A kettle whistled merrily as it boiled over with enthusiasm for the tea which it would make.
Lily Walker hummed tunelessly, a smile upon her face as she bustled around the kitchen, her movements almost a blur as she went about her preparations.
Chocolate Fudge Surprise was the order of the day, and she was determined to get it right.
Outside, in the living room, the television droned on in monotonous fashion.
‘… and today, on the Afternoon News…’

Little James Walker had just turned 7 years old today.
It was a Tuesday like any other, and he waved goodbye to his mother as he got onto the faded yellow schoolbus, wincing as it lurched off down the street with a deafening cacophony of shrieks and growls.
Sighing, he made his way to his usual seat with the usual amount of difficulty, somehow managing to maintain his balance and his grip on his overlarge bag. Sitting down on the worn leather seat with a sigh [Ed: That would be Jimmy, not the seat.], Jimmy nodded at Rita Ashworth to acknowledge her existence, after which they promptly ignored each other. He had no inclination to talk to girls, and nor had she to talk to boys, and they were still rather sore at being stuck in those particular seats.
Arranging his things to get comfortable, he finally sat back and leaned against the flaking frame of the scratched and dirty window and stared out at the undulating boredom of suburbia as it passed them by.
He never did understand why she always insisted that she see him off on the bus. He was all of seven years old and fully capable of taking care of himself, just like the rest of his friends who usually went to school on their own.
She always had been a worrywart, he thought to himself. I wonder if all moms are like that.
Still, while he felt rather irritated at how clingy she was, there was a part of him that felt all warm inside.
And best of all, there would be cake waiting for him when he got home.

Stuck on the bridge again.
Mark sighed and contemplated playing a minor percussion symphony on his horn with his forehead, but thought better of it. He already had a headache, and he didn’t need a concussion to go along with it. Yet.
He’d been driving this way for the last four years, ever since he’d moved to the city.
Getting an apartment downtown would’ve fried whatever substantial salary he earned, and given that his salary wasn’t really very substantial, he’d had to rent a little place on the other side of the river.
It was a nice place for what he was paying, to be sure, but it was basically three streets across from the ghettos. That basically meant he had an hour’s drive to work, in optimal traffic conditions, if he didn’t include time spent trying to get parking [his company was too cheap to offer staff parking, the bastards.], and a night filled with the insistent tribal rhythms of the rizers, breakers and hip-hoppers who practiced through the night.
He was surprised he was the only one bothered by it, really. He’d have thought it would’ve been loud enough to cause a vehement and voluntary vacation of any mass graves nearby.
Shaking his head as he tried to clear it of unpleasant thoughts, he sighed as he contemplated the densely packed mass of immobile metal before him.
He was already late for work by fifteen minutes, and he was barely halfway across the bridge. By the time he finally got into the office, his boss was going to have a field day making snide commentary about punctuality being the best display of motivation and respect for one’s superiors.
He glared at the morning sun as it peeked over the horizon, painting the sky shades of deep magenta and angry orange. There was a jam, and it was only 9 in the bloody morning.
Frustrated, he thunked his head against the steering wheel, accidentally setting off the car horn and triggering a minor symphony of incessant honking.
Rush hour was such a bitch.

His fingers tapped lightly on the steering wheel in time with the smooth notes of Manha de Carnaval as Luiz Bonfa coaxed them lovingly from guitar. A faint smile on his face, Edward leaned into the plush black patent leather of his seat as the engine of his Vanquish rumbled patiently.
Rush hour was always a bit of a pain, but no more than usual. After all, he was in no particular rush to get to work today. It was his day off, and after sorting out some miscellaneous paperwork, he had a very important appointment to keep with a golfing buddy on the range.
Eighteen holes, if the weather held up, and so far it looked like it’d be a nice, balmy day.
He tapped the accelerator lightly, inching the car forward smoothly in unison with the other drivers, smiling a little at the impatient growl that elicited. Struck by a moment of whimsy, he patted the steering wheel lightly, almost as if comforting the car.
Tilting his head a little to the side, he stared out the smoked windows at the sunrise. Dampened as it was by the dull glass, it was no less magnificent, and he felt tempted to wind down the windows so he could enjoy it in its full glory. Then he winced as he recalled what happened the last time he’d tried – breathing in a lungful of concentrated traffic emissions was decidedly unhealthy, and hardly high on his list of priorities.
The last melancholy notes hung in the silent air as the song ended, to be replaced shortly by the more upbeat strains of Bonfa’sOasis, with its laidback yet lively percussion and bright phrasings.
Edward’s smile widened. He had been pleasantly surprised to receive this album, a random present from his current squeeze. He’d never heard of Luiz Bonfa before, but he was starting to get mildly addicted to his distinctive brand of bossa nova. It was just the thing to soothe his frayed nerves, after all.
And it was wonderful when he was stuck in traffic, with nothing to do, and no real motivation to hurry.

Aki blinked a little as she stepped out of the relatively cool darkness of the cab, shielding her eyes from the glaring sun.
The intensity of the near-searing heat that roiled off the baking pavement made her reel a little and she fought the urge to stagger as she suddenly found herself drenched in sweat.
Muttering to herself about why she couldn’t have just accepted a job somewhere colder, such as, perhaps, Alaska, she fished around in her pockets for a kerchief and mopped her dripping brow.
Sparing a worried glance for her trusty Canon as it hung down on its strap around her neck, she sighed in relief as she saw that the plastic wasn’t melting off its frame. A silly worry, admittedly, but she wouldn’t have been particularly surprised.
Such is the life of a travel photojournalist, you silly girl, she chided herself as she shrugged all her gear on and checked that her lenses were all still intact and not molten glass. It could’ve been worse. You could’ve been stupid enough to accept that job in Capetown. Then you’d be cooking alive AND at a slightly greater risk of getting shot at.
Complaints aside, she counted her blessings daily. At least she was doing something that she loved and always wanted to do, rather than spending her days killing trees and getting acquainted with copy machines and coffee machines like some of her friends who had gone down the typical office worker route. She felt rather guilty at times that she got to travel almost everywhere on assignment, and she usually brought Miho and Reiko back some souvenirs and presents so that they wouldn’t spike her coffee when they met up for lunch in Tokyo.
Not that they would, having been her closest friends ever since junior high, but she figured that it didn’t hurt to be safe, sometimes. They DID joke about it rather too vehemently at times.
Still, her assignment this time around wasn’t really simple. It was about Gothic architecture, and in this particular city, saying that picking a subject to photograph would be difficult would be the understatement of the decade. She had at least seventy five possibles to work through, and that wasn’t counting the neo-Gothic, neo-Romantic designs that some architects had factored in for some of the newer skyscrapers.
Impressive erections, hur hur, she thought to herself with a shudder as she recalled her conversation with Miho right before she’d boarded the plane.
Ah well. No time like the present.

The bottom of a whisky bottle was not a comforting sight in the morning.
Especially not when even a single sweet drop would’ve been blessed salvation.
Dan groaned and flung the empty glass bottle as far away as he could, wincing at the empty, hollow sound it made as it struck a wall and bounced a few times on the floor.
It didn’t even have the decency to shatter, or at least even chip.
He’d been out of a job for close to two years now, and ever since he’d been rather unceremoniously thrown out of his own house by his bitch of a girlfriend, who’d promptly taken up residence with some new guy with supposedly divine Roman proportions and an decidedly empty cranium, he’d been unable to hold down any job long enough to get himself back on his feet.
The whisky didn’t help much.
Still, it helped to keep him numb, to keep him sane, even if it was a meaningless, stuporous, barely conscious kind of sanity. To go without it meant severe pain, both psychological and physical, that he was sincerely loath to bear.
He’d already tried, and he’d been so close to the verge of clawing his own eyes out, slitting his wrists, or throwing himself off the nearest tall structure that he’d literally threw himself into a bar, slapped down whatever little money he’d had, and promptly downed a whole bottle of bourbon. It made him feel marginally better.
Through the pounding in his head (which was still infinitely preferable to the emptiness he felt in his chest once he sobered), he realized an important fact. He was out of alcohol, and he was out of money. He was out of work, and rather out of options.
He was, in effect, screwed.
And once the hangover wore off, together with the residual buzz from the alcohol, he was going to wish he was never born.
He had to have some.
He had to find some way.
He had to make sure he never felt that way again.
Somehow finding some last reserve of strength that he never realized he’d possessed, he managed to raise himself onto his hands and knees. A wave of nausea brought on a bout of dry retching, which crescendoed in a small puddle of bloodstained fluid that he callously swiped from his cracked lips and frazzled beard with his grimy glove. It was nothing new.
He found his feet, and, leaning heavily against the dark, damp brickwork of the narrow alleyway, fought his way free from the discarded newspapers and boxes and piles of miscellaneous garbage, working his way towards the light, and his next source of salvation.
As it was, he’d long since given up on any hope of redemption.

Ethel peered blearily through her glasses at the veritable forest of street signs before her. This had all seemed so much easier when she was younger.
And stronger.
And more limber.
And without cataracts.
Now, she felt gripped by irrational panic as she admitted to herself that yes, she was lost. She should’ve known better than to try to find her way to her granddaughter’s place all on her lonesome, especially when she was living in the big city in some swanky house with her newlywed husband.
Still, she’d wanted so badly for her visit to be a surprise. It didn’t seem fair that the world seemed to conspire against her in so many ways to make things so much more difficult.
She sighed, pushing her spectacles back up her nose as she contemplated the shame of having to call her granddaughter to tell her that she was lost in the city, and to implore her to find her and take her home. Like some lost puppy.
Then she sighed even harder as she recalled the little glossy plastic monstrosity that her daughter had so cheerfully called a cell phone. She still hadn’t really figured out how to use it properly. Heck, it was a miracle she could even press the button in time to talk to someone calling her as it was, much less for her to call some number she couldn’t really remember.
Oh come on, girl, she chided herself. You’re not some sniveling child with the courage of a gnat and the brains of a stunned herring. You’re a mature, sophisticated lady who, despite being all of seventy years old, still walks without a stick, and still dares to take on a city single-handedly!
Resisting a sudden urge to preen herself, she sighed and once again stared at the street signs, and at the map clutched tightly in her small hands.
Just one more shot at this. I can do this!
… and I can always call a cab if I get desperate…

Miguel leaned back with a sigh, almost welcoming the slight pain as the back of his head connected with the sterile whitewashed wall with a soft thud.
Massaging his temples in a vain attempt to ease the pounding between his temples that seemed centered squarely behind his eyeballs, he sighed again softly to himself. He’d barely started his shift in the ER, and he’d already had to deal with wave after wave of jokers with silly problems.
There’d been the lady with ringing in her ears, persistent for the last three years. It just suddenly became an issue tonight because she couldn’t sleep. The tinnitus hadn’t gotten any worse.
Then there’d been the five gentlemen who’d come in rapid succession with headaches. All stress or work-related. Which spontaneously got better once he gave them panadol and a certificate for a two-day leave of absence. Part of him bitterly wished that one of them really DID have a subdural hemorrhage as the cause of the headache. The rest of him screamed for that bit to shut up, the procedures for admission and the sourcing for a neuro ICU bed would be too troublesome.
Then there was that sweet young thing who’d came in with an embarrassed look on her face, saying that she’d lost her handphone. Trust her friend to give her a call at that exact moment. The look on her face as she clenched her entire body in response, and the muffled ringtone coming from down south made him wince in frustration as he asked for some midazolam, lignocaine jelly, and two pairs of size 7 sterile gloves in preparation for fishing out her errant vibrating handphone.
Six more hours, man, he sighed to himself. Just six more hours of this shit, and I’ll be footloose and fancy free, and on my way home.
He occasionally wondered why on earth he’d applied to work in the ED. He’d been all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed after graduation, and had scoffed at the more boring specialties then. Accident and Emergency Medicine. That was the kicker, he’d told himself.
The job had seemed fun in the beginning, all exciting and glamorous and fast-paced and all. No one had warned him of the skivers or the slackers, the winos or the junkies, or the plain deviants who kept coming to the ED for their regular dose of sanity management.
Maybe I should’ve stayed in family medicine or something….
‘You look like you need some coffee already.’
Cracking his eyes open and wincing at the glare of the overhead lights, he blinked the tears aside as he gingerly but gratefully accepted the small paper cup and its piping hot contents.
‘Thanks, Lisa, you’re a lifesaver.’
Her grin was brilliant, and infectious.
‘Code Blue in the ER. I repeat, Code Blue in the ER. Trauma team to ER stat.’
Her face fell, as did his.
‘No rest for the wicked eh?’
‘Nope. No salvation for the fallen either.’ She grinned again. ‘Come on, sleepyhead. Time to get to work.’

‘Jesus Chr…’
Rick winced. He’d been working for some time now as a detective, but he’d seldom seen anything like this.
‘What do you think ha… happen… ed…’
There was a gulp, and the sounds of enforced shallow breathing from his new partner, Angela. Second day on the job, and the poor rookie had to deal with the hard facts of life and human stupidity. Poor kid.
Staring at the mangled mess before him, he wasn’t sure what to think.
Ah well, we have to start somewhere, I guess.
His nose screwed up at the smell of unwashed human flesh, and vomitus, and dried excrementa. It was something one could never really get used to.
‘Yo, Doc? Gonna do the autopsy soon right? Let’s see what you got.’

‘Oh come ON!’
Fuming, Mark smacked his steering wheel hard in an attempt to keep whatever small grasp he had on his temper.
It wasn’t working very well.
Fricking idiots don’t know how to drive. How hard could it be to drive in heavy traffic? It’s just gas, clutch and brake! Gods, what are they THINKING?!
Suddenly suffering from a loss of coherent speech, he gripped the steering wheel a little harder. Possibly a little too hard, from the pale tone his knuckles were assuming. And from the fact that his fingertips were slowly going numb and crampy.
He was officially late as all hell, and he was not looking forward to getting the once over by his supervisor. And not only was there no obvious way of getting out of this short of leaving his car to get towed in middle of the freeway, he just realized his cellphone was dead.
And to add insult to injury, some bike messenger had just whizzed past him.
Sorely tempted to get out and walk, he tapped his forehead against the steering wheel repeatedly. It didn’t help his headache much, but it did feel rather comforting.
Raising his head in despair, he cast his gloomy gaze at the sidewalk as it ran citywards, so temptingly near.
Hang on, what the hell?…

Aki sighed as she mopped her dripping brow again. She was rather glad she’d brought her scarf, but was rather disturbed at how it had turned into a towel.
It’d taken a bit of research, but she’d figured that she’d found the perfect spot to start – ten stories up, smack in the middle of a cluster of skyscrapers, right next to the old Cathedral of some… saint she’d forgotten the name of.
She winced.
Travel photojournalist, HAH. Can’t even remember the names of the places you need to photograph…
Still, it’d been a tiring trek up, and setting up her gear had been nothing short of punishing in this heat. She allowed herself a small smile of satisfaction now though. Her rig was mounted, her tripod was deployed and steady, her filters were set, and her lenses were at the ready. She was all set.
Deciding that she’d do a depth and magnification test, she started through the viewfinder, and tilted the camera so it pointed at the street and not straight into the sun’s glaring light, as it had been previously.
Ow. That kinda hurt. Her eye watered as it fought to focus.
A gasp escaped her lips at what she saw and her mind raced, thinking of what she could possibly do.
Almost by reflex, her finger started pressing repeatedly on the shutter release button.

Dan stared, bleary-eyed and bitter, at the edifices of the church that stood before him as he fumbled in his pockets. He’d long been jaded about there being any form of divine Providence looking out for his interests, but this was just too ironic for words.
He saw no help imminent, and he wasn’t inclined to pray. Not anymore. Money wouldn’t come falling from the sky, nor would a nice convenient solution come soaring into his arms any time soon. No matter how hard he wished for it.
Is there a point to this? came the despairing thought, a dim pillar of light strobing into the dark recesses of his fuddled mind. No one cares what happens to me. No one would miss me when I’m gone. I’m probably better off dead.
His knees felt a little weak, suddenly, and his head very very heavy.
As he swayed, he thought he’d imagined a high keening shriek nearby.
Puzzled, he squinted his eyes against the morning light and the stabbing pain it brought, and tried to check if he’d really heard it, or if his liver and his mind had finally given out on him.
A mugging.
It was a damn mugging, happening just a few scant meters away from him. Some bugger with a beanie pulled low and a scarf pulled high was struggling with a feisty old lady for her purse.
The old lady was losing.
He suddenly felt torn.
Why do you taunt me so?

Ethel sighed.
Half an hour of walking around like some loony with a heavy suitcase, and she was still lost. The only comforting thing was that she’d at least found a convenient landmark. The church or cathedral looked promising, and there couldn’t be TOO many of them near the heart of downtown.
And she could take a rest while having a look at the old church. It looked rather interesting, and would be a perfect way to have a little breather while she decided if she wanted to call a cab, or if she should cave and just call her granddaughter.
A pair of rough gloved hands grabbed her.
Completely taken by surprise, she instinctively clutched her handbag to her chest as the strange man struggled to yank it away from her. A loud clatter sounded as her roller lugged tipped over, and a keening shriek of fear and frustration escaped her lips as she fought for dear life.
In front of a house of God! What is this city coming to’!
‘Give me the bag, lady!’ came his low, menacing growl, sending icicles shooting down her spine. She whimpered, realizing as she continued to struggle that she couldn’t give him the bag even if she wanted to ‘ her hands had spasmed and frozen.
Her mind suddenly exceedingly blank and detached as her body worked on autopilot, she was even more stunned as someone else joined in the fray.
She could barely make out details as the drifter lurched in and barreled into her attacker in as graceless a fashion as she could’ve imagined. She staggered back in shock as the two of them went down in a messy heap of arms and legs and unwashed rags, and watched in horror as they fought to get free of each other.
What on earth is going on?

Mark wondered what he was thinking.
He was out of his car and running before he knew what he was doing, or what he could even do to help. Some… instinct had sent him hurtling out his car door. He wasn’t sure what it was exactly – perhaps some misplaced grain of remnant chivalry that couldn’t stand aside and let him watch as an old lady got mugged, or the fact that a drifter, of all people, was trying to help her even though he looked like he needed help more himself.
Well, it’s bumper to bumper traffic anyway, he mused to himself as he continued sprinting and dodging between the cars on the densely packed road. I haven’t moved in almost ten minutes and it’s unlikely that everyone’ll suddenly start moving just once I leave my car there…
The drifter had fared pretty well in the beginning, managing somehow to rip the scarf off the mugger, but that was about all he’d managed to do. As it was now, he was curled up into a ball as the mugger tried to kick the living daylights out of him in steel-toed boots.
Gods, I hope I know what I’m doing…
Stretching out his arm behind him as he ran, he swung hard at the back of the mugger’s head, connecting squarely with a sickly wet thud that sent a wave of pain and nausea up his arm. On the plus side, the bugger was sent sprawling. On the other hand, his arm was officially numb.
Wincing at the smell, he tapped the drifter on the shoulder.
‘You OK, man?’
The answering groan was comforting, if weak, but a little too insistent for his liking. Glancing at the would-be criminal, he barely had time to get out of the way as he yanked out a butterfly knife with a spine-chilling snick and slashed randomly at his legs.
‘You had to get in the way, motherfucker. You just HAD to get in the fucking WAY!’
Wishing he’d kept himself in better shape, he backpedalled desperately as he leaned out of the way of the mugger’s wild swings.
Well, he thought to himself as he jumped back yet again to avoid getting a new orifice for enteral input, I’m officially one of the stupidest people alive. Now I just hope I can get out of this in one piece…

A plate slipped out of Lily’s fingers rather unexpectedly, shattering to shards against the sand-colored tiles.
Her eyebrow twitched uncomfortably. I could’ve sworn that I’d gotten a good grip on it…
Outside in the living room, the announcer droned on in her usual fashion. The words ‘grievous bodily assault’, ‘hospital’ and ‘still at loose’ registered imperceptibly on her consciousness, making her wonder why she suddenly felt so cold despite the summer heat.

Aki was entranced.
She knew it was wrong to be so fascinated, but here was something that seemed like it was right out of a manga, or some movie, albeit with a slightly stocky and rather plain hero.
She’d been snapping away non-stop. A small part of her knew that she should be doing something more substantial, like calling the police or something, but she couldn’t seem to help herself – all she could do was to crouch down, arms squared on the parapet and stabilizing her rig as she stabbed repeatedly at the shutter release.

He panted as he watched warily for the next swing.
He could feel the clamminess of the shirt on his back, drenched in sweat that was equal parts physical exertion and sheer unbridled terror. It was not a comforting feeling.
They’d gotten a small audience for their little dance with death. Not that anyone looked as though they were going to try to lend a hand though. With typical indifference, they stared on nonchalantly, almost as if watching some street performance.
It was making him seriously pissed.
The mugger was young, desperate, and malicious, and showed no signs of flagging even as he continued to swear in strings of abusive expletives while he stabbed or slashed at him. He, on the other hand, was starting to feel his age. He’d already been nicked once, and the icy pain made him very very keen not to let it happen again.
Still, it was getting difficult. He was older than he wished he was, and rather severely out of shape. His vision was blurring, and his movements were slowing. It was only a matter of time before he made a mistake.
He was taken by surprise as, with a deafening, if unintelligible, roar, the drifter surged to his feet and charged the hapless mugger again.
There was a sudden silence after they crashed into each other, a fragile stillness in the air that boded ill.
He stared, horror stricken, as he watched thick red blood drip onto the floor.
With a frustrated growl, the mugger let go of his knife and staggered backwards, watching wordlessly as the other man crumpled slowly onto the ground, still clutching the shiny length of metal.
A sudden surge of anger turned Mark’s world red as he charged at the murderer, who, with an unreadable look on his face, turned and ran.
He sprinted after him with an energy that he thought he wouldn’t have been capable of, barely registering that two of the onlookers, spurred by the act of mindless violence, had stepped in front of the hapless fellow and were trying to wrestle him to the ground.

It hurts.
Dan winced a little as the knife shifted slightly.
He could feel the warmth of his blood trickling down his numb fingers in sharp contrast to the short length of cold steel embedded in his abdomen. It was a strange feeling, and not altogether unpleasant. He’d spent so much time feeling numb that this felt almost… welcome.
Strange to think that… I need… a brush with… death to realize how stupid I was… alive’
He smiled a little as he felt consciousness slipping away. He could hear people clustering around him and asking if he was ok. Someone tried to move him, only to be shouted at by the others. The old lady that he’d ended up helping was there too, and he thought he saw an anguished, distressed look on her face, blurred as it was.
Is this…
… the end?

‘What do you think happened?’
Rick raised an eyebrow. Angela had recovered rather more quickly than he’d expected her to. Perhaps this rookie was more promising than he’d thought.
He shrugged, his lopsided grin almost feral.
‘Don’t know, rookie. Your first case. You tell me.’
His grin widened as she stood silently, unconsciously chewing her lower lip as she collected her thoughts.

Oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god…
Ethel stared at the man as he lay in a slowly expanding pool of blood, amazed and frustrated at how helpless she felt.
It was even worse as he looked up wanly at her, and a faint smile, barely perceptible through the grime, crept onto his gaunt features as his eyes drifted shut.
‘SOMEBODY CALL AN AMBULANCE!’
‘‘ Ethel? Is that you?’

‘Okay, what’ve we got?’ barked Miguel in as businesslike a tone as he could manage. He had to project an air of competence and professionalism after all, despite the fact that he felt far from confident or enthusiastic about his current predicament.
‘Thirty-seven year old Caucasian gentleman, history of alcoholism and possible depression but none else significant, currently presents to the ER after being assaulted with a knife. Tachycardic 110, hypotensive 90/60, sats still full on room air. One stab wound to the abdomen, and a few scattered minor abrasions and bruises sustained during said assault. Blood loss significant, with patient probably in early shock. Peripheral shutdown, with cold, clammy extremities. Conscious level declining, but could be in part to delirium tremens.’ Shrugging a little with relief, the young paramedic stared at him straight in the eye. ‘I think he needs surgery.’
Miguel restrained the urge to whistle in admiration of both her talent for succinct presentation, and at how she looked in her paramedic uniform. Still, work was the priority, and there was a life to save.
‘OK people, you know what to do,’ he intoned calmly at the team of doctors, nurses and medics present. ‘I’ll handle the airway. We need lines in for fluids, and bloods sent off for analysis. Get a cross match sent off too and ask them for two pints of blood for transfusion. Give him voluven in the meantime to restore volume. Someone call the surgeons and tell them there’s a stab wound to the abdomen and they might need to do an exploratory laparotomy?’
He smiled.
‘Resus, people. Let’s get cracking.’

The soft whirring of his desktop was a comforting sound.
Edward leaned back in his chair as he waited for it to boot itself so he could get some paperwork done.
‘Hey, Ed, did you hear?’
A muscle along his jaw jumped a little as he struggled to control his irritation.
‘Hear about what?’ he replied, a smile working its way up his face but never quite reaching his eyes. He resented being called by that foreshortened monicker, and the last thing he wanted to be plagued with now was gossip and unnecessary information. Sadly, Nick was a specialist in both.
Nick grinned his wide, goofy grin at him, oblivious.
‘Old Mark’s a hero man!’
Ed’s eyebrow twitched. ‘You mean Marcus Taylor. He didn’t report in today, I believe.’
‘Yeah! He’s on the news, man! Saved some old lady from being mugged and everything, and it looks like it might be all over the papers tomorrow too!’
Now this is interesting, Edward thought to himself. Perhaps there’s a reason why I tolerate this oaf’s company after all.
‘Pray tell. Every little detail.’
He leaned further back in his black leather chair and steepled his fingers. He’d initially thought of reprimanding the man, and possibly firing him. It wasn’t the first time he’d been late. Still. Perhaps there was some way of making this work for him after all.

With a great cry, the mugger managed to claw his way free, and pelted off, chased by a crowd of verbosely angry good Samaritan pedestrians who were much bolder once they realized he no longer held a knife.
Panting, Mark sagged and took stock of his wounds. He was breathless, tired, sweating like a hog in heat, and had three or four nicks, but amazingly enough, though they stung like hell in the chill air, he was otherwise relatively unscathed.
Never again, he told himself, shaking his head. I’m too old, and I should be less stupid than this.
A worried look on his face, he turned and jogged back to the side of the poor drifter. He’d saved his hide, he had, and he’d taken a knife to the stomach for him. Being overcome with gratitude and guilt was a pretty apt description of his current state of mind, and he was concerned about how bad that wound was.
‘An ambulance is on its way,’ called out a young, well-dressed yuppie as he snapped his Razr shut. ‘Should be here in five, if traffic lets up. They mentioned a quick response paramedic team too.’
A little startled, he looked around and realized he was talking to him.
‘Um. Thanks.’
Sighing, he hunkered down on his haunches to check. The guy didn’t look too good, but it was hard to tell exactly how bad it was under that unwashed exterior. He did look deathly pale though, but the bleeding wasn’t bad, and his pulse felt strong still, even if his heart rate was rather fast.
Thank heavens he’s still breathing.
Smiling tiredly, he looked up at the elderly lady tending to him, impressed at her quick recovery from almost being a… muggee.
His eyes widened.
‘Ethel?’

The lights were blinding.
As was the throbbing between his temples.
If this is Heaven, I think I might want to reconsider.
Groaning, Dan tried to lift his arm to shade his eyes, but found himself restrained.
A sudden wave of panic enveloped him as he realized that it wasn’t just his arms, which felt as though they’d sprouted tubes and wires. There was something on his face as well, and something in his nose and throat making him feel terminally nauseous, and something heavy on his stomach, which felt as though it’d been cut open. And there was an incessant beeping noise. And a hissing one too.
Ah fuck, I’m in hospital, aren’t I?
He went limp.
They’d saved him, apparently. Probably cut him open too, like in all those medical dramas, and done some patchwork job on what was left of his intestines.
‘Mister?’
He must’ve been imagining things, but he thought he heard the voice of a small boy, followed by a lot of hissing and shushing.
Opening his eyes a crack and feeling his headache redouble.
There was no mistake. There was a little boy there, his face bare inches from his own.
‘Hi.’ He managed weakly.
‘Hi.’ The boy smiled brightly.
He heard the sound of footfalls. Several sets. One by one, people swam into view, their edges indistinct, but still familiar.
‘You’re awake?’
He sneered weakly at the rather silly question. There were ladies and a child present, or he would’ve flipped him the finger. Good naturedly, of course. It was the man from the park, who’d been fighting the mugger. Stupid asshole. If he hadn’t done that, I coulda just walked away…
‘Thank you.’
He blinked in surprise. It was the old lady.
There was a third lady too, who smiled wanly. She’d obviously been worried sick about… at least one of them. There was something oddly similar about the lot of them though.
‘You’re… related’’ he croaked, his throat dry as bone.
Looking rather sheepish, the man nodded as he chuckled. ‘Turns out I inadvertently saved my grandmother in-law. Go figure.’
The gratitude wafting up from them was rather cloying, if rather sickeningly sweet. Dan would’ve said he felt ill, but coming from a man in pain and in hospital, that would’ve been a moot point.
‘Anyhow, from what the doctors say, you’re actually ok. Thankfully, it was just a flesh wound, so your guts are nice and intact.’
‘Wanna come for dinner?’ piped the little boy. ‘My mom makes a great dinner! And she made Chocolate Fudge Surprise tonight!’
Hurriedly, Lily shushed James and smiled up embarrassedly at Mark and Ethel.
Dan turned away from them and started to shake, small convulsions coursing their way up and down his body.
After a long moment, they realized he was laughing.
‘Sure,’ he gasped through his tears and the pain. He hadn’t felt this at peace with himself for a long time.
‘Just let me get a little better first.’

He stared at the wall as Angela finished her analysis.
He was impressed at how she’d put everything together, and understood now why the brass had slapped him with her even though she was fresh out of the academy. She was talented, and very, very smart.
And her conclusions chilled him to the bone.
The body they’d found had been only two blocks away from where the incident plastered all over the Afternoon News had occurred. From the likes of it, the weapon involved was the same switchblade.
Given how the body had been mutilated, with more than two hundred and seventeen cuts…
He was still out there.
Squaring his shoulders, he sighed.
Thankfully, that kooky Japanese photog had taken tons of photos, which the com guys were trying to enhance to get a proper likeness of the perpetrator.
‘Well done, rookie.’
Angela allowed herself a slight smile. ‘So what do we do now?’
He shrugged. To her, this was all brand-new. To him’ It was just another day in this stinking city. ‘Same thing we always do.’
‘We find him.’

Now, come with me, come, come as we tiptoe quietly through the cracks of time, to pass unseen through the thronging crowds, to travel a little ways back in time to witness the strange, nay, nigh-miraculous events surrounding a certain girl, a Miss Ginerva Adams.

Ordinary, she’d be, I’m afraid. Don’t expect to see accessory limbs, or a second head, or strangely proportioned features of any sort. Nay, a normal little girl of six, she’d be. Young, and strangely lost.

There she is now. Yes, that little girl, the one with the generally clean, slightly patched, slightly grubby dress that had seen better days, but which she takes such good care of. Step around carefully now, mind. Take care not to disturb anything here. The slightest touch or disturbance to anyone or anything here could trigger a temporal event of cataclysmic proportions!… I jest, naturally. We are but observers, outside the flow of time for now, and naught that we do has any consequence on anything in this era. They won’t even see us! So mind those oxcarts, lest they run you over. Will you get hurt, you ask? Would you like to find out first hand?

What year would this be, you ask? Why, 1752, of course. Can you not recognise the scene, jumping out at you? Just like that painting by Canaletto? This would be the frontage onto the Strand, the Charing Cross of Northumberland House. Here! Follow me to the window. There would be the statue of Charles I, and there, the famous Golden Cross Inn!

But I digress. We are here to observe, to watch her story unfold, not to admire ancient architecture [though it does seem rather grubby and plebian to me]. Now, come around again, gents and ladies, gather around this little lady whom shall be the star of our evening’s entertainment!

As I have said, perfectly ordinary, is she not? But not so what shall transpire, as you will see.
Now, come wth us as we take a voyeuristic view of her life for these brief few moments. For only sixpence! And here, with a snap of my flabby little fingers, we shall begin!

Do try to keep up.

_____

Bewildered, she shuffled her feet nervously as she tried not to cough. The smoke-filled air in the tavern was rather overwhelming, and it made her feel as if her lungs were being slowly but steadily coated with soot with each breath she drew.
She looked around uncertainly, knowing that studying the cracks and the scuffs on the wooden floorboards would do little to help her out of her current predicament. Which, strangely enough, she had no idea how she’d gotten into.

The last thing she remembered was walking with her mother down a rather crowded street. It had been approaching dark, and the street lamps were slowly flickering to life when, all of a sudden, the world went dark, almost as if someone had flipped a light switch. With that, her mother’s hand had disappeared like so much smoke in her grasp, and when light returned in gradual progression, she’d found herself… here. Wherever here was.

Something struck her as intrinsically wrong with the sight before her eyes. Despite the fact that her ears were filled with the sounds of a rowdy tavern, with all the shouting and calling and callous singing, and the sounds of offended cutlery and crockery as they were readily abused, what she saw before her confused her no end. In direct contrast to what her ears told her she should be seeing, she instead beheld a neat, tidy tavern, dimly lit, where everyone sat in silent fashion, slouching, their heads bowed over their food, which seemed little more than carcasses and scraps on their otherwise immaculate plates. No one looked at anyone else, and no one’s mouth moved.

Her eyes watering at the smoke, she shuffled tentatively over to a portly gentleman, in overly frilly garb that seemed a few decades out of fashion.

‘Please, sir, have you seen my mother?’

She looked up imploringly as she coughed, overcome by the smoke. Like a strange grosteque statue however, he swayed as she tugged on his sleeve, before slowly rocking back and forth like one of those strange weighted dolls till, head lolling, he resumed his former position. His eyes remained fixed glassily on his plate.

Suddenly afraid, Ginny backed up a step, an involuntary whimper working its way past her tightshut lips. A sudden high-pitched cackle made her start and spin around. Wild-eyed and terrified, her hand flew to her mouth as she rapidly staggered away from the strange quintet of men that had suddenly sprung up before her, their faces painted a garish, shattered white, and strange frilly and ribbony tutus hanging limply on their gaunt frames as they all pirouetted, bodies almost stationary as their legs moved, marionette-like, in pas de cheval.

‘Greetings, youngest of ladies~ fairest of flowers~’ sang five voices in strange falsetto unison as they all assumed varying arabesques and fluttered their eyelashes at her, their mouths pursed in flirtatious coy moues.

Her eyes suddenly wet, and a strange keening cry taking shape in her throat, she started and almost fell as she bumped into a table as she backed away.

‘How may we help…’

‘… you, dear one? Are you…’

‘Looking for your…’

‘…dearest of dears, your…’

‘… foremost of kins… your…’

‘… mother?’

She cringed and shrank backwards from the five faces that were suddenly pressed far too close to hers. The raucous laughter around her continued unabated, as five pairs of soulless eyes stared emptily at her, painted smiles and painted lashes flickering and fluttering like wings of poisonous butterflies.

‘What’s…’

‘…wrong,…’

‘…dear…’

‘… one?’

With a small desperate cry, she somehow managed to get her shaking, buckling legs to move, and ducked past them as she sprinted towards the door. A hasty glance cast over her shoulder showed them still staring emptily at the spot where she’d been standing, their faces slowly turning to follow her as she ran out the door.

_____

Such a poor little girl, isn’t she? She must be frightened out of her mind, she must, and yet, still so, so brave. Where COULD her mother have been thinking, to leave her alone like that? Where COULD she have gone, abandoning her sweet little slice of sunshine?

Where indeed? You lot know not, nor do I. It’s a mystery, it be, yes. And what do you mean, dear sir, when you say that I’m smiling too widely? Do you wish to impugn me as a sadist, for enjoying the suffering of this little girl? When you yourself stand there watching her in delighted inaction? Remember, we cannot do anything in this time and age, even if we wanted to. So since a show there be, a show shall be enjoyed, no?

And how shall we get to bottom of this mystery then?

Well, the girl IS out the door. We’d better hurry up if we’re not going to miss her.

_____

She ran, not caring where her tired painful feet took her, as long as it was away from that strange, surreal tavern. It was like a scene from a nightmare, all disjointed and strange and yet… familiar at the same time.

Even now, she couldn’t tell with any amount of certainty if she were awake, or dreaming, or stuck in the strange limbo between the two where the realities intersected and intertwined.

Her steps slowed as, lost and suddenly more afraid than she’d ever been, she leaned her hand against the chipped and worn edifices of old red brick and cracked mortar. Panting, she came to a stop, and leaning weakly against the wall, the rough surface rasping redly against her young skin. Slowly, she tried to wrap her mind around the problem at hand – she was lost, alone, and terrified. She had no idea where or when she was, and her mother was nowhere in sight. And she had no idea what she was to do.

Unable to take it anymore, her knees buckled and she landed unceremoniously, her bottom meeting the hard cobbles with a bit too much familiarity for her liking.

Dazed and confused, her mind all awhirl and her eyes all atearing, she wasn’t really expecting what happened next.

‘Now, now, ma petite fille, what seems to be the problem? Qu’est-ce que tu pleures, why do you cry, little one?’ came a deep, tender voice.

Dashing the tears away, she looked around in surprise for the source of the voice. The sky was dark with evenlight, the sun barely above the horizon as it cast its angry red and purple hues on the orange clouds, a stark light that lit little, and cast shadows in every nook and cranny it could find. The streetlamps had all been lit, but unlike the gas lamps Ginny was used to, these were strangely archaic, with wax candles nestled within slightly rusty burnished glass and metal cages, giving off a dim, subtle light that flickered almost as though it were alive.

The people walking down the street reminded her acutely of the strange people in the tavern – dressed in strange archaic fashions perhaps a few decades too late, all looking the worse for wear as they trudged along, lifeless and unseeing, their feet placing themselves grudgingly one before the other as they dragged their owners along to destinations uncertain, upon paths fixed yet unseen. Not a single one of them looked at her, nor did they look as if they’d even be halfway concerned with a lost little girl.

‘Mon dieu, ma petite fille,’ sighed the voice. ‘Ici, here, my child.’

She looked down, blinking at the disinterested looking black cat that sat before her, quietly preening itself. Arranging its whiskers with a quick flick of its paw, it regarded her solemnly with its luminous green eyes. ‘You are lost, non?’ it asked, inclining its head to one side as it studied her, its tail slowly keeping slow time as it swished slowly from side to side.

‘You… talk, kitty?’

Heaving a sigh as it rose to its feet, the cat stretched. ‘Naturally, I speak, ma cherie, we all do. After all, we did not earn the name chat in the land of France for nothing, non? And seeing you lost has made me feel… how would you say… chatty. I do not like seeing les damoiselles en détresse, non.’

Ginny sniffed as she wiped at her eyes with her sleeve, the cat watching her patiently.

‘Pourquoi ces pleurs dans tes yeux, ma cherie? Why do you cry?’

‘I’m lost. And I can’t find my mother. And I don’t know where I am.’

The cat blinked at her, listening patiently as her story unfolded, disjointed, between tear-filled silences and sob-wracked shivers. ‘Ah. Une petite fille perdue. C’est tragique.’ Almost as if he were sympathetic, the cat rose and nudged her as she cried into her crossed arms, and did not struggle as she wrapped her arms around it and sniffled into his fur. Even though he did wrinkle his nose at the sensation. ‘There there, little one,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll help you find ta mere… your mother.’

‘Really?’ She asked, a pleading note in her little voice as she held him even closer.

‘Oui, oui, ma petite fille perdue. Alain does not make empty promises.’ Sighing, the cat shook his head. ‘Alain is also not, as you would say, made of stuffing and furry covering, so would you mind not squeezing quite so hard, ma cherie? I am finding it difficult to breathe.’

‘Sorry.’

Embarassed, she let go of the cat, who slowly backed away and, after sinuously stretching extensively, sat down and stared moonwards for a time, as if deep in thought.

‘Oui. I know who we must seek. ‘Viens, ma petite fille perdue, viens, come this way.’

With that, cat and girl stood and walked, vanishing into the growing mist amidst the ghostly crowds.

_____

Fascinating, is it not, what one beholds on this little journey? And at no further expense than a few pence and a bit of legwork, which is hardly strenous on the wallet or on the legs.

Corny, you say? A talking cat, who talks because the French word for cat is chat? Sillier things have happened, my good sir. Yourself, for example, Mr Stan Still. Isn’t your name quite the oxymoron for you as you walk along with us?

Now, now, dear ladies and gentlemen, let us not focus on unfortunate Mr Still, or his unfortunate name. As amusing as he may be, he offers at best mundane entertainment compared to the fantastical things that can happen on this little jaunt of ours, and you haven’t even seen the half of it.

Now, if you would be so kind as to step this way?… And do mind the… oh dear. Ah well. I’m sure the cowpats do contribute to the overall sensory experience, but I WOULD rather you cleaned your shoes, madam…

_____

They walked a long time in the growing fog, which turned the world into a strange shadow of itself, all dark and gloomy, all sepia-toned and smokey and filled with silent apparitions who trudged their weary way through the mists. Still, though the haunting faces she saw were disturbing, and seemed to turn into gaunt, grosteque parodies of themselves as she looked at them, she found she wasn’t too afraid. Not as long as she saw Alain walking two steps before her, turning his head occasionally to check that he hadn’t lost his little lost girl.

Casting her eyes at the dim lit streets, and the even dimmer lit buildings, she tried to quell her imagination from convincing her that the gargoyles were turning their heads to stare at her as she walked past, or that the shadows on the crude mortar and brick were moving unnaturally, almost as if they were human. The cat didn’t seem worried in the least, and that gave her some small measure of confidence as they made their silent way through the winding maze of streets. She did wish that Alain would tell her where they were headed, but all the cat would do was smile knowingly, and tell her to come along, and that all would be revealed in its own time.

She was starting to get a little cross.

She was, after all, six years old, and tired, and more than a little frightened and bewildered at her current predicament. Still, her mother had told her endless times that it did not do to wail and moan about things that never happened as one planned, or to sit and cry and hope that someone would take pity on her and make things all better. Be brave, Ginny, she’d say. The gods only help those who help themselves.

While she did agree with her mother that doing something seemed far better than doing nothing at all, she was starting to wish that the doing of something wasn’t quite so draining.

Sighing, she pouted, wrapping her old scarf a little more securely around her mouth and nose, and burying her little hands deeper in her pockets as a sudden chilly breeze threatened frostbite. Glaring enviously at Alain, she fantasized how much nicer it would be if she had a coat of sleek, shiny fur like he had, all glossy and warm-like.

Almost as if he could tell what she was thinking, Alain cocked his head to one side, his luminous green eyes glowing in the growing dark. Then he stopped, and sat, looking straight ahead.

‘Nous arrivons,’ he announced, with some displeasure in his voice. ‘Welcome to la carnivale du Croix Charing, the Charing Cross Fair.’

_____

Isn’t this exciting, ladies and gentlemen? A carnival! Not unlike, and yet vastly different, from the one which has brought this chance gathering together. How coincidental, no?

Still, do take heed. This is no ordinary carnival or fair. From previous experience, this place can be far more exotic, and even dangerous, from anything you’ve known.

… and yes, dear lady, there may be more things on the ground to avoid. Do mind your step…

_____

Ginny made her way carefully through the Fair, trying not to slip on the wet cobbles or to get her shoes overly muddy from the wet earth as Alain padded his quiet way beside her, guiding her through the treacherous tent-lined maze with its numerous turns and cul-de-sacs.

She couldn’t help but be amazed, though. Unlike the city, with its strangely disjointed people, at once both deathly silent yet raucously loud, the people at the fair were rather different, to say the least. For one thing, some of them weren’t people. Just like Alain, there were various animals caught in rapt conversation with one another, or with the colorfully dressed people there.

Torn between cowering in fear, or staring in rapt fascination at what was before her eyes, she’d had to be reminded by Alain that it was rude to stare more than once as her attention got caught by a large dignified mastiff holding a conversation with a pale, frail looking gentleman dressed in a suit of black silk and satin of a strange archaic cut, or by a trio of boys dressed in black leather garb with so many studs and thin chains of intricate design that she wondered how much they weighed.

‘My word. An actual human child, here on this plane?’

Suddenly terrified, she froze, transfixed by a pair of liquid black eyes, set above a dark lupine muzzle.

‘Oui, Anubis, and one with business with the Master of the Fair. Leave her be,’ called Alain, staring calmly up at the jackal-headed god and his entourage of fellow Egyptian gods and godlings. ‘Or do you wish to be banned for several centuries?’

‘Ach, you talk big for a cat,’ Anubis spat as he turned to walk away. ”ware, Alain. I shall not let this be forgotten.’

She started as the cat nuzzled her leg.

‘Are you alright, ma cherie?’ he asked, his tail twitching nervously.

Drawing a deep, shaky breath, she nodded, shivering a little as she recalled how Hathor had turned to look at her, fixing her and Alain with a wink and a feral feline smile.

‘Is my mother here?’ she asked Alain for the umptheeth time. The cat sighed good-naturedly and replied, ‘Non, ma cherie, or at least, I am not certain. There is someone here who can help us though. Even though he be nothing by un poisson énorme.’

‘A huge fish?’ she said hesitantly as she tried to recall what little French her mother had taught her.

‘Oui. A huge fish. Viens, ici.’

Confidently, he led her down yet another small, snaking path, moving slowly so she could stick close despite having to thread her way through the horribly compacted mass of individuals, animal, human or god alike. She still found it strange that she wasn’t more afraid of the strange things around her, despite the fact that things seemed to be becoming, as her mother had read to her from a strange book named Alice in Wonderland, ‘curiouser and curiouser’. Perhaps it was because she felt she wasn’t alone.

The stalls and tents she passed were getting more bizarre, though.

Fortune tellers, in their flashy garb and their tarot decks and crystal balls, called out to the passersby, claiming good fortune and calamity both, save for one with a raven perched on a skull serving as proxy, as she was mute and had had her lips literally sewn together. Ginny shuddered as she passed her by, more than a little frightened at the piercing look in her eyes as Alain hurried her along. Try as she might, though, it was difficult to ignore the feeling of her searching eyes almost boring into the back of her skull.

Then there were the tents of the grosteque and the weird. None were quite as mundane as bearded ladies or exotic animals, though – before one stall stood a strange eight armed man, demonstrating amazing skill and dexterity with the knives and various weapons in each of his hands, while another had a flirty catlady, complete with fur, claws, perky ears and a long, slinky tail.

‘Ah, Alain. Fancy seeing you here,’ came a bored lazy drawl.

Alain slowed, and stared up at the man who had spoken, reclining on a large ornate chair in an immaculate suit and scarf, lazily twirling his black oak cane as the undead skeletons beside him stood vigilant guard.

‘The last time I remember, I was not talking to you,’ Alain said almost venomously as his hackles rose, his tail thrashed from side to side in agitation.

‘Now, now, Alain, is that any way to greet an old friend?’

Alain spat. ‘No Necromancer is a friend of mine. Stay away from me.’ With that, he stalked away, a flustered Ginny following closely behind. Nervously, she cast a glance at the pale man, who studied the silverwork on his cane disinterestedly.

Shrugging, she decided that there were things better left unknown and unsaid. Besides, the venom in Alain’s eyes made her afraid to ask.

She sighed as she continued to walk. She was getting rather hungry, but the food on sale disturbed her a little. Drake’s tail and various strange crustaceans did not appeal much, nor did candied crababbles, complete with snapping claws.

Vendors called out as they continued on their way, hawking their exotic wares, or offering quick glimpses into other realms. There was one art vendor who caught Ginny’s eye as he expounded vociferously on a beautiful painting while, as he spoke, his hand gesticulating, the lady in the painting behind him shrieked as she tried to move away from his groping hand.

Her forehead throbbing at the sensory onslaught, Ginny hastily followed Alain as he padded quietly and ducked under a tent flap.

What she saw stunned her quite a bit. The tent itself had seemed rather small on the outside, but the interior was massive, the roof of the tentage towering into indiscernible blackness, and the floor excavated into a series of terraces surrounding a central pit on which stood a huge cylindrical tank, full of water and bordered by a series of elevated platforms on which stood a series of pianos and organs.

Her brow wrinkling in confusion, Ginny looked at Alain, who shrugged a catty shoulder and made his way to a series of small winding stairs leading down the terraces. Trepidation starting to build in her, she followed, stepping carefully past the smokey apparitions that bustled along the walkways, heading from piano to piano and picking out careful precise melodies on the keys.

‘I sense a feline presence,’ came a deep, booming voice that shook the earth and made Ginny cringe. ‘Alain, have you come to make trouble again?’

‘Not in the least, kind sir,’ called back Alain, as he tried to fight his tendencies to slip back into his native tongue. ‘I have come to ask a favour.’

The water rippled ominously as something stirred deep within. ‘Come closer then, you rascal cat. And shift your form before your feline tendencies get the better of you and you start trying to claw your way in here again.’

Mumbling embarassedly, Alain sighed, then stretched as he stood on his hind legs. As Ginny watched in shock, he grew in size and height, his features rippling like smoke until finally a young man of about sixteen stood before her, picking uncomfortably at the smokey grey three piece suit that he was wearing.

‘Merde, I hate assuming this form…’ he muttered as he shrugged uncomfortably. Flashing Ginny a guilty smile, his slitted green eyes still glowing in the dim light, he took Ginny’s hand and led her downwards to the source of the ripples at the base of the tank. Despite herself, Ginny felt her face growing hot, though she wasn’t totally sure why.

It wasn’t long before they reached a raised dais before the base of the tank, on which stood an imposing pipe organ, the piping wending its way around the tank in crazy random fashion. As Alain led her to a small raised platform with a strange console and what looked like a gramophone horn attached to the top of it, shadows coalesced in the water as the ripples grew ever stronger and more turbulent till, with a sudden rushing noise, a gigantic shape appeared before them.

She shrank back as it loomed closer, many times the height of a human, and cracked open an enormous silver-blue eye, the pupil expanding and contracting with horrifying speed as it focused on the pair.

‘I see you’ve brought a lost kitten with you, Alain,’ sighed the huge fish, causing the floor to tremble as it gestured with a fin. ‘Still can’t get over being a hero, can you?’

Alain shrugged expressively, and stepped backwards off the platform, smiling encouragingly at Ginny as she turned back uncertainly. Clearing her throat hesitantly, she leaned forward clutched the horn.

‘Mr Fish?’

‘I, young lady, am a Piano Tuna,’ it sniffed disdainfully, if a fish could sniff without a nose, its gills flaring in spectacular fashion. ‘And I find it insulting to be compared to those… brainless bubbly brethren who do naught but fiddle their fins in a pale mockery of life as they float around in their bowls.’

It flicked its fins as it regarded her with one eye, then the other.

‘You’re lost, and not in your own time, little girl,’ it intoned thoughtfully. ‘And you’re not the first such to end up here in my fair, nor will you be the last, I suspect. Still, this is the first time it’s been like this. I do not recognize the signature of the person who brought you here, nor can I fathom why he has.’

Ginny nodded, slightly surprised that the fish knew her story without her saying a word. Then again, she still couldn’t understand how her mind had gotten used to the fact that whatever couldn’t possibly be happening was already happening, and that she was feeling rather calm.

‘I can attempt to send you back, but… I cannot guarantee it. The initial spell was far too convoluted to be easily undone, or even traced back to where you were.’ The Tuna closed its eyes, swimming slowly in a small circle as it thought.

‘I will try to raise a portal for you, but since I cannot predict if it will lead you back home…’

‘I will go with her,’ announced Alain, stepping forward.

The Tuna turned to regard the cat. ‘Still dreaming of gallantry and heroism, eh Alain?… Hmmmph. Be warned though. In the other worlds, your abilities may be terribly limited. You may not even be able to speak, or to metamorphosize. Would you be willing to take that risk?’

Alain shrugged. ‘I can’t turn my back on a little lost girl and let her be abandoned to the demons of chance. Especially on so perilous a journey. Je suis un imbécile, non?‘ Smiling, he took Ginny’s hand, who squeezed his hand in return.

Ginny never knew that fish could laugh, but apparently, this one could. And loudly too. A portal yawned open before them then, glowing a soft blue in the darkness of the massive tent as it shifted and undulated. Try as she might though, she could not see what was within.

‘So be it then. A girl and a crazed cat. The oddest of couples for the oddest of journeys. Bonne chance, chat. Don’t get eaten.’

Sighing, Alain ran a hand through his hair before he leapt forward, shrinking in midair as his outlines blurred like smoke, till four grey paws landed lightly on the packed earth. He yawned, then sat on his haunches, waiting for her to follow. Ginny smiled as she stepped forward to stand beside him, and they both turned to look at the Tuna, who nodded his assent.

With a deep breath, they advanced, vanishing into the portal, which vanished behind them.

Shaking its head, the Piano Tuna twisted its huge lips into a smirk as it swam upwards, analyzing the data that the smoke-ghaunts fed it via the pianos.

_____

And that would be the end of it all, dear ladies and gentlemen, the conclusion of our time together, the end of our tour, la grande finale!

Our time together was short, but I hope you enjoyed yourselves, yes. After all, it isn’t every day that you get to feast your eyes and ears upon sights and sounds so unique and rare, no?

What happens next, you ask? Well, you can always return at some other time, and perhaps we shall follow them again. Or some other strange but wonderful people. After all, they ARE a mystery, and this is a mystery carnival tour, no?

Still, it is with deepest regret that I bid thee adieu, bonne chance, and bon voyage. Farewell, ladies and gents, and to the next time we meet!

… and please, do clean your feet at the door before you leave, madam, I notice you haven’t been too successful at avoiding those… things, so far…

Fin

We skipped the light fandango, turned cartwheels ‘cross the floor
I was feeling kinda seasick but the crowd called out for more.

With a groan, he flung his arm up to cover his eyes as the neon lights from his small window threatened to drive spikes through what was left of his brain. The cheering and screaming from the streets felt like nails on chalkboard, as did the blaring of the Imperial March from his handphone. Hardly the way to wake up, especially since he’d only just managed to get to sleep.

Sighing, he fumbled for his cellphone where it danced on the old wooden coffee table next to the sofa he was on. With a practised flick, he snapped it open and held it gingerly against his ear.

The room was humming harder as the ceiling flew away
When we called out for another drink, the waiter brought a tray.

“What?” It was almost as if he were speaking Greek through a loudhailer from a lighthouse kilometres away. Clearing his throat, he tried again, with slightly more success.

“Morning, sunshine. Or evening, rather. You recovered from this morning yet?” came an amused voice, remarkable in its ability to quadruple the throbbing in his head without effort. “I’m actually impressed you’re awake enough to pick up your phone. You were rather wasted when I saw you last.”

He groaned again at a sudden swell in the noise as a group of teenage chimpanzees starting hooting. He fought the urge to open the window and scream. It wouldn’t help much, since they’d barely hear him, so the most it’d accomplish would be having him vomit the contents of his stomach, however minimal, onto the street below. Swearing under his breath, he knuckled his temple as he tried to think of something to say. The quiet laughter over the phone line did not improve his mood.

“Screw you, Seth,” he muttered. “The fact that I’m this hungover is your fault.”

“Really?” The amused lilt brought to mind memories of Seth’s face, dripping with feigned innocence and self-righteous chagrin. “I never realized that I’d forced you to drink all those cocktails. In fact, you seemed to put them away rather readily, and without much provocation from yours truly, Koyuki.”

Koyuki growled. All he achieved was more quiet laughter, and a more intense headache. “Now, now, my emo Asian friend. I’m afraid that sensual growlings from men don’t do anything for me,” said Seth as his voice grew more quiet. “Seriously though. You OK? Better?”

And so it was that later as the miller told his tale…

Sighing, Koyuki sat up and slouched, staring bleary-eyed at the blank screen of his beat-up television. He lowered his forehead on the coffee table, feeling the grain rasp against his skin. “Not better, no. I’m hungover, nauseated, sleepy, and there’s a hole in my chest. I’m not sure how ‘drowning one’s sorrows’ works, but aside from burning a hole in my pocket, it’s doing absolutely jackshit.’ Raising his head three inches, he let it drop again against the tabletop. It did little to distract him from the pounding between his temples.

“Still feeling sorry for yourself, huh?” asked Seth.

“Yes. I don’t want any more alcohol. I drink too much, and it works too little.”

Koyuki winced at Seth’s long, drawn-out sigh. “Want to meet up for just coffee then? I could come over and chill.”

“Nah. Too many memories in this place.”

“Sure, man.” Koyuki exhaled as he heard the resignation in his friend’s voice. “You’re probably gonna end up prowling the city again, huh? Take care of yourself. It’s festival time, and you might end up actually being happy.”

He snorted in disgust.

“Call me if you wanna talk, ‘k?”

“Thanks, Seth.”

He snapped the phone shut rather more violently than he intended. The parade downstairs had moved on, leaving behind nothing but desolation. It was uncanny how it mirrored how he felt.

He stood, fighting the urge to wobble and topple as he made his way to the window. Cracking it open, he took a breath of damp, smog-filled air. The glass was cold and comforting against his cheek as he stood there, staring at flickering lights, wondering why he couldn’t get her face out of his mind. I need to be somewhere. Anywhere but here.

… that her face, at first just ghostly, turned a whiter shade of pale

II.

She said, ‘There is no reason, and the truth is plain to see.’
But I wandered through my playing cards and would not let her be

She looked in the mirror again, a little stunned at what a little make-up could do. Well, not really little; her friends had spent a good two hours working on the deceptively simple patterns that now covered half her face.

She’d protested at first. The idea of dressing up as some mythical creature seemed childish, but she yielded in the end. Still, truth be told, she’d been secretly pleased that she’d somehow managed to draw the phoenix from the list. She’d always had a weakness for phoenixes. She’d found the story of their death and rebirth insanely romantic, and she was thrilled that she could be one. Just for one night.

With a careful finger, she traced the subtle lines done in stick-on jewels and powder and liner. Her friend was a genius. Her hair had been done up as well, swept back into a tight bun, emphasizing her severe, aquiline features. It was adorned with some well-placed ribbons and feathers, threaded and melded into her hair. She still couldn’t believe it. She was glad that one of the other girls had a camera.

“Oi! Ari! Get over here! We’re leaving!”

A bewildered smile on her face, Arielle grabbed her stuff and sprinted after them, turning to have one last long look at herself in the mirror. She closed the door behind her as they left.

One of sixteen vestal virgins who were leaving for the coast
and although my eyes were open, they might have just as well’ve been closed

“Feeling OK?”

Arielle arched an eyebrow and smiled sardonically, earning a chorus of laughs. “Never been better. Even with all this gunk.”

She’d meant it too. While she’d vehemently deny it if any of them had asked, she was glad that they’d decided to do this. Going to La Carnival de la Nuit was something she’d always scoffed at before, but given the bad turns in her life recently, she was glad for the distraction.

I still can’t believe I was so stupid. Ari sighed. Things had been… intense while they lasted. She had been convinced he was the One, but it was over. Seeing him the other day with some new hussy hadn’t helped much, and she thanked the multitudes of gods, major and minor, that both of them were in another department. Seeing them come to work and go home together was painful enough, and her imagination filled in the gaps.

Still, she had her friends, and now she had her chance to experience a carnival, and to forget. Even for a while. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath. People loved and hated the dankness and the smog. It was surprising though, how many people still stayed. It was all they’d known, after all.

Shaking her head, ribbons and feathers rustling softly in the night breeze, she glared at the moon. It was flitting in and out between clouds like a furtive lover, content to watch.

She could let a part of herself die, and be reborn.

III.

She said, ‘I’m home on shore leave,’ though in truth we were at sea
so I took her by the looking glass and forced her to agree

He’d managed to change, with some difficulty. He’d been neglecting his laundry, with much of his life.

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his mostly clean jeans and went in a meandering fashion down the streets and alleyways. He stared listlessly at cavorting revellers. In better times, he would’ve joined them, or even have had been one of the first to start the partying. As things stood now though, he had as much inclination of merrymaking as kicking them off a cliff.

Still, roaming the city was preferable to soaking in memories, booze and self-pity at home. At least there was an offside chance that he might NOT get drunk tonight and end up crying on his sofa in a small puddle of puke. He was getting rather tired of feeling needy and pathetic.

His teeth gnashed together of their own accord people passed him in their elaborate costumes and laughing faces, singing with the bands that paraded by on their floats. Part of him knew it was completely irrational of him – after all, his problems were his problems. The other part of him wanted to, as people would say, watch the world burn.

He ran his hand through his hair. His thoughts made no sense. Thankfully, he had no weapons at his disposal.

A sardonic smile twisted itself onto his face. He shook his head violently, almost as a dog would to shake off water. I’ve got to get over this somehow. It isn’t helping me any. She’s not gonna come waltzing back into my life again, after all, and I don’t think I want her to. He always did get dramatic when he got depressed. Sighing, he shoved his hands back into his pockets and resumed walking.

… saying, ‘You must be the mermaid who took Neptune for a ride.’
But she smiled at me so sadly that my anger straightway died

Raising his head, he stared in dismay at the familiar La Fontaine De L’Aube. The Fountain of Dawn, constructed at the exact center of the city. It was where he’d met her, four years ago. They’d spent many hours here, chatting, admiring the intricate carvings, and trailing their hands lazily in the water. It was now lit by trails upon trails of chasing lights that went through the city square from building to building. The lights gave the place an unfamiliar eldritch feel, despite the fact that he passed it by every day. There was an intensity tonight that was strange and pressing, making it hard for him to breathe almost.

He’d welcome a touch of providence right about now. He’d welcome anything that’d break him out of this cycle and allow him to get on with his life.

Sighing again, Koyuki rubbed his eyes, then strode over to the fountain and leaned against one of the pillars that separated its perfectly circular edge into seven equal segments. He smiled ironically as he gazed into the still water and wondered how he’d let himself come to this. He looked strange in the varicolored light, at times ghostly,garish, and at times displaced. He felt another of self-pity well up as his hand went up to his gaunt, unshaven face. I’d do anything to not be like this now.

The feeling was still there though. And seemed to be getting more intense. He shrugged and leaned his head back to rest against the pillar. The sky was overcast tonight, a bit of a waste given it was supposed to be a full moon out.

If fate wanted to surprise him, he could wait. He was tired of chasing, and even more tired of running. It wasn’t as if anything worse could happen to him anyway.

IV.

If music be the food of love, then laughter is its queen
and likewise if behind is in front then dirt in truth is clean

She laughed maniacally as her friends spun her around like a top, dizzy as the world whirled around her as she pirouetted. The night so far had been splendid. It had been ages since she’d felt so alive. The enthusiasm and energy from the performers had been infectious, and the alcohol had helped her get into the mood. The heady high that she had at the moment made her feel like she was floating six feet off the ground, and it was a welcome change from her usual state of mind. Her smile cracked for the fraction of a second. She was not going to dwell on past events, no matter what. She was out tonight to enjoy herself, and that was exactly what she was going to do.

She hugged her equally giggly friends as they wound their dizzy way towards the heart of the city, where the grand finale was supposed to take place. The carnival always ended on the stroke of midnight, and in a fashion that was fantastically grand, and invariably unexpected. The organizers had always remained tight-lipped about it.

They’d ended up by the Dawn Fountain. It seemed the whole city had turned up at Central Park, which had been constructed radially around the fountain. There were no makeshift stages, as had been the case in the some of the last few festivals, nothing to hint at what the finale would be.

Arielle collapsed at the fountain’s lip, waving off her friends when they tried to get her to dance more. They left in a chorus of catcalls, disappearing into the crowd. A strange mix of classical music with a pseudo-latinesque beat pounded over the huge speakers mounted on the floats.

She was tired after all that dancing. This was just what I needed, she thought to herself. I should have done this ages ago. She smiled and strangely enough, felt as if she were almost on the verge of tears. She started to lean backwards.

“Careful.”

She froze in mid-lean.

“I don’t think you want to ruin your make up or clothes by swimming in dirty water.”

She saw that she’d been sitting too close to the water and almost paid a visit to the fishes. Blinking a little, she turned back to thank the person who’d warned her, but he was already walking away.
“Thank you!” she called after him. He waggled two fingers in the air, giving a mocking salute as he walked away, his back towards her.

What in… Her eyebrows creased. Gratitude gave way to chagrin. He probably thought she was some drunk white girl. Some nerve, that Asian kid…

My mouth by then like cardboard seemed to slip straight through my head
So we crash-dived straightway quickly and attacked the ocean bed

“Hey!” she called, suddenly angry. She had to hurry though – his silhouette was quickly fading into the chaos, and if she hesitated, she’d lose him. “Hey! Wait!”

V.

Koyuki sighed, ambling his way through the crowd. What was I thinking?…

There had been something about that blonde girl. He wasn’t totally sure what it was, but while she’d seemed all ditzy and giggly and more than a little irritating, there had been something else. It may have been in the sad set of her eyes that her makeup couldn’t hide, or something in the way she held herself. Still, the look in her eyes when she’d stared at the sky mirrored how he was feeling, and that… scared him.

He’d felt a sudden rush of some indefinable emotion, and he was suddenly afraid. He couldn’t be sure why he needed to walk away from her but he knew that he had to. He had to walk away. Something would happen if he’d stayed, and he was terrified.

And so it was later, as the miller told his tale…

“Hey! Wait!”

Someone grabbed him by the arm and spun him around too quickly. Her luminous jade green eyes glared at him, made radiant by the furrowed brow and the strange, avian patterns that covered half her face.

Again, that wave of that same uncertain emotion; so strong that he was almost unable to breathe, let alone say anything as he stared helplessly back.

VI.

Whatever she thought she’d wanted to say evaporated. It wasn’t that he was drop-dead handsome, or had irresistible charisma – far from it, in fact. He was plain, bookish and unkempt.

Something in his eyes caught her. Despair, forlorn betrayal, frustration, a solemn sorrow – it was almost like staring into a mirror. And yet, there was more – introspection and self-blame and self-doubt, they resonated with hers. Instant recognition flared along with a strange, intense bond. It seemed a part of her soul that she’d had never known had been missing had found its way back.

And despite the fact that this was probably the first time they’d laid eyes on each other, she knew that he felt the same.

… that her face, at first just ghostly, turned a whiter shade of pale.

Her hand, unbidden, cupped his cheek. He wrapped her hand in his own.

They weren’t sure how long they stood there, whole conversations exchanged in the space of moments. Around them, the world swirled. They were helpless, hands touching and souls intertwined.

A sudden roar jolted them back to reality, and they remembered to breathe. The crowd around them hollered its approval as the three central floats burst open.

Amidst glaring pyrotechnics and confetti, the members of MUSE emerged singly from each float and made their way through corridors lined with security guards. They converged on a stage that rose through a concealed trapdoor, as columns of speakers slid skywards and engaged.

The opening bars of Plug In Baby shrieked out over over the crowd’s screams, fireworks filled the air in time with Bellamy’s breathy, plaintive singing.

The noise barely registered as they faced each other, all embarrassed smiles and awkward glances.

Hesitantly, he cleared his throated and croaked his name. Despite the deafening wall of sound, somehow, he was certain she’d heard him.

A small, shy smile blossoming on her face, she replied in kind.

Love is the difficult realization that something other than oneself is real.

- Iris Murdoch (1919-1999)

the end

Notes: Apologies and credits to Procol Harum for the use of the lyrics of ‘A Whiter Shade of Pale’]

Shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his coat, Celestin glared at the towering double doors from the shadows, willing something to happen so he could either get out of the rain and do something, or just get out of the rain and go home. He’d already been wondering over the last two nights if he was wasting his time with this… commission, and the weather was not helping his convictions.

The source of the commission was already something that’d set a slow, throbbing headache in motion. He usually had nothing against young attractive women asking for helping tracking down loved ones, or asking for assistance with regards to possible infidelity from their spouses, or even passing him propositions from their employers for incriminating information about corporate rivals. This particular young lady, however, was a true piece of work.

She’d been well-dressed, yes, but one didn’t usually wear strange thin golden chains with links in a maize motif with a formal business suit. She hadn’t given him her name either, only her title, which was on its own more than a little peculiar. He’d never heard of the Conclave of Diviners, nor did her strange introduction regarding their mission of prediction and location of significant events that would affect the fate of the world help to allay any of his suspicions at her relative lack of sanity.

Still, he thought as he sighed again, the offer was intriguing, and he’d been getting rather tired of the run of the mill cases he’d been plagued with recently. As silly as it sounded, he was fascinated at her plea.

“Please, you’re the only one who can help us. You must, or the world as we know it will be in dangerous peril.”

He cringed a little as he remembered her words. Still, she’d seemed so earnest and sincere that he’d found it a little hard to refuse, even with the paltry remuneration that they’d offered in exchange for his services. Besides, she’d let slip knowledge of some of his more obscure investigations over the years that meant she, or whoever she represented, knew of him, and probably knew, or at least suspected, what he was.

In other words, I’m a sucker for beautiful women. he thought to himself sardonically as he continued to glower at the door. This wasn’t the first time he’d been stupid enough to agree to silly requests like this, and he had the horrible feeling it wouldn’t be the last. Still, the task was so vague it grated on his nerves. All she said was that the event would happen around the docks within the next fortnight, would portend an ‘age of destruction and anarchy’, and what he needed to do would be immediately apparent.

He cringed again as he sighed once more. He’d already wasted a week around the docks, and all that walking around the seedy side streets and trolling the various establishments for information was starting to drive him insane. While he’d dug up more information about his other projects, there was absolutely no information about what this lady had expected to happen. There’d been no strange ships, no cargo that seemed out of place, and no unconventional or outlandish people had come to town under any circumstances, suspicious or not. Nothing had happened, nothing seemed likely to, and contemplating another week of this pointless searching was enough to make him feel like tearing out his hair at the roots.

Still, a job was a job, and his conscience wouldn’t let him just discard it. Nor, as he begrudgingly admitted to himself, his libido. Seeing that woman smile wouldn’t be a bad thing.

That being said, skulking around in dark allies in the middle of the night in the pouring rain had never been high on his list of priorities, and being on a wild goose chase just made it feel worse. Running a hand through his rain soaked hair, he contemplated smoking a cigarette, but figured lighting it would be too painful in these conditions.

Hang on a tic…

He squinted a little out of habit, even though it did nothing to enhance his vision, which was already unnaturally good even in pitch blackness. There was a strange glow coming from behind the warehouse, one that had definitely not been there before, and was definitely not from any of the sodium streetlamps – those did not glow a strange, sickly shade of purple.

A sudden rush of exhilaration, and relief that maybe he might finally have something to do, ran through him as he shoved his hands into his pockets again and made his way slowly around the warehouse, watching the glow out of the corner of his eye as it grew in intensity. She hadn’t been kidding when she said it would be apparent, had she? he thought to himself as he checked the small pistol in his pocket. The safety was off, and it was loaded and ready, as it always was. He wondered at how useful the gun would be though, if the source of the light wasn’t just some strangely colored hand-lamp, but too much speculation never did help anyone, especially where circumstances like these were concerned. He just hoped he wouldn’t have to fight. It was always troublesome, and he hated the physical activity.

His heart sank as he turned the corner and got a good look into the interior of the warehouse. Over a smashed crate burned an angry, purple light from which glowing tendrils had burst forth, lashing at the surroundings in a rather effective manner, given the damage he could survey. The light itself was strange, almost as if it were trying to coalesce into some form of pentagram.

Oh come on. I knew her stuff was going to be strange, but… not the occult again? And this doesn’t look like the normal stuff I’ve come across either… Ah crap. That’s a pentemychos… Don’t tell me that it means something from down under’s trying to make its way over here…

With an unnatural abruptness, the light snapped into well defined lines and flared upwards and downwards, forming strange glyphs that outlined a large portal.

Sighing, he pulled his pistol out of his pocket. The pentemychos had been a naturally occurring one, from what he could tell of its configuration, just like one he’d seen about a century back, but the symbols and markings for this one were far from similar. In fact, the glyphs looked vaguely Mesopotamian, instead of the more familiar ones which he’d come across, which most Satanists and occultists had adopted as part of their usual decorations, much to his amusement. I wonder if they realize that they’re trying to summon a portal to Hell onto their bodies…

The unfamiliar symbols flared. Once, twice, then once more, and an unearthly shriek filled the air as howling winds erupted from the gateway.

Squinting a little and shielding his eyes partially, he took careful aim.

He knew as soon as a emaciated hand broke through the barrier that the gun was probably useless, but he figured it wouldn’t hurt to try. Squeezing off a couple of shots into the rotting flesh of the chest and torso that followed did nothing but elicit a shriek of rage from the skull on top of it. A rather disgusting specimen of a skull, actually, given the strips of decomposing flesh that hung from it and swayed slightly in the winds.

WHO DARES? came a booming, otherwordly voice, emanating from the figure standing almost three meters tall in the middle of the floor. WHO DARES COME AT AH PUCH?

Ah. So that’s what it is, Celestin sighed as he finished off the rounds in his revolver into the apparition’s face, then slid it back into his pocket and stepped forward. Lord of the Underworld, also known as Yum Cimil. That means that woman was a descendent of the Mayan Diviners, and this is probably a harbinger of… an earthquake?… No, that’s Cisin. War, then, or disease. She could’ve warned me at least… He’s a big old bugger, he is…

“Over here,” he called as he sauntered over. “That’d be me.”

HOW DA…

“Yes, yes,” he drawled lazily, deciding that now would be a good time for a smoke. The winds had receded, and the rain had let up a little. “Can we skip past the pleasantries and introductions? Why are you here?”

I AM SUMMONED. IT IS TIME.

He raised an eyebrow. “Time for? English lessons, maybe? I’m still trying to figure out how come you’re speaking a modern language instead of Mayan.”

NEED PROVIDES.

“Cryptic, aren’t we?” Celestin finally gave up and chucked the damp matches, chewing lazily at the end of his cigarette. “What time is it? You still haven’t told me.”

THOU SHALT SEE.

He sighed. “I’m sure I will, but there’s a slight problem.” Unbuttoning his great coat and stretching a little to ensure he could move freely, he continued to walk toward the god. “I’ve been tasked to… take care of you, and I don’t really like the idea of a god of death and destruction walking around the world anyway. Why don’t you just go back to where you came from?”

IMPUDENT MORTAL. THOU SEEKETH TO ORDER ME TO RETURN?

“Pretty much. I always hated archaic English to begin with, and coming from the mouth of a Mayan death god, it makes even less sense.”

He leaned to the side as a wave of force shot past him, smashing into crates behind him and splintering them into miniscule pieces.

“Not too friendly, are we?” he sighed, accelerating into a run.

THOU HAST NO HOPE AGAINST ME. THOU ART MORTAL. MY MERE TOUCH CONFERS DEATH.

There was a loud crunch as his fist connected with the skull. Amazingly, Ah Puch staggered backwards a step or two as Celestin landed lightly on his feet, dancing backwards to get out of range of its long arms.

“Ouch,” he grinned as he waved his hand around.

THOU ART NOT MORTAL.

He shrugged as he ran towards the god again, dodging under the wildly swinging arms and wincing a little at the smell of rotting flesh. This is never gonna come off my coat… and it’s one of my favourites too… As he jumped up again to throw a flurry of punches at the god’s head and chest, his mind raced. This was at most going to distract him, but to actually defeat him would need more than just a physical beating. He wondered at his chances of killing a god of death, which seemed pretty unlikely just by the sound of it. The sad thing about it was that he had never been that interested in Mayan mythology, and aside from knowing that the god of death existed and had an eternal adversary, he never really bothered with the intricacies.

No point whining about things undone, or chances missed, I guess, he thought to himself as he pivoted in mid-air, avoiding yet another wild swing, and planting his heels squarely against the god’s forehead. The resulting crunch felt satisfyingly effective, as did the sight of splintering bone and the accompanying roar of frustration. Still, I’m going to have to find some way to wing it if I’m going to have any chance of walking away from this one.

Ah Puch roared again, a cry of indescribable rage, and crossed its arms above its head as it reared upwards.

“Had enough already?” Celestin called out, shaking his right hand a little. His hands were both going numb from striking the god’s head, which was ridiculously hard. His eyes widened as the god’s arms began to glow, and once again, the tendrils of light began to form. “Crap.”

He barely dodged the first one, and was hard pressed to get out of the way of the ones that followed, sprinting madly backwards to avoid getting his limbs lopped off, which would be rather inconvenient.

Ah Puch roared again, making his ears ring. This is getting tiresome, he thought. I’m not getting anywhere by pummeling him like this, and it looks like I might be in… ah crap. He hissed in pain as a tendril caught him by the ankle. Surprisingly, it did not burn, but getting swung around by the foot and smacked into a couple of pillars and piles of debris hurt enough.

He shook his head to clear it as he was elevated to a level where he could behold the cracked empty sockets of the god in far too much detail to be comfortable. Passing a hand over his face to wipe off the blood from a gash on his forehead, he felt the pain as his body began to knit itself together again.

THOU ART NOT MORTAL.

Celestin sighed as more tendrils whipped around and wrapped themselves around him in a cocoon. “I think that’s rather apparent by now, don’t you?”

WHY DOST THOU WANT TO HINDER ME? THOU HAST LIVED MUCH, AND THOU HAST SEEN MUCH OF THE CORRUPTION OF HUMANKIND.

“I rather like humankind, actually,” he replied as he tested his bonds. Secure, and rather difficult to escape. Curses. “Naïve, stupid, sometimes malicious, but infinitely fascinating to observe.”

IT HAS BEEN DECIDED. HUMANKIND IS TO BE REMOVED.

“Decided by whom, exactly? I didn’t realize there was a council who had the influence or political power to vote to end humanity.”

IT HAS BEEN DECIDED. HUMANITY WILL BE REMOVED.

Grinning, Celestin closed his eyes. “I wish I had your conviction, but I think she believes otherwise.”

Ah Puch turned and beheld the light surrounding the strange lady who had employed Celestin. She was dressed in a simple flaxen robe, with an ornate mantle and strangely shaped headdress, and a strange golden light enveloped her as she chanted quietly under her breath. Celestin smiled as the god’s attention was diverted, and exhaled.

Wailing, the god dispelled his weapons as Celestin turned to mist that slipped through the light, then reformed at his feet. I might not be able to kill him, but I might be able to hold him still for a while at least. Removing a glove, he winced as he grabbed hold of the god’s leg, and exerted power. The feedback was familiar, but more than a little disgusting. With the god held frozen in place with the energy flux, he turned to watch as the light coalesced into two humanoid shapes.

The lady smiled an exhausted little smile as the gods stood. “Hunahph and Xbalanque, please help us.”

The Hero twins? The ones who tricked the lords of the underworld? Celestin smiled. This woman has a sense of humour, at least.

Wailing, the death god struggled as the twin immortals strode towards it, grabbed an arm each, and keened a loud, piercing cry that shook the earth, and gave Celestin one of the worst headaches he ever remembered. His eyes screwed up tightly, he watched as light grew between them, then, like before, stretched into a huge portal which they promptly stepped through, dragging the god between them as Celestin quickly severed contact.

Then all was silent.

He turned to regard the lady quietly.

“I believe I owe you my gratitude, immortal,” she spoke quietly.

“You owe me an explanation,” Celestin snapped, his eyes glowing gold for a second before he got his sudden rage under reign. “You knew what I was, you should’ve told me what to expect.”

She smiled and nodded. “The Conclave had decided that you were more than capable of handling any situation that arose.”

“That’s not even close to an apology, or an explanation.”

“That is correct, daywalker.”

Celestin sighed. “Get your facts straight, woman, you and your conclave both. I’m no vampire, no matter what my skills may be.”

She arched an eyebrow in surprise.

“You have had your assistance, and I expect to be promptly paid. Triple the price that was agreed on, in view of the stupidity you just put me through.” He stared at her hard and cold till she blanched and nodded. “And I expect that you will not bother me again. I have been alive for more millennia than your silly little conclave can hope to conceive, and if you wish to incur the wrath of the last remaining loup-garou, I wish you the best of luck.”

With that, he turned, replacing his glove, and sauntered off into the morning light, craving mightily for a cigarette and some alcohol. It had been far too long a night.

Fin

‘Can I have a shot of whisky, please. Suntory Hibiki, 30 years old, straight up.’

His grin widened as the bartender immediately turned to get a shot glass. He’d been mildly worried that the place wouldn’t have any of it, and wasn’t too keen on anything else at the moment. After all, ever since his first visit to New York, he’d figured he’d have to start things off with a nice, stiff drink if he wished to maintain whatever little sanity he still possessed.

He nodded lightly in acknowledgement as the bartender placed the shot glass before him, then proceeded, while sipping, to the huge gothic windows that lined the upscale penthouse club. Not to say that it was pretentious. Far from it, in fact. The muted designs and color palette paid generous tribute to the architecture, and enhanced the dark mood it possessed, as did the strange musical arrangement of Albinoni and Rachmaninoff.

Smiling to himself, he leaned against a pillar as he stared out at the city spread out below him. Strangely enough, Bruce Wayne felt right at home.

Taking another pull from his shot, he stared at the sea of blinking lights, wondering whether his leads were worth his trouble. The news that Dent has resurfaced here, of all places, made little sense, and his supposed plans at weapons acquisition were even more ridiculous. They could’ve been taken care of just as easily in Gotham, without any need for the long travail to this city, but…

He couldn’t leave the rumours alone. Harvey had become more and more erratic in his actions ever since his accident, and the last thing he wanted was to leave something to chance that might end up with dire consequences. Especially since Gotham was getting messier as time went by, and he hadn’t been too keen on leaving things unmonitored.

‘Nice out there, isn’t it? It’s a beautiful city at night, when you can’t see everything too clearly.’

Bruce winced a little. He wasn’t sure when he’d let his guard down, but apparently, it’d been enough for him not to steer clear of present company, who he usually avoided like the plague. The gentleman who’d joined him was jarringly irritating. Everything about him screamed ‘look at me’, from the flashy Versace suit with no tie and undone cuffs, to the shot glass of Islay whisky he was swirling, to the lopsided, almost predatory, grin on his goateed face. To say he looked out of place in the quiet club they were in was a gross understatement.

‘Tony,’ the man said, extended his right hand. ‘Tony Stark, of Stark Enterprises. Never thought I’d see the illustrious Bruce Wayne come over to a hovel like New York though. Comes as quite a surprise.’

Controlling an abrupt need to crush Stark’s hand between his fingers, Bruce smiled and shook his hand.

‘Charmed, I’m sure. Some personal affairs require my presence here for a while. And what gives me the honor of speaking to Iron Man?’ True to form, Stark had brazenly announced his alter ego to the world at a press conference. Granted, he was well-placed enough for it not to have any major effect on his business and holdings, or on him proper, given his lack of enemies at the time, but the reckless disregard for himself and those around him irked him mightily. Then again, I’m sure Alfred has a lot to say about me too…

Stark grinned his megawatt grin as he puffed up and preened himself a little. Bruce wondered if the electromagnet in his chest was contributing to how bright his smile was – it was near blinding.

Still, it was obvious by his gaze that Stark was no fool. He’d managed to locate him and get physically close to him, bespeaking not only intelligence and resourcefulness, but also a fair amount of physical prowess. Now all that remained was to ascertain what he was here for.

‘Look, let’s cut the chatter and get down to business,’ Stark said, making Bruce blink at the sudden change in his demeanour. ‘You know who I am. Almost everyone does nowadays. What I want to know is who you are, and why you’re here.”

“Your company profile is amazingly neutral, meaning you’ve sunk your fingers into so many pies no one really knows what to make of your investments in general. The only thing you haven’t done so far is to go overtly into military tech, which I’m sure you’re into on the sly. Who isn’t, right?”

Bruce shrugged his shoulders non-commitally. He’d been forced to, but it did have its rewards. While he contributed armour and devices and vehicle designs to ensure personal safety, he’d been able to upgrade his own equipment. It was either that, or he rely solely on his skills and prayer, and prayer didn’t stop bullets.

“Now what I want to know is why you’re here in New York, attending a military tech conference, and why it is that there have suddenly been sightings of the Batman around these parts all of a sudden.”

Bruce found no difficulty maintainking his mask of composure. Apparently the folks in New York were more alert, or at least more outspoken than their Gotham brethren. ”I’m not sure I get what you mean, Mr Stark-”

“Tony. Please.”

“Tony, then. I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

Stark leaned in a little closer, making Bruce lean back just a fraction. He was starting to get impressed with this strange man. It was the first time in a long time he’d actually felt as if he was being backed into a corner, and this by a shorter, almost slightly built man.

“Don’t play coy with me, Wayne. I’m not stupid, and I entertained the idea of being my own bodyguard before. I don’t know and I don’t care if you’re the Batman, or if he’s in your employ. Just make sure the Bat doesn’t tread on any toes here. This is my city, and if he wants to start one of his little wars here, like you’ve had in Gotham, I will personally pin his wings before I decimate whichever hobo he’s chosen to come after. Are we clear on this?”

Bruce smiled and raised his eyebrows.

“Well… I’ll try to let him know? Though I must say you’ve got a rather overactive imagination there. I don’t know who he is, and I’ve always thought vigilanteism was too… vulgar for words.”

Stark stared intently at him, almost as if he were tempted to hack into his brain, then shrugged.

“Just tell him,” he said as he turned to leave. “I’m a territorial man, and I like my city the way it is. Please don’t make me have to sweep up afterwards, or I’ll be very, very annoyed.”

Bruce smiled and turned back to stare out the window again as he listened to the sound of Stark’s Ferragamos against the black marble floor fade.

Things were going to be interesting.

To one as used to the hardship and rigeurs of warfare as he was, he was actually mildly surprised that he could be this… unsettled… at such trivialities, but the fleshlings were slowly but steadily driving him insane.

Then again, the way things stood, they were probably not fully to blame.

Sitting next to his brightly colored and mildly annoying comrade, he glared sullenly at the fleshling children as they boarded him and drove off on their usual daily trip to… wherever it was they went. He didn’t really care. He was actually rather fond of… Sam, his name was, after the fiasco with the Decepticons. He’d proven his mettle, Bumblebee was fond of him, and while he WAS rather highly strung, he generally left him alone most of the time, so things were nice and civil for all concerned. Mikaela was also generally… civil. Though she did seem a tad too fascinated with his guns and what was under his hood on occasion. It made him slightly uncomfortable to have her lean into him quite that much, but he was thankful she didn’t generate the same effect on him that she did on Sam. He looked occasionally as if he was on the verge of a processor meltdown.

Sam’s parents, however, were a far different story.

He grumbled to himself a little, a black pickup truck with what sounded like an idling engine.

He’d probably been associating with Ratchet a tad too much, given the ‘bot’s tendencies to rationalize and analyze. They were starting to rub off on him, and it was getting rather… irritating. For lack of a better word. As things were, he was already so disgruntled his logic centers were barely in harmonic oscillation.

There was, first, the planet. A small world, third in the young solar system in a young nebula. Primitive peoples, primitive technologies, and so much water it made his metal skin crawl. The humidity was generally within acceptable limits, but there were days when the condensation was so bad, he felt his paint was going to be permanently stained and eaten through. He already looked a little the worse for wear, and the last thing he wanted was to start looking like Bumblebee had when he first infilitrated the humans and their cities, all rust-eaten and weather-beaten and looking like a scrap yard escapee. The poor soul.

Then there was the matter of Sam’s… rodent. While the boy had called the thing a chihuahua, a canis subspecies, the overanxious, almost hysterical, constantly yapping thing seemed more rodent than dog. He still hadn’t completely… forgiven, the human word was… the little mutt for lubricating his foot. True enough to his fears, the patch HAD rusted, no thanks to the little rodent’s highly acidic urine. Add that to the fact that the nervous little rat had a tendency to pee on anything whenever it felt threatened… and the thing it peed on tended to be his tyres… He was generally rather pissed. And while he realized that there was a horrendous pun, he couldn’t find it in him to be amused…

And lastly, but far from the least, THEM.

Sam’s parents.

A more irritating pair of beings he had never encountered. In all the millenia he had been online, he had never come across anything that came remotely close to the sheer frustration of having to interact with this infuriating pair. The first encounter with them had already been highly taxing, and he’d not totally been jesting when he mentioned that taking them out as an option. He’d actually felt a twinge of regret when Prime went ape on him and demanded to know what had scrambled his processors. Not so much because his fearless leader had been angry, but more because he had said no.

And now that they were attempting to live in hiding amongst humans, and given that Bumblebee had elected to stay with Sam…

He cursed Ratchet for having the foresight of choosing a search and rescue vehicle that could not be driven by civilians. He cursed Prime, though not quite as vehemently, for choosing his rig. Prime didn’t really have a choice, given his overall size and stature. You could hardly expect the leader of the autobots to choose a Choro QQ or a Mitsubishi i as an alt mode after all. But most of all, he cursed himself for the sheer stupidity in choosing an alt mode that was so… family friendly.

And speaking of family friendly, THEY were here.

The sound of their bickering as they yapped about the humdrum details of their miserable little lives in technicolor detail. The way their banter fell on his audio sensors made him wish that Prime hadn’t warned him, in no uncertain terms, that if he were to attempt to kill, harm, hurt, or even lightly singe them, he would dismantle him personally and reassemble him so his head would come out partway out his posterior.

It was just so tempting.

And the worst thing of it was… the mother was carrying the rodent. And they were both headed towards him in an unmistakable fashion.

Too late, he contemplated revving his engine and tearing out into the street at full speed, claiming there was an emergency and that the Decepticons had returned. In the nanoseconds he took to compute the possibilities of that particular tactic being successful, a manicured hand had pulled open his passenger seat door, while a familiar greasy weight was settling into his driver’s seat.

What are you doing, may I ask? he growled sullenly, wondering to himself what would happen if he transformed right now with them inside.

“We need to go shopping at the mall, you silly thing,” thrilled the mother, her free hand flapping around ecstatically. “Sam just called and said that he wanted us to join him and Mikaela for lunch! Those sweet young things… I’m sure it was Mikaela’s idea, you know, Sam is hardly EVER this thoughtful…”

“But he did get you that nice set of earrings on your last birthday,” chimed in the father, shifting his ponderous behind against Ironhide’s poor deformed leather seat. “You can’t deny that…”

“But he did that after Mikaela suggested that! Remember how he was telling us that she’d dragged him to the store when she found out it was my birthday and…”

“Don’t talk bad about your own son, eh? He’s a goo…”

Ironhide revved his engine loudly, distracting them.

Might I enquire… why are you asking me to drive you there? You DO have your own vehicle.

“Oh Hide-y, don’t be such a spoilsport. It’s just to the mall, and you’re so much more comfortable than that cheap piece of trash that HE drives.”

“Hey! I resent that! It’s a classic vehicle!”

Holding back a frustrated sob, Ironhide ground his gears together for a while before finally, reluctantly, starting his engine. It was only a short drive to the mall anyway. The faster he moved, the less he would have to put up with this idiocy.

Then he felt a warm wetness on his back seat, accompanied by a series of yips.

“BAD MOJO!”

He contemplated suicide at that point. Maybe Jazz HAD gone on to a better place. Any place was probably better than this.

Resisting the urge to test his hypothesis about whether he could function as a meat grinder if he transformed now, he pulled out of the driveway slowly, the mother apologising profusely as she ingrained the rodent’s urine deeper into his leather seats.

It was going to be another of those days.

Millie couldn’t care less. She was pissed off, and was determined to get pissed drunk as well.

Of all the nerve. What do you know, blondes really DO have the IQ of a decapitated turtle, no matter what se… gender they are. She leaned back as she took another swig. Stupid, pigheaded, idiotic twit. Can’t think of anyone but himself can he?

She sighed, though it came out more like a growl, and hunched down over the bar counter, glaring at her beer. It wasn’t working quite as well as she’d wanted it to, and it was already her fourteenth mug. She was still sober and fresh as a daisy though, and it was not helping her mood one bit.

Bloody ungrateful bastard. After all I’ve done for him, does he think one bit about what I want? Go back to ZAFT, I said. Get your affairs in order, I said. Go sort out your life, I said. And when I told him I want to be a war photojournalist, what DOES he say? The prick! She grabbed the mug and finished off the beer in one quick chug before slamming it back down on the counter and motioning for a refill.

“Easy on the hardware eh, lady?” breathed the bartender in a husky voice. It wasn’t surprising to see why he had it. There was a huge mass of scar tissue over the front of his neck, which probably involved the insides of it as well. Millie cocked an irritated eyebrow, and waved him off as she hunched over her newfound best friend.

He’s worried about me, he said. War’s a dangerous thing, he said. As if I didn’t already know. I mean… She shook her head as images of Tolle rose unbidden in her mind, and the abyss of depression loomed below her, waiting for her to take the plunge. Ah, screw this. I served on the Archangel. I was nearly killed so many times I’ve lost count. So has HE, for that matter, and while he spouted all that nonsense, he was STILL going out there. And he’s got the CHEEK to tell me that he wants me safe on PLANT with him, away from war, while he goes out to stick his neck into the middle of it. NO BLOODY WAY! I’m NOT gonna be some silly demure housewife sitting at home with some tear-drenched hankie waiting for my man to come home!

She took another violent swig, but put the mug down rather more gently this time, earning a relieved smile from the bartender. She stared at the contents of her mug again. It was already half empty. She sighed and hunched over the bar counter again, puffing her cheeks out as she contemplated chewing on the sleeves of her jacket in sheer frustration.

Ignorant, chauvanistic PIG. I should’ve known he was too good to be true. Coming in on me all suave and sexy and like he’s all that. Like some kinght on a charger out of some kid’s dream. Gods, reality took a big bite outta me with that one. There I was thinking I’d met the perfect guy, and he turns out to be the galaxy’s biggest thickhead. What was I THINKING?!

Almost as if they’d had a mind of their own, her eyes grew wet, much to her shock. Maybe she was less sober than she’d thought.

No. NO. There’s NO way in hell I’m gonna be caught crying. Not here. Not like this. This is so STUPID! I REFUSE to cry over someone like that idiotic blonde AIRHEAD.

Huffing, she ran her sleeve over her eyes, rubbing a little to clear the moisture. Not that it seemed to be working.

“Errr… Hello?”

“What?!” she snapped as she spun around.

She was met by the sight of a thin, pale man with ash-brown hair, wearing orange tinted shades. He looked dizzily happy, and a little shocked, possibly a bit concerned.

“Millie?”

Dearka opened his eyes, then blinked. He’d been dozing while propped up against his fence, and hadn’t expected to be woken for at least another half hour at least. And above him, there was something above the top of the fence.

Wincing as he stood to the merry crackling of stiff joints, he turned to locate the source of the greeting. It was readily apparent, actually. There was a hat sticking out over the top of the light blue fence that seperated the houses. The compounds, rather. After all, when one was the son of a member of the ZAFT Supreme Council, it was rather difficult not to own an estate that wasn’t the size of… well. The last time he checked, it was about 3 football fields or so. Or maybe 4. He couldn’t remember. Whatever it was, it was easy enough to hide in the estate, at least, and it ensured the kids had plenty of space to play in. It also made hide and seek murder – a fact he was thankful for at the moment, since that was exactly what he was doing.

However, he had been found, somehow, by some strange cosmic coincidence, and thankfully, not by someone in the family, who would promptly drag him back to the mansion and insist that he supervise the kids in some way. Or do housework. Something along those lines, anyway.

Now, he just had to figure out who it was.

“Hey there,” he ventured tentatively, waving.

The hat raised a hand and waved back. “You doing ok? Don’t usually see people skulking against fences like that”

“Yeah,” he replied, feeling rather sheepish. “Sorry bout that. Needed to get away.”

Dearka watched, bemused, as the hat bobbed up and down as if it was nodding. Or at least, the head it was on was nodding. “Yeah, we all get times like that. Family getting a bit too much to handle?”

“Yeah, kinda. I mean, one son, one daughter, and a pair of twins which make it TWO sons and TWO daughters… egads, it’s enough to drive someone crazy.”

“Holy… You must REALLY love your wife!”

Dearka laughed. “More than she’ll ever know. Hang on, wait a minute. Who are you?”

“Ah, sorry bout that. The name’s Gordon. I just moved in here not too long ago.”

“Ah, hi Gordon. Name’s Dearka.”

“Oh my, an ace pilot in the flesh. Really?”

“Nah, not really. I didn’t really do much anyhow.”

“You’re too modest, really.”

Dearka grinned a little, then his brow creased. Why am I talking to someone I don’t even know? He scratched his head a little in confusion, then shrugged his shoulders. It wasn’t like talking to a neighbour would kill him, and it’d be nice to establish some nice friendly ties amongst the neighbours. Surely Millie wouldn’t object to that. “So, Mr Gordon, you just moved in huh? Where’re you from?”

“Down the street really. I moved exactly three houses down after the last family here moved. The place was bigger and such.”

“Ah. I see. Kinda, anyway.”

There was a long silence as he tried to think of something to say.

“So, Gordon, what’re you doing over there anyway?”

“Some gardening. I find it rather therapeutic. And it keeps me away from the wifey when my ears need to take a break.”

“You too, eh?”

“We all need a break sometime, yeah.”

“Glad I’m not the only one then.”

They both chuckled. Suddenly curious, Dearka went on tiptoe and leaned forward against the fence.

“Whoa there!” said Gordon as he turned around.

Dearka arched an eyebrow. “What’s wrong?”

“Sorry,” replied Gordon as he cleared his throat. “Shy, I guess. Don’t like people seeing my face. You’re ok with that right?”

“Yeah, I’m cool.”

There was a another long, strange silence, and Dearka suddenly felt a strange urge to, well, confide. His eyebrow twitched as he wondered why. “So…”

“Heh, yeah. The allure of talking to a stranger is kinda interesting, isn’t it?”

“What are you? Psychic?” Dearka asked in some alarm.

Gordon laughed. “Nah, not in the slightest. Used to have a neighbour like you once before, kinda. Some guy called Tim. He had the occasional spat with the wifey sometimes, and the occasional kid problem, and he always used to walk right up to the fence and start talking to me about it. It was kinda weird, but kinda comforting too. Nice to know that I ain’t the only one with the problems, and problems are smaller when shared.”

“I guess,” Dearka replied tentatively, rubbing the back of his neck in uncertainty. It WOULD be good to have someone to chat with, about things in general. Especially since Yzak had up and shacked up with that quiet woman… she was the sister to the pilot of that Red Zaku Warrior… ah yes. Hawke, was it? Meiri? Meirin? Something like that. Yeah. Ever since Yzak and Meirin had gotten married and moved, he’d been feeling rather overwhelmed. One pretty wife and four beautiful children, all stubborn, strong-willed and manipulative as hell.

He shuddered a little as he remembered how his daughters had pulled their teary-eyed gazes on him on so many occasions to get dolls, then dresses, then miscellaneous accessories and jewelry, especially the elder one. And the boys weren’t much better either. They’d perfected their puppy dog eyes, and it was all he and Millie could do not to cave in.

Given the sheer number of girls they had chasing after them [not counting those impudent whippersnappers that even dared to breathe near his girls], they were a testament to good genes leading to good progeny. And TERRIFYING progeny as well.

There were plenty of times he would’ve killed to get away though, when things got tough, and the tension in the house was so thick you would’ve had problems cutting it with a beam saber. And ever since Yzak had left, and with Athrun and Kira being so busy with THEIR women, he’d been dying for someone to talk to. Especially someone who WASN’T part of la familia.

Still, he couldn’t take chances. He’d have to run a full background check on this Gordon before he’d even think of talking of anything beyond the mundane things like the weather. The last thing he needed was his private life splattered over some tabloid for the entertainment of the masses, like that small fiasco with Athrun and Cagalli during their honeymoon. Granted, Cagalli DID look like a boy, but calling Athrun a closet gay pedophile and Cagalli a dyke was just low. She LIKED wearing caps, jackets and pants. What was wrong with that?

It was tempting though, and an option he might look into. Having a new friend, a sane one who’d offer some good ideas out of some of the horrors his family could come up would be nice.

“We’ll see, eh, Gordon? We’ll see. Now excuse me a second.”

“Alright then. See you around, neighbour.”

Dearka smiled and waved back as Gordon waved and the hat bobbed away from the fence, backing up into the bushes behind him. Reaching down, he twisted and yanked with both his hands, eliciting loud yelps of protest from his twins.
“HEY! LEGGO!!!” wailed Darienne as she stood up shakily as Dearka pulled at her long blonde hair, looking paler than her usual fair complexion.

“YOU should talk, he’s got my EAR!” whined Myca as his fingers clawed the air ineffectually while his father quickly changed his grip to grab his auburn hair instead, his mocha skin a few shades paler through the pain.

“Didn’t I tell you kids never to eavesdrop? And never to try to sneak up on me?” Dearka said, an evil smile on his face as he wiggled his hands around a bit, much to their consternation. ‘Come on, back to the mansion. I think your mother and I have something to say to you.”

Their wails faded in the distance as they made their way back home.

That was the foremost thing on his mind as he resisted the urge to take his head and drive it through a wall. Repeatedly. Behind him came the joyous sound of a two year old screaming with laughter as he pelted his merry way through the house, waving a rattle like it was a sword as he chased after the yowling family cat, a battle-scarred grey furred tom that had seen better days.

Before him sat a bundle of giggles. A very hyperactive one as well. A very porridge splattered hyperactive one. He groaned as his cat and his kid hurtled past again, squeezing his temples as the worst headache of his life [over the last fifteen minutes anyway] threatened to beat his brains out of his skull. With a warhammer.

Feeling horrified, yet numb, he looked at himself. Once, he was a elite pilot for the ZAFT forces. Once, he had been the pilot of the Buster Gundam. He had survived the battle of Yakin Due. He had survived countless battles before and after that, even after they’d taken the Buster for research and shoved him into a crappy Zaku Gunner. And now…

He was wearing an apron. A porridge splattered apron. Porridge was in his hair as well. On his face too. On his arms. On the tiled floor. In short, everywhere. He looked a mess, just like his house. Having two children was taking its bloody toll on him, as was the thought of the one on the way.

He sighed. This is all MILLIE’S fault…

And while she was off doing… whatever it was that editors do in her posh office where Lacus had gotten her a job with some top notch news firm, where she also doubled up as her personal agent, he, the much decorated illustrious former ace warrior was now reduced to doing housework.

He hadn’t complained when peace had come, no. He’d welcomed it. After all, that gave him and Millie a well-earned chance to finally settle down. She had looked so radiant on their wedding day. Even more so on their wedding night.

And in ten short months, their first child arrived. He’d been so happy that day, he felt he could burst with all the joy he was filled to overflowing with. Needless to say, all hell broke loose in no time. The advent of their second progeny made things moderately worse, and now that a third was on the way, he was really REALLY beginning to dread staying home. After all, it made him do crazy things, like praying for a war to break out. Or piracy. Or a minor border skirmish. ANYTHING to get him out of the house.

She laughed, gurgling cutely as she patted him on the head with one chubby hand, squealing with delight as her brother made another pass through the battlefield that used to be a kitchen.

He sighed. Like it or not, I have to get her to finish this. She’ll never grow up right, otherwise. Smiling, he stirred the porridge, took a small spoonful, and lifted it up. “Aeroplane’s coming in now, baby. Say ahhhhhhh~~~”

She obliged, laughing. And when the spoon was mere millimeters from her face, she batted it away, sending the porridge splattering onto his face.

“Millie, where ARE YOU?!?!” he wailed.

Nearby, as if by some cosmic joke, the kettle whistled its merriment and the clogged sink decided to do some overflowing of its own.

“Wha?…”

Millie sighed. “A cradle. Yes. We need one of those. Together with a coupla sets of baby clothes and booties. Pairs of em. I’m guessing one blue and one pink should do.”

She looked up from the list she was making and stared exasperatedly at his face. It had the distinct look of someone where the lights were on, but no one was home. Irrationally, she contemplated knocking on his forehead to check if his head was hollow, but decided against it. At the moment, it just might be.

“Hello? Dee? Can we get back to business here?”

Dearka started. “Huh? Oh yeah. Right. Business. What did you call me here for again? You said you needed me to help buy some things. What were they again?”

Another gusty sigh escaped Millie’s lips as she sagged visibly. This had been going on for almost fifteen minutes.

“CU. RAY. DAH. UL. As in, the thing you stick babies in so they can sleep. And we need to get baby clothes and stuff as well. And it’s kinda early, but we probably need to think about infant formulas and whatnot.”

She winced as she took another look at his face. His jaw had sagged visibly open, and there was a look of utter and total incomprehension. Mixed in with equal parts horror and sillyness, judging by the goofy upturn to the edges of his mouth. She had a feeling that if she sat him down next to a stunned herring and a worm and made them do an IQ test, the stunned herring would win. The worm might still lose.

“Wha?…”

Okay, the worm would win hands down too. She rolled her eyes. It was time for some decisive action.

Walking up to him, and amazed that he barely noticed, she slid both hands to the open lapels of his jacket, took firm hold, and started shaking him. “GET A GRIP, YOU LAMEBRAIN! It was BOUND to happen sooner or later!”

Her eyebrow twitched twice in quick succession as she realized that his overall lack of motor response, in other words, his general floppiness, was probably a good indication that his brain had shut down. It had probably been the word ‘babies’. Why was it that men tended to go brain-dead at the mention of progeny? They WERE a natural outcome of a relationship that involved marriage after all. After all, what did they want their own little world for if they were the only two people in it? It’d get boring. The sex may be good, but…

Oh for Pete’s sake…

She smacked both her palms against his cheeks, finally getting a stunned grrrnk out of him, and dragged his face so their noses were touching.

“Now listen carefully, Dee. As much as I wish it were so, we’re buying these things for LACUS and KIRA. Do you understand the words that are coming out of my mouth?! LACUS and KIRA. She’s THREE MONTHS pregnant, and it appears that Kira’s genes pulled through, cuz their doctor is willing to stake his money that they have TWINS.”

“Eh?” Dearka shook his head. “So you’re?…”

“Not me, you ninny. LACUS.”

Dearka sagged. She couldn’t really tell if it was with relief or whether he was crestfallen, but she fancied the latter. “So you’re…”

She rolled her eyes heavenward and smacked him between the eyes.

“OW!!!”

“Gods, I married a moron.”

Holding the bridge of his nose, Dearka protested, in muffled tones. “HEY! It’s not BY fault! Yoo dook be by surbrise!”

“And you don’t want kids, is that it?”

“OF COURSE I want kids! Just didn’t expect em quite this early. We’ve only been married like…”

Millie arched an eyebrow. “Right, and when you take into account the number of times we’ve…”

“Good point.” Dearka turned a brilliant scarlet, which she still found amusing. It was amazing how easy it was to embarass him, even now.

“Ah well,” she sighed as she leaned in closer. “That means we just need to try harder now, don’t we?”

He never thought it’d be possible, but he was quite sure that he turned redder.