========================================= Checking In, Checking Out by Nancy Kaminski (c) March 2002 ========================================= "Oh, brother, they did it again," Don Schanke said to no one in particular. "You'd think they'd wise up..." A small blonde woman in her early sixties was standing mystified in the lobby of the big hotel where Schanke and his companions now lived. As Schanke hurried towards her, she visibly pulled herself together. She straightened her no-nonsense tailored jacket and smoothed her skirt, then demanded as he drew near, "What's going on here? Where am I?" Schanke stuck out his hand and the woman took it automatically. "Welcome to Never-Never Land," he said cheerfully. "I'm Don Schanke, late of the Metro Toronto Police. And you are...?" "Delores Landingham, President Bartlet's personal secretary." She shook his hand firmly and looked around. "How did I get here? I was driving my new car back to the White House so the President could kick the tires." "Oh," Schanke answered, "The Powers That Be must have killed you off. That's how we all got here." She looked confused. "What do you mean, the Powers That Be killed me off? I can't be dead." "Sure you are, at least to your audience. They usually give out some excuse, like your actor wanted to spend more time with her family or something like that. It's usually bull, you know. It's money, or the actor wanting more screen time or better billing. They don't want to give them that, so they axe the character. That's you." Mrs. Landingham began to look angry. "They can't do that! I was important! They all depended on me -- I was the stern mother figure. Just ask the President, or Charlie, or even Toby!" Schanke patted her shoulder in sympathy. "I know how you feel. I was the comic relief as well as the icon of bluff humanity on my show, but they killed me and Captain Cohen off in a plane crash. We didn't even get to make an appearance on that episode, they just showed our pictures. It stank to high heaven." He gestured around the lobby of the hotel. "We all end up here. It's not a bad life. C'mon, I'll get you checked in and then I'll introduce you around." A half hour later, after being assigned to a rather pleasant suite of rooms with a view of the pool, the former executive secretary was met at the elevator by her impromptu host. "How do you like it?" he inquired solicitously. "Not bad," she admitted grudgingly. "But I'm still rather upset about this all. I don't even know how I died." Schanke flourished a sheet of paper. "We got the fax just a few minutes ago," he said. He peered at the paper and told her, "It seems you were broadsided by a drunk driver on," he scanned the fax, "Eighteenth and Potomac. Does that mean anything to you?" Now she really looked angry. "What! That was a brand-new car, not even an hour old! And it had side-impact airbags! This is so unfair!" she fumed. "Oh, fair doesn't enter into it at all." He pointed at a group seated at the pool -- three men, a blonde woman, and, inexplicably, a llama, reclined on chaise longues. One of the men seemed to be combing the llama's luxuriant coat while the llama hummed contentedly. "See them? They're from my show, too, and they got killed off for no really good reason as far as I'm concerned." Mrs. Landingham looked puzzled. "You had a llama on your show? And it got killed?" Schanke scratched his head. "I'm not really sure where the llama came from. She just sort of showed up one day and started hanging around Vachon and his brother, there, the Inka guy. The rest of them are, though. Hey, Vachon! Screed! Urs! Inka Guy! We've got a newbie!" he called to them. The quintet looked up from their umbrella-decorated drinks and waved (except the llama, who just batted her long lashes). The bald man called out something she couldn't understand, although it seemed like English. She waved back. "They don't look too unhappy," she commented, as a willowy blonde woman joined the group, kissing the youngest of the three men soundly on the lips. Schanke grinned. "They're not. This is actually an improvement on how they were living back in the series. Just don't let them and Divia get together...makes for a really unpleasant party, if you know what I mean." Mrs. Landingham looked puzzled again. "You'll find out soon enough. She is one nasty kiddie, and being here hasn't improved her temper any." He pointed to a building on the other side of the croquet lawn. "She lives over there, with all the characters who were killed off for legitimate dramatic reasons. They don't usually associate with us -- seems they think their deaths were better than ours." He snorted. "That building is full of Star Fleet security guys, you know, the ones who wear the red shirts? And guys from Section One, the ones who wear all black leather and get killed on a mission. Heck, those characters never even got lines." He looked thoughtful. "Except for poor ol' Davenport. He kept getting these crap missions, you know, it was always 'Kill Michael', week after week, until Michael finally ran him over with a mission van. Helluva way to go. He was just doing his job." "So who else is here?" Mrs. Landingham inquired curiously. "Let's see who we can find." With that Schanke led her along a path through the beautifully landscaped grounds. "Over there, that's Colonel Blake. His actor got really big ideas, so he died in a plane crash, too. Poor guy. And over there, that stocky guy and the cute dark-haired chick? He's a cop and she's a district attorney from Law & Order. We talk shop a lot, compare legal systems and all that. Pretty nice folks, even though they're New Yorkers. "See that bunch on the basketball court? That's the gang they called Blake's Seven -- they all got killed on the final episode, down to the last man. Geesh! And I thought we had a massacre. They really did a number on them. They're mostly decent sorts, but lord, do they argue! You'd never think they could have worked together on anything at all, let alone trying to undermine some galactic government." They watched for a moment while a saturnine man coldly tripped another man when he tried to run down the court. Schanke just shook his head. "Unbelievable." They passed a beautiful middle-aged woman and a gray-haired man playing an intense game of ping-pong. The woman hit a scorching passing shot that blazed past the man. She smiled serenely while he pulled out an automatic and shot the ping-pong ball. Mrs. Landingham jumped in alarm and looked around for the Secret Service. Schanke laughed. "Oh, don't worry. That's just Madeline and Operations. Their show went the bloodbath route the last season, too. You should see those two running mind games on each other. It's pretty fun to watch as long as you're not in the line of fire. Oh, look, there's Birkoff." He waved at a geeky young man walking with two beautiful, exotic-looking women. "He's happy to be here, too, especially since he's not working for those two anymore and he's finally getting girls." He chuckled. "It doesn't hurt that those hot babes used to be married to Michael. I mean, here's Section's resident geek making time with Mr. Hotshot's ladies, while *he's* stuck with babysitting duty back in Rerun Land. And don't think Birkoff isn't enjoying telling Simone and Elena stories about all those valentine missions Michael used to go on, not to mention how he played house with Nikita." They continued walking while Schanke pointed out more victims of The Powers That Be. They finally ended at another, smaller hotel situated at the remotest part of the grounds. "Now this one," Schanke said, "is reserved for the characters who seem to be dead but aren't. They come and go, and sometimes it's hard to keep track of them. We've had," he said, counting on his fingers, "Bobby Ewing, Fox Mulder, Cancer Man, Buffy Summers, and even Nick Knight and Natalie Lambert from my show check in." His expression became solemn. "Poor Nick and Nat -- not even they know if they're alive or dead. The Powers That Be left it up in the air in the final episode, but they never made a TV movie to resolve it. So sometimes they're dead, and sometimes they're not, and sometimes one is and the other isn't, depending on how the fan fiction is going. I really feel for them. But," he said, brightening, "at least they're together. Mostly." He laughed. "It was really funny when Buffy was here. She actually was dead, you know, but her friends brought her back to life so she had to leave us. She hated to go -- I mean, she got a lot of mileage out of the pool and there's a shopping mall just down the road. But while she was here she ran into Nick and Nat. After she got over the shock of meeting a vampire who wasn't butt ugly when he went fang-face, she started comparing notes with Nat -- something to do with a guy named Angel, I think. Or was it Spike? Anyway, turned out they had a lot in common and they got along really well, sort of surprising given the age difference. She gave Nick the willies, though, because she always kept a stake in her pocket. Even had a name for it -- 'Mr. Pointy.'" He shuddered in sympathy for his friend and former coworker. Mrs. Landingham pointed at a ramshackle old building half hidden behind a weedy grove of trees. "What's over there?" Schanke's face darkened. "That's where fired network executives go. They're the ones who decide to screw with the programming and change things around to appeal to some so-called desirable demographic, ignoring the fans they've already got in favor of adolescent males who are only interested in boobs and car chases. They're ruined more good shows." He made a rude gesture. "Then when they're fired their replacements find shows on the schedule that have no audience at all, so they cancel them. Idiots all. They come here and sit around all day trying to make deals with each other, cause no one else will talk with 'em. Serves 'em right." "Poor things," Mrs. Landingham said sympathetically. "They remind me of junior Congressional aides. No one pays attention to them, either." "Poor things, nothing," Schanke retorted. "You've never been 'downsized' by the little twerps. Oh, wait, you were, but anyway...can you imagine, they said that Janette wasn't sexy? And that Nick was too old? Okay, sure, he's eight hundred, but he looks like he's thirty- five! I'd give my right arm to look that good in leather! Lets not even get into the 'experience' thing." He crooked his fingers into imaginary quotation marks and waggled his eyebrows suggestively, clearing indicating exactly what kind of 'experience' that was. He sighed, reflecting on his own, now-eternal plump and bald 40- somethingish state. "They almost got rid of Nat, too, you know." He chuckled a little evilly. "We get our own back, though. Whenever we have a softball tournament we cream 'em. When they lose we yell, 'You're cancelled!' and laugh 'em off the field." "That's very childish, Mr. Schanke," Mrs. Landingham said severely. "I'd cut off access to my cookie jar for that sort of behavior." "But it sure feels good," he answered, completely unrepentant. A couple appeared from around a turn in the pathway. "Hey, look, here's Nick and Nat! Someone must have written another depressing 'they all died' fanfic!" He waved. "Hey, guys, come meet Mrs. Landingham, our latest recruit!" "Hey, Schank!" Nick called out, then nodded smiling at Mrs. Landingham. "Hi, pleased to meet you. I really enjoy your show -- I watch it whenever I'm written into a story that's set after 1999." Nat chimed in. "I like it, too -- especially Josh. Glad to see he's recovered from getting shot. I was worried for a while." "We all were," Mrs. Landingham said gravely. "Anyway -- Schank, we'll be leaving again for a while, and you can pack your bag and come along. The show's back on the air. Starts April 1." "Yee-ha!" Schanke exclaimed. "This place is great, but nothing beats the souvlaki I get in this little dive on College Street," he explained to his companion. "Some things just taste better in Toronto, you know?" Nick sighed elaborately and looked skyward. "Yeah, back to the garlic, huh, Schanke? To quote myself, 'Will somebody shoot me -- please?'" He punched Schanke on the shoulder and grinned. "I can't wait to be back in the Caddy with ya, buddy." "Wait a minute," Mrs. Landingham said suddenly. "If you're a vampire, how come you're out here in the daylight? Shouldn't you be turning to ash or something? This doesn't make sense." She looked sternly at Nick as if she expected him to see the error of his ways and vaporize before her eyes in apology. Natalie answered. "Oh, this story is being written by someone who must have decided that those rules don't apply here." She turned to Nick. "Right, Nick? She's the one who has a thing for produce -- zucchini, eggplants, and kumquats. So far, that is." She looked thoughtful. "I wonder if she'll come up with many more of those..." "I hope not," Nick said "Sneezing and ringing ears make eternity seem that much longer. I did hear something about a story that involves live turkeys --- but that's a worry for the future. Right now we've got a date with a cable network!" "Awwright!" Natalie and Schanke chorused and high-fived each other. "Back to being just friends, Nat," Nick said sadly. "Not until Monday," she replied sweetly. "I wonder how I'll spend this long holiday weekend?" she mused. Nick cleared his throat. "Um, I've got a few ideas..." They linked arms. "Scuse us," he said. "I think we have some -- things -- to take care of." Watching them walk away arm in arm, Schanke shook his head. "She's an incurable romantic, all that UF stuff notwithstanding." "Who, Natalie?" asked Mrs. Landingham. "I don't blame her. He's a very attractive young man, even if he is a vampire." "Not Nat. I mean, this writer." He shrugged and got back to the subject at hand. "Okay, I gotta get packed and get someone else to run stuff while I'm gone." The pair started back towards the hotel. "Last time I got Madeline to do it, but when she made everyone wear black and organized war games..." He shook his head. "There were a lot of unhappy campers when I got back." He looked sideways his companion. "Say, didn't you say you were an executive secretary?" "Yes, the President's secretary." "So you know how to run stuff?" "I never had any complaints," she said rather primly. "It can be a very demanding position." Schanke draped his arm around her shoulders and smiled ingratiatingly. "Mrs. L., have I got a deal for you..." FINIS