Happy Birthday to romanyg
Here is a story I suddenly felt compelled to write. This is not specifically a birthday fic. It’s just a piece of total weirdness. Not Buffyverse. If it belongs in any fandom, it is one from a TV show that I rarely watch, and that I know primarily from fanfic by kantayra and theohara. UK residents, especially those like trepkos who know the Channel Islands, will probably get this one more than Americans.
The world’s scientists were baffled. Tectonic plate theory didn’t adequately explain the strange events. An island three miles long by a mile and a half wide was moving as fast as a man could run; but there were no earthquakes, no tidal waves, just the colossal body of rock slipping through the water like a titanic ocean liner.
Inexorably, unceasingly, the smallest of the Channel Islands traversed the seas and oceans. The tax exiles who made up most of the population frantically consulted their lawyers. What would their tax liability be once the island was in Spanish territorial waters? In Portuguese? Then, as the island turned south, in Moroccan?
Down past the western coast of Africa it travelled. For a while it seemed as if it was going to join the Canaries, and the Spanish government prepared to claim it and hold it hostage for the return of Gibraltar, but it passed by without slowing and headed off over the equator and into the South Atlantic.
Thousands of miles to the south it changed course again and headed east. It rounded the Cape of Good Hope and set off into the vast expanse of the zone where the Indian Ocean and the Southern Ocean meet. Supply became difficult for the population once the island was in that remote area, and the tax exiles abandoned their quiet paradise and headed for the noisier tax havens of Jersey, Guernsey, and the Isle of Man. The native population of the island kept themselves alive on a diet of penguins.
After many weeks of speculation and fierce debate a hypothesis was put forward to explain the island’s migration. It had to do with the balance of the planet, and readjustment of forces, and predicted that the island would come to rest close to New Zealand, in an exact mirror image of its previous position in the Northern Hemisphere. The final stages of the island’s journey were closely monitored, and for a long time it appeared that the prediction would indeed come to pass. However, the island passed Tasmania and then turned sharply north. It was heading straight for Australia.
Although some geologists insisted right up to the last minute that the island would change its course there could be no doubt now of its ultimate destination. It speeded up as its goal came into sight at last.
The immense arc of the famous bridge crumpled and was torn apart as the island charged into the harbour. The world-renowned Opera House that looked as if it was designed to be filled with ice cream and possibly peaches was crushed into fragments as easily as if it had been meringue. Roads buckled, houses collapsed, kangaroos and people alike fled in terror. Then the island at long last came to a halt, jammed hard up against the devastated city, and it could no longer be denied.
They might have been worlds apart, and obviously they were totally wrong for each other, but Sark had still fucked Sydney.