Futurama Porn Story: The Forgotten One Chapter 1

Subreality is not so much a place in and of itself as it is the borderline between Reality and Fantasy, a hazy place where anyone can wind up and anything can happen.

Muse- a semi-imaginary being which inspires a human to dream and create.

Writer – often capitalized to denote their status in Subreality, a Writer is anyone who actively contributes to the tapestry of ideas.

unWritten – a state of being in which a character’s writer stops work on his/her story before it’s finished. This is a character’s worst nightmare, as an unWritten character is essentially a creature whose days are numbered. UnWritten characters can subsist for some time if they still have a reading audience…but when the readers also forget, the character may fade out.

The Diner- One of the few “safe spots” in Shantytown — a cozy (if threadbare) little mom-&-pop joint open to any unfortunate seeking directions, advice, a warm meal, or a brief respite from the streets.

Shantytown- The rock-bottom ghetto of Subreality. Ever make up a character only to lose interest in them and set them aside, never to be written again? These poor souls haunt the alleys and gutters of Shantytown until they inevitably fade away from neglect.

Subreality is the creative property of Kielle, and Shantytown and the Diner are Seraph’s. Iris is my Muse and therefore my property; and I also made up the concept of the beaded bracelets. Philip J. Fry is the property of 20th Century Fox.

To read the semi-controversial companion fanfic, “Ground Zero”: .?storyid=903395

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It is true when they say that Shantytown is the rock bottom of Subreality City. On any given night or day you would notice a handful of abandoned fictives wandering the dark, dirty alleys of this pitiful area, having lost all hope of ever being rescued.

Not that anybody actually noticed them, few established fictives would ever even *think* of venturing into this desperate ghetto.

On this particular night, however, there was one Muse.

Shantytown was one area Iris unfortunately knew too well during her time as an unWritten. The dirt, dark, dampness, the struggle for survival- the loneliness has been the most painful of all. She was lucky to be one of the few unWritten to be rescued, and it was especially rare to be upgraded to Muse status.

Now Iris looked down at her feet, sparkling high-heels sharply contrasting with the mucky ground. Rarely did two opposite ends of the spectrum meet like this.

Why did she have this intense desire for slumming so much? Darchangel, her Writer, would most likely have a fit if she knew, and who knew what rage Calliope was capable of.

But that didn’t matter to Iris. She felt some strange obligation to wander back to this area- was wrong to give comfort and hope to abandoned fictives like she once craved? She hoped not.

At the far end of an alley, just before one of the Shantytown entrances, was a small statue with several flowers, notes, and the like strewn around it. The statue was of the New York City skyline; it had been placed as a memoriam of one tragic September barely a few years ago. Iris had still been an established fictive at the time of the calamity, so she knew the pain. She remembered her Writer working on some sort of story about the event, yet placing it in a different time, and working with the premise that the original disaster never happened. Iris had not been the one to give her the idea, Darchangel claimed she “just thought of it.”

Was that story still in progress or had it already been finished? Iris had never bothered to ask.

She looked back at the memorial statue and sighed. Just how many more innocent lives had to be lost before humans realized war was meaningless?

The night was getting cold, and dark clouds were forming overhead. The young Muse turned to leave when she noticed something- someone- out of the corner of her eye.

A young human man about her age was sitting with his back against the wall of the brick alley. He had caricatured features much like Darchangel’s, yet his skin was a normal cream color like Iris’. His orange hair stuck up in any places, but there were several messy strands the Muse doubted were there on purpose. His T-shirt, jeans, and red jacket were ripped and dirty in several places, and his black sneakers had obviously seen better days. The dirt and grime of street life were evident on the young man’s face. How long had he been suffering in this ghetto?

There was no way Iris could leave him alone now- as if she was in a magnetic pull, she stepped over to him.

He lifted his head and his tired eyes widened at the sight of the Muse. “Are you an angel?” A New York accent, how interesting.

“Not quite.” She kneeled down in front of him and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I’m Iris, one of the recent Muses.”

“Wow. Never talked to a Muse before.” The young man laughed nervously and put a hand on the back of his neck. “I’m Philip- but most people just call me Fry.” His expression quickly paled as he noticed something on Iris. “Oh God-” He took his hand off his neck and covered his wrist. “You’re *hers*. How can you?”

“Hmm?” She looked down to her choker that Fry was staring at. It was a simple black ribbon with a soft pink amethyst sewn into it- the color associated with Darchangel. “That’s my Writer’s color. What about it?” Iris was confused.

Fry sighed in defeat and rolled his eyes heavenwards. “I never thought I’d live to see this day,” he said quietly and uncovered his wrist. The Muse paled as well when she saw what he meant.

Of the several beads on the half-dozen or so bracelets the young man wore, the soft pink one stood out the most.

That was about the last revelation Iris expected. Nothing would’ve prepared her for the moment.

“I think I need to sit” she said faintly.

“I don’t blame you,” Fry replied without looking at the Muse as she turned her back to the brick wall and sat.

The silence between that moment and Iris’ next words seemed to last forever, but eventually the heaviness blocking her thoughts lifted and she was able to whisper, “So you’re one of her”

“UnWritten, abandoned, forgotten, lost, tossed aside,” Fry rattled off with venom in his voice the Muse didn’t figure he’d be capable of, “you can call it whatever you want- I’m practically dead to her. It won’t be long.”

*It won’t be long.* How often had Iris heard that phrase from unWrittens who had lost all hope? How often had she said it herself during her desperate time?

“Just how did it happen?”

“It was about a couple years ago,” he started, “Darchangel was doing some sort of ‘what if’ story with me and my friends.” He waved a hand in the direction of the statue. “That whole 9/11 deal- it was supposed to take place in our time instead of this oneI really live in the future,” he said like an afterthought.

Blow number two. Iris’ long nails, painted prismatically, dug into the hard ground.

*It had never been finished.*

“Waswas it as-“

“As horrible in my time as when it happened in this time?” Fry interrupted. “You bet. Nobody I knew got killed, thank God, but” The young man shivered, whether from the cold or possible severity of that “but” Iris didn’t know. He pulled his tattered jacket closer around him. “My girlfriend Leelashe was struck by rubble one of the falling towers.”

“That’s horrible,” the Muse whispered.

“Yeah. It would’ve taken anywhere from two to five months before she could walk again.” Fry’s voice soon went bitter. “It took a helluva lot quicker than that.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean Darchangel started writing MST3K fiction and put Leela in it. She can walk again. I bet she’s forgotten what happened by now- and forgotten me.”

The pain of a broken heart was one Iris was familiar with. Leaving behind her family- especially her husband and children- no one should have to deal with that.

She briefly wondered how her family was doing without her, wherever they were.

“Justwhy did she stop on the story?”

“Critics.” The venom was back in Fry’s voice. “Flames started rolling in by the tons. Through the review systems, even through her e-mail. I was just as clueless as Darchangel why it was happening.”

“9/11 was no doubt one of modern history’s most tragic disasters. Maybe the story brought back painful memories.”

“It was their choice to read it, wasn’t it?” The young man shifted his eyes to her direction, sarcasm dripping from his words.

Iris sighed. “Some humans just don’t think clearly.”

Above them the darkened clouds were bursting open and tiny beads of cold rain dropped on their foreheads. Neither one acknowledged.

“Well, whatever their reasons were, Darchangel became so discouraged she justgave up.” Fry spread his hands. “She cares about herself more than her fictives. What kind of Writer is like that? I’ve been living in this ghetto God knows how long, not knowing where I’ll find my next meal or whether I’ll fade away tomorrow- she doesn’t care!” A crystal tear- or was it a raindrop?- trailed down his face.

Oh, how Iris could identify with the young man’s torment, but she had to disagree on one thing. “I wouldn’t say that Darchangel doesn’t care. Writers interact in different ways with their fictives and Muses, and she–“

“*She’s nothing but a coward!*”

Everything about Fry seemed to clench in anger- his words, his expression, his hands. The Muse backed away slightly, fearful of whatever anger he could be capable of. What to say? What to do?

“PhilipFry,” she eventually whispered, and the young man turned to face her, “I remember there was once a young fictive like yourself- she had been abandoned when her Writer was unsure about her work. Shantytown was her home for months. This fictive was feeling the same way you were, ready to give up on hope- but sometimes the powers of Subreality work in mysterious ways.” Her voice softened along with his expression. “But even after her rescue- she still cared and worried for the ones left behind. Even if her position in the Subreal world was elevatedshe could never forget the pain. She was still angry for what her Writer had done, but she forgave.” Iris clasped her hands over his, feeling grit and dirt. “I suppose you know who I’m talking about, don’t you?”

Fry’s eyes widened. “It can’t be. Nobody gets rescued from Shantytown.”

Iris lightly chuckled and ran a smooth finger down his battered face. “I don’t know who told you that, but it does happen. There’s hope for even the most lost unWrittens.”

He lowered his head and tears cut a clean path on his face. “I hate her for abandoning mebut I don’t want to.” Iris began to wrap her arms around his shoulders, but he protested, “Don’t. You’ll get your dress all dirty–“

“It doesn’t matter,” she whispered, putting her head on his shoulder so he wouldn’t see her tears. “There’s a place not too far from here- the Diner. I know the people who work there. They can give you food and somewhere to sleep for a few nights.”

“And then what?”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Iris released her embrace and the two stood. Looking into his eyes, she said, “Maybe you were right the first time.”

“When?”

“When you thought I was an angel.”

Fry smiled then. It was impossible for the Muse not to suspect that it was the first smile he had known in a long time.

He took her hand and she began leading him towards the Diner. Slowly he turned his head back to the statue.

“No one could forget them,” he said softly.

“Who?”

“The heroes of that day. They won’t be forgotten.”

The rain began to beat down harder on Subreality City.

“Neither will you,” Iris responded, and fictive and Muse walked off into the cold night.