Lo siento muchismo for the delay... Chapter Two apparently waited in the FFML line for three days, got tired, and left. ^_^ But! 'Tis better, because there were a few errors in it.
I'm always looking for correct grammar, insomuch as it doesn't disturb my fic, commas, periods, etc. Stylistic errors are even more important. Grammar is optional, IMO, but style ain't.
If you _like_ it, I'd like to know WHY, and if you didn't, this too I'd like to know. I'm a blabbermouth 'bout most things, so if you have any questions, let me know.
I got one rather loud complaint about the length of my preliminary notes, but since I regularly ignore this person, it has no bearing on their shortness here. It is heavily recommended that you read the first chapter. If you do not have it, email me at mystavash@geocities.com. I'll send it over, and then you can read this one. ^_^
Alandra.
--------------
Disclaimers (hey, I shortened it!):
Mine. Not yours.
There are several parodied names, 'cause they're more fun to make up than real names, so enjoy the bad jokes! And be comforted in the knowledge that it can't be as bad as Kleppe's puns...^_^ M.C. Escher, however, was a real person, saw no need to change that.
Kodansha Darien is in no way related to Chiba Darien, also Chiba Mamoru, also Darien Shields, who is the property of Takeuchi Naoko, and other companies, and if you think he is, YOU tell him to quit smoking! ^_^
Yes, I know Japan probably didn't make computers in 1955. It's the _thought_ that counts.
Indian means Indian. If I wanted to say Native American, I'd say Native American.
AI, in the one instance it's used, does not refer to the Japanese word "ai," but to the English phrase, "artificial intelligence."
Warning! This is a changeable document. This means that at any point in the future, whether while writing Chapter 5, or Chapter 25, it may be supplemented, augmented, or otherwise changed, including, but not limited to, major and minor plot lines, character characterization, and various dates.
-thought-
*talking over telephone/intercom*
--------------
We are all connected to each other,
In a circle, in a hoop that never ends.
>From Colors of the Wind
Sunlight and Laughter, Shadows and Sadness
By Alandra
Chapter Two: So Close, So Far
Tan cerca, tan lejos,
Hermanos de sangre.
>From Hermanos de Sangre
*****************************************************************
August 5, 1995
North Village, FL USA
Saskatchewan Park, basketball court
The tall blond Australian, known by his peers as Handy, for his "handy" way with locks, leaned against the fence surrounding the basketball court, his forehead pressed against the wire, watching the game in progress.
"Yo, man, I'm open, I'm open!"
"Pass it, pass it!"
The one holding the ball looked nervously at his teammates, none of whom were open. To make matters worse, quite a few of his opponent's team were converging on him with the clear intent of removing the decision from his hands. In a last ditch effort, clearly desperate, he went for the goal himself.
The ball balanced on the rim for a moment, the shooter, a young black boy, standing underneath the hoop, knowing that his status among his group depended upon that ball...
It fell.
Outside the hoop.
The cruel sphere of plastic rolled away, unnoticed, off the edge of the court, lost for weeks among the trees.
The shooter's eyes fell, following its path, the image forever burned in his memory as a testament to his failure, and he, depressed in spirit and soul, quietly steeled himself for the inevitable sneers and snickers, which would, he had no doubt, continue throughout the rest of his life. There was a pregnant, expectant pause as those on the court took a collective breath, ready to burst out with guffaws and cruel jeers.
But before anyone could say anything, the captain of the other team, the tallest player out of both groups, casually strode to the side of the almost star.
"Good game, man," he said, "good game."
At this sign of acceptance, the winners stilled their acid remarks and collectively reaffirmed their leader's pronouncement. The boy raised his eyes, a new hope dawning in their dark irises, to the captain's face, searching it for sincerity, and finding what he wished. He smiled suddenly, his white teeth startling against his dark skin, the perfect picture of adolescent adoration. But he still heard the lonely sound of rubber against pavement, and his smile faded, casting his bright face in shadow.
Another spectator stood next to Handy, his diminutive size emphasized by his friend's astonishing height. He was called Aladdin, more for his incredible luck than his Persian ancestry. A fierce scowl of concentration marred the young Iranian's handsome face.
"I do not understand," he pronounced, after subjecting the court to intense scrutiny, noting in surprise the disappointment that remained on the shooter's face.
Handy glanced down. "What's the problem, mate?" His voice held a note of resignation, no doubt from explaining the rules three times.
"Aren't you SUPPOSED to aim the ball out of the hoop?"
*****
August 5, 1995
North Village Mall
Sraes & Roedoe Co.
Men's Clothing Department
Josh Drew was an aspiring business man, and college student, a repectable person, owner of a classy video arcade downtown, and, when you got right down to it, a nice guy. He did not _get_ moved out of the way, he politely stepped aside. In the summers of his well spent youth, he visited old ladies in nursing homes. People _liked_ Josh, and they were so often willing to go out of their way for him that he began to unconsciously expect it. He did not, at the very least, expect to be _ignored_.
All he wanted was a pair of slacks, but this nice guy didn't even _try_ to move down the aisle of the men's clothing department in Sraes. He gently, yet firmly, tapped the shoulder of the clerk in front of him, one of an apparent legion, yet the suited man didn't even notice. Josh waited patiently. For an hour. Disgusted, he turned to leave, but it was unlikely that the store would be much concerned at the loss of his patronage.
The store wasn't crowded...at least not with people. Instead, what had blocked Josh's way was a line of shopping carts, each filled to the brim, stretching from the men's section, through formal wear, and ending approximately in the middle of the lingerie area, to the blushing embarrassment of several male clerks attending to the articles.
For anyone who was lucky enough to get through this veritable barricade, it was still nearly impossible to discern who the carts belonged to without being one of the army of sales clerks and personal shoppers dancing attendance upon him.
The pale faced Englishman had _seemed_ innocuous enough as he browsed through various suits an hour before, but when he picked out two suits, five blazers, and three tuxedos, wondering if he could please pay in cash, this American money was so useless back home?, he caused quite a stir. At first, the store manager, called down by a panicked young female clerk who was torn between deciding if he was a drug dealer or falling in love with his angelic good looks, was inclined to be suspicious of him. But then he remembered something out of one of his daughter's flashy magazines about the most eligible bachelors in the world. A closer inspection revealed that this was indeed Bachelor Number 4: George Nassar, son and heir to the Earl of Devonshire.
The manager, a prudent man, quickly organized things such that this single unassuming, stylishly, yet not flamboyantly, dressed youth became the center of the world for 3/4ths of the current personnel. When asked if he would like to make more selections, he considered the question thoughtfully.
"Well," mused Dandy, as he was known to his friends, for obvious reasons, "I suppose it would not hurt to look." He quickly checked to make sure his attempt at looking intelligent had not ruined the perfection of his hair.
When Josh Drew arrived an hour later, and left in disgust, Dandy was very nearly done with that section. He examined a polo shirt with an experienced eye. The troop of sales clerks who anxiously surrounded drew a relieved sigh as the shirt apparently passed his inspection. Seemingly oblivious to the crowd surrounding him, Dandy simply handed the shirt to someone near him, who passed it on down until it reached one of the carts, necessitating the call for yet another one.
Dandy rubbed his hands together in delight, completely in his element. This, he decided, was not so bad a place after all. "Now," he said, turning towards his personal shoppers, "what dost thou have by way of shoes?"
*****
August 5, 1995
Enormously ticked off that he had walked miles throughout the tiny North Village Mall and found nothing of any worth, Red strode to the only place he knew his British friend would be, and stopped short. His mouth worked slowly trying to form the words he couldn't quite express as his brain carefully processed the sight in front of him. The line of carts stretched even beyond his field of vision, to infinity, he thought for a moment, before rationality set in.
Determined, he pushed his way through the crowd of sycophants, knowing exactly who was the cause of this abnormal sight, and glared down at his fair-haired companion.
"Dandy, me friend," he said, warningly, "this be goin' too &*%! far."
Dandy instantly looked contrite. "Dost thou wishs't I put them away?" he asked, mournfully, as if Red had asked him to give up his favorite dog. Which is not to say that his flame haired friend would have asked Dandy to do such a thing. Red is uncommonly fond of dogs, having several packs of mutts back home.
The Irishman rolled his eyes at these theatrics, but relented, vowing privately to himself that if Dandy ever again engaged in this kind of foolishness, he'd have Brain cancel young Nassar's credit cards, all 120 of them. Dandy was an international shopper. "Bah," he growled, "Keep whatcha' got, but no more. Understand?"
Dandy glowed. He nodded rapidly, pulled out a shiny credit card, then turned to the nearest clerk. "Can I charge it?" he inquired politely.
The hapless woman looked from the line of carts to the gleaming piece of plastic, and fainted.
******
August 5, 1995
Kodansha Mansion #4
North Village, Fl
The center of suburbia in North Village was located in the northwest section. Here, one found large planned communities, expensive apartment complexes (the cheaper ones were nearer to the university), and middle-class housing. Off one of the main roads in this sector, obscured by a row of trees, sat a mansion, three stories high, where a month ago the lot's only inhabitants were crickets.
The mansion had the disturbing dimensions of an Escher drawing; it _looked_ right, but should one follow its lines too close, one found that in some areas there were four floors, some two, and some, oddly enough, none at all. As it were, most of the people who could have taken this opportunity were too busy going in and out of the building to notice this incongruity, like the small, weaselly man who had entered an hour before. There were secret entrances, forgotten passageways, hidden panels, ballrooms to hold 400, and somehow, through a contrivance not known to the comman man, it was quite possible to walk into one door of Kodansha Mansion #4, and walk out of Clayton Manor #1, which was located in the English countryside. It was a circumstance that only mildly baffled the owner of the house, since, in his opinion, there were stranger things in his life now.
Darien Kodansha, owner of the mansion, and the only son of Ulysses Clayton and Aki Kodansha, relaxed in his new black leather executive chair, taking a long drag from his cigarette before smashing the almost spent stub into the ashtray. He blew the smoke out slowly, watching the smoke tendrils lazily make their way upwards through half-closed eyes.
The intercom buzzer sounded obnoxiously through his apparent stupor. Tearing his attention away from the interesting vapors, he punched the small black button on his elegant mahogany table.
"Yes, Majid?"
*Mr. Fellow is here, sir.*
A faint smile flitted over Darien's lips, giving his handsome face an evil cast. There was something very pleasant, he found, in watching someone like Mr. N. Fellow squirm. "Right on time, isn't he?" he purred.
*Yes, sir.* replied Majid, not mentioning that Mr. Fellow had been kicking his heels in the antechamber for an hour. Something about the appointment being earlier, although Majid's books clearly said 2 not 1 o'clock. Of course, since Majid didn't wear his contacts, all the numbers did seem rather blurry...
"Send him in." Darien said, briskly, indulging himself in a truly wicked grin.
When the door opened, however, Darien's usual business face was back in place as Mr. Fellow sidled in. His mouth opened, ready to tell that young whipper-snapper just what kind of injustices had been done to him, when Darien rose to shake his hand. Mr. Fellow was uncomfortably aware that Mr. Kodansha topped him by at least half a foot, and his grip was a little _too_ strong.
Darien, seeing the protests die unsaid, allowed himself a slightly predatory smile after greetings were exchanged. It served to frighten Mr. Fellow into promptly taking his seat. The other man stood for a moment longer, tacitly reminding Mr. Fellow that he hadn't been invited to take a seat. There was no help for it now, so he tried his best to hide in the stark office.
Darien, now sitting, steepled his fingers. "Well?"
Mr. Fellow, eager to have the meeting over (the missus was right 'bout rich folks!), blurted out: "Nuthing to say, sir, a boy comes out, plays some of that American game, whatis'?, basketball, and they tend the garden sometimes, but they never look out over 'ere!"
Darien raised his eyebrow. "What, never?" There was nothing, he had learned, that was ever perfectly advantageous. Nothing perfect that wasn't spoiled in some way, whether it was a diamond, a plan, or even a memory.
Mr. Fellow considered, rapidly thinking. "There's the girl..."
"What about her?" Darien asked quickly, feeling a little disappointed in spite of himself.
He shuddered in memory. "Walks home e'ry weekday, she does. Stops at the doorway, and looks o'er 'ere, givin' the house the queerest look I ever saw. E'ry weekday."
"Do you have pictures of her?" Best, he thought, to know the face of one's potential enemy.
"Right 'ere, sir, jus' like you ordered!" Mr. Fellow dug into his voluminous pockets, bringing out a handful of crumpled photos.
A masterful student at intimidation, Darien took the photographs and flattened them out without a single word, which was far worse than a reprimand. Mr. Fellow tried to hide again. Wasn't _his_ fault the missus put the photos through the washing machine!
Darien's mouth twitched as he studied the pictures. "Mr. Fellow," he said, his voice quivering only slightly, "these are indeed excellent photographs..."
Mr. Fellow puffed up in pride.
"...of your thumb." Darien finished, his grin coming out at last, even snickering a little. The most Mr. Fellow managed to capture on film of the girl was a pair of long, slim legs.
"WHAT?! I developed 'em myself, I did! The girl was in 'em, e'ry one o' 'em!" he protested, outraged.
Darien tempered his grin. No use estranging the help. He admired Mr. Fellow's acting ability, or self-delusion, he wasn't sure which. "Show me the others," he commanded.
Mr. Fellow dug out more photos with an expectant look on his face. To his credit, his thumb wasn't in any of the others, and the pictures were in focus. One was of a hulking teenage boy, shooting hoops. The other was of a bespectacled man waiting in his car, then one of his wife, no doubt, getting out of the car.
"You're sure none of them showed any interest in the mansion?" pressed Darien, drawing the new photos towards him, taking the photo of Legs with them, and leaving the completely useless ones near Mr. Fellow. One never knew.
"Nay, nary a soul." Mr. Fellow confirmed. "They's the most reclusive folks I ever saw."
Darien thoughtfully considered this. It was doubtful Fellow was lying, in which case the glamor was working, except on that one girl... He drummed his fingers on his desktop, impatiently waiting for the flash of insight that never came. With a wave of his hand, he silently dismissed the fidgeting Mr. Fellow, who practically ran out of the room, pausing only to give Majid a nasty glare. Majid just smirked back, and continued playing Mineduster.
The young Kodansha considered the legs carefully. Slim, hugged by a pair of black jeans ... and...he looked closer, unsure. Yes. The ends of what must be a very long mane of black hair. Scraggly, uneven, and rife with split ends. Graham, Fellow had said, those many months ago. Her last name was Graham.
Darien absently applied pressure to a secret spot on the executive desk. Like a sun roof, two panels lifted and seperated, a notebook rising in the gap. With smug smile, Darien watched as the notebook automatically opened and booted. A few quick clicks later, and he was into the town's residency records. -Graham...Graham...Aha! Graham, Robert Sridhar, 43. Wife, Graham, Medo Sharmila, 39. Dependants: Two.- He scowled. -Names! I want names!- He tried Immigration, but that had even less information. As a last ditch effort, he tried the school records. -Gotcha! Grahams...there are a lot of Grahams...- He flipped through the files, keeping his eyes only on the parent/guardians line. -Graham, Florence, yeah, right, Graham, George!...Sibling...- He clicked. The screen went blank.
"What the hell?! Aw, damn, the battery went out..." Cursing the frailites of the laptop, he punched the intercom button. It was time for the meeting, anyway.
*Majid?*
"Sir?" asked the Hindu, his eyes never leaving the computer screen, where he had only two evil dustpans left.
*Take a break.*
"In a minute, sir." -Almost done,- he thought.
*NOW, Majid.*
He sighed, and turned off the game. -I would have lost anyway,- he consoled himself. "Yes, sir."
He quickly shut down the computer and left by the elevator, pushing a small buzzer that let Mr. Kodansha know he had left the office area. An unusual arrangement, perhaps, but the pay was more than enough to silence foolish curiosity and tolerate Darien's eccentricities.
Darien waited until the soft beep that signified he was alone, before permitting himself a gleeful grin. Pushing yet another button, this one in a really secret place, hidden in the handle of his desk drawer, the wealthy teenager rotated one of the bare side walls, revealing an advanced computer alcove. His chair, following the grooves on the floor, moved by itself such that Darien faced the blank monitor. -That,- he decided, -was definitely awesome.-
His stomach grumbled, reminding him that he needed some lunch, so he decided to kill two birds with one stone by calling together a lunch meeting. He positioned his hands to strike the keys with efficiency and quickness...then realized he didn't know how to use the T.H.I.N.G. He sighed. Sneaking a quick, furtive glance in both directions, making sure no one was watching this unforgivable lapse in the male urge to NOT ASK, he pulled out a huge "Owner's Manual" from MacroHard, maker of all things incomprehensible, and started reading.
*****
August 5, 1995
The carvern was surprisingly huge, despite the fact that Florida was a mere peninsula. The interior however, was stark, and the few dilapidated computer stations were scattered about, dwarfed by the sheer amount of empty space. Various other pieces of equipment lay around, the words, "Made in Japan, 1955", written on most of them. They looked like a simple breath would blow them away. Even the occasional vermin squeaked past, chittering.
Slouching at one of the computers, Raeder dozed lightly, his head leaning against the back of the chair. He snorted and turned slightly, causing the chair to tilt. A rodent flitted across the keyboard. The chair went back with a crash, frightening the 26-year old nearly out of his wits as his head made contact with the floor. His glasses fell off with a tinkle, and climbing out of the chair, Raeder blindly groped for them. His hand grasped the errant mouse, and he tried putting it on, but screamed when he felt something warm and fuzzy against his nose. The mouse moved swiftly away from his slacked grip, staggering somewhat from nearly suffering a mouse-sized heart attack. After taking a few deep breaths, Raeder once more searched for his missing spectacles, this time finding them. More cautious, he carefully felt them to be sure that they were indeed his glasses before putting them on. He gazed about himself as if seeing the cave for the very first time, and smiled to himself in satisfaction. Pulling the chair up, he dumped himself in it, causing it to protest loudly, and the screeching echoed for several minutes, disturbing a family of bats who inhabited the cave. Fond of Terran movies, Raeder liked to call the headquarters "The BatCave," but he kept the appellation to himself.
There was a similar station on the far side of the cave, perhaps a little more decrepit, since Raeder required the best computer, being the intelligence officer, but the man who sat rigidly straight at that station cast an aura of power around it, marking it as a place of significance and importance. Raeder would have given his right arm to sit at that seat, with a computer that creaked when someone walked by, that had so many viruses it was nicknamed, by the outside world, the hacker's play-toy, that had all the resolution of a pixie stix, because the force of the one who sat there's belief was so compellingly strong, and _he_ believed it was a position of power, to be coveted by all.
His name was Nago. He was the last scion of an ancient and almost extinct family on his homeworld, who had been declining in both power and numbers for the last century. Now all that was left of great wealth was a matched pair of finely wrought swords, and the signet ring that graced his left hand. His mother had long ago lost her sanity, convincing herself too throughly that she was surrounded by the splendor of ages ago, and his father was a proud man, too proud to ask for help to feed his little boy. But within this pride was a desperate hope in an old prophesy told by a sometimes true soothsayer, while deep into his cups and on the verge of passing out. "An' sooo shawll it bee," he had proclaimed, grinning lecherously at the fuzzy object to his right, "tha' won hundre' an' fify years from now," he paused, toasting the barroom pole and taking a large gulp from his goblet, "whan there's nuthin' left, th' son o' yer line 'll find th' gem o' the univers'." Nago's ancestor smiled, humoring the old man, and it would have been dismissed then and there had not the sometimes false soothsayer slumped forward, snoring, his red wine splashing over Nago's ancestor's signet ring, and, so the story went, turning the emerald stone, the color eyes of every heir in that family, to a blood red ruby.
Now, exactly 150 years later, Nago sat at an old computer station, staring at a satellite picture of the Earth, a swirling mass of blue and white, firm in his powerful belief that in this ugly ball of water the prophesy would be fulfilled. It had taken every string his father had, calling upon his boyhood playmates whose fathers had not squandered away their inheritance, to get Nago to this point. Even then, Nago was not the first, nor even the second, to come here from the homeworld, seeking the "gem of the universe." A fervor for glory had gripped the homeworld, sending two previous expeditions, the first in search of this "gem," the second in retaliation for the disappearance of the first.
Neither the previous destruction of two entire fleets of warriors, nor the sudden lack of support from the government who sniggered behind smiling faces at the poor rich man who came to beg one last request, even gave Nago a moment's pause. He was destined. And he believed.
One of the numerous puddles in the cavern grew larger with more rapidity than the drip that had originally created it would have allowed. The small pool of water rose, turning into the opaque color of liquid mercury before solidifying into a hauntingly beautiful woman by Terran standards. By those of the planet she came from, Sea was rather plain in appearance. Her hair was a wavy soft, shoulder length brown, with glints of gold that blazed in sunlight. She wore a pastel blue dress that belied her status as a general on this mission. It was made of sheer, tantalizingly see-through, fabric that traced her slim body, yet flowed around her like water.
She was a cast away, sent with Nago on what was seen as a suicide mission as an honorable means of getting rid of her. Honor, she had mocked, was only an intricate web of lies and pretensions that people abused and used, stood by, and died by. She was apathetic towards such things, and was thus useless, a numb limb that needed to be cut off for the sake of the empire.
Sea regarded the rigid figure with a fond eye. The mighty empire hadn't counted on Nago, though. She and her fellow cast offs were drawn towards his incredible latent power. It was, she thought sometimes, how he looked at them, as if they were the mightiest warriors the empire could send with him, and it was that belief that transformed society's dregs into warrioresses of skill. All the lessons that had fallen on deaf ears suddenly germinated. They were fiercely protective of him, and if he regarded the broken down equipment as state-of-the-art technology, his "generals" were not about to disillusion him.
In some ways, his naivete was akin to that of a little boy's, but the man she watched was no little boy. When he stood, he towered over them at a height of six and a half Terran feet. The muscles that rippled when he moved spoke of an immense strength, hard earned flesh from years upon years of training. His blond hair curled just above his ears, and fell in locks behind them, giving him an almost babyish look, a look dispelled by his hard green eyes. His face was finely chiseled, hard and forbidding for the most part, though he had a quirky sense of humor, and smiled occasionally, but it never reached his emerald eyes. He was skilled in all weapons, trained since birth by his proud father to be the warrior who would find the gem of the universe and bring her back for the glory of the homeworld. Now, after years of searching, he was finally close to finding her. Sea wasn't quite sure if she wanted Nago to find what he sought.
"Sea," he said in a normal tone of voice.
Sea was briefly startled, since she had made no sound, but she had given up on trying to figure out how he _knew_ she was there. Her feet transformed back into water, and she slid to him with an ease even the masters would have envied. A droplet that had been accidentally seperated from the watery train behind her, formed legs and rushed to join his companions.
She bowed to her lord's back. "I am here, my Lord," Sea said softly, her pupiless eyes expressionless. Her voice was usually a gentle one, whose cadence spoke without words of waves lapping upon the shore.
He turned to face her, but she saw the Earth, not herself, reflected in his eyes. "Was your retrieval successful?"
"Yes, my lord," she replied.
"Any losses?" he asked, thoughtfully.
-A naive wise man,- Sea thought. "They were acceptable," she answered, her wide blue eyes serene.
"And what," he asked softly, "is acceptable?" It was a reminder that it was he who was the leader, and he who would decide.
She flinched, the motion rippling down her body. Sometimes he was uncanny. "The two humans were taken," she responded, emotionlessly.
"All of them?" he questioned.
She lifted her chin a little. "Yes, sir."
He seemed to consider this. It was good news, since the humans were the decoys in an elaborate plan he himself had devised. Blunt force, he had said, was not going to win this battle. "You have done well," he told Sea.
Sea trembled for a moment, wanting to say that it was him, and him alone, but she managed to control herself enough to give him a brief nod, then slide stiffly away.
He studied her retreating figure for a moment, then turned back, observing the little blue sphere that twirled and flickered on his screen.
Raeder, the intelligence officer, was a geeky looking kid, with wide, horn-rimmed glasses perched on his beak-like nose. He wore a tan shirt, and a pair of darker brown pants, that hung loosely off his thin frame, as if he hadn't met the maker's expectations. The winner of the 54th AI design contest (as well as the 40th, 41st, 43rd...) had instantly woken up when Sea arrived, and watched Sea walk away with longing. "Sea," he called out.
She paused, facing him. "What?" she said, irritated, her voice now echoing the crashes of tidal waves.
-She stopped!- he thought, elated, ignoring the warning in her tone. "Umm..." he mumbled. "You're, uh, dripping." -Idiot!-
She looked behind her, where, in her agitation, she had allowed streaks of water to escape, marking her footsteps. She sighed and willed the escaped droplets to return to her. Nodding to herself, she walked away. She stopped suddenly, and turned around. "Hey, Raeder?"
"Uh, yeah?" His heart leapt for joy. -She addressed me!-
She permitted herself to give him a slight smile, pitying the quiet young man, dragged so far away from home. "Thanks," she said quietly. After all, she understood loneliness.
Sea lost her shape, transforming into her natural state, and disappeared through the cracks into the lower caves underneath.
Raeder stared after her, slack-jawed. -Was it possible?- he wondered.
He barely dared to hope. His monitor beeped urgently, intruding into his reverie. Raeder maintained a constant and complete surveillance over the planet's communications. Something had popped up. Frowning, he reviewed it. It appeared to be a news broadcast about a recent robbery. -Why should this matter?- he wondered. "Ahhhh," he murmured, understanding. "My lord!" he called.
Nago looked at him, from across the expanse of rock. "What is it?"
Raeder was conscious of a feeling of pride, a certain gladness that he was being usefull. "There's a Terran news story. About the latest retrieval."
Nago rose with the grace of a serpent, and walked to Raeder's station. Raeder waited for him to say something.
"Show it to me."
"Yes, my lord." Raeder played the clip.
Nago's lips twisted in a mockery of a smile. "Saved! Hah, not quite Ms. Powell. I have what I wanted. Soon, I will have the girl, and nothing will save you."
*******
August 5, 1995
Vashana sneezed, then looked annoyed for having done so. She was in the library, having just been dropped off by her mother. She tucked a persistent tress behind her ear, one of many such long black strands that flowed down her back in cascading waves. Straight black brows peeked over the rims of glasses that appeared huge upon her face, perched on a small nose, and hiding warm brown eyes. She wore a long-sleeved white cotton shirt, tucked carefully into black jeans. Vashana slouched in the chair, propping her sneakered feet up on the chair opposite.
Sharon was late, of course. -The girl would be late for an appointment with Death.- Vashana thought, wryly. -Sharon and her wacky plans.- Sighing, she returned to what she was doing: staring at the back of the chair her feet were resting on, locked into a non-thinking state.
Someone pulled the chair out from under her feet, and they dropped to the floor with twin thuds. "Wakey-wakey, sleepy head!" said Sharon.
Vashana glared at her redheaded friend. Not only did Sharon have flaming red hair that bobbed an inch above her thin shoulders, she had the numerous freckles and impulsive behavior to match. Her emerald eyes sparkled merrily as she sat down in the seat Vashana's feet had just vacated. Vashana was not amused.
"I was not asleep," she informed the grinning idiot across from her.
"Sure, sure, Vashana, I believe you," she said, in an patronizing tone.
Vashana narrowed her eyes, ready for war.
Sharon had suspected something like this would happen, so she pulled out a book from her beige knapsack she carried everywhere. "Here, this is why I'm late." She handed the book to Vashana and added, "It's Z-in-Law." Vashana, despite her intelligence, was shockingly easy to bribe.
Vashana's face lit up like a halogen lamp. "Hey," she said sincerely, "thanks! This is cool." She ignored the inward twinge at demeaning herself by actually saying thank you. Friends, like cars, require mantainence.
Sharon sighed secretly in relief. "No problem-o," she answered.
"Problema," Vashana corrected absently, as she read the back cover. -...'Luzanna Tre is determined to teach Z a lesson in war that he will always remember'...sounds interesting...-
"Hunh?"
Vashana looked up. "Problema," she repeated mildly, the slightest hint of a smirk on her lips.
"Yeah, whatever," Sharon said dismissingly, then got down to business. "Look, I really need help on this case I'm working on."
"Oh, a _case_?" Vashana raised her eyebrow inquiringly.
"Yeah, see, I'm going to find out the real identities of those guys that have been stopping the robberies."
"What guys?" the thinner girl asked, in pretend ignorance.
Sharon rolled her eyes in exasperation. "C'mon, on, Vashana, not even YOU could be clueless about the biggest story to hit this town since...since..."
"The university?" Vashana suggested, refering to the only reason for North Village's continued existence.
"Umm..yeah, I guess." -Weird girl,- thought Sharon. If Vashana hadn't been the smartest girl she knew, Sharon would have never even sat a the same table with her, unless it was to get the answers on the math homework. It was summer, however, and all of her real friends were out having fun. And, somehow, she usually ended up working on these cases with Vashana. It just seemed more conveinant...somehow.
"Well, apparently so, since I have no idea what you're talking about." The Indian studied her nails, noting they needed to be cleaned. She hid well her inner glee. Lying is so fun!
"Will you just pay attention for a second?!" snapped Sharon, annoyed at her "friend"'s nonchalance.
"Sure. Whatcha' need?" Vashana asked, putting her new book away regretfully. (Z-in-Law, from Bosillo Books, availiable for only 9.95!)
"Help," Sharon answered, looking pathetic. "This is what I've got so far." She handed Vashana the special sleuthing notebook.
"Uh-hunh. Let's see here: 'Goal: Find out the identities of the new heros.'" She turned the page, then the next, and the next one, then flipped through the rest of the book. She looked up at the red-head, puzzled. "There's nothing else."
"Right. See, that's where I need help. _Your_ help."
Vashana resisted the urge to laugh at Sharon's obvious attempt at being pathetic. She was even pathetic at that. "Okaaayyy. Let's look at it logically, then. Hmmm... What do you know about them?"
"They're heros!" she said excitedly.
Vashana glanced at her, startled. -She seems so _sure_.- she thought, puzzled. "That remains to be seen," she replied, the coolness of her tone delibrately contrasting against Sharon's obvious energy. "How do you know these guys even exist? How does anyone?"
Sharon's brow crinkled in thought, remembering back to when she had first heard about her new case. "Umm...The robbers mentioned them. Described them."
"Good, that's a start." Sharon's eyes gleamed at the compliment. Vashana continued, leaning forward with chin in hand. "What did they say?"
Thinking hard now, Sharon remembered what her idol, Tracy Powell, had said. "Don't know, the police won't say."
"The plot thickens," Vashana murmured. "What _did_ the police say?"
"They released one of those thingys...public statements."
"Well?"
"Well what?"
"GET one, Sharon. We need hard-core evidence. You do leg-work, remember?" pressed Vashana.
Sharon laughed embarrassedly, putting her hand behind her head. "Yeah, I'll, um, get right on it."
"You do that. Now, these guys stop robberies...but...didn't I hear that not all the items were recovered?" Vashana wasn't completely unaware of the situation, but she liked razzing her friend.
Sharon shrugged casually. "Yeah," she answered, nonchalant, "but that's to be expected, right?"
Vashana chewed on her pen thoughtfully. "Nooo," she said slowly, "there's something funny here." She narrowed her eyes. "How did the police find the robbers?"
"Umm...I think they found 'em tied up." Sharon looked confused. "What's the point?"
"On scene?" Sharon nodded. Vashana's brow crinkled in deep thought. "So..." she said thoughtfully, "If the robbers never left the scene, they couldn't have taken the missing stuff."
"Maybe they stashed it somewhere," suggested Sharon, struggling to follow her friend's line of thought. She never tried to figure out exactly how her friend thought, since Vashana often skipped logical steps helter-skelter, without too much concern to see if there were those struggling behind her. She just tried to understand the end result. But as Vashana was lost in the logical intricacies of spacial thinking, putting puzzle pieces near each other, trying to see if there was a piece missing without actually interlocking them, Sharon gradually lost interest. She was a creature of the moment, prefering to be lost in the intensity of feeling and excitement. Quite frankly, Vashana could be _boring_. Sharon had to use her friend frequently, but there was no escaping that inescapable fact. Especially when she used the BIG words.
"That doesn't make sense. Presumably, our heros caught them in the store, and left them in the store. There's no where for the stuff to go."
Sharon frowned. "Then where is it all?" There was a long pause. Vashana sat back in her chair, tapping her nose in thought, like other people tap their chins, as she considered Sharon's question with the consideration she thought it deserved. Sharon, who was waiting for a quick 'I don't know', got impatient quickly, drumming her fingers on the desk top. When Vashana's eyes narrowed, however, she just as quickly stopped the annoying practice. She rose, needing to _something_ while Vashana took her sweet time. Deciding there was no way even Vashana, who was awed at by the entire seventh grade, and who no doubt would triumph again in the eighth, could answer the query any better than she, Sharon wandered over to the edge of the balcony. She only vaguely heard Vashana murmur:
"_That's_ the million dollar question." Vashana was staring at some point that didn't really exist, and hadn't come to the realization yet that Sharon had left.
Sharon propped her elbows up on the ledge, surveying the scene below as North Villagers wandered in and out. Someone sitting at a table caught her eye, and she blinked, looking closer. No doubt about it, some guy was sitting by a table that was completely covered with books. Only the legs showed that it was indeed a regular table made of wood, not some fantastical sight from Ripple's You Better Believe It!, come see the table made out books!
Vashana chewed on her nails, wrinkling her nose. "Either there are more robbers..." her voice trailed off as she realized Sharon was not paying attention, and was leaning against the balcony, fascinated with some sight below. "Sharon?" she queried coldly, steel in her voice.
"Hmm?" Sharon didn't even turn around, only tilting her head to indicated she had heard her name called. She waved her friend over. "Come look at this, 'Shana. There's this really weird guy down there!"
Vashana's lips tightened for a moment, and she made a little note on the margin of her notebook, hers, not Sharon's pretentious one, before she rose to see what had so captivated Sharon's limited attention span for so long.
The man below, perhaps sensing he was being watched by a pair of emerald eyes, glanced upwards to meet Sharon's curious stare. He smiled, and nodded to her in acknowledgment before returning to read the book he held with a certain amount of tender loving care.
Vashana joined her at the balcony. "So, what's so special about...." She blinked. And she thought _she_ liked books! -What kind of person,- she asked herself, -would cover a table with books?-
"Did you see?" Sharon whispered excitedly. "He smiled at me! He's sooooo cute!"
-Cute?!- "With hair like that?" Vashana said in disbelief, referring to the man's porcupine-like mane of rich brown hair. "No," she continued, squinting in an attempt to discern what kind of books were on his table, "I didn't see him look up." She noted the precision with which the books were arranged, and the answer came to her. -A methodical person. Someone who cares about details. Someone who...-
"Oh, he was sooo dreamy!" enthused the red-head.
"So I gather." -...who...sees all sides of a cube...hunh?- There were times when Vashana's thoughts surpised even herself. Words without any apparent meaning popped into her head, and if, while she tried to ponder them, she couldn't grant them any sort of meaning, superficial or deep, she abandoned them. They sometimes haunted her, though, bored with the confines of the "Lost and Found" section in her mind.
Sharon gasped as a thought struck her. "What if we're soul-mates, destined to fall in love for all eternity?"
Vashana rolled her eyes. -I think that thought struck her a little too hard.- But Sharon's words, though obviously ridiculous, made her uncomfortable for some reason. "Hardly," Vashana said, shortly. In an attempt to change the subject, she said, "Besides, what about that guy you were talkin' 'bout earlier? The one with the arcade?"
"Who? Oh, Josh? He doesn't even to compare to this...this..." Sharon struggled for an appropriate word to convey her deep emotion. Of course, at thirteen, everything is regarded with deep emotion.
"Adonis?" Vashana suggested, amused.
"Who?" Sharon turned to face her, baffled by the unfamiliar name.
"Adonis," Vashana explained, "was a really gorgeous guy that Venus fell in love with."
"You think I could be Venus?" Her eyes lighted up at the flattering reference. She knew, at least, who Venus was.
She avoided looking at Sharon, remembering that Adonis didn't return Venus's love, and that Venus ended up sobbing over his dead body. "I think you're silly," she said curtly. "Now, either you go down and talk to lover-boy down there, or we go back to your 'case,' cuz I got half an hour before my mother comes to pick me up."
"Go down there?!" Sharon's eyes widened in shock. "I couldn't!" she protested, but rather half-heartedly.
"Then let's go sit," said Vashana, turning away.
Sharon returned her gaze down the man at the table. "Just a moment," she said softly.
Vashana, already sitting down, feet propped up, glanced at her friend sharply. There was a new note in Sharon's voice, one her friend wasn't quite sure she liked. Sure, Sharon had liked lots of boys, everyone knew that, except the individuals in question, but she'd never _done_ anything about it. -Maybe it's because of me?- Vashana wondered, overestimating the degree of friendship Sharon had for her. It was an unpleasant thought, with unpleasant implications for the Indian, who had always been secretly convinced of her superiority, and it shamed her. It meant that Sharon would soon be ready to take a step she hadn't even dreamed of. Vashana scowled at her own pettiness. -Something must be done.- she resolved, but whether it was for Sharon's benefit or hers, not even Vashana could guess. And that scared her.
Sharon returned, absently pulling out the chair from under Vashana's feet again, the thoughtful look on her face allowing the observer to glimpse at the beauty she would be when she matured. This time, however, Vashana was ready for her, pulling her legs up before they hit the floor, sitting cross-legged on the comfortable chair.
Sharon Michaels studied her partner, as if looking at her anew. Vashana was a good three inches shorter than Sharon, and it didn't look like she was going to grow anytime soon. The Indian was just that, with dark brown skin, thick and long black hair, and a fondness for yellow gold. She was also thin, with a light bone structure and high cheekbones. Her glasses hid most of her small face, but the eyes behind them were intelligent, shaded by long lashes. She had a marvelously warm smile, that she used frequently on perfect strangers, but those same lips could twist into a cold, cruel line, as Sharon well knew. Sometimes, though, she revealed a kindness that was hidden behind her intellectual snobbery, a quiet gentle maturity.
At the moment, however, Vashana was wearing a rather dark look, which Sharon finally noticed. "Hey!" She waved her hand in front of 'Shana's face, getting her attention. "What's the matter?"
Vashana raised one of her straight black brows. "I'm thinking your 'heros' are the true thieves," she lied, relaxing into the usual routine.
Sharon grew instantly indignant. It was almost a direct insult. "They are not!!" she denied hotly.
"SHH!!!" snapped the surrounding people.
Vashana smiled faintly. Then her eyes lost their focus, and she tilted her head towards the light on the ceilings of the library. Sighing, she took off her glasses and cleaned them.
***
Scott Riven took off his glasses, wiping them clean of the dirt they had accumulated as he meandered through the library's sci-fi section. He was bored, and he didn't like being bored. Those stairs up to the balcony looked interesting...
***
Still not putting them on, she replied, "Look. The modus operandi is the same in all the cases..."
"What's a mo..modus..?" Sharon interrupted.
Vashana looked annoyed at having her rhetoric disturbed. "M.O.," she snapped, slipping on her glasses, pushing them all the way up her nose. Then with a little violence, she pulled them half-way down again, her long lashes protesting the previous position.
"Ooohhh," said Sharon, nodding sagely. "Well, why didn't you say so in the first place?"
Vashana could feel a headache coming on, and she forced herself to think happy thoughts so that she wouldn't lose her temper. And hell hath no fury like an angry 'Shana. "Either," she said, pseudo-patiently, "there are more robbers than what the police caught, and there'd have to be a huge bunch of 'em, or these guys of yours are the robbers."
Sharon blushed heavily. "They're not _my_ guys," she murmured, faintly.
***
Brain sneezed. He was aware of feeling a bit guilty, since sneezing was one of the things he detested most about people in a quiet place like the library. It just...destroyed the atmosphere. His watch beeped, and he scowled, annoyed. Sure, when he designed them, he had liked the sophisticated timepieces, capable of video conferencing, unlimited communication distance, and telling time like the atomic clock, but the little beep was starting to get on his nerves. Couldn't evil forces take a day off?
He pushed the receive button, bringing the watch to his ear as if checking to see if it worked. "Yeah," he whispered softly, "what is it?"
Darien had finally managed to make it to the chapter that told him how to use the communications module on the secret computer station. He was definitely going to have to get the For Morons Guide to Really Big T.H.I.N.G.s, even if the title was mildly insulting. -It applies more to Casanova,- he had thought, grimacing. *This is Darien. Call the others and have 'em meet at the corner just before Cataliana's in half an hour.*
"Why?" Brain murmured through almost closed lips.
*We need to meet, and I'm hungry,* replied Darien, with the smooth authority of leadership. -REALLY hungry,- he thought to himself.
"Fine," Brain acquiesced.
*And Brain?*
"What?" he hissed.
*See what you can do about those game tokens.*
Brain grinned. Darien may be the world's greatest bastard, but he sure knew his way around a joystick. "Gotcha." He clicked the End button, then proceeded to notify the others. With the exception of Darien, whom no one wanted to hang around for too long, everyone had a partner. His own partner was wandering around the library somewhere, so Brain decided to reel him in first. He glanced down at his briefcase, his grin widening. Maybe today would be the day.
****
"Well, they most certainly aren't mine." Vashana grinned, her humor returning. "And _since_," she whispered conspiratorially, "they must be either yours or mine, because they are OUR sole property..."
The red-head giggled in spite of herself. "I bet they're the cutest guys in the world," she confided.
"And ri..." Vashana started.
Vashana cut off abruptly, and both girls turned their heads as one at the sound of footsteps coming up the staircase. They hadn't yet learned about all the times you're not supposed to stare, and whispered conversations between two females are as inviolate as a confession.
****
Scott was about halfway up the balcony stairs, breathing a little heavier than normal. He was not in half the physical shape of the others, nor, to his satisfaction, did he need to be. When the time came, he always managed all right.
He heard, but did not see, some girls whispering and giggling, and smiled. Time to practice some of his famous charm. True, the girls sounded rather young, but practice made perfect. It wasn't for nothing that he was called...
*Yo, Casanova!*
Startled, Scott jumped, for a brief irrational moment wondering if Brain could read his thoughts. Which was ridiculous. Maybe. The guy was a genius with electronics, and his favorite topic was cybernetics. He looked around to make sure that no one was watching, and whispered into his watch, "Yeah?"
*Darien wants us at Cataliana's in half an hour.*
A shadow passed over the eighteen year old's face. He most certainly did not like Darien. "Why?" he muttered.
*His high and mightiness is hungry, and wants company.*
Scott snorted. Darien was the sort to invite a group of Jews to a dinner of ham and sausage just to be able to say, "OH! You're _Jewish_?! I'm so sorry!" and then leave them no option but to stay and watch _him_ eat.
*Meet me down by the table.*
"Gotcha." Darien was, after all, the leader. One may not like, but one must listen. Someday, Scott thought to himself, someone was gonna re-write that rule.
***
The footsteps receded, much to the puzzlement of the expectant girls. Their eyes met, and they shrugged. There was a moment of silence as each girl gathered her distracted wits, and remembered why they were sitting together in the library of all places. Sharon hated the library. She said it was full of old and dusty books no one wanted to read. She was overruled by Vashana, who was, in fact, the more stubborn of the two, and who would meet at no other place. Naturally, it was totally out of the question to meet at one of their houses, since the evil and watchful grown-ups, should they overhear the girls' conversation, would surely put a stop to it.
[]
***
*Handy?*
"Yeah?"
*Corner by Cataliana's, half an hour.*
"Right, mate."
***
"So."
"So."
"You'll get that police report?"
"Yeah."
Silence, then:
"My mother's gonna come soon."
"I know."
Vashana propped her chin up on her hand, desperately trying to come up with something to say. The footsteps had broken the momentum of the conversation. She suddenly considered something new, and without thinking, said it out loud. "How do we meet your heroes?" she wondered.
Sharon sat up, electrified. "That's it!" she said, excitedly. "'Shana, we've got to figure out how to find them!"
"'Shana" was so disconcerted that she didn't notice Sharon's slip. "Oh, nonono, Sharon," she protested, with a sinking feeling, "waaayy too dangerous."
Sharon shook her head, now totally enamored with the idea. Her tenacity was comparable to a giant octopus in an old B-movie. "They're _heros_," she insisted, "they'd save us, if we got into trouble."
-And who will save us from ourselves?- "Sharon, c'mon," appealed Vashana, knowing her effort was in vain, "we don't even know if they aren't the robbers themselves."
Sharon looked affronted. "They wouldn't stoop so low," she said, firmly.
"Sharon, we don't _know_ that!"
"SHHH!!!" hissed the people around them. Vashana twisted around, glaring at them angrily. They were suddenly very busy reading the blank pages of their notebooks.
"But _I_ do, Vashana, I _feel_ it. These are the good guys, I know it." Vashana turned around, looking unconvinced. "Please, Vashana?" pleaded Sharon. "Help me find them."
Vashana met her friend's eyes, which begged her to agree, to say yes, and she suddenly felt like she was losing control of the situation, like everything she was holding on to, everything she relied on, was falling away, leaving her to drown or swim. She knew, with brilliant clarity, that if she let Sharon go alone on this insane quest, the redhead would tumble her way into a confused plot of evil villains and charming princes, always winning because she was a pure heart, and Sharon could _feel_ it, leaving behind Vashana Graham, who could never fully appreciate the beauty of a sunrise because the light burned her eyes.
She nodded once.
Sharon smiled beautifically, and Vashana allowed her feelings of unease to be overcome by immense gratitude, eternal debt, and loyalty until death.
***
*Red?*
"Hunh?"
*Darien wants us out for lunch.*
"Where?"
*Corner by Cataliana's.*
"Dinna see why we can't hav' Chinese foo' fer once."
*Half an hour.*
"Yeah, yeah."
***
Scott wound his way to where Brain was pulling his sleeve over his watch. They nodded to each other, and left the library together. Scott sidestepped an old Asian man, nodding to him politely, making his way through the crowd.
He glanced back sharply when he heard the old man's voice ring out in an accusatory tone, but some red-headed kid was blocking his view of whomever the guy had a hold off, and Brain was waiting for him impatiently outside. Scott shrugged to himself, and followed his partner.
*******************
The old Japanese man entered the library with a shuffling step that annoyed those behind him, but he was greeted by the librarian with a broad smile.
"Mr. Tokugama!" exclaimed Mr. Smith, "We've got those books on ancient mythology you wanted."
The old man smiled, his teeth surprisingly white and firm. His skin was withered, but his hand, as he shook the librarian's hand was firm and strong. "So, Frank," he said casually, "how are your children?" A young girl, carrying a pile of books that ended right under her chin, stood beside him, and began the process of checking them out.
"Fine, sir, fine. Did that wolf that was prowling around your neighborhood go away?"
"Well, I understand that he was dealt with."
****************
"Hey, Sharon, wait for me. I wanna check out a few books."
Sharon sighed, impatiently. There was no help for it, though, she had to wait. 'Shana was just the sort to remind her that she didn't wait, when Sharon needed company. She winced as 'Shana dumped her "few" books on the counter, and smiled brightly at the young woman behind the it.
"Do you have your library card?" asked the librarian, a pained, polite, smile on her face, as she stared at the mountain of books.
Vashana made a show of searching through her pockets. "No, I'm sorry...I forgot it again!"
"That's...quite alright. What's your last name?"
"Graham. G-R-A-H-A-M."
She typed it in. "And your birthday?"
"July 1,..."
********
"1982."
Mr. Tokugama froze, staring at the girl beside him. -Could it be?- he wondered, horror clearly etched on his face. He grabbed her arm, roughly.
"Hey, let me go!" Vashana shrieked.
"What's your name?" Mr. Tokugama demanded fiercely.
"Va...Vashana. Vashana Gra--Graham," she stammered, more than a little afraid.
"When were you born?!"
Vashana stared at him, her heart growing icy cold. She didn't want to answer him...that would... Something horrible would happen, she was sure.
"Answer me!"
"Mr. Tokugama!" shouted Frank, finally able to find his voice. He was absolutely shocked at the tone the kind old man was taking with the girl.
The Japanese man ignored his friend, and stared piercingly into the frightened eyes of the girl in front of him. "Answer me!" he hissed.
She couldn't tell him the truth, but he wouldn't let her go, he wouldn't stop staring at her so cruely if she didn't answer... "Feb-february. Twelveth," she lied.
Mr. Tokugama relaxed, and let her go. She rubbed her arm, backing away.
He bowed politely to her, his hands pressed together as if in prayer. "I apologize for my behavior." He turned to Frank. "I will pick up my books tomorrow, old friend."
With that, he walked out, his back straight. The entire library was silent.
"But...'Shana..." whispered Sharon, "you lied..."
"Shut up, Sharon." Vashana rubbed her arm once more, where the old man had grabbed her with hands like a falcon's talons. She looked up at the librarian. "I want my books. Now."
The young woman nodded mutely.
*****************
Vashana started walking on the little wooden bar that kept the wood chips from spilling out onto the cement in front of the library. Her arms were crossed against her chest protectively, not bothering to hold them out for balance; she never made it across without slipping, anyway. She stared down, unable to forget those old brown eyes that had glared so urgently into hers. Her bag of books lay forgotten at the other end of a cement bench.
She was waiting for her mother, who would no doubt be upset by the new novels. Sharon sat at the bench, subdued, waiting for her father.
"Vashana?" she said, softly.
"What?" snapped Vashana, curtly, taking a few more steps on the bar.
"Who...why...?"
Vashana closed her eyes, and sighed. She turned around, and walked back on the bar towards Sharon, eyes still shut. When her thighs hit the edge of the bench, her eyes flew open in shock. But there was Sharon, waiting for an answer, so Vashana ignored her impossible feat, and sat down beside the red-head. She sat cross-legged, elbows leaning on her knees, and her chin in her hands.
Sharon waited.
"I couldn't..." Vashana ran her fingers through her bangs, tossing them back nervously. "I... I couldn't tell him when I was born."
"Why not?" pressed Sharon.
"I just...I couldn't. I felt like something bad, something awful would happen to me if I did."
"But.." protested Sharon.
Vashana shook her head. "I didn't want to answer," she continued, quietly, "but he kept asking me, and asking me, and his hand was squeezing my arm, and it _hurt_." Vashana massaged her upper arm, in memory. "He wouldn't let go, unless I told him something. I felt like if he thought I were born on any other day but mine, everything would be okay. So I lied."
There was a brief silence as Sharon digested this information. She finally managed, almost lightheartedly, "So, how'd you come up with February 12, anyway?"
"It's Josh's birthday," Vashana said, absently.
The omimous silence warned her that she had said the wrong thing.
"JOSH?! MY JOSH?! VASHANA!"
-Uh-oh.-
********
The END!
For now...
Author's notes.
If you recognize the name "North Village," I'm afraid I must question your reading habits. ^_~
*ahem* Ze pre-readers I have to thank are: Mike Allen, David Johnston, Daniel Friedrich (Gon), Doug Ingebretson, H-Packrat, Miashara, Anand Rao, Ammon, Kitiara, Angel, and UkyouKwnji.
I think I forbade Josh Trujillo from reading this particular chapter, but in case I didn't, I extend the thanks to him too. ^.^
K-chan's support is much appreciated! :)
Tan cerca, tan lejos translates into the title of the chapter. Hermanos de sangre translates, literally, into "brothers of blood." 'Tis a good song. Very full of meaning.
Comments and Criticisms to: mystavash@geocities.com, or mystavash@yahoo.com.
Alandra.
"I mean, my dog has a personality, but it's just not one most people are attracted to."
Minta Akin.