Everyday Dagaz: Chemists

"Well, I'll be."

Michael heard surprise, anger, and a hint of fear in Fiona's voice. He turned, followed her gaze. "What?"

"Keith O'Connor, in the flesh."

Irish name. Michael scanned the crowd. He didn't see anyone who looked like a former IRA compatriot of Fiona's, but she didn't look like a former IRA figther herself. No one looked particularly combat-ready, either. Fiona was always combat ready. Even in bed.

"He hasn't aged a day."

Michael scanned the crowd again. There, at the shaved ice shack, were two teenage boys. One had light brown skin and tightly-curled back hair, a guitar slung over his back. The other hand pale, freckled skin, glossy red hair, and an electric five-string bass slung over his back. He threw his head back, laughed at something the other boy said, and he had classic Irish features, the high cheekbones and thin lips. 

"The wannabe emo rockers?"

Fiona nodded. She reached up, tugged her shades down to perch on her nose to cover her opportunity to stare. "The ginger. I'd know him anywhere."

The kid was slender, wearing a faded punk-rock t-shirt, with the sort of wiriness Michael associated with running or swimming. "What was he?"

"A chemistry student," Fiona said.

Improvised explosives expert, she meant. 

"What's he doing in Miami?"

"I have no idea. Last I checked, he was dead."

The teenage girl at the shaved ice shack handed both boys their treats, and they pocketed their change, turned to go. Fiona had stared too long and too hard. The redhead turned toward them and paused. Recognition crossed his face, and he caught his friend's shoulder, shoved, hurried him toward the sidewalk where a couple of skateboards were propped up against the low wall of a planter.

Michael called out, "Hey Keith, long time no see."

If looks could kill, Keith would have been dead, and his friend would have been a murderer.

But Keith bit his lip and sighed, shook out his shoulders, and started toward them.

"I don't know you, sir, but I do know you." He lifted his chin at Fiona.

"Keith," Fiona said. She looked him up and down, lip curled in disdain. "Still so...juvenile."

Keith winced. "Still so acrimonious."

"No one likes a traitor."

Keith lifted his chin. "Family first, wasn't that our motto? Turned out half of my family was on the other side of the barricade."

"Really," Fiona said, "you haven't aged a day."

"Aye. And neither have you."

Up close, Keith and his friend were definitely teenagers. 

Michael said, "What brings you to Miami?"

Keith tugged on the strap of his electric bass. "Battle of the bands."

"I didn't realize you liked music," Fiona said.

Keith shrugged. "There was a lot we didn't know about each other. I played cello in the school orchestra and me mam was a Prod. You fell in love with an undercover CIA agent."

Michael raised his eyebrows. "I thought you didn't know me."

"Knowing of someone isn't the same as knowing them." Keith shrugged. "So...we have to be at soundcheck. No snitching, ho foul, right?"

"Wrong," Fiona said. "My brother's dead because of you."

"On the contrary - your brother's dead because a British soldier shot him. My own brother is alive because of me - no thanks to you." Keith raised his snow cone in salute. "You had a gun at his head."

"He was a Prod."

"He was eleven," Keith said flatly. He leaned in, his voice low and dangerous. "If you want to play the 'who was worse game', I can defeat you roundly. Believe me." And he said something in rapid, rolling Irish.

Fiona went pale. "I didn't mean to. I was sorry. I didn't know --"

"And I did. You'd have done the same in my place." Keith straightened up. "So...enjoy your stroll along the beach. We're going to win a battle." He turned and walked away, toed his skateboard flat, and hopped on. His friend did the same, and they quickly vanished into the crowd.

"What was that about?" Michael said.

"I was wrong. He's not a teenager anymore." Fiona sighed, tossed her head. "Call Sam. I want mojitos."

Everyday Dagaz: Linguists

The thing about working in a close-knit community like Stargate Command was that people got to know each other. Jack recognized the faces of the low-level guards who kept an eye on the elevator on the first floor (they had no clearance and no clue what went on so far down below). Jack recognized the marines who came in and out, the scientists and support staff. He recognized them all because he was a nice guy, because he was observant, and because he wanted to be sure there wasn't a foothold situation going down in his base. Given how close-knit Stargate Command was, it wasn't uncommon to run into comrades while out on the streets in Colorado Springs. Admittedly, recognizing the girl in the fluffy white tennis skirt as the sergeant who always brought Jack his paperwork was a little difficult, but Jack learned to smile and wave. He was a commanding officer. It improved troop morale if the lower ranks felt known and recognized by their commanding officer. Jack was pretty sure he'd recognize that little white skirt anywhere.

 So when Jack was standing in line at a Starbucks trying to remember the name of that fruity concoction Sam liked, he wasn't too surprised when someone said, "Hey, surprise seeing you here." 

He turned around, ready with a morale-boosting smile and wave, and then he froze. He was pretty sure the supermodel pretty boy standing in front of him wasn't one of the troops at Stargate Command. In fact, the way he was wearing his platinum-blond hair long and parted down the middle like some throwback to a nineties boyband guaranteed he wasn't from Stargate Command, because that haircut certainly wasn't regulation. Jack liked to think he'd remember someone with such electric blue eyes, too.

 But then Daniel said, "Hey! Dylan! What brings you to Colorado Springs?"

 Dylan shrugged. "On my way to Fashion Week in LA. Just got done in New York. Thought I'd drive myself, take the scenic route." 

Hah. Jack was right. Kid was a supermodel. Or maybe a designer?

 Daniel's face lit up. "That's wonderful. Still modeling, huh?"

"Still working on my dissertation about functional Enochian." Dylan smiled.

 Several women in the vicinity sighed. Jack resisted the urge to sigh for an entirely different reason. "What brings you to Colorado Springs, though?" Dylan looked Daniel up and down. "And what's this - hitting the gym? Military haircut? What happened to the geek I know and love?"

"Working as a civilian contractor with the military, actually. Analyzing artefacts accidentally disturbed during foreign operations," Daniel said, and wow, guy was a smooth liar. Jack narrowed his eyes. Had Daniel lied to him about something in the recent past? Like remembering when he was ascended?

"I heard a crazy rumor that you'd died," Dylan said. 

Daniel ducked his head, blushed. "Just a rumor." And there - he was a terrible liar. Dylan furrowed his brow, and then he stepped closer, said something totally gibberish. Except it wasn't gibberish, because Daniel replied in the same gibberish. Dylan arched an eyebrow and tried another language, which Daniel matched. Jack wasn't much of a linguist, really only had a little Arabic and Spanish to his name, but for the next five minutes, Daniel and Dylan chased each other through at least a dozen different languages. The game finally ended when Dylan gave up on a language Jack strongly suspected Daniel had picked up on an alien planet, and both men laughed.

"You've picked up some new ones since we spoke last," Daniel said.

"So have you." Dylan clapped Daniel on the shoulder. "It's so good to see you again, especially after those horrible rumors. I'm in town for two more nights. We should have dinner. Bring your friend." Dylan turned his dazzling Hollywood smile on Jack.

 Jack raised his eyebrows. "Who, me? Sorry. I'm pretty limited to English."

"We'll speak English just for you," Dylan promised.

"I'd love to," Daniel said, "but I'm probably going out of the country to visit a dig site."

Dylan pouted. The women in the vicinity cooed. "Next time we cross paths, then. Dinner's on me. I know government pay is crap."

"Next time," Daniel agreed. The girl at the cash register called for Jack to place his order, and the prospect of imminent caffeine distracted him from Daniel and his suspiciously pretty friend. By the time Jack had ordered for himself and fumbled through Sam's order - soy milk, caramel - Daniel had ordered his coffee and Dylan was gone.

On the way out to the truck, Jack had to ask. "Who was that guy?"

"Old friend of mine from LA. We did linguistics together. Guy's a natural. Mother was Norwegian, so he grew up bilingual. Gave him a crazy head start over the other kids in the program."

"You were in college together?" Jack called the boy's face back up in his memory. "How old was he?"

"Regular college student age, actually," Daniel said. "It was uncanny. He hasn't aged a day."

"I'll say." Jack fished into his pocket with his pinkie and dragged out his keys. "You drive. Sam'll kill me if I spill her drink."

Daniel nodded. "Sure thing." He accepted the keys and trotted around to the driver's side door. Jack hovered beside the passenger door, waiting for Daniel to unlock it. Daniel had gone to college with a supermodel. Who knew.

Everyday Dagaz: teachers

The new biology teacher, Mr. Basanov, was hopeless. Amelia sat at the front of the classroom and watched him duck his head, avoiding students' gazes while he pretended to rifle through his stack of notes. Amelia was by no means a queen bee, but she was popular for a reason. She was good at reading people. And she heard, loud and clear, the tale told by every twitch of his hands, bunch of his shoulders.

After the bell rang and the door was closed, the students settled down. There were several new teachers this year. Amelia had heard that Mr. O'Neill, the new teacher, was smokin' hot. 

Mr. Basanov lifted his head, cleared his throat. "Good morning. This is ninth grade biology." He paused. "Since none of you have bolted from the room, I presume you are all in the right place."

"Don't you mean assume?" That was Trevor Conley. He walked the fine like between class clown and class bully. "You know what they say about assuming."

Mr. Basanov blinked, taken aback, then averted his gaze. "Let's start with roll call."

He was tentative with the pronunciations but did better than some teachers, accepted nicknames a little too passively. Then he scooped up the stack of syllabi. It was the first of many for Amelia. 

They were blue and photocopied and stapled neatly. Mr. Basanov had worried the edges of the first one with his nervous fidgeting and the sides were curled and creased. 

He thrust the stack at Trevor, who grinned and leaned back, didn't take it. 

"Take one and pass it on, please," Mr. Basanov said. He held the papers out again. 

Trevor reached out. Mr. Basanov tried to hand the papers to him, but Trevor closed his hand into a fist at the last second and the papers hit the floor. Mr. Basanov flinched and knelt, started scooping them up. 

Trevor kicked some papers out of his reach. "You know our names, but we don't know yours. That's not fair."

"I'm Tobias - I mean. You probably shouldn't call me that. I'm Mr. Basanov." He scooped up some more papers. He might have been cute, if Amelia were into skinny, pale men with sharp features, vulpine dark eyes and fluffy, disheveled dark hair. He looked too young to be a teacher. That was probably because he was the same age as actors who played teenagers on TV. 

"Tobias," Trevor said, emphasizing the sibilance of the last syllable. "You were a nerdy, unpopular kid in high school, weren't you?"

Mr. Basanov's response was muffled from below desk level. "I was."

"How did that work out for you?"

"Well --" Mr. Basanov popped up onto his feet, mess of papers in hand. He began straightening them with long, graceful fingers. "One day after school a group of football players attacked me with a baseball bat. Terribly cliché. Put me in the hospital. And then one day after school they were torn apart by a pack of wolves and now here I am, your biology teacher." He handed the stack of syllabi to Trevor, whose mouth was hanging open. "Take one, pass them on."

Trevor obeyed. 

Amelia watched Mr. Basanov for the rest of class, the don't-look-at-me hunch to his shoulders, the don't-notice-me dart of his gaze, the don't-hit-me of his posture, and wondered if there wasn't something else beneath. 

At lunch, she saw him with Mr. O'Neill, supervising the chaos of the cafeteria. Amelia and her friends had staked out the table closest to the teachers' regular post so she could get her fill of looking at Mr. O'Neill. Tall, lean, ice-blond, blue-eyed, with a face Pygmalion would have died to carve and died again to animate, the new art teacher was stunning. 

He was, also, apparently friends with Mr. Basanov. 

"You actually told them that?"

"I told you, I was never meant to be a teacher, or any other authority figure."

"What did they say?"

"Nothing."

"Man, if you get reported on the first day --"

"I won't get reported. It's not like I told them I can turn into a wolf and I took the first chunk out of the running back."

"Good point."

Dagaz/WW Crossover

Leo sat just to Jed's left at the head of the conference room table. He scanned the faces of the other men and women seated at the table, all career military leaders and advisors, all decorated and well-respected, intelligent and prepared. They all looked terrified.

"So our only option is to, what, just let them keep on slaughtering their own people?" Jed demanded.

"The resources it would take --" one general began.

Another shook her head. "The international relations we would be straining --"

"What makes their people less worth our military protection than our people?" Jed asked.

One young man at the other end of the table, so low-ranking he wasn't even seated, cleared his throat. All gazes fixed on him. He was a good soldier and didn't even flinch.

"If you really want to do this without spending our military forces or causing an international incident, there may be another option."

Jed raised his eyebrows, cast a glance at Leo, but Leo could only offer a minute shake off his head; he had no clue what the young major was referring to.

The young man reached into his pocket and drew out a business card, slid it down across the table. Jed caught it and turned it over, and Leo leaned in to peer at it. There was no name, just a phone number. An international number.

"What is this?" Jed asked.

"They're freelancers," the young man said.

Jed's jaw tightened. "You mean mercenaries. What will this cost me?"

"You'll have to ask them," the young man said.

Jed scanned the other faces at the table. "Why do none of the rest of you know about this?"

The two generals exchanged pained expressions.

"It's a last resort for us. They rescued Harper, so he knows them. But --" The woman shook her head. "It's very last resort."

"What did they want from you?" Jed asked.

"To shut down an old military weapons testing program from the sixties that was basically defunct anyway." She pressed her lips into a thin line.

Jed turned to the man. "And you?"

"Access to some old Civil War service records."

Leo watched the gears turning in Jed's mind. Neither of those requests sounded particularly dangerous, although he suspected there was more to the defunct military weapons testing program than the lady general was letting on.

"So I just…call this number?" Jed picked up the card.

"It's a video conference line," the lady general said.

Jed took a deep breath. "It couldn't hurt to ask."

The lady general rose up. "I'll set up the connection, and then everyone else will need to clear out of the room."

"This is something out of a spy movie," Leo muttered.

"If something's too good to be true," Jed murmured back.

Once the line was ringing and the video conference was set, all of the uniforms shuffled out of the room, including the young man who'd given them the information in the first place.

Only Leo, Jed, and the two general remained.

Despite having seen far too may action and spy films, Leo wasn't sure what to expect of a mercenary team so secret not even the president knew about it (and Jed was probably stewing about that fact as the line rang). Leo certainly didn't expect to see four male models in cammo gear sitting on ammo boxes playing a game of cards while a fifth model adjusted the camera and tapped the mic.

"Hey, we have an American number coming in," the dark-haired, dark-skinned man said. He spoke with a smooth British accent, upper-crust and well-educated. "English mode, lads."

He settled back so they could see the rest of him. He looked barely older than twenty-three and had Indian features, dark eyes and a white-toothed smile. Like the rest of his compatriots, he had military-short hair. Judging by the expanse of green foliage around them, they were in a jungle, perhaps South American, since it didn't look like any jungles he remembered from Vietnam.

Several languages were being bandied about the card game, none of which were English, but as soon as the man whistled, the cards were abandoned and six young men were crowded into the frame, peering at whatever screen.

"Isn't that --?" the blond one began.

"Aye," said the redheaded one. He had an Irish accent. "The American president."

Another dark-haired one - pale-skinned, with an Eastern European cast to his features - tilted the camera up a smudge. "What we can we do for the esteemed POTUS?"

"Are you aware of the situation in Kundu?" Jed asked.

"Tobias? Gabriel?" the British-Indian one said, glancing over his shoulder.

What happened next was bizarre. The curly-haired boy grabbed the Eastern European boy by the shoulder, and both of their faces went slack, their eyes distant.

"How'd you get this number?" the Irish one asked.

"One Major Harper suggested you might be able to assist us," the Lady General said, and when the Irish one saw her, he smiled.

"Well, hello again, General Mullally. And you, General Ostroff."

Ostroff nodded his greeting tersely.

Tobias and Gabriel came back to the present with twin gasps of breath, their eyes bright with horror. They exchanged a wordless look with their leader, and his expression turned grim.

"Kundu," the British-Indian one said. "Horrible situation. You're hesitant to send troops in, I assume?"

"The international relations ramifications are more than a little troubling," Jed said.

The British-Indian chuckled. "Spoken like a true politician. So you want us to go in there and fix things, then?"

"How can you fix them?" Leo asked.

The young man shrugged. "How would you prefer - mercenary strike? Dissension in the ranks? Populace revolt? Natural causes toppling the leader and an imbecile replacing him?"

Jed blinked. "You can just - go in there and take care of the problem however you want?"

"We're the best," the British-Indian said.

This was too much like a spy movie.

"What would you want for payment?" Jed asked. "Because no one does anything for nothing."

"That's not true, and also terribly cynical," the British-Indian said. "But you're right - our jobs come with a price." He glanced over his shoulder at the others. "Who's up next for a little clean-up? DJ? Keith?"

The blond and the Irish one shook their heads.

"What about Christian? Wait - where is Christian?"

A crashing through the undergrowth startled everyone. Leo flinched, momentarily thrown back to a jungle in Vietnam.

All five young men reacted instantly, armed with guns and knives and spread out in a defensive position so fast it was almost inhuman. Leo blamed it on the delay in the connection.

"Easy," another young man said. "If I were trying to ambush you, would I have made so much noise? I got that fish Tobias asked for, and some local herbs and spices. I think we deserve a nice meal after a job well done."

"Put the fish over there," the Eastern European once said, and Leo guessed he was Tobias, but he was confused because the young man's voice was familiar. Leo could only see his cammo pants and boots.

The young man tied the fish to a low-hanging bough, leaving them swinging and lifeless in the breeze, like Billie Holladay's strange fruit. Then he hunkered down with the others.

"We have a new client, then?"

"We're negotiating terms," the British-Indian one said. "Gabriel got scrubbed clean on both lives, so who's next? DJ and Keith say they're both clear, so I think that just leaves you."

The young man shuffled into position with the others, and when he finally looked into the camera, Leo's throat closed.

"Corporal Little?"

The young man - strawberry-blond, freckled, pixie-faced and compact - had served with Leo in Vietnam. Or the young man was a spitting image of the boy who'd dragged him, wounded and dying, away from the wreckage of his fallen helicopter. But the way the young man's eyes widened in recognition at the name was uncanny. Perhaps he was a relative?

The British-Indian sighed. "Christian. You know someone on the other end of this call?"

"Leo?" Jed asked.

Christian scrubbed a hand over his face. "I - yeah. Remember, I did a tour in Vietnam while you were busy sleeping your way through French diplomats?"

"I reckon this means Christian's the one who needs scrubbing next," Keith drawled, amused.

The British-Indian man grinned at the camera. He looked completely unruffled. "All right. In exchange for cleaning up the mess in Kundu, you need to locate the service records of one Corporal Christian Little - he served in Vietnam - and destroy them. Remove any traces of him from the system, carve his name off the monument if you have to."

Leo gaped. "Little? How? You haven't aged a day!"

"It's why we're the best at what we do," the British-Indian man said. "So, do you agree to our terms?"

"We can do that," Ostroff said. He glanced at Jed. "Mr. President?"

"Let me get this straight." Jed leaned forward. "You --" He pointed at the Christian -- "served in Vietnam with Leo? I'm supposed to believe that? You look like one of the punks from those boybands Zoey used to listen to."

"No one ever suspects a boyband boy of being a soldier," Christian said, shrugging one shoulder.

"Do you accept our terms?" the British-Indian man asked again.

Jed looked ready to ask more questions, interrogate Christian - and it really was Christian, all blue eyes and soft southern drawl - but then he reined himself in. "Yes."

"Then what are yours?"

"Peasant revolt," Jed said. "Let the people save themselves."

The British-Indian man glanced over his shoulder at Tobias. "You have something Kundunese to work with?"

"I can modify Gabriel a little," Tobias said. He reached out and grasped Gabriel's shoulder, and his face went slack, distant again. Leo and the others could only stare in wonder, confusion, awe, horror as Gabriel's skin darkened, his face twisted and morphed, and then Gabriel was gone and a native Kundunese man sat in his place, wearing Gabriel's clothes and Gabriel's amused expression.

Tobias lowered his hand. "Look authentic enough?"

"For now," the British-Indian man said. "We'll borrow a couple of actual natives once we land." He peered into the camera. "Give us seventy-two hours, and you'll have your peasant revolt. I'll send someone by to check the Vietnam Memorial."

And the connection cut out.

"That was bizarre. And insane. Does anyone else feel like they've gone insane?" Jed asked.

Mullally scrubbed a hand over her face. "Every time I talk to those boys. Every time."

"Who are they?" Jed asked.

"People we're systematically wiping out of our records," Ostroff said. "But wait, and watch. They always hold up their end of the bargain."

Leo stared at the blank screen where his former comrade's face had been moments before.

Sure enough, on the news that night, reporters were talking excitedly over footage of a citizen revolt against the military coup, strategically-planted homemade bombs followed by a wave of civilians armed with guns and machetes, and by the next morning, the coup was over.

Ostroff ordered someone down to the Vietnam memorial.

Seventy-two hours after that unbelievable phone call, Leo stood in front of the black granite wall, searching for Christian Little's name. There was a smooth blank spot where it should have been.

"I figured you'd be here," Christian said.

Leo spun around.

In person, Christian was just as Leo remembered, short and slender but leanly-muscled, only this time he was wearing jeans and a jacket instead of an army uniform, and he looked like an ordinary tourist instead of a seasoned soldier or a world-changing mercenary.

"How is this even possible?" Leo asked.

"The same way a peasant revolt against a military coup in Kundu was possible." Christian jammed his hands into his pockets, the gesture boyish, nervous. "I told you my rescuing you wasn't a big deal. You risked your life for this country. Me - I risked bullet wounds and pain. But not my life. Never my life."

"You still saved me."

"Looks like I made the right decision," Christian said. "Now, forget about me, all right? It's the only way I can get my work done."

"What is it you do?"

"Same as I did when you first met me. I'm a soldier. I fight."

"Why?"

"Because it's who I am." Christian smiled. "Good luck, Leo. Take care." Then he turned and walked away.

Just Say It

DJ was halfway out the window and up onto the roof to stare out at the lights in Victoria harbor when he saw it, the faintest glint of it, taped to the edge of the windowsill. It was a slender paper packet, white enough to blend in with the paint. When he peeled it away from the wall and turned it over, he saw it was guitar strings. Brand new guitar strings, to replace the ones he'd broken learning to play that dreadful song with the jumping chord hammers and with the chorus it was almost impossible to hear, "Go now, you are forgiven." But he ducked back inside and grabbed his guitar, levered it carefully up onto the roof, and he sat with it across his knees as he restrung it, the harbor lights dancing across the steel like a thousand wandering stars.

When Celia finally climbed the final heights of the roof - how she made it through the leafy boughs below without making a sound, he'd never know - DJ had the thing tuned and was picking out a low melody. He glanced up, saw her crouched in the shadows, and immediately he shifted into the chords of a familiar song, a little Elliot Smith.

Cellia sank down next to him and sang the chorus of Miss Misery, and he heard what she couldn't say in proper words, felt it when she ducked in for a kiss.

Thank you.

For not giving up.

When she pulled back and curled into his side, he reciprocated the only way he knew how, with skittering notes and jumping chord hammers, and he tried to accept what she'd been trying to tell him for so long.

"Go now, you are forgiven."

Pay (revised)

Original post is here.

 He was fifteen and tall for his age, still narrow in the shoulders, and completely and utterly grass-stained. Asia suspected, after the last time she’d seen him, any hope he wouldn't like Arcturus was futile. He even moved the same, which was uncanny. How could she still find things uncanny when she lived with a quislai, a genie, a fire elemental, and a dragon?

 The boy was fast, skilled from practice. Asia felt something tug in her chest when she saw the rest of his teammates stand in a circle around him for a pep talk. Arcturus had been fifteen when he pulled the sword from the stone, and he was king soon thereafter, leading his men into battle. She remembered how much Emrys had fretted that the only table he could find on such short notice for the inaugural council meeting was circular.

 The players spread themselves across the field once more, and James began shouting orders. Asia watched the teenagers move with ragged synchronicity. Even in practice, James ran his team like they were in competition. Then one of the boys made wild, flying kick, and the ball came right at Asia’s head. 


She reached up and plucked it out of the air.

 “Sorry about that!” James trotted toward her, waved his arms. “Give us a throw-in, would you?”

Asia sauntered down the bleachers toward the sidelines. She hefted the ball a few times, then looked at him, considering. “What will you give me if I give this back?”

The confusion on his face was priceless. Apparently he’d never been challenged like this before. “We’re in the middle of practice.”

 Asia spun the ball on her index finger. “Indeed you are, but as soon as this left the pitch it was no longer in your possession, and now it is in mine. So...what are you willing to pay?”

 “Pay?” James echoed. “That ball belongs to the school --”

 Asia remembered baiting Arcturus when he was king, just to see the way his cheeks flushed and his eyes burned bright.

 “Pay,” she said. “What will you give me?”

 James patted down his pockets reflexively. “I don’t have any money, but --" He lifted his head, green eyes blazing. "This is madness. Can we have the ball back, please?”

 The rest of the players were getting restless. Asia raised her voice. “What say you, lads? How much for your football? Is it worth a kiss? Maybe two?”

 The boys gaped at her. One of them laughed; another let out an indecorous whoop and holler. James turned bright red.

One lad was brave. “Go on, James, kiss her!”

 James prowled toward the sidelines, wary and still blushing. He was muttering under his breath, and any other mortal wouldn’t have heard it, but Asia did. She was going to share his first kiss?

Change Everything

“I need you to keep a secret for me,” Asia said, apropos of nothing.

Riley blinked. “Me?” He didn’t usually get a sword, so the fact that he was in Asia’s stunt cave of all manliness was a rare event.

Asia nodded without looking at him - she was trying to fix a stray piece of armor. Riley thought that was the costume department’s job, but Asia was filled to the brim with odd skills like that.

“Okay.” Riley set down the stunt sword very carefully, lest she say something utterly shocking and he dropped the sword on his foot. “What’s your secret?”

“It’s for James,” Asia said.

Riley felt himself light up, and it took the best of his actor discipline to smooth his face into a calm, half-interested mien. This was the sort of gossip Fiona and Serena would kill for. “For him? As in I should tell him?”

“As in it’s for his benefit, but I hope for your sake you never have to tell him,” Asia said.

That was downright cryptic and, Riley suspected, not really all that romantic. But he stepped closer and lowered his voice, adopting the demeanor of one both interested and sincere. And he was interested and sincere. But he was also dying of curiosity.

“You can tell me your secret,” he said.

“If something should ever happen to me,” Asia said, “and James ever gets the feeling that he’s being...watched. Or followed. Or whatever. He’s not being paranoid. He needs to get in touch with Tobias immediately and tell him what’s going on, and Tobias will keep him safe.”

Riley raised his eyebrows. “Will something ever happen to you?”

Asia glanced up from her armor-smithing. “These are perilous times, friend.”

“Why would people start following James around if something happened to you?” What could have been immensely romantic was now just confusing. Riley resisted the urge to sigh.

“Because today I’m going to let James kiss me, and that’s going to change everything.”

(334 words)

Spilling the Beans

He was sitting alone on a bench in the park, watching boys kick a football around a field. They had more enthusiasm than skill. James couldn’t remember when he’d been that enthusiastic - about anything, but he was an actor, and he could get by at work without prying questions.

“I’m surprised you’re not out there playing.”

James looked up, saw a stranger standing beside his bench. The stranger was about his age, slender, pale but dark-haired. He had shadows around his eyes and looked tired - or possibly ill.

As if he’d read James’s mind, the man tucked a lock of hair behind one ear and said, “Leukemia. It comes and goes. Makes me look like a zombie.”

“I’m sorry,” James said automatically, British at heart, and then, “Can I help you?”

“Not really.” The man smiled wryly. “I can help you, though.”

“How?”

“I’ll tell you a secret.” The man sat down on the bench beside James, leaned in and lowered his voice. “She’s still alive.”

James felt like he’d been dropped into the middle of an episode of Spooks. Was this a hidden camera prank? “She who?”

The man reached into his jacket. James tensed. They always had weapons in their jackets. He glimpsed dark steel, and his pulse skyrocketed - but then the man handed him a crumpled photograph.

“See the newspaper in the background? This was taken two days ago.”

What James saw in the photo robbed him of breath faster than a gunshot. “Asia.”

“Like I said, she’s still alive. And you can find her.” The man cast a glance over his shoulder. The only person James saw nearby was a skinny girl stretching out for a jog. “I should go. But I thought you should know their little secret.”

“Whose secret?”

The man nodded at the photo. “Theirs. Good luck, James Mallory.”

“Wait - who are you? Will you contact me again?”

“I’m Bob. And probably not.” He ducked his chin into his collar, jammed his hands into his pockets, and walked away.

James studied the photo, and he realized he recognized the others.

Asia’s brothers.

(350 words)

Eavesdropping

“What about him?”

Riley lifted his head, surprised at hearing anyone else’s voice round his corner of the set this early in the morning. He picked it because it was quiet, secluded, and he could study his lines in peace.

It took him a moment, but then he recognized the voice - Asia, the new stunt girl.

Riley wasn’t sexist, but that they had a stunt girl blew his mind.

“Yes, he’s as handsome and golden and glorious as ever,” Asia said. She sounded neither dreamy nor sarcastic; without seeing her face, Riley was hard pressed to gauge her emotion.

“No, I’m not going to say anything to him that isn’t perfectly polite or strictly professional,” Asia said. Now there was a touch of impatience to her voice. “I can’t begin to understand why you - or any of the others - would encourage me to engage in such unethical behavior.”

Golden and handsome - she had to be talking about James. To whom? Riley felt guilty for listening in, but Asia was such a cypher, and he was curious. And what could she possibly do with James that would be unethical, besides the obvious? Only maybe that wasn’t unethical, exactly, because she wasn’t James’s boss or his subordinate.

“I’m not in love with him,” Asia snapped. “It doesn’t work that way. Look, I have work to do. If you breathe a word of this to any of the others, I swear I’ll kill you.”

Riley swallowed hard. She sounded serious.

“Can this be the end of the discussion, please? I - no. I won’t say it. Don’t even - don’t you dare! Fine. I am not in love with James Mallory. Are you happy? Well, that’s the truth.” There was a long pause, and then Asia said, softly, “You never stop loving someone, not when you loved them the way I loved him. I really have to go now, Angel. Good luck.”

Riley hunched over his script when he heard her start to move. His heart was pounding. Asia was in love with James. James was mad for her. What could he do with that?

(350 words)

One Day, Until Then

James glanced at Asia out of the corner of his eye while she walked Stephen through his half of the sword routine. She didn’t know, and he would never tell her, that he’d been waiting for her all his life.

When he was eight, he’d started having a dream - the same dream, over and over again - of himself, crying and hungry, tearing through the forest with a bow and arrows, desperate to catch something for supper lest he, someone be angry. Halfway through the chase he ran into a man whose face was fuzzy, just out of focus, and at the man’s side was a cloaked figure, and James knew that underneath the cloak she was Asia.

When he was fifteen, he dreamed again and again of sitting in an ancient little Christian church, staring at the altar in which was buried to the hilt a sword, while a maid sat beside him and told him stories of golden deserts and foreign lands. In the dream he was no longer afraid and hungry, and she was no longer wearing a cloak, and he knew her face.

When he was twenty and getting ready for drama school, he dreamed he was dying, and she was crying as she held him.

And then he walked into his dorm room and met his new roommate’s sister...and she’d looked at him with nothing more than polite blankness.

James had never expected to see her in real life, had thought she was little more than a dream. To her, he was little more than an acquaintance, and every time her indifferent gaze passed over him, it was a solid blow to the chest, so hard he was robbed of breath for just a moment.

One day James would make her smile at him.

One day.

Until then...

“Hey James, you’re wanted on set!”

(309 words)

Go Time

“What do you think?” Christian, Keith, Tobias, Gabriel, DJ, and Angel huddled in the shadows, scanning the entrance to the building. Guards with sub-machine guns were stationed at annoyingly regular intervals.

“We could do a Princess Bride with Keith on fire and DJ creating a voice illusion,” Tobias said.

DJ hummed thoughtfully. “I think you’d have a better chance of doing a Sebastien Foucan from Casino Royale up to that third floor mezzanine.”

“Gabriel’s here,” Keith said. “We could walk right past the guards and do a Boondock Saints ice the Russians up in the penthouse suite instead.”

“We do have rope,” Christian said.

“That was a stupid idea and a stupid movie,” Gabriel said. “If we’re going to go Hollywood, why not just have Angel go Carrie at the prom?”

The other five stared at him.

“Carrie?” Keith echoed. “Really?”

Gabriel fought to not blush. “What? He’s totally capable of it –”

“How about a little X-Men?” Tobias said. He curled his hand into a fist, and bone claws sprouted from his knuckles. Keith snapped his fingers, and flames appeared over his fingertips.

DJ sketched a rune, and then he had a solid sphere of ice ready for the throwing.

Christian rubbed his hands together, and blue-gold energy crackled. He scooped up a fallen pipe, and Gabriel saw it spark.

“So we’ve got Wolverine, Pyro, Iceman, and Gambit,” he said. Then he frowned. “Wait a minute, does that mean I’m Dr. X?”

“Pretty much,” DJ said. He peered over the hedge. “And Angel is Dr. Grey.”

Angel squawked. “Wait, I’m a bloody bird?”

“But Angel, you love the ladies.” Keith grinned, and he launched a fireball toward the guards. It was go time.

(286 words)

You Need to Know

James could see around the edges of the blindfold, and he knew he was somewhere dim, dim enough that he couldn’t tell the color of the floors but light enough that he could sense shadows - people - moving around him. They spoke a flurry of foreign languages, jumping from one to the next that James was beginning to suspect, over the pounding of his heart, that they couldn’t understand each other at all.

He’d just been walking along the Thames, admiring the London Eye and the lights along the South Bank, and then it had been just like in the films, a black van, masked men with guns, a black bag over his head. James had kicked and fought for all he was worth, but then someone jabbed him in the neck and his world went white.

And now he was kneeling on the damp cement floor of some dimly lit room while his captors argued furiously. James caught snatches of Russian, French, and German, and maybe something else European - Norwegian? - but there were other languages in there that sounded almost completely made up.

And then a man spoke, in perfectly crisp Queen’s English, like the type MPs and the Etonian-Oxbridge elite spoke, and he said,

“Time’s up.”

Someone yanked the blindfold off, and James had to blink at the cliché, the single lightbulb swinging from overhead.

“Who are you? What do you want?” he asked, keeping his voice level.

“He really doesn’t look all that afraid,” one man said, and he had a bland accent, as if English weren’t his first language but he’d learnt it well.

“He’s an actor,” another man said, and he had an American accent, a strangely familiar voice. “He’s terrified, but he thinks he’s not going to give us the satisfaction.”

“We’re not going to hurt you,” a fourth man said, and James counted six in all.

“That’s what they all say, before they chop a man’s hand off,” James said.

A fifth man started to laugh, turned it into a cough. “He thinks we’re terrorists.” And he reached up, pulled off his mask. “Hello, James.”

James blinked. “You’re –”

“Not actually in a boyband,” Christian said. “We’re here to protect you, actually. You’re lucky it was us and not someone else who grabbed you.”

“Why did you bring me here?” James asked. If Christian was one of his kidnappers, that meant the others were...

One by one, Asia’s brothers tugged off their masks. That familiar voice had been Tobias, then, and of course the Queen’s English was Angel.

“We need a place to hold you until we can arrange for a safehouse,” DJ said, and it was strange, seeing someone James knew as artistic and dreamy and model-vapid speaking with all the efficiency of a seasoned soldier.

“Why?” James asked.

“Like Christian said, to protect you,” Gabriel said.

“From whom?”

“Everyone,” Tobias said. He offered a hand. “Now come on - there are some things you need to know.”

(495 words)

Holy Books

“I don’t know why more people don’t read the Bible,” Angel said. “It’s very comforting, no matter your religion.”

Asia tipped her head back against the coolness of the cement wall. “It’s only comforting if you believe its words. Otherwise it’s just...Early Modern English poetry, and not great poetry, for that matter.”

Angel smiled faintly. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil –”

“Because I am the God of Death, and this is my valley, baby,” Christian said, and he grinned.

Jo Seung peered up at them from the opposite corner. “They’re gonna torture us, aren’t they?”

Asia glanced toward the door. On the other side, they could hear the faint rattlings and mumblings of their captors. “Probably,” she said.

Christian shot her a look.

Asia arched an eyebrow and continued blithely. “Not just them, though. They’ve been paid, so they’ll pass us on to whoever wants us next.”

“You sound remarkably calm,” Jo Seung said.

Angel leaned in to her and said, too low for human ears to hear, “Just because we don’t die doesn’t mean we don’t feel pain.”

“Did you really think this was the first time I’d been captured?” Asia asked.

“I’ve been captured before too, obviously,” Angel said. “Usually I escaped – or died temporarily.”

Asia said flatly, “They don’t treat men and women the same in captivity.”

Angel’s mouth closed so fast his teeth clicked.

Outside the door, someone began to scream. Jo Seung flinched.

Angel said, “Ignore it – it’s just a recording.”

Jo Seung shook his head. “No – it’s Jamal. I know his voice!” His face was pale, his eyes wide.

“It’s a recording,” Angel said again.

Jo Seung began to shake.

Angel slid closer to him, wrapped an arm around his shoulders, began to murmur softly.

“That’s from the Qu’ran,” Asia said. “He’s Korean. Try something – Buddhist.”

“That’s stereotyping,” Jo Seung. “I’m Christian.”

Christian said, “Forget religion.” He shuffled closer to Jo Seung, nudged the boy’s shoulder with his. “Cowards die many times before their deaths, the valiant never taste of death but once.”

“I’ve been valiant,” Jo Seung said. “I’ve served The Change. But I’m pretty sure I will die a thousand times before these people are done with me.”

“If you like,” Asia said, “you only need die the one.”

Angel blinked. “What?”

But Jo Seung nodded. “Please.”

Asia turned to Angel and said, “What other holy books have you read?”

Angel began to recite from the Rig Vedas, and Asia closed her hands around Jo Seung’s neck. He was smiling as he listened, and then he closed his eyes, and Asia twisted.

(442 words)

Any Other Twenty-somethings

“Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly –”

“That’s pretty morbid,” Serena said.

James sighed. “I was trying to read.”

“Yes, aloud,” Katie said, and rolled her eyes.

“It’s actually not that morbid,” Riley said without looking up from his copy of Love in a Time of Cholera. “It’s about the Lady of Shallott.”

“There was a lady of wild garlic?” Serena wrinkled her nose. “Sounds like she’s totally your style, James.”

“She’s from Arthurian legend,” Riley said. “She was in love with Sir Lancelot.”

“I thought that was Queen Guinevere,” Serena said.

“She was in love with Lancelot too, but...well, lots of ladies fancied him,” Riley said. “That’s not the point. Keep reading, James.”

Katie arched an eyebrow. “He was reading for you?”

Serena hummed. “James does have a pleasant speaking voice.”

Riley turned a page in his book. “Read, minion.”

Soon the power would be back on and they could resume shooting. Till then, they were sprawled on the grass in the sun, pretending they were any other twenty-somethings, dressed in medieval gear and sitting in the lee of a fourteenth century castle.

(194 words)

Cry to Heaven

“Whatcha reading?” Tobias asked.

DJ didn’t even look up. “A book.” He turned the page.

“Goodness gracious me, I’m so unobservant that I didn’t notice.” Tobias rolled his eyes and perched on the arm of the sofa with the uncanny balance of a bird of prey.

“You can read the title.”

“Yes, well, Cry to Heaven doesn’t tell me much. It could be religious or weepy or whatnot,” Tobias said.

DJ said, “It’s none of the above.”

“Then what’s it about?”

“Revenge.”

Tobias blinked. Then he leaned in, peered at the cover, and sure the cover was bright red and all, but that didn’t tell him much. “So...revenge. Who’s getting revenge on who?”

“A boy is getting revenge on his father,” DJ said, “and he has to become a monster to do it.”

“Oh.” Tobias mulled that over for a moment, then said, “But you’ve already done all that. Surely a book pales compared to the real thing.”

The smile that curved DJ’s lips would have sent Jack the Ripper fleeing in terror. “You’d be surprised.”

Later, when Tobias read the book, he was.

(185 words)

The Mammoth Ego of Merlin

“You are such an egomaniac,” Asia said.

Angel peered over the top of the worn paperback and raised his eyebrows. “What makes you say that?”

Asia nodded at the spine of his book. “The Crystal Cave? And don’t think I didn’t see your copy of Le Morte D’Arthur and The Idylls of the King. Also, let’s not forget The Mammoth Book of Merlin.”

“I’m very interested in Arthurian legend,” Angel said.

Asia rolled her eyes. “Please. You’re just obsessed with how most legends turned you into a cantankerous old man with a massive white beard.”

A mutinous expression crossed Angel’s face, and he looked ready to launch into an age-old tirade, but then he said, “Actually, I’m fascinated at how you manage to not be in any of the legends. To my knowledge, no one ever mentions his page, squire, or personal servant.”

“Do you really want to know?” Asia asked. She plopped down on the other end of the sofa.

Angel closed the book over a bookmark (a tattered thing made of plaited yarn born of one of Keith’s bored days). “You actually know the answer?”

“Yes,” Asia said.

“Go on then. Tell me how history managed to utterly cock up one of our finest moments,” Angel said.

Asia leaned in and lowered her voice. “Well, after Arthur died, we went our separate ways. You became a samurai, but I stayed in the British Isles, and I returned to my ways as a wandering songstress.”

“And?”

“And I might have started telling stories about a wondrous king, a sword in a stone...and his cranky old wizard,” Asia said.

Fury sparked in Angel’s eyes, and his telekinesis laced the air. Pillows launched themselves at Asia from all sides. She laughed and batted them away. Angel lunged at her, and Asia leapt off the sofa, danced out of reach.

“You –!” Angel yelled.

Asia was still laughing. “Yes, me.”

Angel attempted to fling more household furnishings at her, but she just dodged. When they finally settled down, Angel picked up his novel.

“Fine, so maybe I had it coming, what with spawning Mordred,” Angel said. Then he tilted his head and looked at her, curious. “Why did you write yourself out of the legend?”

“Because no one would believe a woman was any good with a sword,” Asia said easily, and both of them knew she was lying.

“Do you think you’ll ever get a second chance with him?” Angel asked.

Asia frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Like with all the others – do you think you’ll have a second chance?”

“No.”

“But the prophecy –”

“Those are books, Angel,” Asia said, and she stood up. Maybe one day he would remember that he, too, had been there to witness the burial of the king, and he’d heard her say the words himself. Until then, he could keep reading and imagining.

(479 words)

Dirges and Love Songs

James flung open the door, still enraged at the absolute cock-up that was his afternoon improv exercise. His partner had been utterly unprepared – because, contrary to popular belief, improv required actual preparation – and everything had gone to hell in a handcart.

“Have you ever been stuck with Sanderson for an exercise?” he began, and he stopped short.

Tobias was standing in the middle of the room poised with a violin, eyes closed, making the the strings weep.

James took a deep breath, and then he closed the door quietly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

Tobias opened his eyes and smiled. The curve of his mouth was utterly gentle, but his eyes were pitch black, and he looked ready to cry. “Don’t worry, you didn’t disturb me.” He lowered his bow and stretched his neck. “Just thought my instrument needed a little love. School got in the way for a while.”

“I didn’t know you played,” James said. He sat down on the edge of his bed.

“I’ve played since I was a child.” Tobias reached into his pocket for a hanky and used it to clean the strings. “I used to practice every day, but then I decided on drama instead of music.”

“I play the guitar, but not nearly as well as you play the violin,” James said, awed. “I hear it’s one of the most difficult instruments to play.”

“Maybe,” Tobias said. “Do you have a guitar?”

“Sold it to buy books,” James said. “What song were you playing?”

“Old Russian melody,” Tobias said, and his smiled turned brighter. “It was a love song, but they all sound like dirges.”

James laughed. “Can you sing any of them?”

“Do you want to top yourself?”

“Fine. Can you play Flight of the Bumblebee?”

(297 words)

Paying the Piper

“What d’you suppose this is?” the professor asked. The slide changed to an image of a series of shapes, faintly tubular, encrusted with dirt and obviously fragile with age, bound together in a series of staggered lengths.

The students in the dimly-lit classroom made no move to answer.

The professor sighed. “Come on, put your thinking caps on! Look at it from an artist’s perspective. Why was it given this shape? What was it for – was it practical or ornamental or both?”

Tobias raised his eyebrow at the notion of thinking caps, because they were in Art History 101, not second grade. He glanced up at the slide, and then he felt something in his chest tighten. He knew that image instinctively, from some place buried deep inside of him. He raised his hand.

“Yes, Andrew,” the professor said, and the name ricocheted down to the soles of Tobias’s feet.

“It’s a set of pipes,” he said, “carved from the antlers of the deer driven on the steppes by the people who roamed Russia back in those days. It was tied with a strip of deer hide and used both to play music and also as a signaling device for hunters to communicate across long distances.”

The professor blinked at the eloquent answer. “Yes...that’s a very real possibility.”

Tobias knew it wasn’t a possibility – he knew it was the truth, because he’d played those pipes himself. He could close his eyes and see Asia – no, Kana dancing to his songs. If he had those pipes in his hands, he could breathe life and magic into them, he was sure of it.

But then the lights came on, and the lecture was over.

Tobias wondered what other skills were sleeping just beneath the surface.

(295 words)

Uilleann Pipes

“I might play the uillean pipes.” Keith slanted a glance sideways at Tobias, who was making a fine point of tuning his violin.

“I thought you played the bass,” James said.

“I do play the bass,” Keith said. “But I also play the uillean pipes.”

Asia raised an eyebrow. “I don’t ever remember you –”

“I might have picked them up in a moment of national consciousness,” Keith said.

“What are uillean pipes?” James looked slightly cornered with all of Asia’s brothers crowded into the tiny kitchen in his flat.

“The Irish equivalent of bagpipes,” Tobias said without looking up from his violin.

“Irish equivalent my foot.” Riley stood in the doorway, hands tucked into his pockets, grinning. “Uillean pipes sound far better than those Scottish honking geese.”

Keith broke into a grin. “A man after my own taste. Do I detect a hint of Armagh in you, m’lad?”

Riley grinned back at him. “Aye. And I hear some Ulster in you, I dare say.”

“Indeed.”

James cleared his throat. “So...how long have you been playing the uillean pipes?”

Keith started to say something, but Asia dug an elbow into his ribs, and he wheezed out, “Five years.”

“I have a set, you know,” Riley said. He reached toward the crowded table and poured himself a cup of hot cocoa. “Serenade us, why don’t you?”

Keith immediately turned a fantastic shade of red. “I, er, I’ve never performed before.”

“Why do you have a set of uillean pipes?” James asked.

Riley shrugged. “National pride. And my granddad played, too.”

“Tell you what,” Asia said, “sometime you play for us, and I will play for you.”

Tobias lifted his head sharply. “Since when do you play an instrument?”

“Didn’t you know?” James said. “Asia plays the piano. Hammers and strings.”

(299 words)

Learn to Fly

“If men were meant to fly, they’d have been born with wings,” Christian said. He stood on the edge of the tarmac and eyed the gleaming DC-5 with distrust.

Angel arched one eyebrow and levitated a coin briefly above his palm. “Or fairy dust.”

Even after six centuries (during which Christian had mostly been asleep, but the principle still applied) a poke at his inhumanity never failed to make him blush.

“We’re called Quislai,” Christian said huffily.

“But you can fly,” Angel said.

“No I can’t. Not really.”

“Well, Quislai can fly.”

“I stand by my statement,” Christian said.

“Then maybe you’re right, but...then that means you’re not really a man, are you?” Angel grinned.

“I am too a man. Just not a human one,” Christian said stiffly. He curled his hand around the handle of his suitcase.

“Well then, man up and let’s get this show on the road. Come on – your first commercial passenger flight. There’s nothing to worry about. If the plane starts to fall out of the sky, you and I are guaranteed to survive.” Angel clapped Christian on the shoulder and started toward the airplane. An attractive young woman in a smart uniform - they called them stewardesses - stood at the top of the metal stairs, waiting to greet him.

Christian took a deep breath, then followed. He really didn’t have a choice. And maybe he would learn something in this place called Egypt where Angel had once lived before. Maybe he would learn more about Angel...and her.

(261 words)