Confessions of a Badficcer

of the blog war

A figure appeared on the sand in ample judicial robes. “Why are we at the
beach?” she asked. “It’s not beach weather in any of our hemispheres.”

“Christine!” There was joy in the Zen Resort, mixed with a subconscious
fear that she had come seeking betas for her legalfic.

“We appear to have misplaced the pool,” Lori said, taking the opportunity to
toss Virgil for Dummies into the ocean.

Jemima contemplated the now soggy tome as it swirled away. “I don’t
understand why we can’t decide how to spell Virgil. My Latin is a bit rusty, but
as I recall they used exactly the same alphabet we do.”

“Which alphabet is that?” Sean asked Lori.

“The Latin alphabet,” she informed her poolboy in an aside.

“I mean,” Jemima continued, “didn’t the fellow ever sign his name?”

“He does predate sig files,” Christine observed.

Liz donned her black toga to explain the situation. “The fellow
spelled his name Vergilius. The proper nick is therefore
Vergil. There’s no known explanation for
the centuries-long tradition of calling him Virgil.” She
paused a beat. “Except, of course, the usual one - nobody can spell a bloody
thing in English.”

Virgil looks nicer,” said the Nice One.

“The Law is on the side of Vergil.” Christine scribbled some
notes. The others desperately hoped it wasn’t a new legalfic.

Vergil gets my vote.” Lori picked a margarita off the tray
Sean was carrying around and sipped it with an air of finality.

Jemima’s eyes lit up. “Virgil,” she said. “Vergil, Virgil,
Vergil. Virgil.
Do you know what this means?”

“What?” Sean asked. Lori slapped him for encouraging Jemima.

“Blog war! The Vergillians against the Virgilantes! Blood, sweat, tears
and little blue corpses filling the trenches of France!” She practically hummed
with excitement. “Seema, are you with me? We must defend the

“The i - sure…” Seema looked doubtful. “Uh, weren’t you
about to tell us about badficcers, though?”

“The i,” Jemima repeated dreamily.

“The witness is evading the question.” Christine rapped her gavel on
a passing smurf’s head. “The topic is badfic.”

Jemima traced a circle in the sand with her toe. “Well, ladies, I do have
a confession to make.” Beach chairs appeared and the Mod Squad seated
themselves. Sean came around with more margaritas. “I…I’m a badficcer.”

Sean gasped. Lori smacked him again.

“I’ve always been a badficcer. I married off the characters.”

“There is that,” Lori agreed.

“I made babies - lots of babies,” Jemima added. “How old is Janeway
anyway? I had her popping them out at the drop of a hat.”

“I must have missed that fic,” Seema said.

“Those five fics,” Christine muttered.

“I was a J/C writer, for Kahless’ sake!”

“We all were once,” Liz said.

“Speak for yourselves,” Seema and Lori protested in unison.

Jemima hung her head in shame. “I may as well be wearing an apron
that says Kiss the badficcer.”

“While barefoot, pregnant and baking cookies,” Christine added.

“Hold on a minute.” Lori held up her empty glass, as if to block further
true confessions. “Jemima may have a weakness for weddings–”

“And said-bookisms,” interrupted Seema.

“And filk,” sang Liz.

“And Chakotay,” spat Christine. A passing smurf drowned in the unexpected
saliva shower.

Lori held up her glass menacingly. “But there’s one thing that sets us all
apart from badficcers–”

“Angst?” Liz asked.

“Slash,” said Christine.

“Plot,” Seema suggested.

“Virgil,” Jemima said.

Lori shook her head. “Spelling,” she declared.

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