Subject: [FFML][Fanfic][Original] Sunlight and Laughter, Shadows and Darkness
From: Joshua Trujillo
Date: 1/9/1999, 6:43 PM
To: ffml@fanfic.com

Greetings all,

According to my good friend and fellow author, Alandra, she is having the
MOST trouble publishing this to the FFML. So here ya' go. Have at.

Oh, if you have C&C on this�send it to mystavash@geocities.com

I will be changing e-mail addy's pretty soon so if you send any of her C&C
to me�Neither of us will get it.

Enjoy!

***

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. ^_^   

BTW, to get the full effect of the end of the chapter, ya gotta read the
teaser.  I'm sorry 'bout that, but I just couldn't stop myself!

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 Darkness
              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.

***

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.

Coming In Chapter Three (Though I Make No Guarantees!):  Darien and his
groupies actually get to Cataliana's, and find out about those new 7-man
suits they ordered!  Vashana gets marked!  We meet the rest of the cast
aways, and find out about Nago's evil plan!

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.