A Wrong Turn At Albuquerque: Ian Grant/Buffy The Vampire Slayer fanfiction

 I've been writing crossovers between various fandoms and the main character of my new novel, "The Notorious Ian Grant", and I couldn’t leave out the Four Friends—characters from my earlier “Buffy The Vampire Slayer” fanfics who came together with no planning on my part for a series of stories.

The Four Friends are Tara, a witch/ghost who’s a bit more alive than most people realize; Buffybot, a robot copy of Buffy Summers; Dana, a psychologically scarred Slayer from an episode of “Angel”; and Kara, an original character from my first fanfic.

Title: A Wrong Turn At Albuquerque
Author: ozma914
Summary: Ian thinks he’s still headed toward Indiana, in a misguided--figuratively and in this case literally--attempt to get back in his family's good graces. Along the way he meets a very different, mystical sort of family.

Rating: PG
Length: 2,500 words

A WRONG TURN AT ALBUQUERQUE

            “I think I made a wrong turn at Albuquerque.”

            It seemed funny when Ian said it, although it might have seemed funnier if he’d had an audience. Now, an hour later, on a two lane blacktop somewhere between the desert and more the desert, it didn’t seem that funny at all.

            Although Ian Grant considered himself a pretty good driver (He’d once guested on an episode of Top Gear—the British version), he had to admit responsibility for almost hitting the girl who stood in the middle of the highway. He’d been steering with one hand and trying to unfold a map with the other, after his GPS took him onto a “shortcut” that turned out to be a secret government installation. Well, he didn’t know about it. The soldiers at the gate were surprisingly understanding, as they pointed back the way he’d come. With their guns.

            “Area 52, that’s probably what it—yikes!”

            He jammed on the brakes and swerved. The Mustang skidded to a stop, just feet from a young woman dressed in jeans, boots, and a long sleeved work shirt with a vest over it. In the desert. In July.

            Ian’s evasive maneuver left the girl, who hadn’t moved an inch, standing right by the driver’s side window. He rolled it down, letting in a blast of hot, dry air. “Are you okay?”

            She leaned down and gave him a hard, unsettling stare. Her dark hair draped across her face, but didn’t hide her critical, somewhat wild eyes. “You’re Ian Grant.”

            “Yes, and you’re in a desert by yourself, with no car around. Which is more remarkable?”

            If he’d hoped for a smile … actually, he was just playing for time as his heartbeat settled. She just continued to stare, then gave a little shrug. “This is how your sister met her fiancé. Well, she was on the side of the road. And there was a tornado.”

            “Okay, how do you know about my sister?”

            “I read your mind. By the way, I’m not underage. I just look young, like your sister does. Do you have any water?”

            “Sure …”

            Without another word, she walked around the car and, before Ian could think of what to do, opened the passenger door and climbed in. She took his half empty bottle of water from the cup holder and gulped the rest down. “I’m Dana.”

            “This is nice. Do you have a last name?”

            “No. Drive.”

            Well … why not? “Any particular direction?”

            “Did you see anyone back that way?”

            “Just a cactus and the desiccated remains of Wiley E. Coyote.”

            “Then go the other way.” She pulled on her seat belt. “Wiley E. Coyote isn’t real. He’s a cartoon character.”

            “Uh-huh.” Ian drove. Why not? Even if she was underage, he wasn’t about to leave the girl standing by herself in the middle of nowhere. “Next you’ll be telling me there’s no Santa Claus.”

            She gave him a serious look. “You wouldn’t want to meet him.”

            They drove on in silence for a while. He kept to the speed limit, expecting to see a disabled vehicle or a pile of bodies at any moment, but the desert just kept flashing by. The whole thing made him think he’d been dropped into a crazy mash-up of Smoky and The Bandit and The Twilight Zone.

            “There.” Dana pointed.

            Another girl stood there, this time perched exactly on the white line. She was a short blonde, wearing black leather pants and a fringed jacket. When she spotted Dana, she grinned and waved wildly.

            As soon as Ian stopped, Dana opened the door, then scooted her seat forward. “Hi, Bottie. You have to sit in the back—I get claustrophobic.”

            “Wait a minute—“

            The blond climbed in. “Hello!” She glanced at Ian. “Oh, I’ve met your future brother-in-law. He pulled me over once. But I didn’t know at the time …”

            “Okay, how do you know—wait. ‘Bottie’?”

            Bottie shrugged. “Bottina Summers—Bottie for short.”

            “Why not Tina?”

            She gave him a baffled look. “Tina’s are all over. How many Bottie’s do you know?”

            “You have a point, or something.” He looked her up and down. Why wasn’t she half-dead, lying prostrate on the baked ground? “There’s water in that cooler beside you.”

            “No thanks! I’m on three quarters of a tank.”

            Was he being pranked? Were they carrying hidden cameras? That would account for the extra clothes. It had to be Seth Green, that little weasel, getting him back for the time Ian jumped out of the closet wearing zombie makeup. “So … what now? Do you need to borrow my cell phone?”

            “Oh, no thanks,” Bottie said. “Just drive about five miles or so, please. Also, why are you heading toward Mexico? You’re not running from the police again, are you?”

            “Not yet.” I’m heading south? Doggone GPS.

            Ian drove on. To say this was putting a crimp in his schedule put it mildly, but they seemed to know what they were doing … besides, he was curious. “Am I an accessory to a crime here, or something? Not that I have a problem with that, but it depends on the crime.”

            “Not to worry,” Bottie told him, in an unfailingly cheerful voice. “We hid all the bodies.”

            “Heh. Very funny. Isn’t it?”

            After a few miles, the Mustang’s GPS called out. “Turn right here. The turnoff to Seattle will be on your left.”

            Ian looked to the right. Cactus. Sand. Some bluffs in the distance.

            A voice in the back said, “I wouldn’t turn here.” It wasn’t Bottie’s voice, although Bottie responded with a little shriek of joy.

            He glanced in the rear-view mirror. Bottie was hugging a taller woman, who extricated herself to reveal long, reddish-blonde hair and inquisitive eyes. She was wearing a sweatshirt that said “Love Alaska” … and a fur hat.

            Although Ian was aware of his mouth hanging open, he couldn’t seem to close it until he saw the new arrival point forward. “You’re going off the road.”

            So he was. He jerked the wheel, then rethought it and let the Mustang drift to a stop on the berm. “Where did you come from?”

            “I got in when Bottie did. Didn’t you see me?”

            “I—“ He replayed everything in his mind. “No you didn’t! I’d have noticed a second woman standing by the first woman standing in a desert in summer dressed like a Canadian centerfold.”

            “A Canadian centerfold?” The third woman looked at Bottie. “Bottina, wasn’t I standing right beside you?”

            “Well, you were kind of behind me.”

            Dana turned to look back at them. “The desert can cause mirages, and make things disappear, and stuff. And you were behind her. So—there. Tara was standing behind Bottie. Although Bottie’s short.”

            Tara nodded. “Also, I am not dressed like a Canadian centerfold.”

            Beside her, Bottie punched her arm. “How do you know what a Canadian centerfold looks like?”

            Tara blushed.

            I’ve gone crazy. The GPS took over my mind, and it’s driving me on the freeway to Loonyville. There was, Ian decided, nothing to do but go along with it. “How many more women are we expected to pick up?”

            “Oh, we just have to find one more!” Bottie told him.

            “She is underage,” Dana added. “If you touch her, I’ll have to rip out your heart and eat it for breakfast.”

            Ian got the feeling she wasn’t kidding, but Bottie scoffed. “That’s just silly, Dana. You couldn’t eat Ian’s heart for breakfast: That’s sixteen hours away. It would spoil by then.”

            “Well, maybe just a snack.”

            Didn’t Charles Manson have a crew of homicidal females? But this bunch would be way too young for that, right? Right? “Okay, look. You know who I am, right?”

            Tara shook her head. The other two nodded.

            “Have either of you heard of anything, anywhere, that suggests I’ve ever taken up with an underage girl?”

            Bottie immediately shook her head. After a moment’s thought, so did Dana.

            “Okay, then. No one in this car is going to do anything illegal or immoral while we’re all together, including the consumption of perfectly good organs that could be donated to needy children—got it?”

            “That seems fair,” Tara told him. “And, who are you?”

            “He’s Ian Grant,” Bottie said. “Remember that state trooper who pulled us over in Indiana? Ian is his future brother-in-law.”

            “Oh.”

            “I’ll bet he’s on his way to Indiana to crash the wedding.” Dana gave Ian a hard stare. “Are you?”

            “No. I’m on my way to help plan the wedding.”

            The women went silent. Then Bottie asked, “Does your sister know you’re coming?”

            “No.”

            “Does anyone know you’re coming?”

            “Um, no.”

            “Doesn’t your sister hate you?”

            “That’s all just a big misunderstanding, based on the fact that I’ve embarrassed her and the rest of our family for all our adult lives. I’m going to make up for it by taking on all the work of planning her wedding, which according to these audiobooks I picked up on the way out of L.A. is a lot. Then she’ll forgive me, and her fiancé won’t punch me out, and my father even might decide to talk to me at other weddings, and funerals, and such.”

            Silence fell again. They drove on a few miles before Ian glanced in the mirror, to make sure all three were still there. “So, what do you think, Dana? You can read my mind.”

            “Actually, I read your sister’s blog.”

            Oh, duh. “Does she, um, mention me?”

            “No.” She patted his shoulder, in a way that made it clear she didn’t pat many shoulders. “But I’ve only read back for a few months.”

            Far ahead, Ian saw a speck along the roadway. As they approached it resolved itself into a low building, with an awning out front and a sign that said: First Stop Gas and Groceries.

            “Shouldn’t that be last stop?” Tara asked. “In Texas, they always seemed to say last stop.”

            Ian shook his head. “I passed Last Stop about a hundred miles back. That was the last stop, and apparently this is the first stop after the last stop, so …” I’m handing this so well. “Something tells me that’s your girl.”

            A teenager stood near the store’s front door, sipping on a Dr. Pepper. She wore jeans and a heaven woolen sweater, and held a jacket in the crook of her arm.

            “It’s Kara!” Bottie cried, and Ian pulled up to the gas pumps.

            “Kara? Is that some kind of thing with your group, having your last names end with an “a”? Should your nickname be Bota?”

            Bottie paused for a moment. “Ooh, I like that idea.”

            They all piled out. Ian still had two thirds of a tank of gas, but he had no idea how much longer he’d have to drive before he left the Twilight Zone, or passed through a stargate, or got sucked up by a UFO. He pulled out the pump nozzle to top off the tank.

            The four females gathered in a circle, exchanged hugs, and compared notes. “That was so weird,” Kara said. “Where are we, anyway?”

            “Southern New Mexico.” Bottie hooked a thumb toward Ian. “Mr. Grant is so lost.”

            In more ways than one. The pump clicked, so he hung up the handle and finished paying.

            Kara glanced his way, then did a double take. “Ian Grant?”

            Plastic surgery. Totally valid lifestyle choice. “Hello. Your friends know more about me than I do, except for Tara.”

            Tara’s hands fluttered. “I’m sorry, I don’t—“

            “No, it wasn’t a complaint. Any knowledge about me pretty much qualifies as Hollywood trivia, which pretty much qualifies as pointless.” He walked over to the group, ignoring the heat that beat down on them all. “But I was wondering, since young Bottina and Dana know so much, can you get me back on the right path?”

            Smiling, Bottie pointed back the way they’d come. “Go back that way, and take a right at Albuquerque.”

            “I knew Albuquerque would figure in, somehow. So, where do you need me to take you?”

            Dana pointed north. “Alaska.”

            “Our work’s done there. Can we be in the wedding?” Bottie asked.

            “Uh—“

            “No, a ride’s not necessary,” Tara told him. “We’ve made arrangements.”

            Arrangements? The only vehicle in sight was an old tow truck, either parked against the service station’s side wall or holding it up. The only other person, a clerk who looked like a strange mix of Gomer Pyle and undertaker, leaned over his counter to stare at them. “Are you sure?”

            “Absolutely.” Kara continued to stare at Ian with an air of fascination.

            “Well … guess I’ve got some doubling back to do.” He started toward the Mustang, but Tara called to him and he turned back around.

            “Mr. Grant, I don’t want to pry into your personal affairs.”

            “Oh, it’s okay. I get that a lot.”

            “From what I’ve heard … well, may I suggest that you don’t surprise your sister? Her fiancé made quite an impression on us—I gathered he can be a hard man when he’s … not amused.”

            “Please. If I ran from every cop I pis—upset, I’d have ended up in Albuquerque as a teenager.”

            “Well … maybe you should look your sister up first, and … reconnect with her. Maybe you should even get the lay of the land up there first, before you contact anyone. It’s just a thought.”

            Tara, for all the strangeness going on, was a nice lady. “I’ll consider it, thanks.”

            “Goodbye, Mr. Grant.” Tara stepped back, and Kara waved.

            “Please don’t get drunk anymore,” Dana said.

            “Gave it up.”

            “Try not to make inappropriate jokes at the wrong time,” Bottie added.

            “Okay, I’m still working on that one.”

            Shaking his head, Ian climbed into the Mustang and started the engine. He looked back to give the quartet one last wave.

            They were gone.

            After a moment Ian climbed out of the car and walked into the service station, where the attendant stood scratching his head. “What happened to those four girls?”

            “Don’t know, mister. I was standing here admiring your car when I saw a flash, out the corner of my eye … and when I looked, they’d just vanished.”

            “Huh.” Ian walked out again, to one side of the building, then the other. No tracks in the dust. Returning to the front door, he called in. “But you did see them, right?”

            The man frowned. “Well … strange things happen sometimes, out here.”

            “Right.”

            Ian got back into the Mustang, turned around, and drove on, for the same reason he had after Dana appeared: What else was there to do? For a long time he thought about those four friends, and the advice they’d given him. They were all right, of course. By the time he reached Albuquerque, he decided they were very right indeed, and he was happy the giving up drinking part had already happened.

            Now the hard part would be avoiding inappropriate jokes.

A Supernatural/Ian Grant Crossover: "A Poor Choice of Alias"

      Determined to drive to Indiana and make up with his family, B-list celebrity Ian Grant is barely out of L.A. when he runs into two cops in a diner--and, as is his nature, decides to mess with them. Which might not have been so bad, but this time around the Winchester Brothers chose a very unfortunate pair of fake cop names.

     The latest of my stories featuring the main character from "The Notorious Ian Grant" as he begins a cross country trip toward the events of the novel. My next might be delayed for about a week and a half due to a wedding and a book contract (!); I have one more fanfiction crossover done (everyone's welcome to suggest another one), and also an all original short story we'll be giving away later on my website.

 

 A Poor Choice Of Alias

            Could he call it a road trip yet, when he hadn’t even made it out of the city?

            Ian Grant pressed his back against the outside of a diner door, desperately signing autographs, if signing autographs was something one could do desperately. He’d managed to gas up the Mustang and pee before the paparazzi found him—the pee part, especially, was a relief. Now, somewhere on the outskirts of L.A. just off the freeway, he’d been found by half a dozen bored photographers and what were probably the only dozen Ian Grant “greatest fans” on this side of the city.

            “Yes, thanks, here—love the Mohawk. Who’s it for? How do you spell … ah, Krysanthemum with a K, your mother must be very proud.”

            His new adventure had not started off well. He’d had to stop and pick up some toiletries—no way was he going back to face Bethani in that hotel room. The pop star was probably still throwing furniture around to protest the very idea that anyone would dare break up with her before she did it first.

            Nobody recognized him at the dollar store. When he realized the Mustang was down to a quarter of a tank, which would certainly not get him to Indiana, he made another stop and was again not recognized. A guy’s luck had to run out, sooner or later.

            “Gotta go, sorry—thanks!” Ian managed to squeeze through the door and, much to his surprise, no one followed. The fans were apparently content after he signed napkins, breasts, and the side of one head. The photographers were apparently disappointed that he wasn’t drunk and drag racing Justin Bieber, the cheating little bastard.

            Turning in the sudden quiet, Ian took in a diner that Norman Rockwell might have painted. Well, maybe not, but it had the counter and stools, and the line of booths along the window. It also had only two customers, and a woman behind the counter who looked like Betty White with a hangover.

            “What’ll you have, Mr. Grant?” She looked completely unimpressed, which Ian appreciated. The two guys in the booth didn’t seem aware he’d even entered.

            “Cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate shake, please.” Was that traveling food? Sure it was. Better than baked beans for a long trip in a smallish car.

            “You sit right down, and I’ll bring it out for you.”

            “Thanks.” Turning, Ian faced the two other customers. “Could have used your help back there.”

            Both men looked up in surprise. “Excuse me?” said the tallest, an oak tree of a guy with longish dark hair.

            “Come on, I know cops when I see them—aren’t you supposed to protect the public and prevent riots, and stuff? And most of them had to be underage … isn’t there a curfew?”

            The two men looked at each other.

            “Don’t bother denying it,” Ian continued. “I know cops. I peed on a cop, once.”

            The other man tilted his head. “Must have been the highlight of your day.”

            “No, that came later. Look, you’re both wearing dark suits that you’d obviously rather not be wearing, which means they’re for work. Those striped ties could only be chosen by men on a limited budget with no fashion sense. Since you don’t appear to be happy to see me, those are definitely guns in your pockets. You, you’re the older one and have a more or less military approved haircut, which means either your boss requires it or you’re too busy to mess with grooming. You, you’re the up and coming rookie, and I’d guess from your longer hair that you’re angling for an undercover job, or working one already.”

            Standing back, Ian crossed his arms. “I played Sherlock Holmes in community theater, once.”

            They exchanged another glance, then reached into their pockets. Ian watched carefully to make sure they weren’t the pockets that were happy to see him, but they produced ID’s.

            “I’m Agent Grant,” the older one said. “This is Agent Charles.”

            Say what?

He was still staring at them when hung-over Betty White approached with his food. “Where would you like this, dear?”

            For a moment Ian froze, then he waved his hand toward the already occupied table. “Why, right here with my old FBI pals Grant and Charles.”

            He hadn’t noticed the materials they’d scattered out on the table, along with half-eaten food. The two men hurriedly closed books and laptop lids and moved notebooks aside, looking none too pleased as Ian sat beside the tall one, so-called “Charles”.

            “I’m starving, fellas.” Ian took a sip of the shake, then grabbed the cheeseburger. “Work up an appetite, doing what I do.” He dug into the food.

            Good peripheral vision was a wonderful thing, allowing him to see the glance they exchanged. Finally Charles said, “Um … so, what do you do?”

            “Drug smuggling, mostly.” He took another bite. “You must eat a lot, Agent Charles—you’re big as a moose.”

            Good thing Ian was an actor. He managed not to smile in the silence that followed, until “Grant” cleared his throat. “So—that makes you hungry, huh?”

            “Only when I’m sampling. I’ve got a snoot full right now, I gotta tell you.” He giggled. “Oh, and sometimes the hookers are hard to control, and that burns a lot of calories. Much easier when we’re just smuggling terrorists, but it’s a big organization … I do the job they assign me.”

            The two men sat in silence.

            “Beats the contract killing.”

            To their credit, neither looked scared. More … stunned.

            “Very stressful, even when the cleanup crew comes in. You always worry you’re going to have to kill witnesses. I mean, you feel bad for those people, you know? “ Ian looked up. “Oh, I forgot to introduce myself: I’m Ian. Ian Grant.”

            “Ah … pleased to meet you.” Grant said. “Same name. There’s a coincidence.” Then his eyes suddenly widened. “Wait, Ian Grant the actor?”

“That’s me. I also write and sing a little … I’m like a Renaissance man, only without the class.”

“Hey, I’ve seen some of your movies! I watched you on To Dance With Celebrities, too … can’t believe Alan Rickman beat you.”

“Well, he’s got style, you know?”

Charles’ brow suddenly furrowed, as if he was trying to bring back a memory.

But Grant was still gushing. “I loved Fleshpot Killers—but I have to admit it wasn’t you I was watching most of the time …”

“No—well, you couldn’t, I was killed off in the second reel.”

“Is it true they offered to double your salary if you went full frontal?”

“Yep. Interesting story, that: When I refused, the lead actress decided she didn’t want to go fully Monty either—until they offered her double the pay, then she speed stripped. So the way I see it, I got her a raise.”

“Heh.” Grant grinned. “And she gave me a raise.”

Charles suddenly sat up straight. Thinking Ian couldn’t see him, he gave a quick shake of his head.

The game is up. “Yeah, I couldn’t go all nude—it just wouldn’t sit right with my old man. He’s a famous actor, maybe you’ve heard of him?” He looked toward Charles, who now wore a sheepish expression.

“Your dad?” Grant frowned. “Yeah, big movie star … I can’t remember his first name, though …”

“Charles. Charles … Grant.”

Grant’s face fell. “Oh.”

“Big name. Got an Emmy, two Oscars, three wives …”

“So that’s why you were feeding us that line about being a gangster.”

“Had you going there for a little while, didn’t I?” When they didn’t deny it, Ian poked a French fry in their direction. “Okay, so I was wrong about the cop thing. Let me reintroduce myself: Ian Grant. And you are?”

The two looked at each other, then Grant shrugged. “Dean.”

“Sam”, said the oak.

“And … wait, don’t tell me! Either bounty hunters, or you’re got your own bodies to bury.”

They looked at each other again. Those two looked at each other a lot, didn’t they? But they seemed to share an unspoken bond, like longtime partners, or brothers. “You got us.” Dean raised his hands. “We chase around the country lookin’ for the bad guys.”

Sam nodded. “We’d appreciate it if you kept it to yourself.”

“Not a problem. Besides, I don’t want to embarrass myself by admitting my first guess was wrong, even though my part as Sherlock closed after a week.” Glancing at his watch, Ian bagged up the last few fries and shoved them into his jacket pocket. “This was fun, but I’ve gotta role.”

“Hey, before you go …” Looking embarrassed, Dean grabbed a clean napkin and slid it Ian’s way.

“Well, sure!” Although it seemed egotistical, Ian always carried a pen for cases like this. He scribbled, “To Sam and Dean: May the angels watch over you. Ian Grant”.

Dean’s eyebrow rose as he studied the message, then he carefully laid the napkin on his notebook. “Thanks, man. You got any new movies coming up? Hopefully with that same actress?”

“Maybe.” Standing, Ian waved to hung-over Betty White. “If the trip I’m going on doesn’t work out, I need to be back in three weeks for meetings on a series of books they’re trying to turn into a movie. Have you heard of the Supernatural series?”

Dean began choking. “Sorry—ach—went down the wrong tube.”

“We’ve heard of it,” Sam said with a weak smile.

“Well, I don’t know too much about the property, but we’ll see how it works out. See ya, fellas.”

Ian wanted to get to his car and be on the road before Sam and Dean realized he’d stiffed them for his check. He quickened the pace when he heard a raised voice, just as he reached the Mustang:

“Son of a bitch!”