A well-dressed man is standing on a street corner of an outdoor marketplace in Lagos, Nigeria.

"My name is Michael Westen, and I used to be a spy, until-

(phone rings)

'We're putting you in a videogame universe courtesy of a negative space wedgie using applied phlebotinum as a weak cover for a self-insert pairing fantasy of a washed-up barely competent short story author trying to relive his glory days writing fanfiction...

*beat*

You're blacklisted.'

(The man disappears in a puff of smoke.)

"When you're at the whims of an incompetent fanfic writer, you've got nothing: no cash, no credit, no job history, no plot. You're stuck inwhatever city they decide to dump you in-

(Michael waking up on a bench in the Hanged Man) 'Where am I?'

(Hawke propped up on her elbow grinning at him) 'Kirkwall!'

"You do whatever work comes your way. You rely on anyone who's still talking to you:

"Hawke, hero of the oppressed, champion of Kirkwall, unrepentant kleptomaniac, sarcasm expert;

(Hawke talking to a Templar and waving her hands frantically)

'I caught him sacrificing goats and doing demony things!'

"Varric, a wisecracking rogue dwarf:

(Varric lounging in his private suite and sipping a beer)

'You know Templars; bunch of bitchy little girls!'

"Elves that are either moody sluggers-

(Fenris glares at him as his lyrium tattoos glow)

'How do I know if you're not one of those Tevinter mages too?'

"or ditzy dabblers in blood magic-if you're desperate:

(Merrill stops in a dungeon and looks down)

'Eww, I think I stepping in something!'

"Bottom line: As long as your author continues churning out his SI fantasy drivel, you're not going anywhere."

Kitty Hawke spent a good hour studying the man that Varric's contacts in the Coterie brought in from the docks. When her trusty dwarf friend had told her that the new arrival was 'strange' she didn't know what to make of it. Now looking at him she could see that Varric's description was, if anything, an understatement to the master tale-weaver. The visitor was a man with dark hair and sunburned skin. He had loose fitting breeches the color of sand, boots made from densely woven fabric of the same color, and a dark grey shirt. His cuirass was of some black material that was neither leather nor mail nor metal, and he had what looked like a crossbow made of black metal strapped in a sling by his side. In short, his clothes and weapons looked like nothing from Kirkwall, Ferelden or anywhere. Finally she got impatient enough to poke him, just hard enough to wake him up.

Michael woke up with a start, eyes darting about to take in his surroundings. The rough wooden bench that he had been using as an improvised bed was the first thing he felt, the strains of stringed minstrel music and glassware clinking were the first things he heard, the rancid smell of stale beer and unwashed bodies was the first thing he smelt. But it was what his eyes first saw that caused him the most shock.

"Waking up in a foreign environment is something that becomes second nature to a spy. The key is to examine your surroundings with whatever senses are available to you to find the clues to your whereabouts. You wake up with a burlap sack over your head that smells like stale coffee in a place that feels like a blast furnace with sand in every crevice, chances are you're the "guest" of Somali pirates. Wake up on a bench of some rustic tavern with a redhead staring at you like you're the special on the menu, you could be anywhere from the local renaissance festival, or a hallucination brought on by being on the receiving end of too much waterboarding."

It was young woman, wearing leather armor the likes of which would be more appropriate in a King Arthur epic than in Miami. She looked to be in her early twenties, with dark red hair and green eyes. She was sitting at a table next to the bench he was laying on, her elbow on the table and her hand propping up her head as she stared at him. He knew the look.

"Where am I?" He mumbled.

She grinned at him.

"Finally you're awake. You're in The Hanged Man. A tavern in Kirkwall, if you want to be specific."

She must have caught on to the look of confusion on his face.

"Kirkwall as in a city state in the Free Marches? Well, I suppose we should start with introductions. My name is Katarina Hawke, but my friends call me Kitty. And you are?"

(caption under Hawke reads "Pretty Redhead" and then slides away to say "Hawke")

"Michael Westen, of Miami."

(caption under Michael reads "Confused, Lost")

"I've never heard of Miami, is it in the Tevinter Imperium?"

"You probably haven't because this is probably all a nightmare. I'm guessing the Agency finally caught up to me and this is all just a hallucination as a result of them breaking me."

"Well Hawke, looks like the stranger is finally awake." Varric's voice said off to the side.

Michael turned and looked at the newcomer. He was a shorter man in a leather greatcoat with what appeared to be a crossbow slung behind his back.

"Let me guess, you're a dwarf, right?"

Varric stared as the stranger broke out into a mirthless grin.

"Well, I'm too short to be a templar, and mages can't pull off the sexy chest hair like I can. The name's Varric, by the way."

(caption under Varric says "Short beardless dwarf?" to "Varric")

He shook his head in disbelief.

"Great, all we're missing is an elf and a sexy pirate wench."

He heard someone come up behind him, and a Welsh-accented female voice spoke up.

"Did someone say something about elves? Do you not have elves where you come from?"

He turned around and saw a lithe female brunette who could have been anywhere from her teens to early twenties. And she had long, pointed ears.

"Oh, I'm forgetting myself again, I do that a lot don't I? My name is Merril, what's yours?"

(caption under the newcomer says "Merril, Elf")

Before Michael could speak another voice spoke up from the bar.

"Oh Hawke, you wicked naughty girl, you've been holding out on me."

Michael looked over his shoulder and saw a dark-skinned woman wearing a cotton corset and thigh-length leather boots. Her amber eyes were appraising him with undisguised lust.

"Mmmm and he looks much nicer than some of the other men you bring home, I'm Isabella, Captain Isabella if you want to be formal."

(caption under Isabella says "Sexy Pirate Wench" and then the "Wench" is replaced with "Captain")

Michael couldn't believe it. He had to be hallucinating or this was some elaborate trick by Vaughn's employers. He looked up at the ceiling.

"Vaughn! Or whoever is doing this! This isn't funny and it's not working, I'll never break!"

Merrill turned to Hawke.

"He must be from far away. I've never heard of a deity called "Vonn."

Michael didn't appear to have heard her, and continued to talk to himself.

"Great. I'm stuck in a hallucination with a pirate, an elf, a dwarf and a redhead that talks like Mary Poppins."

(AN: So I thought this would be a fun little April Fools' joke. For now this is a one-shot until I finish my Spec Ops: The Line/Familiar of Zero crossover, but after I've finished it I'll come back to this one. Follow or Fav or Comment if you'd like to see this become a full-blown story!)