Why, hello to you, too!  This is Chapter One of an original fanfiction.   If that seems to be a contradiction in terms...that's okay. ^_^

In order to allow inclusion of this bit of writing upon the FFML, I propose that it is styled after a particular genre of anime, specifically "magical girl" the SM way, though with less food consumption, more stylishly dressed hotties, and no fighting.

...

...

Well...okaaaayyy...maybe a few fists flying.  But none of that "Let's see how much of Tokyo we can blow up" stuff!

If you have a problem with an original story such as this one being posted on the FFML, please e-mail me privately and we'll work things out.  Do not carry out a public on list discussion of this point, since the definition is rather fuzzy, and arguing over fuzzy definitions has proven to be not a good thing.  Since I am generally convinced of mine own superiority over the human race ('specially the lesser half! :), it's an argument you probably won't win. ;P

Although this is a first fanfic (not including two spamfics :), if I truly wanted you to be gentle, you wouldn't be looking at it.  Tear it apart as you please.  Private or public comments also do not matter to me.  Flames are not kind.  If you have negative c&c that is unsubstantiated, you will be asked to do so, unless I happen to agree with you.  And that whole thing about "keeping the good work up"?  Sorry, mis amigos breves, that probably ain't gonna happen.  I give you one fic, and one fic only.  Since I have no pets, it will be my pet fic...what shall we name it?  David?  Daniel?  Doug?  (Hi guys! ;)  Nah... Let's call it Francis Caron.  (If you know who Caron is, you should have a look of horror on your face right about now ^_~ )

If your finger is heading towards the delete key, I'm sorry, because this is a good fic.  ^_^  Enjoy!

Alandra.

(who, every once in a while, takes a good long look at the FFML, and laughs hysterically...then returns back to insanity.)
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Disclaimer: I wrote this!  ^_^  I swear that this chapter is completely original, and is thus completely owned by me.  I could print it and sell it for money if I wanted to, but who wants to do that?  All characters herein are mine.  Darien Kodansha bears no relation to Chiba Darien, also Chiba Mamoru, also Darien Shields, who is the property of Takeuchi Naoko, and related companies.  Similarly, Mrs. Osaka bears no relation to Osaka Naru's mother, also owned by Takeuchi Naoko, and other companies. (I mean, sure, they both have jewelry stores, but North Village ain't exactly Tokyo, you know?)

Indian is Indian.  If I want to say Native American, then I'll bloody well say Native American.

You can choose to believe that the lead character has huge bits of me in her...You can believe that this is even SI under another name.  You can keep believing that right up to when events collide...then, my friends, you are wrong.

-thought-
*talking over telephone/intercom/other electronic devices*

^^^^^ God knows where I picked up this habit..._no_, not you, Mr. Angel... ^_^

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You can own the earth and still
All you'll own is earth until
You can paint with the colors of the wind...

Chapter One: Colors of the Wind

Written By: Alandra

Proofed by: Numerous Persons listed at the end.

**************

The north wind blew strongly, bring tears of rain down upon the coast.  A sadly, lonely rain, because no one in the ports was waiting for it while watching for the ships that never came.  No one cared about the rain, it came and it went, and that was all that mattered.  In frustration, the north wind often sent vessels crashing to the ocean floor, dashing hopes for hopes dashed.  Sometimes it screamed in rage at its solitude, but more often the wind simply weeped.  Its tears fell upon both land and sea, bringing heaven sent droplets of shadow and sadness, in a despair that never ends.

****
March 15, 1995

'Beware the ides of March...'

The dark grey clouds rolled in the sky, hiding the stars and obscuring the moonlight.  Thunder crashed like a marching band's drums, shaking the houses below.  It was almost always preceded by  lightning, weapons of Zeus, that struck mercilessly everywhere, but were still awesomely majestic in the night sky, impressive and godly.

A guard outside of Buckingham Palace, was sworn to silence while on duty, and therefore did not say, "'ey, 's a damn ugly night, 'tis."  But he thought it behind his impassive, and very rained on, face.

Elsewhere in London, England, another very much rained on man got out of a cab, cursing the driver, who drove at breakneck speeds across the busy London streets, as he paid him.  He left no tip, of course.  The driver cursed him back, or at least that was what Mr. Phillips assumed the Spaniard was screaming as he drove off, tires screeching, even on the wet asphalt.

Ignoring all this, the British financier nervously made his way up to the high-class town house where his client was waiting.  The building was very stylish, sleek and modern like a well-designed laptop.  Though Darien Clayton...no, Mr. Phillips corrected himself, Darien Kodansha, as the boy called himself nowadays, always reminded him of Japanese antiques.  Wind chimes and Shinto priests and what-not.

He hit the buzzer, and a snobbish upper-class English accent answered him.  *Yes?*

"I'm here to see Mr. Kodansha," he shouted to be heard over the rain that fell upon the pavement like horseshoes.

*And _whoooo_," queried that annoying voice, *are youuuu?*

Mr. Phillips was fed up with impertinence from those of an obviously lower socioeconomic class.  Actually, the answerer was a young Hindu boy who had a cold, who had never had an offending thought in his life, but Mr. Phillips couldn't possibly have known that.  Mr. Phillips had had a bad day, and was not in the mood to be open-minded.  "I am Mr. Phillips!" he shouted.  "Dammit, the man's expecting me, let me in!  I have important business!"  

*You may come in,* the voice intoned, and buzzed him in.

"'bout time." he muttered, pulling open the door with a bit of violence, conveinantly ignoring the fact that the entire exchange had taken all of three seconds.

He made his way up the stairs quickly, and despite his best efforts, his executive Oxford shoes squeaked on the steps, tracking in the rain from outside.  So great was his respect for the belongings of young Kodansha, and his absolute despise of creating entrophy, whom Mr. Phillips had known since he was in nappies, he considered getting a towel and wiping the marks off, and probably would have, but no such implement was to be found and time was of the essence.  A long friendship with the family did not, in his view, excuse such sloppiness as being late.  He knew his place, Mr. Phillips did.  It was a great deal above the cab driver and the servants, and only a little bit below the Claytons.  A very little bit.

He rapped on the apartment door with two quick, precise knocks.

It opened noiselessly, with apparently no one behind it, as if some ghostly hand turned the knob instead of human flesh.  Mr. Phillips shook off the shivers that ran down his spine and determinedly stepped foot into the apartment of the heir to the Clayton Corporation, the one and only Darien Kodansha-Clayton.  

****
Japan, Kyoto Prefecture, Kodansha Estate. April 1968

A young man sat and spoke quietly to a shy Japanese maiden underneath a blooming cherry tree, watched closely by an elderly matron who sat underneath another tree, mending.  The man looked up at the matron, who smiled slyly and pretended not to notice him as she busied herself with the thread.  The young man grinned broadly.  Growing bold at this sign of acceptance, he plucked a blossom from a low overhanging branch, and proffered it to the girl with an open hand.  A warm rosy glow flushed her cheeks, and she smiled up at him softly.  She reached her hand over, but instead of taking the delicate flower, she lightly grasped his hand.  Stealing a quick glance over at the chaperone, who seemed ever more busy, the man lifted her hand to his lips, kissing it tenderly, daring no more.

The wind blew, gently swirling around the couple, riffling through his sandy blond hair, carrying with it some cherry blossoms.  It was a delicate pink breeze, one that surrounded lovers everywhere, across eternity, and it flowed amonst them as his stormy blue eyes gazed lovingly down into her sweet brown ones.
****

March 15, 1995

Mr. Phillips sat straight up in the comfortable leather swivel chair in front of a large executive desk, which was entirely bare except for a small intercom button and a glass ashtray with some cigarette butts in it.  Sitting on the other side, in a far more relaxed posture, was a young Oriental man whose stormy blue eyes were striking on his Asiatic face.  They were the
same eyes as his father's, Mr. Phillips recalled, though it was unlikely the youth would appreciate the comparison.  On his 18th birthday, Darien changed his surname to his mother's maiden one, rejecting the one he received from his father.  He also moved into this townhouse, which he owned under the name Darien Kodansha, thereby, in his mind, no doubt, completing his separation from his father.  Mr. Phillips thought it was all a great piece of foolishness.  No matter what Darien did, it was clear, he was still the son of Ulysses Clayton.

Despite his lazy grin, however, the young man seemed restless.  "So," Darien said quietly.

Mr. Phillips nodded once.  "Indeed," he replied, then opened his executive briefcase, still a little damp from the rain outside.

Behind Darien's back was an enormous window that covered most of the wall, stretching from the ceiling to the floor.  "Did you know, Mr. Phillips," Darien said, thoughtfully, placing his elbows on the desk, peering intently at the financier, "today's my birthday?"

Mr. Phillips raised one thin eyebrow.  "That is why..." he began.

Darien overrode him, as if he had never spoken.  "I'm 19 today.  One year ago I told my father exactly what I thought of him and his," Darien sneered, "_corporation_.  One year ago today I changed my name and started a new life.  And now?  You bring me the past again."

Mr. Phillips blinked at the bitterness that colored Darien's voice, shocked at its intensity.  He remembered when the young Clayton was but a toddler, basking in his parents' love, a happy little boy with bright, kind, blue eyes.  The eyes of the youth in front of him were hard, unforgiving.  Old.  His professionalism, however, kept his voice bland.  "I bring you..." he began again.

Darien stood up abruptly, slamming his fist on the desk.  "I refuse," he snarled, "to take anything from my father."

Mr. Phillips remembered his latest visit to Ulysses Clayton, the accused father, to congratulate him on his success in the markets.  Clayton had looked haggarded, his face pained and hurt, holding a simple photograph of his family when it had been young and beautiful.  This image in his mind, Mr. Phillips lost his carefully manicured patience.  "YOUNG MAN, YOU WILL SIT DOWN!"  

Darien fell back into his chair, looking startled, then contrite.  "I'm sorry, Uncle," he mumbled, reverting to his old way of calling the elderly financier who had been by his father's side throughout Darien's life, and consequently, was not only a mere banker, but a family friend, even though Mr. Phillips hid it behind a cool wall of proper behavior.

Mr. Phillips only gave him a stern look, refusing to relent, though he was inwardly reeling at his own lack of poise.  "As it happens," he told the repentant young man, "I have come to tell you of the inheritance you have just received from your mother's will."

Darien blinked.  "What?" he asked incredulously.  His mother was...his mother was dead, had been dead for fourteen years since... This was the first he'd ever heard of any inheritance on her side.  He had heard so much of his father's wealth, that he had never thought of his mother being rich.  It somehow cheapened her memory, and he couldn't allow that.  It was clearly all his father's fault.

"Your mother," Mr. Phillips informed him, "was quite a wealthy heiress in her own right."

"So my father married her for her money."  Darien gave a short laugh.  "Typical."

Mr. Phillips thought it best not to comment.  "Miss Kodansha's dowry, and what money she inherited from her family upon her marriage, was, by mutual agreement, left in trust to any children of that marriage, to be divided equally among them on their nineteenth birthday."

Darien sat back, a slightly twisted smile on his face.  "And since I am, fortunately, an only child, I get it all, is that it?"

A younger sibling would have done the boy good, Mr. Phillips noted with disapproval, but his face remained impassive.  One outburst was quite enough.  "That is essentially it."  He pulled out a sheaf of papers from his open briefcase and placed them on the desk, facing Darien.

Darien picked them up, studying them carefully.  He whistled.  "Wow.  How much does this total up to?"

The financier sighed, took the papers from Darien, flipped to the last one, and pointed to the bottom line.

Darien's mouth opened a little, staring at the number.  His lips moved as he silently read it over again.  He looked up at Mr. Phillips, back down, then his stunned gaze returned to stare at the banker in disbelief.  "Wha'?" he asked, intelligently.

Mr. Phillips shrugged.  "Some of the holdings passed on to you have been in the Kodansha family for generations, but since your mother was also an only child, it was passed on to her son.  They have appreciated in value since the Kodanshas...acquired it."

"I could...I could...buy a yacht!" Darien said.

"Page 12, second from the top," Mr. Phillips noted dryly.

Darien flipped through the pages, finding a decent sized yacht among his new holdings. "Oh."  He looked through the list. -An antique Japanese sword collection?!  Good God!-   He looked up.  "Is there anything I _don't_ have, Uncle?" he asked.

Mr. Phillips, as the senior finance head in charge of the Clayton, and now, Kodansha account, had gone through personally every single item on the eighteen page list, checked that they did indeed exist (some did not, having long been misplaced), and assessing the value of the items. He had watched Darien grow into a restless, angry young man, and even though he now seemed rather sedated, Mr. Phillips believed firmly that Darien needed to calm down.  Thus, when Darien asked that unexpected question, he spoke with less reserve than he was accustomed to. 

"A wife," the banker responded acidly.  Darien stared at him, startled.  Mr. Phillips closed the latches on the briefcase with two sharp clicks and rose.  "I must be going, now, Darien.  Take care.  If you have any questions, call the office."

Darien rose as well, offering his hand to the man who was like a second father to him. They shook hands amicably, and Mr. Phillips turned to go.

"Uncle..." Darien called out, a note of wistfulness in his voice.

Mr. Phillips turned back questioningly.

"Was..."  Darien paused, taking a deep breath.  The way things were going, it would probably be his last opportunity to ask.  "Was mother really happy?"  

Mr. Phillips gave him a long, measuring glance, and smiled sadly, remembering the lovely beauty that had been Darien's mother.  "Aki Kodansha was the happiest woman in the world, from the moment she married your father, to the day she died fourteen years ago."

"Thank you," Darien murmured.  Mr. Phillips nodded once and left, the door closing noiselessly behind him.

Darien punched the intercom button.  

*Sir?*

"Drive Mr. Phillips home, Majid.  If he refuses, insist."

*Yes, sir.*

Darien sat back in his chair, pulling out a picture of his mother from his desk drawer.  He swiveled around, facing the window as he stared at the delicate Japanese woman who smiled back at him.

Outside, it rained as a solitary tear distorted the face of Mrs. Aki Clayton holding her infant son.

*****

The south wind swirled merrily through the tropics, playing tag with young zephyrs, bringing feather light golden rays.  Twirling, twisting, teasing, the wind circled the environs with a gentle caress, loving with the same soft touch it felt when children laughed, running into the soft warm breeze.  Bright sunflowers turned to face the golden dew it brought, welcoming it like a people tired of rain and darkness.  Everyone loved the sunlight, it was goodness, it was light, it was a symbol of truth and peace, a banner to be proud of.  The south wind spread the sunshine like seeds on a fertile field, but there were some places not even the tenderness of soft yellow could brighten forever.  Places so steeped with sadness that all the wind could do was bring sunlight and laughter, in the quiet hope that someday that the ephemeral candle would not be snuffed out.

****
July 1, 1995

In Radish Inn, Wyoming:

"Happy Birthday to you,
Happy Birthday to you,
Happy BIRTHDAY to YOOOOUUU,
Happy birthday to you."

Vashana winced at her family's off-key song.  Her brother George, a big hulking sort of guy, was a far better singer than his father, an affable, absent-minded professor.  And George was deaf, had been since birth, thought it was said he screamed just as loud and lustily as any of the other baby boys.

-Well,- she thought wryly, -at least they didn't totally embarrass me in a restaurant.- 

Instead, the Graham family was celebrating her 13th birthday in a  hotel in Wyoming. 

Vashana stared at the solitary candle on the small cake, which couldn't fit the traditional thirteen, mesmerized by the flickering flame.  -Hmm, I wish...I wish for truth.-  She blinked suddenly, and shivered.  -What a strange wish.-  Shaking herself, she said lightly, "Hey, where are my presents?"  Admist the various jokes ("This hotel pen was all I could afford, 'Shana, I swear!"), she blew out the volatile flame, then watched the grey smoke tendrils swirl upwards with an odd expression on her face.
****
July 1, 1995

In London, England:

The man took a long drag from his cigarette, and blew the smoke deliberately into the other man's face, as he studied the plans for his new mansion.

"Who lives here?" he asked, jabbing his finger on a lot adjacent to the construction.

"Umm, some Indian family, sir, the, uh, Grahams," the hireling stuttered nervously.

"Check them out, and watch 'em under surveillence for a little while.  I don't want any rambunctious snot-nosed brats spying on us."

"Y-y-yes, sir."  The man shakily saluted, then realized that not only was it stupid, but wasted, since the other man had turned away.  He waited a moment.

The other man turned around.  "What are you still doing here?"

"Yes, sir.  Going now, sir."  The man turned and almost ran out of the room, nearly bowling over someone who just entered.

The newcomer looked behind him with a grin.  "Looks like you scared the shit out of 'im."

"He'll get over it," said the other, dismissingly, snuffing out his cigarrette butt by smashing it into his palm.  

****
July 25, 1995
North Village, Florida, USA

"So we went all OVER the place, you know, the Grand Canyon, Mt. Rushmore, a lot of natural 'wonders'.  We took a swing by San Francisco, but that was mostly to visit old friends, so we didn't do much sight-seeing, you know, tourist stuff?  We came back home, pretty much sick and tired of the van and of each other, expecting everything to return back to the same old, same old, after like, three weeks of being bohemians.  I, personally, was looking forward to sleeping in my bed, having not slept on a real bed since we left San Francisco.  And really, for the most part it was.  Except there was this HUGE, massive, gargantuan structure that vaguely resembled a house right next door, where three weeks ago had been nothing but grass.  And it sort of...well, this is sorta silly, but it seemed to glare at us, LOOMing over our smaller little house.  It just felt kinda eerie, ya know?

"Oh, yeah, and summer school really SUCKS!!!  Who ever heard of going to summer school to GET AHEAD?!"

     From the personal diary tapes of Vashana Graham.
****
August 1, 1995

Vashana plopped onto her bed, sighing.  There was simply nothing to do, since she had finished her simple summer school assignment.  She practically emptied the library with her last raid, but she was done with those books, and her mom REFUSED to drive her over there to get some more.

<<Flashback>>
Vashana: Mom, can we go to the library?
Mother: You went to the library LAST week, Vashana. 
Vashana [whining]: But, MOM, I finished those already.
Mother: My answer is still NO, Vashana.  You need to get out more.  You're cooped up in that room of yours for TOO long.  Why don't you go out to the movies with some of your friends?
Vashana: :P
Mother: VASHANA MRINALINI GREGORY!  How rude!  Go to your room!
Vashana [mumbles]: I _am_ in my room.
Mother: What was that?!
Vashana: NOTHING!
<<end flashback>>

-There's just nothing to do.- she thought, plumping her old pillow, encased in an old pillow case her grandmother had made.  -The only friend around is Sharon; everyone else has gone off somewhere.  And Sharon is a bona fide nutcase.- She reconsidered, a faint smile on her lips, then allowed, -Something's better than nothing, I suppose.-

But her hand didn't touch the phone.  Yawning, she closed her eyes and prepared to get some serious daydreaming done.  -Let's see...-
****
August 1, 1995 

"Those mysterious heros have once again twarted an attempted robbery yesterday, this time of a local jewelry store.  Mrs. Osaka, owner of the store, had this to say:

'I am entirely in the debt of the men who stopped the strange robbers from stealing all the store's valuables.  Fortunately, the only thing missing was a somewhat rare, but inexpensive, clear crystal ball of quartz that was part of a display.'

'Mrs. Osaka, did you see the robbery?'

'No, I did not, as I was at home, and the first things the robbers did was disable the video cameras.'

'How do you know that the men who rescued your possessions are, in fact, the same men who saved other local businesses?'

'They always leave a shuriken, that is, a ninja throwing star.'

'Mrs. Osaka, as a Japanese native, does this shurikan...'

'Shuriken.'

'Yes..thank you, shuriken mean anything to you?'

Mrs. Osaka looked startled, like a deer caught in the headlights, then said firmly, "No.  I believe it is simply a calling card, a way to say "It is us."'

'Thank you for your time.  This is Tracy Powell, reporting.'

"Thank you, Tracy.  Well, the police are baffled as to the identity of these mysterious strangers who have saved the valubles of so many citizens in North Village, whom no one has yet seen, and only leave a shurikan in their wake.  Now, on to other news..."

     Transcript from the six o'clock news, WSGE, covering North Village and the north, central Florida area.
****
Somewhere, in the depths of a large cavern, an sinister figure stood watching the broadcast. 

"Saved!" he mocked, a dangerous undertone to his voice, "Hah, not quite Ms. Powell.  I have what I wanted..."
****

In a mysterious mansion, seven young men were also watching the broadcast.

"Damn!  The bastards got what they wanted, AGAIN!" said one, angrily.

"Look on the bright side, apparently we're local heros," cheerfully said another.

"Oh, suuurreee.  When th' Enemy ha' blown up th' planet, we'll have that to remember.  We were *&%! heros to some %&!* college town," sneered someone with an Irish brogue.

"Calm down, mate," soothed a wannabe Crocodile Dundee.

" 'Tis passing strange that these blackguards should steal such paltry items," puzzled a young Shakespeare.

"I dinna get it either.  Has Plato come up with any $#%@ thing?" asked the Irishman.

"Not yet," said a slightly accented voice.

"Damn," muttered another.
****
August 2, 1995

Sharon Michaels, all of thirteen years and damn proud of it, wanted desperately to become a top investigative reporter.  She sat at her father's desk, Jake Michaels, senior sports editor of the North Village Herald, and chewed on a ball point pen, using her other hand to twirl her brilliant red hair.  The mysterious crusaders who had infiltrated the sleepy university town where she lived made it the focus of national attention.  

Sharon was secretly determined to unveil their identities.  She took out her secret investigator notebook that came with her sleuthing kit and turned it to her first page.  She wrote "Goal: Find out the real identities of new heros."  She stared at these bold words for moment. Her father always said to set a goal and tackle it with tenacity, whatever _that_ meant.  

Where to start?  She chewed her pen some more, puzzling it out.  Her free hand tapped absently on the phone sitting upon her father's desk, as she stared at the notebook blankly, not really reading the words.  Her hand casually picked up the handset, toying with it.  She dropped it back into the base, the sharp sound suddenly awakening her to reality.  She stared at the phone, then grinned mischievously.  When in doubt, ask for help, Sharon's Proverbs.  And she knew just who to call.  She picked up the receiver and started dialing.

****

Vashana gave her front door, which stuck a little, a big kick.  She entered her house, pausing to enjoy the cooler air, then locked the door behind her.  She tossed her backpack on the couch, then sank down beside it.  Another scorching day in North Village, Florida.  Another test aced. Another essay well-written.  Another sucky day in summer school.  Who's bright idea was it anyway to use the summer to get ahead in school?

She flipped on the T.V. with the remote, and turned it to her favorite soap, Specific Hospital.  Sure, it was crap, but it was better crap than the rest of what was on at this hour.  

The phone rang, its obnoxious metallic buzz overriding the actor's lines.  Vashana rolled her eyes.  -Typical.-  She let the answering machine pick it up, figuring it was no one important.

*Vashana!  Hey, are you there?  I know you are, it's 3:50 already!  Hey, pick up already!*

-Yup,- Vashana sighed, -no one important.-  Nevertheless, she picked up the phone.

"What is it, Sharon?" she asked her friend in an uninviting tone.

Sharon ignored the hint and continued excitedly.  *I need your help.*

"No," Vashana said flatly.

*C'mon, Vashana,* begged Sharon, *please.  It's really important.  This could be my...I mean, our big break!*

"OUR?  How exactly do I figure in?" the Indian girl asked dryly.

*You do the brainwork and I do the legwork.  You know, a team.  Like Bonnie and Clyde.*

"They were thieves."

*Kent and Lane.*

"He was _Superman_!"

*Vashana, just help me out on this one.  I'll owe you for life, I swear!*

"You know what?  I actually believe you.  Believe that you'll owe me for life for about two minutes after I hang up.  Then it'll be same old same old, with me doing both brain work AND leg work, and you just screwing up an already screwed up plan," Vashana said, her voice dripping in sarcasm.  Then she added, "Besides, you have nothing I want."  She had already decided to do whatever harebrained scheme Sharon thought up.  Left to her own devices, Sharon probably would get killed.  It was just fun to watch Sharon twist and turn like a worm about to be bait.

Sharon thought quickly.  *My dad has an extra ticket to the next Bulls game,* she offered, lying through her teeth.

"Hmph," said Vashana, dissmissingly.

*Umm...I'll be your slave for a week!*

"I can take care of myself just fine, thank you."

*Gee, 'Shana, what do you want?!* complained Sharon.

Vashana sat up, though Sharon was unable to see this.  "I want to hear my name pronounced _correctly_." she hissed, like a cobra whose tail had been stepped on.  "If you, with in the period of thirty days, say "'Shana" instead of VAShana, I will fine you $10 for each occassion.  Those are my terms, do you accept them or not?  If not, I've got other things to do," she said coldly.

*TEN BUCKS?!  Geez, Vashana, that's harsh.*  Sharon could feel her purse getting lighter by the second.

"Take it or leave it, Red," she said simply.

"I'll take it," Sharon said, reluctantly.  -After all,- she thought, -how hard can it be?-
*************

The end of Chapter One!

Find out more about those seven young men, the villains of the fic, and Sharon's inevitably foolish plans in the next chapter!

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Comments and Criticisms may be sent to either: mystavash@geocities.com (just reply to this post), or to mystavash@yahoo.com (if you would like a quicker response.)

Enjoyed it?  Didn't?  Confused?  Somethin' bugs you?  Like to tell me just how much a jerk Darien is?  You have only to press the Reply To: button and type away.  

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Authors Notes (sorry, have to be long!):

Mrinalini: Mer-NAL-in-ee (Don't try this at home, folks. :)  I just couldn't stand the thought of one of you saying to yourself, "Mer-nah-LEAN-NI."  It's almost as horrible as my English prof saying 'Ta-MEAL' instead of "Tah-mill" for Tamil.

*********Thank Yous************************
MUCH thanks to my pre-readers: Mike Allen, David Johnston, Daniel Friedrich (Gon), Doug Ingebretson, H-Packrat, Miashara, Anand Rao, Ammon, Kitiara, Angel, and UkyouKwnji.

(Wonderful, highly supportive folks!)

Also these nice people, who I'm going to pester as soon as I have the time:

Jusenkyo Guide, Paul Cousins, Jim Champagne, Deuce, Wakko Warner (AniManiac), AND
Wongkee.

Yes, there are lots, but let's not forget one more....

Josh Trujillo, the stereotypical American college guy, frequently drunk and majoring in Psychology...

Aw, c'mon, Josh, it was a JOKE!  I was KIDDING!

^_^  Have a great year, everyone!

Alandra.