Hello everyone!  I am posting this for Alandra as she was unable to get
it posted.  If this has already been posted then feel free to flame me,
otherwise please send all comments, suggestions, and thoughts to:
mystavash@geocities.com 
This happens to be the email addy of the author, Alandra.

SO long, 

Mike Allen

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

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.

"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.

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.