I really hate it when that happens.

Let's try this again.

Disclaimer: 

 Sailormoon is owned by Naoko Takeuchi. All licenses 
belong to the proper people. This is used without permission. 

 This disclaimer also applies to several intellectual 
properties referred to in the text. Please be guided 
accordingly. 

 This file can be freely distributed so long as it 
appears in its complete form and proper credit given. No 
part may be reproduced for monetary gain without permission 
from the author.

Note: This is set in the "Dances Set To The Music of Time"
sequence

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

I know what evil lurks in the hearts of men
I see behind their petty masks
And see the animals within
And I laugh

My eyes burn and see
My guns roar and scream
And all I can do to fight 
is to laugh and laugh and laugh

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

Shadows 

by 

Elsa Bibat

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

1992:

 I ran through the forest.

 No sound marked my passing, but the sigh of the wind 
and occasional rustling of leaves. I glided from tree to 
tree, hiding in the shadows of the late afternoon sun, my 
zigzag path erratic yet silent.

 The locals have always feared the forests around this 
place. I have no fear of them, for I have wandered these 
wild parts of Averoigne for over a decade, ever since I was 
a little girl. To tell you the truth, I have a strange 
feeling that the forest is afraid of me.   

 Animals hesitate when I come near them. Birds quiet as
I approach. The brush seems to give way easily when I move 
through.

 It must be in the blood.

 Mother and Father move like me. Always silent. Quick 
and to the point, with an efficiency of movement that is a 
mix of grace and speed with a hint of deadly purpose. My 
grandfathers, even moreso. 

 Grandpa Richard moves like a spider, slow and 
considering one second, to lightning-fast the next. He's 
pretty spry for a man of his age. Though one-handed, he 
could wield a rifle with the same skill as a man with two. 
His mind is also sharp, a fact proven by his skill in chess 
and other games of strategy. His games are like a weaving of 
a web, slow preparation made from the very opening move and 
ending with an explosive end game that would often demolish 
an opponent in six or seven moves. Only Gramps could beat 
him with any regularity.

 Gramps is the name I use to call my other grandfather 
for I know the name he uses isn't his real one. He is a 
living shadow. He makes no sound when he moves. Your eyes 
always seem to miss him, your gaze always trying to slip 
away from him. He tries to act slow, pretends to make human 
noises like setting his spoon and fork down with a tinkle 
or using heavy steps so that people may hear him move. But 
sometimes he forgets and people are startled when they 
suddenly hear his voice from the darkened corner of a room 
or behind them. He is the only one in the family who can 
still surprise me. Everyone else I can feel approach, but 
never Gramps. He is the one who taught me everything I know 
in the arts of stealth and stalking. He's also been teaching 
me some arts that no normal person can do.

 My dark clothes help me blend with the afternoon's 
deepening shadows. Dusk approaches and soon I have to go 
home. But, first I have to visit my secret place.

 After a few minutes of silent running, I encountered 
my first landmark, a Roman statue of a woman with an 
enigmatic face. Time had weathered the figured but it was 
still whole, set on a pedestal in a forgotten clearing of a 
long-dead empire. I had deciphered the inscription at the 
base and it said something about the the woman being a 
priestess of Hades. A Mona Lisa smile, over hundreds of 
years too early, was visible on the aristocratic face. She 
seemed vaguely familiar when I first saw her, but I never 
could place from where I saw that countenance before.

 I checked my traps and confirmed that no one had 
entered the clearing. I moved on, following the statue's 
gaze.

 The next landmark was a gnarled tree, out of place in 
the verdant forest that surrounded it. It was clearly dead, 
branches bereft of leaves reaching upwards as if in 
supplication or for cursing the heavens. Someone had been 
here from a long ago time for an inscription was cut deep 
into its side. The initials "H.V." were clear and distinct 
on one side. Of all my landmarks, this one chilled me the 
most for some unknown reason. I hurriedly checked the traps 
and left. No one had passed. The ground gave way to rock and 
trees lessened as I approached my final landmark.

 The final landmark was a curious rock structure. 
Obviously man-made, it was a stone monolith with several 
runes etched into its base. It was one of several such 
structures near my sanctum, monuments I have seen only in 
the land of Dreams. This particular one was located in one 
of the more easy to reach paths, thus the reason for the 
traps. I glide over the series of tripwires, not even 
slowing. The pattern for the wires was from an old Chinese 
manuscript. It is not humanly possible to move through them 
without prior knowledge of their existence. Approach too 
fast and you blunder into them, too slow and you will trip 
at least one. It was undisturbed.

 Moments later, I am in the sanctum, my secret place. 
The sense of comfort that drew over me is like a blanket. A 
dimly-lit cave chamber, it was dry and comfortable with 
several comforts of home. I had begun work on this little 
hideaway when I was eight, spending countless hours in 
clearing and tinkering with the place. Solar cells set on 
top of nearby trees charge the cave batteries and supplies 
it with twenty-four hour light, just enough for my purposes. 
If I wanted focused light, I could use the blue-lights that 
consumed a negligible amount of electricity. A simple cot, 
a shelf of books, a simple writing cabinet with a chair and 
a pantry rounded out the central chamber. Packed to the side
was a small makeup table and a considerable wardrobe. An 
adjoining chamber was a simple laboratory. Another chamber 
was a small gym, where I practiced the martial arts taught 
to me by my father and the gymnastics of my mother.
   
 This will be the last time I see it for a few years. I 
will be leaving Averoigne for New York in a few days, my 
college studies finally beginning. I smiled thinly in the 
soft light as I ran my hands over the books on the shelf. A 
complete twenty volume set of the first edition of Sherlock 
Holmes' "The Art of Scientific Detection" stood by Grant and 
Robeson's definitive three-book collection of historical 
examinations on the vigilante phenomenon, "The Mystery Men". 
A set of John Clayton's memoirs and a biography of La Maupin 
were set on the second shelf supporting Admiral Heinlein's 
history of the OSS, along with a set of Asimov's "Silver 
Millenium" and "Foundation" novels. Edogawa Ranpo's Kogoro 
Akechi stood cheek by jowl with Dr. Watson's complete Holmes 
and an autobiography of Mary Russell. Oscar Grandier's 
memoirs of the French Court before the Revolution held high 
honors with Baroness Orczy's transcipts of the Scarlet 
Pimpernel alongside the San Guo Ce, which was flanked by the 
Saiyuki and the Suikoden novels. I had already cheap copies 
of all my books packed back home, but still the original 
first editions were always so much more enjoyable.

 Then I moved on to the desk of my writing cabinet 
where lay my little knick-knacks and souvenirs. A monocle 
from a gentleman thief, _the_ gentleman thief, an associate 
of my grandfathers. I had obtained it as a prize from Gramps 
for solving a little problem when we visited Paris. I picked 
up a brightly-coloured feather and remembered my little 
African vacation. A miniature Leiden jar was a token from 
my adventure in Germany and I smiled as an arc of electricity 
reached for my fingers. An elongated canine tooth was all I 
had to remind me of my adventures in the Parisian sewer 
system. The phurba I had managed to obtain from the Louvre's 
secret annex. I shake my head as I remember how I put to use 
the fake ID for the Bibliotheque Nationale. I then looked to 
the prize of my collection, something I picked up when I 
went on vacation with my parents to London last year. It
was a prize from the Great Detective's secret hoard, which 
I had managed to bump into in the midst of my little 
adventure, a picture of the Woman. As I gaze into the eyes 
of this remarkable woman, I fancy that her face seems to be 
a bit familiar. I sat down in my usual chair to gaze at the 
picture, I tilted my head to better regard the Woman's 
profile in the dim light. 

 That was when I noticed the package.

 Laid on the cot, tied with twine, it was the size of 
a good-sized box and was hidden under the cot. Scanning the 
room, I berated myself for a fool. Nostalgia and emotion 
should never get in the way of habit and routine. Grandpa 
Richard had drilled that into my head too many times, 
especially when he trained me in the use of guns. Still, 
no one had tripped the pathways and I could see no other 
disturbance. I focus my eyes to peer into the gym chamber,
but even my excellent, almost supernatural, vision could 
not see anything.

 I pulled out my pocket knife and approached the 
package. Setting my ear to the top, I could hear nothing. I 
carefully cut the string and started to slowly unravel the 
box, taking all the usual precautions. I smiled at my 
actions, musing at the thought that my family's trademark 
paranoia was still in full force.

 What was inside took my breath away.

 The first object was obviously a hat. A black hat. 

 A black slouch hat. 

 I took it up in my hands and raised it up reverently. 
It looked as I expected it to look like. After turning it 
around a few times and a few moments of contemplation, I 
came to a decision.

 I put it on.

 It fit perfectly. I smiled and I knew who put this 
package in my sanctum. I knew I should be offended at the 
invasion of my privacy but I put aside my anger for later 
as my hands reached for more contents of the box.  

 The next items were a peculiar black garb and a pair 
of gloves.The garment was part Inverness coat, part opera 
cloak, part trench coat with a high collar. I put on the 
gloves and dramatically twirled around as I slipped into 
the cloak. 

 It seemed to be alive, as if it were a living creature 
of shadow. It felt like the garment was putting me on than 
the other way around. I had thought it was too big when I 
first saw it, but it was an exact fit. My bare arms felt the 
cloth and it felt like the clothes were caressing my skin. I 
shivered a little, feeling something doing a tapdance on my 
spine. It felt wrong at first but after a few moments that 
sense of wrongness was replaced by a certain rightness. The 
cloak was recognizing its mistress, the thought flashed 
through my head. I shook it away and continued what I was 
doing. This was just a garment not a pet.    

 I buttoned it up and turned the collar up. The slouch 
hat's brim was already down. I could feel all the little 
things that should be in the inner pockets, tools of the 
trade. I was grinning and I started to feel the peculiar 
feeling coming up my throat. I suppressed it. Now was not 
time for that yet. There was still something left in the 
box.

 It was a brace of pistols and a ring that seemed to 
change color even in the weak light. I left the shining 
jewel for a while and took up the weapons. Six pistols in 
all, holstered and gleaming black light. Two more than that 
I was expecting. The brace itself was a complex affair, 
intended for the entire torso and upper thighs. It was 
surprisingly light as I strapped it on. I could feel that 
it was made of the same material as the cloak and gave me 
the same moment of recognition. I tightened the brace strap 
across my thighs and inspected myself.

 I pulled out one of the guns and inspected it. It 
looked like a Colt Model 1911A, the same type of gun that 
was often attributed to the person who wore the costume I 
was wearing. .45 caliber vengeance that packed a punch. But 
this wasn't a 1911A. There were slight differences. First, 
it was lighter, light enough to be a Glock Model 21. It was 
also perfectly balanced in my hand and I could see the 
slight modifications to lessen recoil that weren't part of 
the 1911A design. A highly modified gun which looked like a 
1911A. I slipped the cartridge out and checked the chamber. 
No bullets. I was betting this was the same in the others. 
No worry. Bullets were no problem. I slipped the gun back 
into its holster and grinned as I looked at the last 
remaining item in the box.

 It was a girasol. I knew that it was like the ring 
worn by my father and my grandfather. Blue shifted to red to
amethyst, the fires of the earth burning within the jewel, 
as I lifted it up in the dim light.

 "Beautiful, isn't it?" 

 The voice was melodic, musical even, in accentless and 
perfect French.

 I turned to look at the intruder.

 "Well ... put it on already."
  
 In the dim light, I could see a shapely woman 
dressed in a sharp business suit. Long dark hair 
reaching well past the waist. The shadows obscured her 
face but I could see high cheekbones and aristocratic 
nose. There was something familiar about her, but in 
the darkness that she was sheltered in, I couldn't my 
finger on it.

 Then I noticed the eyes. 
 
 I could see them, burning in the dark. 

 Burning eyes. 

 Like grandfather.

 "Who are you?" 

 "Reaching for the guns and looking for escape seems to 
be the instinct for your family whenever someone enters 
their sanctum. You do know those aren't loaded?" 

 I frowned as I forcibly lowered my hands from the guns 
and focused on the woman. It seemed that I had made a wrong
assumption on who brought these gifts to the sanctum.

 "Again, who are you?" My voice had become a dull 
whisper and I could feel the familiar sensation building up 
in my throat.

 "I would think you'd recognize an old family friend."

 Then she took a step forward into the light.

 The face was classical in its beauty. High cheekbones 
and an aristocratic nose with lips that would make a man's 
mouth water. The heart-shaped face was framed by a mane of 
dark hair. The burning glare that was so noticeable in the 
dark was now subdued, but there was no mistaking even in the 
dim light the garnet hue of her eyes. 

 I knew that face. 

 "It seems that you haven't aged a day, Ms. Margo Lane."

 The lips quirked into a smile. "Your grandfather has
been careless, I see."

 "Hardly. Grant and Robeson," I gestured to the 
bookshelf, "had their suspicions, but I confirmed it a few 
years ago when I figured out who Grandfather was, Ms. Lane. 
Subtle clues, you know. Plus the fact that Grandmother still 
continually refers to you. There's a picture of you in 
Grandfather's study, too. Though your hair was a lot more 
... under control."

 She arched an eyebrow in response. "Impressive for a
child in her teens. Reminds me of another one of your 
relatives. By the way, the name is now 'Setsuna Mei'ou'. 
Margo Lane has been dead for well-nigh forty years."

 "Yes. The incident with Shiwan Khan, I believe, 
Mei'ou-san?"

 She nodded with a smile. 

 "I'm guessing my Grandfather's like you, isn't he?"

 I had noticed the way that Gramps seemed to ignore the 
effects of age and the fact that he was bleaching his hair 
was quite obvious from the cloying scent that always 
surrounded him nowadays. The fact that one of his 
contemporaries and supposed lover seems to have not aged a 
day since the middle of the century gives me a missing 
puzzle piece.

 "More than anyone knows." It was said in a teasing 
tone and an enigmatic smile.

 There was a moment of silence as we regarded each 
other, the sable-clad teenager and the beautiful woman who 
never grew old. I looked to the girasol in my hand. It 
seemed to be even more mercurial in its changes, shifting 
colors like some kaleidoscope in the dim light. I returned 
my gaze to the woman before me. I was once again struck by 
her face. Then enlightenment hit me like a runaway train.

 "Mei'ou-san, you wouldn't happen to have been an 
acquaintance of a certain detective, a hundred or so years 
back?"

 Her smile was maddening to say the least.

 "And you wouldn't happen to have been in this 
particular part of France when it was Gaul and under Roman 
rule?"

 "The likeness is quite flattering, don't you think?"

 "How old are you and grandfather?" I asked, narrowing 
my eyes in thought.

 "Old enough."

 Silence once again reigned in my sanctum.

 "Talking with you is as irritatingly difficult as 
pulling my own teeth out or talking to Grandfather."

 "We share similar traits," mused my guest. "You do 
notice that your family isn't big on small talk either, ne?"

 I shook my head and smiled. "So the big question now 
is ... why?"

 "There are many reasons. But they would be all mine. 
Your reason is much more important."

 I looked at her steadily for a minute or so. Her smile
was both sad and happy. I shifted my gaze to the girasol. I 
wanted it bad. But I knew the consequences and I was afraid.

 Fear has always been a companion of my family for the 
past two generations. Fear of many things: fear for one's 
self, fear for one's loved ones, along with a dozen other 
fears. I have this theory that the reason people are so 
afraid of my family is because we radiate our "fears" too 
much. The fear warred with the wildness of my blood. It was 
a terrifying yet exciting prospect to be able to carry on 
the family tradition. To fight the good fight, to live a 
life of adventure and derring-do. Killing people would, of 
course, be part and parcel of it. But I didn't exactly have 
a normal childhood and I know that I wouldn't hesitate to 
kill a person if that person were to become a threat. 
Robeson's comment that most "mystery men" of the early 
twentieth century must have been borderline psychopaths to 
be so succesful came back to me for an odd reason and I 
restrained a chuckle. The decision was made then and there. 

 I smiled thinly as I slipped the ring on. Fear is all 
well and good but sometimes you have to ignore it and go 
with the call of the blood. 

 A laugh came bubbling up my throat and I didn't stop 
it this time. The Sanctum echoed with my mirth and my 
visitor just smiled. I could hear it. That mad cackling 
laughter I've heard so many times in my dreams and I reveled 
in the power that it gave me.

 As the laugh crescendoed, I lost myself in that rush 
of self. I was indestructible. I was undeniable. I was 
Natasha Cranston-Wentworth, inheritor of my family's legacy. 
I was the -

 "Natasha."

 Gramps' quiet voice snapped me out of my frenzied 
state. My throat felt raw as I gazed at him. His eyes had 
that lambent glow of coal embers just waiting to blaze once 
again. A long thin face like a mask with combed-back white 
hair complimented his eyes.
 
 "Hello, old friend." Mei'ou drawled from where she was 
standing.
 
 "You could have at least dropped by at the main house 
before going here, Margo."

 "The name is now Setsuna Mei'ou, Lamont...Kent...or 
which of the several dozen names you maintain that you prefer. 
And I did drop by. Myra just promised not to say anything 
about it."  

 Gramps just arched an eyebrow and looked at me. "That 
time of the century again?"

 "The Princess has been reborn, you know. And she will 
be weak in the beginning of her power."

 "And what does my granddaughter have to do with it?"

 "She has it in her blood. The contagion has been 
passed on for three generations and it has not even weakened. 
I know you know this or you wouldn't have trained her."

 "She is not ready."

 "She is ready enough. She will not have to face any of
our errant brothers and sisters. Just the scum that you and 
I have faced for centuries."

 Gramps frowned and it was a terrible sight. The mask-
like countenance was drawn like a skull and his eyes were 
burning. Mei'ou just smiled. Then Gramps sighed and his face 
lost the power that was manifesting beneath.

 "It seems my retirement is going to be cut short."

 "As if you ever really retired."  
 
 Gramps smiled. "So you've heard."

 "Occasional sightings. Plus those movies with that 
Keaton fellow as you. Incredibly laughable."

 "Don't remind me."  
 
 Mei'ou chuckled. "Anyway, I should be leaving now. I 
still have others to visit."

 Gramps smiled as Mei'ou stepped back into the shadows 
and disappeared. Turning to look at me, his eyes narrowed. 

 "Young lady, if you expect to eat dinner wearing that
you have another think coming." 

 Taking my hand, he raised it to see the girasol. He
kissed it and I heard him whisper a word to it. What 
happened next was rather surprising.

 The dark clothes given to me rippled with an audible
sound. Another ripple and they had disappeared. Even the 
guns were gone. My surprise was evident on my face as Gramps
smiled.

 "Did you seriously believe Grant's theories on how I
managed the costume? Trick briefcase, indeed! There are many 
thing left over from olden times, you should know that, my 
little Dreamer."

 I was silent. I had heard of ancient tales told by the
storytellers in Hlanith. But such things were rarities even 
in the Dream. Gramps' long experience helped him read my 
face.

 "Explanations are for later. We have your farewell 
dinner to attend, Natasha. Come."

 He turned and I joined him as we left my Sanctum. I 
would probably be getting another one when I arrived at 
New York. Both my grandfathers had an extensive network that
were undoubtedly still there. 

 We moved in companionable silence after leaving the 
cave. The deepening dusk was no worry. We would arrive at 
the house in time.

 "Natasha." 

 "Yes, Gramps."

 "Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?" 

 I stopped and turned to see a sardonic smile and 
burning eyes. I grinned back. I could feel the laughter 
bubbling up in my throat.

 "We know, Grandfather. We know."

 Gramps could only laugh. I joined him and the forests
was filled with the laughter of shadows.

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

Little Author's Note:

This is a bit of an attempt at world-building for one of my current 
fanfic-in-the-works. It should also be noted that this is writing 
practice, and I definitely know that some of those tenses are wrong. 
But since I prefer playing by ear, I try to ignore them. Please try to 
see what's what and notify me. Another note, this is in the same 
continuity as the several earlier vignettes and my short fic "Catnap"
which means Natasha is the young lady that Luna met on the way to
Ulthar. There are also several characters and concepts hidden in the 
story, points for anyone getting all the references in the story. ^_^



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