Disclaimer: I don't own the characters for The Labyrinth, nor the movie or anything related.

So this is my first shot at a Labyrinth fanfic! Thank you all for reading and please feel free to leave any thoughts, comments, or constructive criticisms in a review! This fanfic is rated T for swearing. This fanfic also includes comedy that makes fun of London, so please let me know in a PM if anything comes across as offensive to you and I will speedily fix my error :) In fact, if any type of humor comes across as offensive, please let me know in a PM!

The white hot lights blinded my eyes and cast a devastating shadow upon the people in front of me. Adrenaline soared through my veins and panicked my heart as silence hushed the people.

They were waiting. Anticipation and visions of failure shook my confidence, but didn't shatter it. A sudden reminiscence blossomed in my memory of my mother reading The Labyrinth to me before bed when I was just learning to walk. You have no power over me, I thought as I gazed at the throng of people. Then, more honestly: Well, here goes nothing.

I took a deep breath and plucked the mic from its stand and raised it to my lips.

"Welcome, ladies and gents!" I proclaimed to the crowd. A smile worked its way onto my face as a few people clapped and one boisterous man whistled; my confidence perked up. "It's such an honor to stand on this sweaty stage and use a filthy mic to entertain you all when you could be at home watching a B - rated movie worth half the admission to this place. But, hey, no judgment here. You know how the old phrase goes... you just can't fix stupid."

Laughter rippled across the crowd; I gave a little sigh of relief. I was hoping that joke wouldn't offend anyone too much. I supposed that being able to laugh at yourself was really helping me with that joke. I hoped that attitude would stick around for this show, because there were going to be way more jokes where that one came from.

"Y'know this city of ours, London, is very unique. Now, I know what you're thinking: what the bloody 'ell

(insert purposefully horrible British accent)

is this lady talking about?" I scrutinized the crowd; they were listening with rising interest. Rule Number One to Stand-Up Comedy: Talk about the hometown/city, and you'll get people's attention. "She's obviously American, what the bloody 'ell is this shit?

(revert back to plain, American mid-Western accent)

Well, first of all, calm yourselves ladies and gents, thanks to us, you have the microwave and The Ramones..." I glanced around the crowd. When no one said anything, I smirked. "Yeah, you're welcome, you ungrateful little shits."

More laughter and some guffaws. I smirked wider; this was a good crowd.

"So when ya'll microwave yer fish and chips," I began, teasing a southern accent with the 'ya'll' and 'yer', "you think of America. Freedom, bald eagles, obesity, and Starbucks on every street corner."

Overall, my part of the show was a success. There were more stand-up comedians after me and they certainly got a fair amount of laughs, perhaps more than me for some of them, but I felt that I'd done pretty well. In short, each of us got thirty minutes to do our bit and then the next guy came up.

Nonetheless, I had a handful of people shake my hand after the show, which was a surprising honor. One man, perhaps ten years older than me, was particularly eccentric yet memorable. His two eyes were two different shades of blue and his hair was a shocking and flamboyant blonde, like something of an eighties' pop star. He wore dark skinny jeans, black boots, a red-and-white striped shirt and a black leather jacket with gold-studded shoulders. He had chiseled facial features that would be dishonored with the word handsome. He shook my hand and thanked me in a gorgeous British accent for such a great show; it'd been helping him through some tough times, he said. Feeling very elated and inspired, I thanked the man for coming and wished him the best of luck with life. To my surprise, he smiled at me, winked, and walked away.

After the comedy club had cleared, I walked to the front of the building to collect my pay for the night. The rest of the comedians had gone immediately to the manager for their pay, but I took my time changing into more comfortable clothes for the long bus ride home.

The comedy club itself was very old and stunk of mold, resembling one's grandparents' house. The red, velvety wallpaper was peeling and stained with God-knows-what and there were suspicious puddles on the floor (cracked tile stained with God-knows-what) in random places. The hallway leading to the manager's office was decorated with pictures of stand-up comedians who'd come and gone; I guessed they were supposed to be famous but I didn't recognize a single one of them. Not to mention all of the pictures were in black and white.

The door I was seeking was labeled in old-fashioned golden paint: Dave Cook, Club Manager.

I pushed open the door, only to be greeted with atrocious cigarette smoke and even more mould. The office was in quite the same state as the rest of the building, except for the wooden desk and old desk lamp sitting on top of it, with papers strewn haphazardly across the tabletop. The illumination from the lamp was the only source of light in the room and there were no windows; I felt like I'd stepped right into a scene from a 1920's gangster movie.

An obese man (a fat lard of fifty, I thought with disgust) sat at the desk, clad in a white dress shirt (also stained) and green corduroy pants. He was holding a pencil in his left hand and scribbling on one of the papers. He was muttering something under his breath, his eyes dancing across the page and beads of sweat littering his forehead.

"Excuse me?" I called. The man's head snapped up, making his multiple chins jiggle. A grin spread across his face.

"Ah, 'ello there," he said in a heavy British accent. "'Ow was the show?"

"Just smah-shing," I quipped in an imitation of his accent. When his grin faltered, I quickly added in my own accent, "Very successful, sir... I wasn't being sarcastic."

"Oh, good," he said, his grin filling up again. "Come to collect your check?" ('Cheque,' as they spell it here, I thought idly).

"Yes, sir," I said, forcing myself to remain polite. Back in Cincinnati, Ohio, I would've said, 'Sure, man' and it would've been okay. Then again, everybody's nice in Cincinnati, so it's not like I would've been beat up or anything. I couldn't say the same for London, though.

The fat, greasy man nodded. He pulled up a check- cheque, I corrected myself - and began scribbling on it. After a few moments, he handed it to me, revealing sweat-stained underarms. I took the cheque and read it...

"This only says seventy-five dollars," I said slowly, glancing up at the man inquisitively.

"Yes, and?"

"There's no way I only made this much. Admission was five dollars and there had to be thirty people there."

"Ah, yes," the man said, still grinning at me. The word slimey came to mind. "It was about one hundred-fifty dollars in total, but this club takes fifty-percent of all show earnings. So you got your fair share."

I gawked at the man.

"Fifty percent? I did all the work! I entertainedthose people for thirty minutesand all I get is fifty-percent?! What do you need the other half for, anyway? This place smells like something crawled into the rafters about fifty years ago and died. Looks like the kind of place Jason would chase teenagers into so he can chop them into little bite-sized pieces!"

The grin had slipped off the manager's face right as I had begun ranting. Now his face was purplish-red with fury and he jumped up, surprisingly nimble for a man of such, well, fatness.

"Ou' of my club! NOW!" he roared.

With a huff, I turned on my heels and stormed to the door.

"AND DON' YOU EVEN THINK ABOU' COMIN' BACK!" the man hollered.

I let the door slam loudly behind me, shaking the weak, wooden door frame. I stormed out of the filthy, mouldy comedy club and began making the two-block walk to the bus stop. I could feel my face burning with anger and furious adrenaline coursing through my veins.

The sky was a deep, demonic black devoid of a single star from the overpowering lights of the wakeful city of London. Bus horns, whooshing of cars, and sirens echoed in the distance, along with someone bellowing British accented-road rage a street over.

Isn't this place just delightful, I thought to myself bitterly. What a great place to raise kids. Welcome to London, it's practically New York City but with red phone booths and people driving on the wrong side of the road. Enjoy your stay, you piece of shit.

Beep beep beep, went my phone. Beep beep beep. I pulled it out of my back pocket and saw my fiancé's smiling face flashing on my phone with 'Mark mobile' illuminated. I slid my thumb across the screen, answering the call.

"'Ello, gov'na!" I chirped, despite my bitterness over the crappy check- dammit, cheque. "'Ow's it goin', love?"

Mark laughed his sweet laugh on the other line.

"You seem to be in a good mood."

"Actually I'm extremely pissed off right now," I said as I was nearing the end of the block. A loud siren whooped from behind me as the ambulance zoomed down the opposite street. "There's so many freaking noises here. In Cincy, if you shot off fireworks in your neighborhood, people got pissed off 'cause they thought you were shooting a shotgun or something. Here it's like people would freak if there weren't shotgun noises, like 'It's quiet... too quiet.'"

As you can see, I like to rant sarcastically when I'm mad. I think it's a coping mechanism. Y'know, like if I'm stressed out, I'll make fun of myself or the people around me and try to get a few laughs. I've done it since I could talk, which explains why I've pursued stand-up comedy despite being practically unknown for the past two years.

"Wow, babe, that's... um..." Mark trailed off. He sounded tired, and I suddenly felt bad for being so sarcastic. Just a little bit. "Hey, I'm going to be late coming home tonight. You'll be fine on your own?"

"Babe, what am I, five? Of course I'll be fine. It's about ten o'clock now, right? That means the séance will begin at ten-thirty and should last until about eleven, when the ghosts get tired of my shit and finally kill me. Oh, by the way, I purchased a ouija board on eBay yesterday-"

"Gwen!" Mark cut off my rant again. He started laughing, exhaustion dripping with each breath, and finally said, "Knock it off! I'm just trying to say, I'll be home later on. No séances, no being murdered by supernatural entities, nothing. Just sit and make some popcorn, okay?"

The bus stop was within view: a little half-enclosed waiting area with a probably-filthy bench with gum stuck beneath it or cockroaches or a half-eaten lung or something. The area was illuminated with a bright light; practically a sign shouting, "Hey there, random pedophile/serial killer! I'm sitting here all by myself and totally vulnerable! Got any free candy?"

"Fine," I grumble. "You're no fun." I smiled and said quietly, "I love you."

"Love you, too."

"Wait, babe, before you hang up, I gotta tell you something... I got ripped off tonight. The asshole club manager took half of the money I made, so I'm only bringing home seventy-five bucks." I waited in silence for his response, feeling the weight of the guilt in my stomach like a twenty-pound rock. Trust me, this isn't the first time I've told him something like this; I'm always getting ripped off. Mark makes most of the money as an advertisement marketer while I try to pursue my dream and always fall flat financially. But, hey, who's having the real fun here: Mark, making deceitful ads and slimey crap, or me, making people laugh and making their days a little bit brighter?

Mark just sighs. He saw this coming.

"I'll see you later." Click, call ended. I sigh in return and stick my phone in my back pocket.

This sucks, I thought as I approached the bus stop. Even from a few feet away, I could see gum pressed to the bottom of the bench in multitudes. But, alas, no half-eaten lung. That would've at least made my night more interesting.

I took a seat on the bench (it was unsettlingly sticky, I might add) and sighed deeply. Exhaustion was really hitting me now and all I wanted to do was lay my head down on this sticky bench and fall asleep.

Then, suddenly: ting-ting.

I jumped in surprise at the sudden sound; it came from the end of the bench. My head twisted to the side and standing there was...

An owl? Yes, an owl; a big, beautiful, barn owl.

"What the hell..." I murmured, gawking.

The owl gawked right back at me with big, brown eyes that matched the brown heart-shape on its face. Its eyes probed mine and ruffled its wings a little.

"Um, hello there," I said uneasily, shifting on the bench. I found my pants sticking to the surface (Shit, that's gonna stain).

To my surprise and delight, the owl hooted cheerfully in response.

"How'd you get here, little guy?" I asked it, not actually expecting an answer. The owl just stared at me, almost... lovingly?

No, that's preposterous. Simply preposterous! my mind interjected with a posh British accent. It made me smirk for a moment.

A dull roar arose from the back of the street; the bus was coming. I glanced down the street, mindful of the large barn owl about two feet away from me. Indeed, the double-decker bus, the color of dried blood in the dark of night, was chugging slowly towards the bus stop.

"Well, I gotta go, little guy," I said to the owl, my voice slightly higher than normal. (People do that with animals, it's so weird.)

I didn't see a collar or name tag on the owl. Must be looking for food, maybe people feed him around here, I thought.

The double-decker bus approached the bus stop and came to a slow, chugging halt. The doors slammed open clumsily to reveal a surprisingly fit man at the driver's seat, clad in a black conductor's hat and a black buttoned-up uniform. He was clean-shaven and seemed good-natured; seeing him after the club manager was like a breath of fresh air.

"See ya, little guy," I said, looking back at the owl. It hooted urgently at me, making me stop halfway from getting up. "What?"

It hopped towards me, right to my arm, and poked it. For some odd reason, I got the feeling it wanted me to name it.

"Um, alright..." I searched my mind for a good name. The bus driver was glancing out the door at the owl in bewilderment. "...Hedwig," I said finally. "Hedwig. You look just like him."

I reached out and patted the owl's head, to which he rubbed his head against mine (well, I guess it's a 'he' now. Might as well give it a gender, I guess) with delight. "What a cutie," I gushed. "Bye, Hedwig."

I left the adorable owl reluctantly and climbed onto the bus. The driver stopped me with an outstretched hand.

"Is that a barn owl?"

"Yes."

"And it just came up to you?"

"No, I summoned it. See, I have these freaky powers that I inherited from my father..."

The driver snorted in derision and waved me off.

"Alright, smart-arse. I was just curious."

I nodded, walking past him. The bus was deserted except for a filthy man asleep in the back, snoring like a lawn mower.

As I picked a seat near the front, I glanced at the bus stop bench. It was empty; no sign of Hedwig.

Interesting, I thought. My heart plummeted a little; I was already attached to the little guy. The bus started up again and began chugging along down the street.

"I named him Hedwig," I announced.

"What?" the bus driver called.

"I named the owl Hedwig," I said, not really sure why I was telling him this. I just felt like I should.

"You a Harry Potter fan?" the driver asked, suddenly interested.

Thus commenced the fifteen-minute long Harry Potter discussion and subsequent argument: Was Dumbledore really that great of a headmaster or was he full of terrible secrets the whole time?

I proudly won that argument (Dumbledore really loved Harry and couldn't control his past, no one can! I had argued) and left the bus with glorious bragging rights to tell Mark about later, if he was willing to talk to me after the terrible news I'd given him.

As I walked into our small apartment, I secretly hoped that I'd see Hedwig again soon. Or maybe that weird guy with the blonde hair who shook my hand after the show, I thought with a smile. Eccentric people always caught my attention; they were always so unique and interesting. Yeah, he seemed pretty chill, right?

Oh, if only I knew how ironic that thought would soon be.