
"Sheesh, Micky," came the drawl from the other side of the room. "Wake the dead, why don'cha?"
Mike? ... Micky?....
"Holy shit!" Enola screeched, jerking to a sitting position. "I'm really... this is reality...."
Davy winced. "You kiss your mother with that mouth, lady?"
"Sorry," Enola said, grinning slightly. "I'm just... stunned to be here."
"You look cold," Mike said, moving to sit behind her on the chaise lounge.
Enola looked down at her cross-stitched angel t-shirt and underpants, and flamed bright red. Great... she mused to herself. I meet the Monkees and I'm in my nightclothes....
Davy looked at her, his power giving him an instinctual understanding of her height. "You're five three," he said with a smile. "My clothes may fit you... if you don' mind wearin' pants."
"Hate dresses," Enola said absently. "Always have."
Mike tapped one of the myriad scars on her legs. "Cause of these?"
"Yeah..." she said, attempting to pull her t-shirt down over them ineffectually. "A few reminders of childhood illness."
"Gotcha," Mike said. He suddenly lay his hands on either side of her and for a split-second Enola thought he was going to hug her!
But instead, his hands began to glow a pleasing yellow and she felt warmth begin to seep back into her bones. She smiled despite herself.
Davy returned with a pair of charcoal grey flares and handed them to her. "Try these, luv."
Heedless of the four pairs of eyes, she stood and shrugged into them, marveling at the fit. "Perfect." Absently, she ran a hand over her arms.
"I couldn't decide what shirt t'get you," Davy said with an apologetic shrug.
"I know which one," Enola said softly. "The blue long sleeved T-shirt with a darker blue triangle just below the collar."
Peter blinked. "That's mine... it'll swallow you whole."
Enola smiled. "I've worn shirts belonging to a man larger than you. They fit."
Davy fetched the shirt and she vanished into the bathroom to change. Once she did, she leaned over the sink and began to shake.
Getting control of herself, she came back out and asked to borrow a rubber band. Once she had it, she went back into the bedroom and fixed her hair in its usual style absently, her body on autopilot while her mind tried to process what had happened.
It was only when she emerged to Davy and Micky's jaws unhinging and Peter and Mike's eyes narrowing in surprise that she realised what she had done.
Enola's usual style was to part her raven shoulder-length waves on the right side and sweep the sides off her ears, catching them in back with a rubber band, letting two or three stray locks dangle in front of her ears on each side.
She lay her head in her hands, moaning at her mistake. "I'm sorry," she said through her fingertips, "this is the way I always wear it...."
"Lady," Peter snapped. "Who are you?"
Enola blinked at the four, who had closed ranks. "Wh-wh-what?" she stammered.
"Answer him," Mike said, glaring at her. "Who are you?"
"I'm.... I'm Enola," she said, still stammering. "Enola Jones. I'm... I'm a writer." At their looks at each other, she asked, "Why?"
For answer, Davy stepped forward and ran a single finger from the part in her hair, tracing the flip over her left eye and lifting one of the fallen curly strands from in front of her ear. He then cocked a thumb at Mike. "You gotta admit — that is awful spooky."
Turquoise eyes met chocolate brown ones. After a beat or two, Enola could no longer resist. With a slight smile, eyes still on Mike's , she cracked, "What, you 'spected me t'say my name's Michelle or Michaela Nesmith?"
Mike smiled slightly back. "Something like that."
Genuinely amused, Enola's smile turned into a broad, bedimpled grin. "No."
"Good." Mike's smile grew into a rare broad one as he looked over at Peter. From the angle of his head, Enola couldn't tell if blue flecks actually did appear in his eyes, but Peter suddenly nodded, his own eyes closed. Holy SHIT! she thought. They ARE linked!
Peter opened his eyes and smiled – but not the vacuous dimpled grin that had shone out from the TV screen at her a million times. This smile was a kind, warm one that seemed to penetrate through to her bones. The blue eyes twinkled with the light of a quick intelligence.
What is the MATTER with me? Enola chided herself. I created these guys -- why am I so shocked to find a blue-eyed genius telekinetic who's a leader?
Because until you woke up this morning, the answer trickled into her mind in her own voice, THESE Monkees didn't EXIST outside of your stories!
Enola gave herself a mental HUSH! as Peter began to speak.
"Well, Enola," Peter said softly, getting her name right on the first try – a rare thing in her experience and her already high estimation of him went up another fifty or so points – "would you please tell us how you managed to get in here with all our doors and windows locked?"
Enola took a deep breath and took refuge in the truth. "Mara sent me here."
Peter made a quick hand signal and the four, eyes and faces hard, were suddenly in a wary circle around her.
"No!" Enola said, raising both hands. "No, it's not what you think!"
"Well then," Micky said and Enola could practically hear icicles, "suppose you tell us just what it is?"
Enola lowered her hands and turned to Peter, knowing she'd have to convince the leader. Taking another deep breath, she explained, "Mara woke me up. She ripped me from my husband — who, incidentally, is Mike's double except for the eye colour ..."
"Which explains the greetin' you gave me," Mike nodded.
"...and said she would have her revenge upon you four and on me in one fell swoop." Enola lowered her eyes. "I'm scared, guys."
A moment of seeming hesitation, then Enola was enfolded in a pair of strong arms that were hugging the stuffing out of her! She smiled involuntarily as her arms went around him as well– she'd heard of Peter's bear hugs, but she had never imagined she'd be getting one! "No need to be scared," the rich baritone assured her. "We'll protect you."
Enola pulled back, but did not release him. She looked up at him — and was astonished to find instead of seven inches, her eyes traveled up almost ELEVEN! How in the WORLD... part of her screamed. He's too TALL!
Aloud, she said, "You don't understand ---- she's after me because she's pissed off that I have you guys beating her all the time!"
Peter gave a start as he blinked in astonishment. From either corner of her eyes, she saw identical reactions from Mike and Micky. "What ah ye sayin'?" Davy gasped.
Still locking her turquoise eyes with Peter's dark blue ones, she say, "I'm saying that I'm a writer ---- of Monkees stories. I created the world where you're powerful, I created Mara, Roma, the dimensional shift, the Quests, Jason, Mirrydor— I created all of it!"
Peter nodded slowly. "And now you're in one of your stories..."
"But I'm not!" Enola cried. "It's different! You're too tall, for one thing —" She noticed the small grin Peter shot at Davy over her head but ignored it for the moment – "The Pad's bigger — Mara has stuck me in a completely unfamiliar scenario — I have no idea what's gonna happen!
"And THAT'S why I'm scared."
The smell of breakfast woke Enola. She peeked her head out from under the covers and smiled. Her first thought was How sweet.... Steven's cookin'.... Then she checked the watch on her right wrist --- eight forty-five.
"Crap!" she screeched, lurching from bed, heading to get dressed and drive the carpool to school... she was late already....
--Only to curse as her bare toes impacted a riser. She fell forward, then raised her eyes -- marveling that things were so clear without her glasses -- and saw the instruments that littered the bandstand.
Whirling on her back and sitting up, she saw the black chaise that had been her bed, the eclectic mishmash of decorations ---
And a tall blonde man puttering around in the kitchen.
"Oh, shit," she moaned, lying on the bandstand and throwing an arm over her eyes. "I'd hoped it was a dream...."
"What," Peter quipped as he turned around. "Are we that bad of a batch of hosts?"
Enola snorted and sat up. "No... I just miss my family." Both of them, she thought, her fingers flexing, wishing desperately for a computer.
"That I dig," Peter said with a sigh. He smiled. "Go ahead, shower and change. Mike brought some clothes over before he went to the studio."
Confusion flared, then she remembered in her tales, the Monkees worked as studio musicians to pay the bills between gigs. Then something Peter had said worked its way through her sleep-fogged brain. "....clothes?"
Enola picked up a garment from the pile beside the chaise. Black ladies' flares and a navy blouse were revealed. Her eyes widened. "My favourite colour combination," she breathed. "How'd he know?"
"From the way you were ogling the clothes Valerie wore last night," Peter grinned. "We figured that combination and you got along rather well."
"That's the truth," she sighed, going into the bathroom and taking the clothes with her.
Half an hour later, Enola was halfway through her second blueberry waffle when Mike returned. "All set," he said, sitting down and helping himself. "We've got nothing lined up to work on for a few days. I left a message for Davy there, too. He'll be here as soon as he can."
Enola shook her head. "I can't believe he spent the night with her!"
Peter shrugged. "Davy stays at Carol's a lot. We've teased him about the playboy settling down."
Before Enola could answer, Micky floated down, by-passing the stairs entirely. He staggered to the table and reached blindly for the orange juice -- getting the milk instead. Eyes still closed, he took a deep drink --- and promptly splorted it over the table.
"Eewwww, Micky!" Peter, Mike and Enola chorused. Enola stood up in disgust, wiping at her soaked clothes as she grabbed an identical outfit and headed upstairs to change.
She was dressed and buttoning her blouse when the hackles on her neck rose. She whirled, eyes widening in alarm, only to relax with a sigh when she saw who was standing in the corner watching her. "Peter!" she cried, hand over her heart before she buttoned the final button. "Don't do that!"
"Sorry," he chuckled. "Came to see how you were doing."
"I'm fine," she smiled, somehow managing to frown at the same time. Something wasn't right....
He walked toward her, not speaking. Her eyes widened again as they raised to his face....
Seven inches. "You're...five-ten."
Peter chuckled. "I've always been five-ten, beautiful."
Enola took a step backward. "What did you call me?"
"Beautiful," he said, cupping her cheeks. "Because that's what you are." And before she could react, he kissed her on the lips.
Stunned, she jerked away. "What...what are you doing?"
"Kissing you," he said, zeroing in for another.
She pushed him away again. "Peter, have you gone crazy? I'm married!"
"I'm engaged," he said, dimpled grin shining full force on her. "What they don't know won't hurt us." And he kissed her again.
Enola struggled to pull away, to make him stop, but he held her tight. She looked at him and went cold when she saw his eyes glittering with an unholy glee...
Peter's brown eyes.
Wherever Mara is, sprang to Enola's mind, Peter's evil double isn't far behind....
She jerked away from him, her breathing ragged. "Peter...." she whispered.
"What?" he whispered back, smiling triumphantly as her hands moved around to grip his shoulders.
Enola smiled disarmingly as she pulled him toward her, licking her lips --
And then slammed her knee upward as she pulled him onto it! The look of shock and surprise as the air was forced from his lungs was the sweetest sight she'd seen all day.
Enola flung him to the floor and raced for the doorway.
"No... you...don't!" he snapped, his eyes glowing brown.
She found herself paralysed, frozen in place by his telekinesis. As he slowly regained his feet, recovering from her blow, she silently begged, Please.... please someone help me... please, he's so powerful....help me...
The evil man stood, leaning on Mike's dresser and slightly bent over as he caught his breath, his glowing eyes never leaving his paralysed prey.
Enola repeated her silent plea, Help me!
A voice like laughter reached her mind. You have been heard. Use your mind as well as the gift.
Gift? Enola gulped as a surging shot through her body. A...power...but which one?
She remembered explaining the origins of the powerful Monkees over and over again to her online friends and family -- "See, I gave him the power I'd most want if powers were real...."
Enola took a deep breath and threw a mental switch. Peter's doppelganger cried out as her turquoise eyes began to glow a deep indigo colour. With an effort, her own new telekinesis broke the grip of his, and she could move again.
He staggered, a hand going to his head.
Enola's brain whirled. She had created this fiend...what were his weaknesses again? Arrogance, limited by what he saw, powers neutralised if ---
She kicked at the doppelganger as she rose from the ground, goading him. He roared and shot after her.
Peter, Mike and Micky shot to their feet as the bedroom door blew outward. Enola came gliding out -- under her own power -- screaming, "Mike! Fire your brightest, harmless light at me!"
"What?" he cried.
"Just do it!"
Peter nodded quickly and Mike fired his brightest light directly at Enola, who squeezed her eyes shut tight and dropped to the floor.
The light struck Peter's doppelganger full in the eyes. He screamed, both hands covering his face as he fell like a stone.
Enola gasped, then began to laugh hysterically.
"What's so funny?" Peter asked, blue eyes alight with concern as he helped her to her feet.
Between giggles, she gasped out, "My... my friends...family....tease me unmercifully... about blinding people in st-stories..." She pointed at the now-powerless man at her feet, who was blinking useless eyes rapidly. "My blinding obsession just saved my bloody life!"
"Gloat now," the blonde snarled. "Once my Lady gets here, you'll have no chance!"
"Correction," a voice dripping honeyed poison sneered. "Your Lady will not 'get here' ---" Mara shimmered into view, glaring at Enola. "I have arrived."
Mara circled the four like a cat circles her prey. "Finally," she said with an evil grin. "Three of the four I hate and the one I hate more than them --- together in one place!"
"Why do you hate me?" Enola gasped.
Mara grabbed her by the throat, lifting her from the ground. "I hate you because you gave these four the means to vanquish me! Were it not for that fertile imagination of yours, they would be powerless! So I will have my revenge --- NOW!!"
There was a dazzling light and a horrible ripping sound -- and above it all, the sound of Enola's screams. When the light faded, Mara and Peter's double were gone.
Enola lay in a heap on the floor.
Peter, Mike, and Micky clustered around her. There was another, gentle, flash of light and Roma appeared. She knelt beside the writer and smoothed ebony locks from her hot forehead, probing.
She is uninjured --- physically.
Three pairs of alarmed eyes met. "What do you mean -- 'physically'?" Mike asked.
Mara has stolen something infinitely precious from her. She can no longer see anything in the sky but stars and clouds... no longer dream....
"I don't understand," Micky said.
"I think I do," Peter said, kneeling beside Roma. "Roma, scan me....am I right?"
You are, Roma said, caressing Enola's pale cheeks maternally. Mara has stolen her imagination.