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Title: Once Upon A Time
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Veronica, Mitchell (AU), Weevil, Wallce
Written for: Veronica Mars Summer Ficathon
Once upon a time, there lived a rather pretty girl named Veronica. It’s a nice beginning, don’t you think? As with any true fairy tale heroine, she has golden hair and a smile that glows no matter the circumstances. Imagine Cinderella with a clothes allowance.
There are differences in this story than other stories, though. There is no Evil Stepmother, although there’s a messed up mom, but we’re not concerned with her for the moment. And there isn’t a Prince – there are three. Since none of them have made a true play for the star of our story, we won’t necessarily concern ourselves with them. Suffice it to say, they need to be sent on a quest or two to realize the importance of keeping the Princess happy.
There is a stereotypical Best Friend/Squire/Talking Mouse who always seems to be around to either get in trouble with Princess Veronica or to stumble his way out to run for help. Considering this Damsel-in-distress spends a fair amount of time in peril, he’s had his work cut out for him.
Her Knight-Errant rides around on his dark steed, doing the heroine’s bidding when she is in extreme need. Right now, she’s in extreme need…and he’s nowhere to be found. Someone mentioned seeing him at a motorcycle shop in one of the less friendly parts of town and she didn’t have time to alert him to where she was going. That had been a mistake that she’s quickly realizing was of the major kind.
She also has her own Wizard who can discover almost anything if Veronica gives her enough time. Because of the proper initiative (a couple of twenties for a new wireless keyboard), Mac had been able to find out that Mitchell Torrence had just purchased a completely new sound system for his sixty-seven Mustang convertible.
Because of this information, Veronica finds herself tied to a chair, waiting for a very nervous Mitchell to figure out what he’s going to do with her. She’s hoping he suddenly comes to his senses and decides to let her go. Since that reality is unlikely, she’s furiously trying to come up with a Plan B. Quick thinking is what she does best, but she’s feeling a bit slow right now. It’s the gun that keeps being pointed at her from time to time. She hates guns.
“Quit moving!” Mitchell gets out of his own chair and paces along the plastic runner that runs the length of his mother’s front room. The weak light filtering in through the drawn blinds doesn’t find a speck of dirt to play with in this immaculate house.
“My nose itches. If I could scratch it, I wouldn’t need to move.” It isn’t good reasoning but she is betting on his jittery nerves not picking up on that. She also hopes he doesn’t notice the ropes sagging just enough that it’s now possible for her to be free in the next couple of minutes – barring any sudden explosions or wild gun shots.
“This is all your fault. No one would have figured out I was the one stealing the milk money at the grade school if you hadn’t come along. In another month, I was going to be able to get those new lights for Maybelline.”
For a split second, Veronica loses the train of the conversation. Who is Maybelline and why does she need new lights?
“You named your car after a line of cosmetics? Shouldn’t it be something cool like James?”
He stops and stares at her. Obviously he isn’t following her reasoning. Miscommunication is deadly…or, in this case, a good way of buying time.
“James Dean? The original bad boy? Living in the fifties and died in a rather spectacular car crash.”
For an instant, the gun in his hand points at the floor as he processes this new information. Being suddenly quick to pick up on what the blank expression means, Veronica takes advantage of the opening and shakes her hands free of the nylon ropes that had probably once been a pair of jump ropes. Those poor grade school kids seemed to be getting the raw end of the deal where Mitchell was concerned. If she were to open the closet, dodge balls would probably rain down on her. Maybe another time.
As she dives behind the kitchen island, she feels small pieces of Corell china rain down on her bare shoulders. The tank top was a definite fashion no-no. Another shot embeds into the cabinets above her. If his gun had been fully loaded when she made the mistake of trying to catch him in the act of taking the cash box from the school office this morning, he’d used three of his six shots.
As always happens in these types of stories, her salvation is in front of her. She can see the block of knives to the right of the refrigerator, but part of her hesitates. There’s a white line that snakes up her hip that is a constant reminder of why it’s not a good idea of play with knives – ever. It keeps her from wearing the same kind of swimwear as most of her schoolmates.
Struggling with another plan, which would be Plan C, she searches her pockets. A ticket stub to a movie that she wishes she hadn’t paid quite so much to see. A candy wrapper from the same excursion. Three Chiclets.
When the doorbell rings before she can make her first move, she feels relieved but apprehensive. Neither Plan B or C call for interruptions.
“Could I interest you in a year subscription to Esquire magazine?”
“Wallace!” she squeaks from her hiding place. He definitely isn’t the one she wants to see on the other side of the door. Squires make wonderful “go run and get someone” kind of help, not the “I’ll shoot and you duck out of the way” kind. The milkman would have been a better choice, but she needs to work with what she has available.
Peeking over the counter, she sees the gun peeking out from the waistband of Mitchell’s jeans. Silly boy! He would have been wiser to ignore the door and continue to shoot. The odds of her getting out of this kitchen had gone up exponentially.
“If you don’t want Esquire, we do have other magazines. Better Homes and Garden. Good Housekeeping. Playboy, maybe?”
Veronica deals with a silent, strangled giggle as she notices her captor’s red neck. Obviously, Wallace is digging for names of magazines now, having gone through the two his mom gets on a regular basis.
When he can’t get the pest away from the front door with a simple no, Mitchell steps it up to the next level. The dragon (because all good fairy tales have a dragon of some kind) decides to blow some smoke since just showing his claws hasn’t worked.
Fumbling for the weapon, Mitchell snarls, “Leave me alone or I’ll make you wish you had never gotten into the subscription business.”
“Whoa, there.” Wallace’s voice reaches into the high ranges where it lives when he’s stressed. “If you don’t want a magazine, you don’t need to get one. Put that thing away and let’s talk instead.”
“Why would I want to talk to you?”
“You may want to talk to my friend, the magazine salesman, here after I get done with you.”
Mitchell stumbles back from the door, his empty hands waving uselessly in the air as he struggles to maintain his balance. Sunlight’s blocked from streaming into the room as Mitchell’s nightmare stalks him. The creaking of Weevil’s leather jacket is a welcome sound as Veronica finds her breathing returning to normal. Once again, she’s saved from having to do something she might regret.
Even though she knows she should jump into the fray and help get Mitchell subdued, she finds herself mesmerized by the bullet hole on the cabinet high above her.
“Veronica, you okay?”
“I’m in the kitchen,” she tries hollering to Wallace. Since it doesn’t come out above a loud whisper, she tries again. “Tell Weevil not to kill Mitchell. He’s not worth it.” When the dark head pops over the counter, she can’t help laughing. “Were you as red as he was at the mention of Playboy?”
He has the good grace to stay silent even if he doesn’t blush like she hopes he might when she makes this kind of joke. As a best friend, he knows the right times to be silent. Sometimes, her jokes aren’t really meant to be funny.
“Ready to go, Princess?” Weevil holds out his hand, which she accepts because she’s not sure if she can rely on her legs to support her right now. No one glances at the inert form on the plastic runner as they walk out the door.
“I haven’t had dinner. Can we stop for Chinese?” Veronica knows that Wallace is glancing at Weevil over her head, both of them concerned for her state of well being. “I’ll buy.”
In fairy tales, Princesses are allowed time to recuperate. Tomorrow, she’ll be back and she’ll make Mitchell pay.
Hope you like it!
-Rain
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Veronica, Mitchell (AU), Weevil, Wallce
Written for: Veronica Mars Summer Ficathon
Once upon a time, there lived a rather pretty girl named Veronica. It’s a nice beginning, don’t you think? As with any true fairy tale heroine, she has golden hair and a smile that glows no matter the circumstances. Imagine Cinderella with a clothes allowance.
There are differences in this story than other stories, though. There is no Evil Stepmother, although there’s a messed up mom, but we’re not concerned with her for the moment. And there isn’t a Prince – there are three. Since none of them have made a true play for the star of our story, we won’t necessarily concern ourselves with them. Suffice it to say, they need to be sent on a quest or two to realize the importance of keeping the Princess happy.
There is a stereotypical Best Friend/Squire/Talking Mouse who always seems to be around to either get in trouble with Princess Veronica or to stumble his way out to run for help. Considering this Damsel-in-distress spends a fair amount of time in peril, he’s had his work cut out for him.
Her Knight-Errant rides around on his dark steed, doing the heroine’s bidding when she is in extreme need. Right now, she’s in extreme need…and he’s nowhere to be found. Someone mentioned seeing him at a motorcycle shop in one of the less friendly parts of town and she didn’t have time to alert him to where she was going. That had been a mistake that she’s quickly realizing was of the major kind.
She also has her own Wizard who can discover almost anything if Veronica gives her enough time. Because of the proper initiative (a couple of twenties for a new wireless keyboard), Mac had been able to find out that Mitchell Torrence had just purchased a completely new sound system for his sixty-seven Mustang convertible.
Because of this information, Veronica finds herself tied to a chair, waiting for a very nervous Mitchell to figure out what he’s going to do with her. She’s hoping he suddenly comes to his senses and decides to let her go. Since that reality is unlikely, she’s furiously trying to come up with a Plan B. Quick thinking is what she does best, but she’s feeling a bit slow right now. It’s the gun that keeps being pointed at her from time to time. She hates guns.
“Quit moving!” Mitchell gets out of his own chair and paces along the plastic runner that runs the length of his mother’s front room. The weak light filtering in through the drawn blinds doesn’t find a speck of dirt to play with in this immaculate house.
“My nose itches. If I could scratch it, I wouldn’t need to move.” It isn’t good reasoning but she is betting on his jittery nerves not picking up on that. She also hopes he doesn’t notice the ropes sagging just enough that it’s now possible for her to be free in the next couple of minutes – barring any sudden explosions or wild gun shots.
“This is all your fault. No one would have figured out I was the one stealing the milk money at the grade school if you hadn’t come along. In another month, I was going to be able to get those new lights for Maybelline.”
For a split second, Veronica loses the train of the conversation. Who is Maybelline and why does she need new lights?
“You named your car after a line of cosmetics? Shouldn’t it be something cool like James?”
He stops and stares at her. Obviously he isn’t following her reasoning. Miscommunication is deadly…or, in this case, a good way of buying time.
“James Dean? The original bad boy? Living in the fifties and died in a rather spectacular car crash.”
For an instant, the gun in his hand points at the floor as he processes this new information. Being suddenly quick to pick up on what the blank expression means, Veronica takes advantage of the opening and shakes her hands free of the nylon ropes that had probably once been a pair of jump ropes. Those poor grade school kids seemed to be getting the raw end of the deal where Mitchell was concerned. If she were to open the closet, dodge balls would probably rain down on her. Maybe another time.
As she dives behind the kitchen island, she feels small pieces of Corell china rain down on her bare shoulders. The tank top was a definite fashion no-no. Another shot embeds into the cabinets above her. If his gun had been fully loaded when she made the mistake of trying to catch him in the act of taking the cash box from the school office this morning, he’d used three of his six shots.
As always happens in these types of stories, her salvation is in front of her. She can see the block of knives to the right of the refrigerator, but part of her hesitates. There’s a white line that snakes up her hip that is a constant reminder of why it’s not a good idea of play with knives – ever. It keeps her from wearing the same kind of swimwear as most of her schoolmates.
Struggling with another plan, which would be Plan C, she searches her pockets. A ticket stub to a movie that she wishes she hadn’t paid quite so much to see. A candy wrapper from the same excursion. Three Chiclets.
When the doorbell rings before she can make her first move, she feels relieved but apprehensive. Neither Plan B or C call for interruptions.
“Could I interest you in a year subscription to Esquire magazine?”
“Wallace!” she squeaks from her hiding place. He definitely isn’t the one she wants to see on the other side of the door. Squires make wonderful “go run and get someone” kind of help, not the “I’ll shoot and you duck out of the way” kind. The milkman would have been a better choice, but she needs to work with what she has available.
Peeking over the counter, she sees the gun peeking out from the waistband of Mitchell’s jeans. Silly boy! He would have been wiser to ignore the door and continue to shoot. The odds of her getting out of this kitchen had gone up exponentially.
“If you don’t want Esquire, we do have other magazines. Better Homes and Garden. Good Housekeeping. Playboy, maybe?”
Veronica deals with a silent, strangled giggle as she notices her captor’s red neck. Obviously, Wallace is digging for names of magazines now, having gone through the two his mom gets on a regular basis.
When he can’t get the pest away from the front door with a simple no, Mitchell steps it up to the next level. The dragon (because all good fairy tales have a dragon of some kind) decides to blow some smoke since just showing his claws hasn’t worked.
Fumbling for the weapon, Mitchell snarls, “Leave me alone or I’ll make you wish you had never gotten into the subscription business.”
“Whoa, there.” Wallace’s voice reaches into the high ranges where it lives when he’s stressed. “If you don’t want a magazine, you don’t need to get one. Put that thing away and let’s talk instead.”
“Why would I want to talk to you?”
“You may want to talk to my friend, the magazine salesman, here after I get done with you.”
Mitchell stumbles back from the door, his empty hands waving uselessly in the air as he struggles to maintain his balance. Sunlight’s blocked from streaming into the room as Mitchell’s nightmare stalks him. The creaking of Weevil’s leather jacket is a welcome sound as Veronica finds her breathing returning to normal. Once again, she’s saved from having to do something she might regret.
Even though she knows she should jump into the fray and help get Mitchell subdued, she finds herself mesmerized by the bullet hole on the cabinet high above her.
“Veronica, you okay?”
“I’m in the kitchen,” she tries hollering to Wallace. Since it doesn’t come out above a loud whisper, she tries again. “Tell Weevil not to kill Mitchell. He’s not worth it.” When the dark head pops over the counter, she can’t help laughing. “Were you as red as he was at the mention of Playboy?”
He has the good grace to stay silent even if he doesn’t blush like she hopes he might when she makes this kind of joke. As a best friend, he knows the right times to be silent. Sometimes, her jokes aren’t really meant to be funny.
“Ready to go, Princess?” Weevil holds out his hand, which she accepts because she’s not sure if she can rely on her legs to support her right now. No one glances at the inert form on the plastic runner as they walk out the door.
“I haven’t had dinner. Can we stop for Chinese?” Veronica knows that Wallace is glancing at Weevil over her head, both of them concerned for her state of well being. “I’ll buy.”
In fairy tales, Princesses are allowed time to recuperate. Tomorrow, she’ll be back and she’ll make Mitchell pay.
Hope you like it!
-Rain
