Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

FoF Party -- The Yacht
Evening of Day Seven of the Investigation

"Captain?" Elena Bothari saluted.

The grizzled captain returned the salute carelessly. "Close the door, Bothari," he said. She did, cautiously. "I got a report from the engine room," he began, fury glittering in his eyes. "What in the hell did you do to my ship?"

"I'm sorry, Captain Naismith, it was necessary. I'm sure you'll be reimbursed for the damages," she reassured him

"Have you ever heard the term cost overrun, woman? You will," he grated. (homage) "I don't know what that weasel you work for is doing, but you can bet I won't take this lying down. And I'm not helping him with his little schemes anymore, either. This ship is my livelihood, Sergeant."

Elena nodded. She had to remember that Naismith wasn't directing this dressing down at her. No, Naismith was chewing her out because he couldn't get at Miles.

Naismith slammed his open hand down on the console. "Do you have what you needed?"

"Yessir."

"Can I connect my GPS back up?"

"Sir?"

"What is it, Sergeant?"

"Let the Grubers finish it," she said, with a sudden smile. "They've been working so hard at it."

Naismith snorted, then waved a hand. "Make it so, Commander." (homage)

Elena saluted and made her escape.

Barbara the Wallpaperer
And continues..., - Tuesday, October 29, 2002 at 19:37:16 (PST)

She was no longer unconscious, but still oblivious to the surroundings about her. Voices, yes, could be clearly heard, but no words were made out. And what was this slight bounce? Her body felt the warmth of another living matter object… she was being carried. But by whom? she faintly wondered.

She didn’t remember much of anything. Her entire recent happenings seemed nothing but a blur whizzing by. All she did recollect was a deep, rich craving for something to drink and eat, and also the biting of the freezing, darkening water around her. Her hands had grown sore of hanging onto what remained of the deflated tube. She didn’t remember being rescued, and she certainly didn’t remember when exactly had she blacked out. It was like someone had taken a vacuum and SLURPED the memories right from her brain. All Diane knew was that she felt horrid. No. Worse. But she owed thanks, and a big one, to whomever had saved her from that icy, endless deep blue. And she knew as well as the next idiot that in another hour she would have been deader than a doorknob if not for them.

Her body flopped like a carp in a bundle of blankets, as a low, rich voice said a soothing word here or there. She also heard shouts of anger, or of at least intolerance, from behind. Her carrier’s footsteps quickened, but she only yawned.

Her holder turned sharply. CLUNK, CLUNK, CLUNK. Stairs. She felt herself being tipped a bit slanted, and she wearily tried to blink out her (once again) fuzzy vision. She gave a small cry when the low voiced man stumbled on a step, and nearly dropped her. But all was fine- she was soon dangling over his back once more, feeling much like a gunny-sack.

He stopped. Diane lifted up her head, barely, to catch a glimpse of the words *infirmary.* A sudden group of rushed voices sprung at her, and she wanted to wave them all away. The room felt suddenly very hot, and she twisted uncomfortably in her blanket.

"Thank God…," muttered Brandon, heaving in the doorway. "She’s awake!"

The Frenchman nodded, and set Diane on a bed. He stood directly in front of her, as if to block her from Brandon’s view.

Jasmine raced to Diane’s side, nearly knocking over a disgruntled Valmont. She took Diane’s hand in her own, and rubbed it with her thumb. "She’ll be alright, won’t she?"

A nurse looked up from her tablet, and stuck a pencil behind her large, protruding ear. "If we keep her warm and give her a few, good squares meals, she should be just fine in a couple of days or so. Right now she looks awfully blue though… better take her blood pressure."

Marianne, who was talking with Brandon, caught the part *she should be just fine.* She quietly nodded and exited the room and returned to the neck, announcing that Diane had a safe, and well return.

"Why do you tarry here so, Valmont?" Brandon raised a curious eyebrow and inched further towards the Frenchman. His hand lay calmly at his side, yet his eyes and firm lips clearly said that he meant business. Valmont only slightly shrugged. "She means nothing to you."

"Nor you either, Monsieur Brandon," he sniffed, his nose almost sticking haughtily into the air. "I have every right to stay with her."

"As much of a right as a needle in the eye. Leave her be."

"Touchy, touchy." Valmont clicked his tongue. Brandon said nothing, but pressed closer still.

"I said- Leave her be."

BAM.

Both men, startled, turned around to the sound of the slamming door. In it stood an enraged figure, whose hair had been tossed to the one said, due to running. His chest heaved in and out dramatically, also from the rapid jog. His hazel eyes drew away from Brandon and immediately laid upon Valmont, where they pierced with as much venom as possible.

"If you have laid one single hair on her…"

"Do not worry, monsieur. I have not harmed her." Valmont slid away from Diane’s bed, and went as close to Jamie as he dared. Then, in leaning over with his chilled lips almost touching Jamie’s ear, he whispered, "…yet."

Jamie could have done something- wanted to do something, but didn’t. He stayed his cool, and watched the Frenchman leave, an evil smirk pasted on his face. But, before he left, he mouth softly, "When you are not looking…"

Brandon came up to Jamie, and at first the two said nothing. It was Jamie who broke the silence.

"Where did you find her?" "Actually, in a very peculiar place. Seems her body and her tube happened to float onto a desolate island while Diane was sleeping. But what was interesting was… well…" Brandon almost turned pink.

"What? What is it?"

"Diane sleepwalks."

"Sleepwalks? How?"

"She was dancing- in her sleep."

Jamie tried his best to suppress a loud snort. Though it DID seem odd to him that she just happened to float to an island… He tried not the think of it, and just be grateful that she was alive. So he brought out his next question- one of more importance than the first. "And will she be all right?" The same nurse from before answered, while bending over and applying a cloth to Diane’s forehead. "She has a touch of the flu, but nothing more, if we give her proper care. Poor thing was chilled to the bone- until her fever skyrocketed."

Jamie’s face paled.

"Oh!" The nurse chuckled, her too-bright rosy cheeks shimmering in the light. "Do not worry dear. It’s nothing serious, you know." Jamie ignored her- his hand was running around his own throat. He looked to Brandon, then back to Diane. Only one thing ran through his mind. Ah… crap.
Diane <crescentmoonluna@aol.com>
When you write at 1 AM, this is as good as it gets! :), - Tuesday, October 29, 2002 at 15:43:10 (PST)

"A burning cactus strip of skin . . ."

Acccccck. *shiver* FOF Description of the Week.

Poor, poor Phil!

MA
- Tuesday, October 29, 2002 at 05:17:39 (PST)

FoF Party -- The Yacht
Evening of Day Seven of the Investigation

"Phil?"

Her voice came out of the half-light. Phil felt the world lurch drunkenly around him as he sat up abruptly in his chaise.

"Barbara?" he breathed.

She touched him on the shoulder and stepped around to crouch at the front of his chair. Her hand slid from his shoulder down his arm to his wrist, leaving a trail of hot prickly awareness, a burning cactus strip of skin. Her face was a white blur in the low light, punctuated by two dark spaces for her eyes and one grey blur of soft mouth. The straight dark slashes of her brows were curled up at the center, disbelieving concern was in her voice.

"Are you all right?" she asked. Warm air puffed from her mouth with the question, a scent of mint in it. She gripped his hand in her two, long fingers twining into his own. His hand tightened automatically and he sighed.

Her eyes widened, and the whites flashed in the soft lantern light. "How much have you been drinking?" she asked, in a shocked half-whisper.

"Not enough," he choked out, damned by tears that welled up unexpectedly. "Not nearly enough yet." (homage) One tear crept over the edge and spilled over, tracking down his face. "Damn," he hissed.

She reached out a long white finger and touched it. He jerked backward and instantly regretted the movement, as the world spun again. "Don't," he said hoarsely, yanking his hand out of hers.

Barbara stared at him a moment. "What is wrong with you?" she demanded.

"Nothing."

She stood abruptly and brushed her hands down her skirt, smoothing. "Fine," she said. "When you're ready to climb out of the bottle and speak to me like a human being, let me know." She looked at him.

He laughed, short and ugly.

Her face went hard and hurting. "Good night, Mr. Allen," she said, breathlessly, like a man punched in the gut might beg for mercy. Then she turned on her heel and moved off into the darkness, down the ladder and was gone.

He tried to lurch from the chair after her, but by the time he could lever himself out, he could do no more than puddle over the railing. Damn her for making me live. Damn her for making me give a bloody damn. Damn her for making me love her. The realization made him groan. Damn her. Damn her. Damn her. He gripped the rail, the whiskey a cold knot in his belly.

Damn her for not loving me back.

No one could see him weep into the sea.

Barbara the Wallpaperer
And so the wrap-up continues..., - Monday, October 28, 2002 at 21:28:49 (PST)

Check the Alan Rickman A Survival Kit guestbook for humourous writing ideas. Trust me! I'm still laughing over some of those loonies' posts!
Chief Red in Face
- Monday, October 28, 2002 at 16:05:27 (PST)

FoF Party -- The Yacht
Evening of Day Seven of the Investigation

Elena Bothari stood guard before the outside door to the engine room, ship's sidearm in her hand. She stared out into the darkness and silently cursed her white uniform. I'm nothing more than a target in the dark, she thought. Damn, but I hate this. She could hear the murmurs of passenger complaints in the silence, and the thumping of feet on the floor above her, where a rescue party had just returned with a shivering, exhausted young woman. They'd passed her up from the outboard ship to the tall Frenchman standing on deck. He'd swung her up like she weighed nothing at all. As they had ferryed her along from the outboards to the Ship's Infirmiry, all Elena had seen of her was a bundle of blankets with a red face and shockingly blue lips. A close call. The man named Brandon had attempted to take the rescuee from the Frenchman, who had simply increased the length of his strides and held the bundle closer. Elena didn't want to think about how they'd navigated the stairs. The Infirmary was far from the engines, but she could still hear the hustle and calls from the rescue party from the decks above her.

As the bustle died away, her ears strained into the silence and the dark. She hated guard duty, but there was no one else her commanding officer could trust to keep the passengers away from the engines and prevent... interference.

But damn she hated wearing white!

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

There was a clattering on the stairs, and a young man in a white uniform, electric torch bobbing, came up out of the darkness. "Commander Bothari, ma'am?" He saluted briefly and the torch flashed. "They've got the radio back up, ma'am, and the Coast Guard is coming to take us in tow." Elena nodded in the darkness, and suddenly realized he couldn't see her.

"Yes, Mr. Murka," she said. "Thank you."

"And, ma'am?" Elena looked up. "Captain Naismith says the order is Belike," young Murka said, puzzlement floating in his voice. "And that you're to come with me to the bridge."

"What about the engines?" she asked.

Murka shrugged. "Leave them, I guess.

Elena clicked on the safety of her sidearm and holstered the weapon. "Lead on, Mr. Murka." They made their way up the walkway. "Murka, after we get to the bridge, I need to to find someone for me...."

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

A dark figure slipped in through the door, entering the darkened engine room. Knowing hands ran over the machinery, seeking.... ah.

A pipe, dented, dropped by the remains of the engine. A stifled curse in the dark. This was no accident.

This was sabotage.

Barbara the Wallpaperer
And so the wrap-up continues..., - Sunday, October 27, 2002 at 23:06:21 (PST)

A Brief Flashback
Police Station: Media Investigations Room
Afternoon of Day Seven of the Investigation

"Patril, Koudelka" Detective Ekaterin Silvert said. "Good afternoon." The tall, serious-faced young investigator shook hands with the graying uniformed officer. "Patril has been running background research for this investigation, Kou." She turned to the younger officer. "Patril, Kou was on-scene after the assault on the Flights of Fancy Director." A look of comprenhension on the officers' faces, followed by nods of mutual respect. "Miles?"

Detective Miles Graff stopped in his pacing before the large video screen. "We're waiting for the Captain." He glanced at his watch. "Dammit, he subvocalized and returned to his pacing. Koudelka and Patril exchanged glances. Silvert's lips thinned with displeasure. "Miles," she warned mildly.

The door to the Media Investigations Room opened and Captain Illyan walked in. His eyes glittered with suppressed irritation. "Graff, Silvert." He nodded. Graff handed him a cup of hot coffee from the table. Illyan's brows rose and he seated himself where Graff indicated.

"So," began Illyan, "what's this all about?"

Graff and Silvert exchanged looks. A brief gesture and Graff drew breath to speak. "We asked you three to join us because we want you to take a look at the security tapes from the Flights of Fancy building and--"

"--and tell us we're not insane," Silvert blurted. Graff gave her a dark look under lowered brows.

Illyan's face went bland. "I see," he said. "Run the tape, then."

Silvert reached over and pressed play.

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

Illyan ran a hand over his thinning hair. "I don't know what to tell you."

"Koudelka?"

The uniformed officer's mouth hung open. "I dunno," he sputtered. "That's just too wierd."

Silvert turned to Officer Patril, who was frowning at the screen. "Patril?" she asked.

"They're a TV studio, aren't they?" Silvert nodded. Patril gestured toward the screen with his chin. "Do they do their special effects in-house or do they contract out?"

Graff's eyes lit. "So let's run this down to Rutyer in Analysis and see if he can detect signs of tampering?"

Patril nodded. "Yes," he said slowly, "that would be a very good idea."

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

"Any verdict?" Graff asked his partner a few hours later.

Silvert shook her head as she set her desk phone back into its cradle. "No," she sighed. "Rutyer tells me the preliminaries are not good, though."

"What?" he asked, shocked. He turned away from his reports to meet his partner's frowning unease.

"He thinks it's legitimate."

"That can't be," he said, automatically.

"I know that, Miles," Silvert replied shortly. "But that doesn't change the facts."

"We'll give Rutyer more time," he said, turning back to his desk. "He'll find something."

Silvert gazed at her partner's back for a moment, shook her head and left the room.

Graff glanced behind him and reached over to his phone. He dialed a number. A tinny voice on the other end. "Sergeant, do it." He hung the phone back up, leaned back in his chair, and thought.

He was still thinking when Silvert left for the day.

Barbara the Wallpaperer
The wrap-up, as promised..., - Sunday, October 27, 2002 at 12:10:16 (PST)

Elliott opened the door and as he did so several men on horses rode up to the door. The leader dismounted and walked up the porch steps. He took off his hat, sticking out his hand to greet Elliott. His face was dusty and his smile was so stretched Alice was wondering to herself if his lips would rip. He looked a lot like Elliott, only his hair was pitch black and was clean-shaven.

Elliott took his hand and shook it. Once. Stiffly. That was all. Their hands dropped to their sides. There was silence between them as they penetrated each other's eyes, each measuring the other, neither giving way. It was Alice who broke the silence.

"A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Marston." A lie through her teeth and by the flash of his eyes toward her he knew it. He barely turned his head to her.

"And who might this beautiful lady be?" He took her right hand in his and kissed it. Elliott stiffened.

"My fiancee, Alice Krendler," he snapped, his voice low and threatening. Elijah dropped her hand and nodded to indicate her presence. "A pleasure, Mr. Marston," Alice repeated.

"Oh no, Miss Krendler, I'm sure the pleasure...is all mine. And please call me Elijah."

Elijah stared at her and she returned the stare, cold and unwelcoming. By the look on his face and in his eyes he knew he was not welcomed, but he brushed past the two anyway. He clapsed his hands behind his back, surveying the walls and every little aspect of the hallway. He even knelt down a few times to thouroughly inspect something before moving on, whistling underneath his breath. He acted almost like he owned the place.

Elliott snorted. "Dumb arse," he hissed. "I hope I can find some excuse to kill him."

"You have to let me go first," Alice shot back before the two unwillingly followed him down the hallway.

15 Minutes Later

Elijah pushed away his plate from himself. Not a one of them had barely eaten anything, much alone said a word to each other. Elijah was at the far end of the table, Elliott at the front with Alice to his left. Elliott stared him ruthlessly for several moments.

Well, brother, we might as well get down to the real reason I came," Elijah stated coldly, an air of superiority quite evident in the way he held himself and his tone of voice. "Do you still have the will on you?"

"No, I happen to have misplaced it."

Elijah smiled. "Liar." He paused a moment, looking at the wall. "You never gave me anything. Even after mum and dad were slaughtered..."

"Don't push it, Elijah," Elliott threatened. His eyes resembled a snake's, waiting for the oppotunity to strike.

"The issue is, Elliott, I've come to claim what's mine. And maybe...a few other things as punishment."

Alice's hand instinctively reached out and found Elliott's. She had never been frightened before. Never. But this man frightened her. He seemed so cool and confident, it worried her.

"Well, it's been a wonderful evening, brother," Elijah said, rising and stepping into the other room. "Just give me a moment, please."
Alice K.
Thanks for the welcome, everybody! Such brotherly love and a silly "cliffhanger" lol :-), - Friday, October 25, 2002 at 12:51:20 (PDT)

Aboard the Party Yacht:

The Director's eyes shifted from Barbara, who was turning several interesting shades of red. His eyes then shifted over to Sandy, who was also turning red, but for an entirely different reason. He then watched as Alexander Dane silently came on deck, moving aside for Sandy to finish her climb up the ladder and stand next to him.

"Miss Vanders..." Alexander's voice was a soft murmur. He stared at Barbara, left eyebrow raised.

"Alex..." Barbara groaned, covering her face with her hands. Please floor, swallow me now...

The silence grew and stretched. The Director watched the three in silent amusement.

"Your air guitar technique is very good."

Barbara's head shot up, eyes widening in shock. *"What?!"*

A choked giggle emerged from the depths of Sandy's throat. Tears of laughter swam in her eyes as Alexander silently reproduced Barbara's earlier efforts by running his right hand down the neck of an imaginary guitar while strumming with his left hand. "See?"

The Director blinked. He looked over at Sandy, who was shaking with silent laughter at Alexander's demonstration. Her eyes caught his. "How much did you see and hear?" he mouthed.

"The whole thing," Sandy replied. The Director's lips curled up as she gave two 'thumbs-up', jerked her head in Alexander's direction and started shaking with silent laughter again.

Barbara nodded at Alexander's question, her eyes never leaving him as he finished the solo. She watched as he took Sandy's hand in his and the couple strode over to her. He leaned in close to murmur, "I can only imagine what you'll come up with for Brandon, you mad filker you." He rose to full height and looked down at Sandy, who had finally managed to compose herself. She smiled up at him and he returned it. The two then began walking across the deck, Barbara staring at Alexander's back, dumbfounded.

Sandy turned around and mouthed, "E-mail me the lyrics!" Barbara nodded and Sandy grinned cheekily before she turned her head up in Alexander's direction as he asked if she had heard anything recently from Tom and Colleen.

Barbara turned to the Director, who shrugged his shoulders and chuckled.

Sandy - Barbara, LOVE IT! *snorfle*
Welcome Alice/Colonel Gruber! :-), - Thursday, October 24, 2002 at 05:08:17 (PDT)

FoF Party -- The Yacht
Evening of Day Seven of the Investigation

Barbara laughed. "I don't know how Cindie finds out about these things, but she always seems to know when I've done another one."

"Another what?" the Director asked. "How concerned to I need to be?"

"Have you ever heard "Prince Ali" from Aladdin?"

"You used a Disney song?"

One side of Barbara's mouth curled up. She took a deep breath and started to sing:
"Alex Dane, he is insane about his fanbase
Loses his grip and lets it rip
On the poor fans.
We keep telling him to 'chill out'
But fans salute him and spout The Galaxy Quest catchphrases that he thinks are inane!
Alex Dane, writhing in pain, 'cause of his fanbase
Phrases which just make him twitch
And lose his cool
He hears them and comes unglued
(At least he doesn't get lewd!)
Now a bobby's started a feud
With Alex Dane!"

She did some faux-dance moves, fingers in the air, faked some air guitar, took a deep breath and launched into the finale:
"Alex Dane, driving a train over his fanbase
If they're cut maybe they'll shut
Up permanently.
We keep telling him to 'relaaa--'..

She trailed off.

Alexander Dane was standing at the top of the ladder, Sandy on a step below him, hand clamped fiercely over her mouth. Her shoulders shook but she made no sound. The Director gave a singular chuckle and fell silent, an amused light in his eyes.

Barbara the Wallpaperer
Heck, I'll see Brandon's anything! .... uh, never mind.... ;), - Wednesday, October 23, 2002 at 18:40:41 (PDT)

Show of hands. Who wants to see Brandon's cryptic?
Cindie
- Wednesday, October 23, 2002 at 17:49:12 (PDT)

On the yacht:

I’d love to get you on a slow boat to China
All to myself alone . . .

The band had resumed playing to help keep up the passengers’ spirits. From further down the rail, Brandon can hear Alexander Dane, something about "a slow boat to nowhere in particular on earth," and Sandy’s reply that at least the band is not playing "Nearer My God to Thee," and if they do, she will have to start screaming.

Darkness, broken only by the dim glow of the lanterns that Cindie and Mistral had gathered. The lap of water against the hull, the salt tang in the air, mingled with Mary Anne’s perfume . . .

Get you to keep you in my arms evermore,
Leave all your lovers weeping on the faraway shore . . .

Brandon can hear her, half-singing, half-speaking, her voice oddly magnified by the shadowy quiet here by the stern, away from the band. Magnified to him, that is; he doubts whether she could be heard two yards away.

"You always did have a sweet voice, Mary Anne." (homage)

"Thank you, Christopher." A pause, as she moves nearer to him there besides the rail-careful, this time, not to lean out too far, but bracing herself against it, her feet shifting and hips swaying ever so slightly in time to the music.

Out on the briny with the moon big and shiny . . .

No moon. Stars, radiant in the warm night, brilliant enough to cast shadows. One sky above and another below, the constellations mirrored in the still sea; salt air and melody and the brush of this woman’s body against him . . .

"Mary Anne, you’re shivering . . .again."

Brandon slips his arm around her waist, glad of an excuse to draw her nearer to him. As though he needs an excuse; she is eager to be near.

"I’m not cold, Christopher; I’m afraid."

Brandon looks down at her. "Afraid?" More sharply than he had intended. Her abstracted look for the past several hours . . .

"A little. Oh, I don’t know-maybe ‘afraid’ is too strong, but look at us out here! They’re saying someone sabotaged us, and did you hear The Director?" Mary Anne’s shiver could never be taken for a chill. "When he said shot like that . . . it took me straight back to the parking lot, when those people tried to abduct him. What’s going on, Christopher? Who’d want to hurt him? What’s he done?" She shakes her head. "I just keep waiting for something to else to happen." An apologetic smile. "Nerves on edge, I suppose. I’m sorry."

Melting your heart of stone . . .

Brandon slips a hand under her chin, tilting her face up to his. "First, everything is going to be fine." Promising what he has no right to promise, but they both breathe easier for it-especially Brandon, as he feels his earlier unease submerged beneath a wave of tenderness and concern. Submerged only-not dissolved, and even as he realizes this, he sets it aside to deal with at a more convenient season. Pull yourself together, man; there was nothing wrong about it. She was no more flirting with him than the sun was flirting with the ocean, when it set.

An unfortunate comparison, perhaps, as Brandon recollects the molten splendour, that pyrotechnic flash of green at the horizon . . .

"Second," he continues firmly, "Alan doesn’t have to have done anything for other people to want to do him harm. People who would do that sort of thing can always find an excuse. Greed, envy . . ." Jealousy. "But they’re not going to be able to hurt him; he’s well-protected."

A half-smile from Mary Anne. "Even if he doesn’t like it. Did you see how he was glowering at the officer earlier?"

"Yes. Let him glower. It doesn’t hurt the officer-and it does amuse Alan."

A delicately-lifted eyebrow. "Why, Christopher, what an uncommonly sardonic comment, from you!"

"Fancy it, do you?"

"Interesting, I must say. In small doses."

Brandon slips one hand into Mary Anne’s hair, stroking its thickness as he draws her head down onto his shoulder. "If you enjoyed my sardonic, just wait until I show you my cryptic."

She looks up, as he knew she would, to meet that crinkle-eyed smile that is reserved for her alone. Her body relaxes against his, and even though Mary Anne is not and is never fond of waiting, she waits a little more calmly now for whatever will happen next.

I’d love to get you on a slow boat to China
All to myself alone!

MA--"Slow Boat to China," courtesy of Kay Kyser ( I think).
Welcome aboard, Alice! 8-), - Wednesday, October 23, 2002 at 06:09:33 (PDT)

I also wish to welcome you to the Realm, Alice! :)
Diane <crescentmoonluna@aol.com>
Ever expanding, ever growing... , - Tuesday, October 22, 2002 at 17:59:54 (PDT)

ColonelGruber aka Alice, Welcome.
Cindie
- Tuesday, October 22, 2002 at 16:59:16 (PDT)

How many brothers does Elliot have??? There is Lucas... and Elliot himself... (and I think Lucas is elsewhere.)
A Reader
- Tuesday, October 22, 2002 at 15:14:33 (PDT)

Elliott Marston pursed his lips as he stirred the sugar around with a spoon in his tea. His fingers tightened against the small cup in worry as his brain sped at a thousand miles ahead of his ranch at Australia. He tapped the spoon against the edge of the cup and the small amount of tea caught in the spoon dripped into the cup with a small sound.

Drip.

Drip.

Each sound made him more nervous as he tapped it once more for good measure before setting it on the counter and carrying the cup over to the table where he sat, his cup in front of him, yet did not drink, but stirred his index finger absentmindedly in his drink.

Alice Krendler appeared in the doorway, dressed not in the normal women’s fashion but in the attire of a man, complete with boots, gun belt, and Colonel Colt revolver. She leaned against the doorframe, staring at her fiancée in amusement.

“You gonna drink that tea, or should I?”

Elliott looked up, startled, and managed an uneasy smile. “Evening, Alice.”

“Good evening, Mr. Marston.”

She settled herself in the chair opposite him at the table. “Something you want to tell me, El?”, using her affectionate name for him.

Elliott sighed, pushing the un-drunken tea away from him and slumped in his chair. His fingers caressed his brow for a few moments, and Alice waited patiently, knowing he would say something in time. Finally he sighed. “I don’t want to do this.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know perfectly well what I mean,” he snapped irritably.

“What? Elijah?”

Elliott stiffened at the sound of his “baby” brother’s name. “Yes.”

“It’s nothing to worry about, El,” she assured him, taking his hand that lay across from her on the table and squeezed it. Hard. He caressed the back of her hand, but shook his head adamantly in reply.

“He wants the family inheritance-which, I may remind you, includes this ranch-and, knowing the stupidity of my brother, will do anything and everything to get it.”

“Why does he want it so much? You never explained to me fully.”

Elliott sighed, looking at her in exasperation. “He believes that when our parents were…slaughtered, he was cheated of the inheritance they left for me, as I was the eldest. He thinks he should have gotten a fair share. I took all of it. He’s greedy.”

“No, you are.”

Elliott snorted. Alice never failed to present-bluntly, he might add-his faults to make him realize and correct them. She would never let him forget the time he nearly got killed in the duel with Quigley. If it hadn’t been for her, he would be dead. “And in what way am I greedy?”

“What was the original will?” she continued pointedly. Elliott grunted.

“That the inheritance would all go to the eldest. ME.”

“And you didn’t give any to your younger brother who was as bad off as you were with your parents death?”

Elliott eyed her angrily before standing and ripping her from her seat and roughly into his arms. “Elliott!” she gasped in surprise as she collided with his chest and gasped, breathless. She opened her mouth to complain but Elliott stopped her as he glided his lips firmly over hers, silencing her.

“Miss Krendler, you need to learn some respect and manners,” he murmured against her lips as she willingly returned the kiss.

“I don’t know what manners mean, Mr. Marston,” she whispered in reply, gently fingering the hair at the nape of his neck. She smiled. “Elliott, dear, please try to relax. Your brother’s coming over for dinner tonight to discuss the inheritance. Nothing bad is going to happen.”

Elliott seemed quite dubious. His head lowered as if to kiss her again when a cry came from outside.

“Mr. Marston!”

Elliott looked to see one of his men walk in from outside. “Mr. Marston, your brother has arrived.”

Alice slipped out of Elliott’s arms as they walked toward the door. “Thank you, Mr. Steel,” he replied calmly, his air of worry seemingly gone from his face, but Alice knew better. She entwined her fingers with his and squeezed gently as Elliott’s hand gripped the door handle and the door creaked open…
ColonelGruber (just call me Alice ;-).)
Dum dum dum dummmmmmmmmm! Will this upcoming dinner remained civilized? Will Elliott keep his family inheritance? Find out next time on…LIFE OF MARSTON! LOL :-). Hee hee., - Tuesday, October 22, 2002 at 12:40:00 (PDT)

“It might be a cliché but I think its true,” Mistral observed. It wasn’t that cold but he felt Cindie’s tremor and he pulled her close. They had worked together to hang the emergency lights and made sure everyone had a life preserver. There wasn’t really any danger of sinking but they weren’t about to second guess the Captain’s orders. Heaven help those who tampered with this man’s ship if the Captain got a hold of them. He looked every inch the Black Avenger and Mistral had no doubt the man would be avenged should he discover who had ill used his Dakota. It was a sentiment of which Mistral had some familiarity and understanding. Now, for them, it was a matter of waiting.

“What’s cliché?” This inactivity was difficult but in the dim lights it was better to stay put than risk a misstep or getting in the way of the determined Captain and crew.

“It’s the suspense that will drive you mad.” Mistral used his half strength Mr. I mode with a healthy dose of melodramatic flair but was rewarded only with a short strained laugh.

“It is maddening but thank goodness Diane is safely on board. First Joya and George almost get eaten by a shark, then Mary Anne almost goes over before the Professor plucks her back, and then Diane is missing and no one even notices right away.” Mistral’s arm felt so good around her. She didn’t mean to turn serious after he tried to divert her but she simply couldn’t shake the unease of the situation. “Thank goodness Jamie said something when he did.”

“Yes. I’ve been thinking about that. It can take so little for things to go so terribly wrong.”

“Careful, you don’t want to say two clichéd things in a row.”

He caught her up in what could only be described as a big ol’ squeezey hug and nuzzled her ear. “I don’t care. It does make one think of the alternatives.” And too many such alternatives there were.

Now she chuckled in his ear but it was easy and not from nerves, “You’re being sweet! Careful, people might notice.”

His arm went around her and they settled in again. “It’s dark and nobody is going to notice.” He made as if to look furtively about, “Besides, nobody is paying us the least attention.”

“Ah, see but you had to make sure.”

“We don’t want to muddle with people’s expectations, now do we?”

“Don’t we?”

In answer he simply kissed her temple and rested his head against it. His breath brushed down her cheek and jaw in a gentle tickle.

After a pause she sighed, “I think I made a mistake.” This change of gears momentarily left him lost and he waited to see where it led. “Did you see Phil looking at Barbara?” She sounded dejected.

“Yes.” He didn’t know why that would cause her grief. “He’s in love with her.” Her head thumped against his upper arm. Then thumped again. “I’d rather you do that to me than a brick wall but really, my dear, why do it at all?”

“Because I all but fixed her and Anton up. It wasn’t supposed to hurt anybody…”

“Presumably the parties in question had some say in the situation? I hardly think that either an intelligent and creative woman such as Miss Vanders or an experienced and self assured man such as Herr Gruber were coerced into spending time with each other.”

“Stop sounding so reasonable and tell me how you knew Phil was in love with her.”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it.” That was probably the wrong thing to say but it did seem obvious to him. He was familiar enough with the symptoms though he didn’t quite understand the man’s reticence in doing something about it. He could brood as well as the next man but enough was really enough.

“It is now. I just thought they were old friends.”

“Sometimes friendship can blossom into much more.”

He felt her stiffen against him and her voice was quiet when she replied, “And when both old friends feel the same way, there is nothing to stop them from altering the quality of that friendship.”

“Only fear of losing what they already have.”

“You wouldn’t let fear govern your choice with something like that.”

“I suppose not, but we’re not talking about me. Miss Vanders is either oblivious or afraid to alter their balance and Mr. Allen obviously hasn’t said anything to her.”

“Let’s not discuss this Patrick. I didn’t mean to gossip. It isn’t nice.”

“Very well. You did bring it up.”

“I know. It was a mistake, some things are best left dormant.”

Cindie
Piratical and other homages. , - Monday, October 21, 2002 at 18:33:33 (PDT)

I will ask that anything further on this be sent to me at reniept@hotmail.com.
Renie
- Sunday, October 20, 2002 at 07:49:49 (PDT)

Here is, as far as I can tell, a complete list of characters claimed and mentioned in the entire history of FoF. Let me know if I'm missing someone.

FILMOGRAPHY (a bit trimmed)

The Search For John Gissing (2001)
as JOHN GISSING

Harry Potter And The Philosopher's Stone (2001)
as SEVERUS SNAPE
Snape has been claimed by Jutta

Blow Dry (2001)
as PHIL ALLEN
Phil has been claimed by Barbara

Help, I'm A Fish! (voice) (2000)
as JOE

Play (2000)
as MAN

Dark Harbour (1999)
as DAVID WEINBERG
David W was claimed, but is now available

Galaxy Quest (1999)
as ALEXANDER DANE
Alexander has been claimed by Sandy

Dogma (1999)
as the METATRON
Metatron has been claimed by Jasmine

Judas Kiss (1998)
as DAVID FREIDMAN
David F was claimed, but is now available

The Winter Guest (1997)
as the DIRECTOR
The Director is a shared character

Michael Collins (1996)
as EAMON DE VALERA ("Dev")
Eamon has been claimed by Therese

Rasputin (TV) (1996)
as RASPUTIN ("Raz")
Rasputin was claimed, but is now available

Sense And Sensibility (1995)
as COLONEL CHRISTOPHER BRANDON
Brandon has been claimed by Mary Anne

An Awfully Big Adventure (1995)
as PL O'HARA
PL has been claimed by Dana

Mesmer (1994)
as DR MESMER
Mesmer has been mentioned but not claimed

Fallen Angels (TV series, one episode) (1993)
as DWIGHT BILLINGS
Dwight was claimed, but is now available

Bob Roberts (1992)
as LUKAS HART III
Lukas has been claimed by Grace

Closet Land (1991)
as the INTERROGATOR ("HIM")
The Interrogator is a shared character
The actor who plays the Interrogator -- "Arthur Sidney Patrick Mistral" -- has been claimed by Cindie.

Close My Eyes (1991)
as SINCLAIR BRYANT
Sinclair has been claimed by Claire

Robin Hood: Prince Of Thieves (1991)
as GEORGE, SHERIFF of NOTTINGHAM
George has been claimed by Magda

Truly, Madly, Deeply (1991)
as JAMIE
Jamie has been claimed by Diane

Quigley Down Under (1990)
as ELLIOT MARSTON
Elliot was claimed but is now available

The January Man (1989)
as ED
Ed has been claimed by Claudia

Die Hard (1988)
as HANS GRUBER
Hans has been claimed by Renie

The Barchester Chronicles (TV miniseries) (1984)
as OBADIAH SLOPE
Slope has been mentioned but not claimed

Busted (TV) (1982)
as SIMON JACKS
Simon has been claimed by Dana

OTHER (a bit trimmed)

Les Liasions Dangereuses (1985)
as VICOMTE de VALMONT
Valmont is a shared character, though he was claimed earlier.

Private Lives (2002)
as ELYOT CHASE
Elyot has been mentioned but not claimed.

Shakespeare's As You Like It
as JACQUES
Jacques was claimed but is now available.

Shakespeare's Antony and Cleopatra (2002)
as MARC ANTONY
Antony has been mentioned but not claimed.

Shakespeare's Hamlet
as HAMLET
Hamlet has been claimed by Chris.

Barbara the Wallpaperer
Don't we have a Department of Temporal Anomalies to handle multiple time-lines? :D, - Saturday, October 19, 2002 at 21:57:57 (PDT)

Colonel Gruber: Elliott Marston is available if you want him. Go for it.

Renie: There were no decisions made on any chat site that I am aware of. But I must admit that it is rather deflating to see something tidied away before I've had a chance to finish up what I was writing. I'm sort of at a loss as to what I should do now.

Everyone: this site, like any other part of our lives, evolves over time. Personally I rather like it when readers comment and ask questions on FOF; it gives us some feedback as to whether we're getting things across as we intend. I hope other people step forward from time to time and let us know what they think.

Magda
- Saturday, October 19, 2002 at 18:14:21 (PDT)

Hello everyone here, I hope I am not intruding here and I apologize if I for some reason offend anyone here by posting this, but I just wanted to let you all know I am have been a reader of FoF for sometime now and have considered joining. I've talked to Claudia about a couple things but I don't think I'll post, if I decide to join, for a few days because I am trying to develop a good "thread" story of my own. I have considered claiming Elliott Marston, but if anyone has a problem with that (or other people want to use him) let me know.

Again, if anyone has any problems with me posting this or me joining for any reason please let me know. I really enjoy this page and I hope nothing bad ever happens to it. Suzanne, you really ARE the best for all you do here :-).

~ColonelGruber~
ColonelGruber
- Saturday, October 19, 2002 at 15:18:23 (PDT)

To all the writers and readers:

To say something has never happened before is certainly not akin to saying that comments are not welcome; I suppose there is some getting used to a change in all things.

However, never before have I experienced what are essentially "mind my own business" posts.

I suppose since I don't participate in "chat" where decisions are being made, I am rather in the minority. Did I miss the memo on what characters were supposed to do? Have I skipped the instructional email?

I had been looking to give Diane a bit of a boost, what with her floating all round in her tube, in a rather upset state of mind, but hadn't wanted to step on what she--or others--might have had in mind, so I sought to accomplish that by setting up two potentially interesting threads--what happened to Diane before she was resuced, and what a search party might have done to find her. I purposely left vague details of what went on during either thread to allow other authors to have a lot of fun weaving--and if you'll notice, the post says mentions several names in the search, again, to give others a chance, if they wished, to participate.

Moreover, the time element was also not specific, so that flashbacks and fill-ins might be juicily posted. I anticipated them greatly. I also thought that Jamie would be about beside himself, and worried about Diane. And, based on what happened earlier with Valmont getting a rap, I thought it might be bit of mischief to at least potentially have Valmont in the mix with her rescue. Again, however, Jamie only heard this news--nothing whatever was established about it--I was sure Diane and her friends on board would have had lovely ideas to expand on.

I was also looking forward to what Barbara had in mind, as far as the attack on the Director, and looked forward to seeing more party posts; this party has lasted longer than any previous anniversary party, though it's been enjoyable thus far.

Every so often, here, we've had posts which try to bring together lots of people--it seemed to me that the ship's loss of power was an excellent point of departure for something like that. Apparently, however, I was either wrong in my estimation of the situation, or far too clumsy in my execution.

Others will surely be better at it, and to them, I defer. I continue to respect the writers and readers here; Suzanne, you are the best for all you do.

Renie
Thanks, MA. , - Saturday, October 19, 2002 at 14:57:25 (PDT)

Twice nightly? At least!
Cindie
Yes, Mistral, I think you're heroic too. Hanging lanterns is heroic work. . ., - Saturday, October 19, 2002 at 14:28:29 (PDT)

Ah, well, one can hope . . . ;-D

Lucky, lucky MA
- Saturday, October 19, 2002 at 13:13:07 (PDT)

...but yes, Brandon will continue to be heroic. It's his nature, and I couldn't stop him even if I wanted to

Hmmm...."twice nightly"?

Magda
- Saturday, October 19, 2002 at 12:19:53 (PDT)

A few things to keep in mind:

1) FoF is for fun--yes, we do take our fun very seriously here, but it is indeed for fun. The day it stops being fun for me is the day I stop writing it--that day has not yet come. I hope it never will.

2) In a "party" thread, things tend to be looser than when we're all pursuing our own separate storylines.

3) If you check the Back Issues, you'll find that there's so much stuff there that practically everybody, male and female, has had the opportunity to be a hero or heroine! And speaking for an upcoming thread I have in mind, there will be heroics and feats of derring-do featuring other characters besides Colonel Brandon, but yes, Brandon will continue to be heroic. It's his nature, and I couldn't stop him even if I wanted to. *grin*

4)Let's not have a repeat of what recently happened next door, when the GB had to be temporarily shut down because things deteriorated to the level of personal remarks that could hurt the feelings of people making posts. There have been times when the Fof Page was inaccessible because of trouble at the server or for various other technical problems, but never because we started taking potshots at each other and the page had to be pulled to restore order. That's another thing I hope will NEVER happen here.

5) Suzanne, I hope I have not overstepped my bounds in making these comments, but this little community is dear to my heart and I wanted to make that clear.

These things being said, I now return everyone to their regularly scheduled Flights. Have a nice day.

MA
R, dearest, always good to "see" you. 8-), - Saturday, October 19, 2002 at 11:37:19 (PDT)

Colonel Brandon is always a hero.

That may be true- but if you have read the Back Issues at all, you will see that it is quite a fair time to give another a go at it- woman, or, perhaps, a different man. I agree fully with Passer-by. The recent post does not make sense, and it can infuriate some of us who discussed the whole *hero* thing in recent chat rooms...
A Different Concerned Citizen
- Saturday, October 19, 2002 at 08:54:17 (PDT)

George and Joya will be back soon; what with the king's plan and a malevolent presence in the castle dropping large items on women (remember that?) and leaving notes lying around, they have a lot on their minds.

Anyone wishing for G&J updates can email me directly so that I can keep people informed.
Magda <mgrantwich@yahoo.com>
- Saturday, October 19, 2002 at 05:41:09 (PDT)

Colonel Brandon is always a hero. That is what makes him fictional. I do miss the previous George and Joya story-wondering how they are going to get out of the King's plan...Perhaps the ship party is over?
a concerned citizen
- Saturday, October 19, 2002 at 00:04:54 (PDT)

Sorry to interrupt Flights of Fancy... but I'm a bit confused and preturbed. Wasn't The Dakota a long ways off from where Diane's character was floating? And where and when did it say that Brandon had gathered people up for a search party? One minute everyone was milling about, having such, talking and such. The next minute they have suddenly left on a search party, and found her instantly? I'm sorry, again, but it doesn't make sense! (Not to mention- I thought the men were no longer to be the heros for once?)
A Passer-by
- Friday, October 18, 2002 at 18:40:46 (PDT)

Scene: The Dakota.

George grouses about, Joya is nowhere to be seen.

Cut wires. And, no cells for cell phones. Though that would have been the distance, or maybe the mist which had begun to rise from the water. Hard to tell. The ship's darkness is punctuated with batteried lanterns, and the cast and nautical crew make for strange scenes:

. . . Chris, Sandy and Alexander looking at maps with the captain, as Hamlet singles out a fixed point with a finger . . .

. . . while Hans and Anton join the radio crew, tinkering with the makings of a rebuilt make-shift radio. They speak in native German, which adds a feeling of other-worldliness to the spectacle.

. . . Cindie and Mistral busy themselves with hanging available lanterns. . .

"Phillip Allen of Keighley."

Her voice, not one he hears often--only on the rare occasions when he crosses the set, or lot, and overhears snatches of her scenes, or a snippet of conversation. Nothing much.

So, trying to rise, it is not mere courtesy which impells him. He does not recognize the voice. His rise, however, is awkward: Glenfiddich will do that. Renie eyes Phil's glass, but smiles without judgment. "M'pleasure," he offers his hand, as Renie takes it, then moves a chair over to the tiny table.

He cannot imagine what will come of this.

She regards his shot glass. "A single malt, from coal-fired stills. Have you tried the Ancient Reserve? I don't drink anything so strong, but it's said to be impressive." Renie looks at him more fully, and the alcohol in his stomach feels like to turn over, in a way this ship's engine refuses.

"But I don’t' think 'impressive' does much for you, does it?" she continues. Phil's involuntary look in the direction of Anton . . . who is working wonders with that radio . . .

Another tightening of his gut. "Is there something you'd like? From the bar?" It's the best he can do, under the situation.

"I just wanted a moment, Phil, " Renie answers.

At this, Brandon and Mary Anne, are overheard announcing that Diane has been found. Thanks to the concerted efforts of Ed and Claudia, Jasmine, and others, the Colonel's search party has been successful . . . Diane was rescued, and safe below, after being unable to get back aboard from a swim. "She's resting, and is fine," Mary Anne assures a relieved company.

Cheers and congratulations to Brandon and the search party raise the spirits on the top deck.

Jamie, however, hears only the last part of the news. "She's below, with Valmont."

R
- Friday, October 18, 2002 at 11:15:17 (PDT)

Ohhh Barbaraaaaaa.....! You've got mail :-D
Sandy
- Friday, October 18, 2002 at 06:48:52 (PDT)

to the tune of King of Spain

Once she was the Queen of Spam
Now she fixes rotten posts...
Barbara the Wallpaperer
oh,.... Saaaaaaaannnnnnnddddddyyyyyy..... Do you have the lyrics to "Prince Ali" from "Aladdin"? :D, - Friday, October 18, 2002 at 05:58:56 (PDT)

Italics and underline fixed.
Do I look like the Queen of Hearts? :-)
D.o.C.

*sigh*

Or underline....

Barbara the Wallpaperer
Quitting while she still has her head...., - Wednesday, October 16, 2002 at 22:12:53 (PDT)

*throws herself to the mercy of Her Imperial Majesty*

I didn't intend to italicize the entire page!

The error is after Lumos!.....
Barbara the Wallpaperer
Who shouldn't be allowed to italicize any more...., - Wednesday, October 16, 2002 at 22:12:06 (PDT)

FoF Party -- The Yacht
Evening of Day Seven of the Investigation

Phil looked sourly over as Barbara, as she leaned on the rail, laughing at Cindie's joke. He shouldn't have come. The last FoF Party had been a delight, a terror and a heart-altering experience. This one bid fair to be a heart-ache. He wished he come alone. Or not at all.

The devil of it was that he couldn't even leave. He was stuck on this bleeding boat until it was over, no matter his urge to curl up in the corner of his cabin with a bottle of Tully and drink himself insensible.

He saw her, all cotton coolness, white sandalstraps crisscrossing up her legs. He wanted to trace those straps up and across and up and across until he found the knot. Then he'd untie it and unfold the straps to her ankles, across and down and across and down. And down. And down. He tossed back a shot of Glenfiddich.

And that damned bloody Gruber, all polish. Phil knew how he looked in comparison: like the aluminium flatware next to the good silver. She wouldn't want Phil now. Couldn't. She'd be daft. And she was anything but daft. No. She was brilliant. She shone. But quietly, like... he struggled for an image. Like a Japanese paper lantern. The image sprung, unbidden, to his mind. He dropped the shotglass on the tray the waiter brought by. "Another," he said. The waiter eyed him dubiously but nodded at Phil's sour, challenging glare.

Phil returned to his brooding. If he hadn't been stupid and taken Barbara's suggestion as a command, if he'd just stayed home... It would have been worse, he concluded. At least, this way, he could see if Gruber tried anything untoward.

The waiter came by with Phil's next shot. The yacht's powerful engine thrummed through the floor, through the soles of his sandals. As Phil curled his fingers around the glass, a rising schreech of metal on metal ground its way across the deck. A final crunch and grind and the engine faltered, sputtered and stopped.

Silence.

Bloody hell, Phil thought, as he peered out on the water. Dark iridescence streaked out in the wake of The Dakota, trailing behind like some unconfessed sin.

Mistral's voice carried over the silence. “Well, at least if we’re stranded we won’t starve. Mary Anne’s shark could feed us all for a week.”

Ed's reply was swift on its heels. “Too bad it's dead, we could have harnessed it up to pull the boat.”

“Perhaps George would go and catch us another one,” piped up Grainne, the lighting tech.

The Director held up a hand, commanding calm. “Well, we have some power, the lights are still on,” he said reasonably. No sooner had he finished speaking, but they blinked out.

“Lumos!” Came the command from the darkness, followed by soft, muttered curses.

In the silence, Annie's voice rose. "Why did they name this boat The Dakota?" Her voice sounded strained, in the darkness. "That's where John Lennon was --" she bit her words back in the sudden quiet.

"Shot." The Director clipped the word off. Precisely. Like a bullet dropping into the chamber.

Barbara the Wallpaperer
And it's not as if the lads asked the Captain if they could "run out of petrol" *nudge nudge wink wink*, - Wednesday, October 16, 2002 at 22:08:58 (PDT)

Aboard the Party Yacht:

Everyone looked around the area to see if anyone else had seen Diane. "I'm sorry, Jamie. I haven't seen her since we were up on the sun deck," Cindie answered. Mistral, Brandon, Mary Anne, Chris, and Hamlet murmured in agreement.

"And we haven't seen her since we passed through the lobby to go over where the band was playing," Alexander added in, Sandy nodding and biting her bottom lip so that she wouldn't burst into laughter at what they witnessed in said lobby.

"I just don't understand it! How on Earth could an almost six-foot tall woman with blonde hair nearly down to her waist go missing on this ship?" Jamie exclaimed in exasperation.

"Unless..." Jasmine's voice broke in over Jamie's train of thought.

Jamie turned around abruptly to face her. "Unless *what*?"

Jasmine gazed uncertainly at him. "Unless she didn't get back onboard when we docked for a couple of hours this afternoon. She was so upset earlier that she might have decided to take a walk to cool down and got lost."

"AND SHE MISSED THE BOAT?" Jamie yelled. "Why didn't *you* go with her?" he asked in an accusing tone.

Jasmine's jaw dropped open for a moment then firmed. "And why didn't you?" she replied icily.

"People, calm down! We've got an *emergency situation* here. It's not doing us any good fighting amongst ourselves!" Hamlet hastily exclaimed before an argument broke out between the two of them.

"And nobody bloody well is *doing* anything about it!" Alexander grumbled. He turned around and began walking away.

"Uh oh," Sandy mumbled and hurried after the much taller man, Chris and Hamlet following them. "Alex, wait up!"

Alexander came to a stop, tapping his foot on the ground as the others caught up to him. "Come on!" he growled, turning around again. "Let's see if this stellar crew's managed to figure anything out."

"Take it easy, Alex," Sandy said softly.

Alexander ignored Sandy's words and stormed into the radio room, throwing his hand up to shield his eyes as a flashlight was lifted up and the light beamed directly into his face. "Lower that blasted thing! What's going on?" he demanded angrily.

"ALEX!"

Alexander took a few breaths in an effort to calm himself down and spoke in a quieter tone. "Has anyone figured out what's happened to the ship?"

"Not yet. This ship was checked out hours before we left and everything seemed to be in working order," the first mate grunted. He turned to the radio officer, raising an eyebrow. The radio officer shook his head and started unscrewing a panel.

Alexander's eyes flashed. "Well, that's just wonderful! You broke the bloody ship and nobody's even *bothered* with attempting to contact the Coast Guard?!"

The first mate answered wearily, "Mister Dane, we would love do to nothing more right now than to contact the Coast Guard. However, we've got another small problem to deal with at the moment."

Hamlet, Sandy, and Chris exchanged alarmed glances as Alexander growled low in his throat. "And just *what* is this small problem, as if the engine going CLUNK isn't bad enough?"

The first mate and the radio officer exchanged uneasy looks before responding. "The radio's dead."

Alexander's nostrils flared in anger. "Well, FIX IT!" he roared.

Sandy moaned, covering her face with her hands. "ALEX..."

The first mate replied in a chilly tone, "We are *attempting* to do just that, Mister Dane..."

Sandy poked Alexander hard on the arm, making him yelp. "Alex! Calm down, damn it! Yelling at him isn't solving any problems!" she exclaimed.

Alexander glared down at Sandy in the low light and she glared back up at him, arms folded over her chest. "Oh, all right!" he mumbled.

Just then, another crewmember who was helping the radio officer pried another panel away from the radio controls and shouted in surprise when several sparks emitted from it. He threw the smoking panel down in disgust. "Well, that's torn it!"

Hamlet spoke up, his voice strained. "What do you mean, 'that's torn it?'"

"The wires..."

The radio officer moved the flashlight so that the rest could get a good look. Sandy moved forward and blinked several times. "That was no accident," she said worriedly.

"What?" Chris' voice was sharp as she turned to face her friend. "See the wires? They've been made to *look* like they're worn out, but they're not. They've been cut... It's too smooth. And when he pulled the panel away, that just completed the job," Sandy said, pointing at the still-smoldering panel.

The first mate and the radio officer inspected the broken wiring carefully. "She's right," the radio officer confirmed. "But who - and *why*?"

"I don't know, but I intend to find out! This is *my* ship and I'm not going to put up with this nonsense!" the captain stormed into the radio room, fuming.

"Do you have a backup radio?" Hamlet asked calmly before Alexander could speak up.

The captain drew in a large breath and exhaled harshly. "Yes. Let's hope that it works and that we're not too far out of range," the captain replied. "Now, if you wouldn't mind, *please* leave so that we can attempt to repair this radio!"

The small group left the radio room and headed out onto the main deck. "Sandy, how did you know that the wires were cut?" Chris asked curiously.

"My dad's a retired car and truck mechanic. I used to help him when he would fix the car," Sandy replied. "There's so much wiring in those engines..."

Alexander turned to gaze down at Sandy. "*You* used to help your father fix cars?" he asked with more than a note of disbelief in his voice.

Sandy nodded. "Uh huh." There was a small pause. "I held the flashlight."

Chris snorted with laughter. Sandy rolled her eyes. "HEY! That's an important job!" she exclaimed.

"Oh, absolutely!" Chris agreed, still laughing.

Alexander sighed and proclaimed in a sepulchral tone, "We're doomed."

Sandy ~ the homage is rather obvious ;-)
Barbara, ROFLOL on the kids growing up just like you comment!, - Wednesday, October 16, 2002 at 08:31:09 (PDT)

A Brief Flashback
Police Station
Morning of Day Seven of the Investigation

Detective Ekaterin Silvert staggered into the station office to find her partner reading the newspaper and laughing.

"Miles?" she asked, groping for her coffee mug. Detective Miles Graff looked up at her, grey eyes crinkled with merriment. Silvert poured a dollop of creamer into her mug, then sat down at her desk, hunched over her mug like a congestive over a steambath.

"Heh," he said. "You'll like this one." He flicked the newspaper a moment while Silvert swallowed a mouthful of blessed coffee. A second swallow scalded away a world of nastiness lingering in her mouth.

After a third, she acheived, "Oh?"(homage)

"It's an interview with Richard Harris. Know who he is?" She shook her head. "D'you ever see Camelot?"

"The musical?" she asked. At his nod, she nodded back. "Yes. At university. Why?"

"He's the actor who played King Arthur."

Silvert saw the gleam in her partner's eye. "And?" she asked.

He smirked. "Listen." He leaned forward and read off the paper. "'What I hate about our business today is the elitism. So-called stars ride in private jets and have bodyguards and dietitians and beauticians. Tom Cruise is a midget and he has eight bodyguards all 6ft 10, which makes him even more diminutive. It's an absolute joke. Actors are unimportant.'" He looked up to see her reaction. "And he's an actor," Silvert deadpanned. "Pity."

"Pity what?" asked Captain Illyan from the doorway.

Graff folded the paper open and shoved it at Illyan. "Pity old Richard Harris is an actor, she says." Illyan picked it up and skimmed the article.

"He'd have made a better policeman," Silvert said, sipping coffee.

Illyan shuddered. "Only if one of you two were Chief," he said, tossing the paper back down on the table. "You'd deserve him, after what I've put up with from you two."

A corner of Silvert's mouth twitched behind her mug. Graff grinned openly. Illyan shook his head at them and left.

Silence.

"My mother used to say that," Silvert volunteered suddenly.

"Say what?" her partner asked.

"'I hope you have children Just Like You.'"

Graff laughed at her wry tone. Her eyes were warm and amused over the rim of her mug.

He leaned forward and lowered his voice conspiratorially. "So did mine."

She nearly snorted coffee out her nose.

Barbara the Wallpaperer
- Tuesday, October 15, 2002 at 19:48:53 (PDT)

The bed was king size, with a new air mattress and pressure compact and everything… yet as glorious of a sleeping compartment this could prove, Jamie tossed, turned, moaned and groaned. He even put on the heater… but nothing worked. He couldn't sleep.

He had been fighting his conscious mind for over two hours now, and had even taken a Benadryl to knock it out and zonk him for a peaceful rest, but no such luck. Perhaps if he hadn't taken so many naps earlier…

Then there was Joe. Who would think that a small fish could cause such a racket? Jamie considered putting him back, but intuition said No. But some inside that pail he splashed and flipped, screamed (if you think a fish can scream) and swore not-very-nice-things.

He had had enough. He had to do something, had to try and put that mind of his at rest. He got redressed in some slacks, a blue linen top, and a stylish black jacket and stepped into the hallway and out of his room, locking the door on the way.

He looked over into what should be Diane's room, and the door was again open, except this time it was room service. But he could tell by peering inwards that she STILL hadn't checked in.

He felt like choking on his tongue, and although he couldn't REALLY tell since he was dead, but he swore that his heart stopped completely. He slumped against the wall, chewing on his lip, knees knocking and threatening to buckle. He wasn't the brave, strong and silent type like the Colonel. He wasn't a sly, cunning man like Hans or creative like Ed. He felt worthless, a nothing mist of a once man, a ghost. And in thinking, he brought his fingers to an imaginary instrument, and plucked strings that weren't really there. All HE could do was play a cello. But… if must comes to must, he would give up his one and only talent just to know she was safe…

"If only I had the power… to magically know… but why must I feel so attached when I've barely known her?"

"Magic is a powerful source. What do you know of it?" A black cloaked figure stood before him, a pair of icy chocolate eyes searching the man who lay crumpled on the floor, much like he had so many years ago in Nina’s flat before he left…

Jamie glanced upwards to see the man, a cautious eyebrow cocked much like how he did his own- Diane too, for that matter. His arms were crossed over his chest while ebony hair streaked downwards, now let loose from the once tightly held ponytail. Jamie did not know how to respond- for that matter, he didn't want to. And why, you may ask, did he feel this way? So many women in the past he had loved and cared for… Nina only being the first. But there were others, too, whom all left him, or turned to another source for enjoyment and pleasure. It was like a constant knife that stuck in his guts, longing. Longing for maybe not a passionate love, but a simple one, just enough to satisfy the humane needs. But another to go, and never return? He would not bear it… could not bear it… should not have to! No… make this man go away… he was meddling in things that he ought to leave alone.

"Excuse me, but I think I asked you a question." The man let out a low hiss from his tongue.

Jamie drew up his legs, and hugged his knees. "I know nothing of what you mean by the question."

"Magic. What do you know of it?" He’s probably just another stupid Muggle… a waste of my time. I have other matters I should be attending to…, Snape thought to himself.

"Nothing, but for God’s sake I wish I did… Uh… You don't think it's cold in here, do you?"

"Not at all."

"Ah." Jamie sneezed, but he felt anger boiling within. He couldn't just sit here and be useless!

"Hmm." The chemistry professor turned his back and walked away, leaving Jamie where he was, muttering to himself. He rounded a corner and came to a completely dark hallway- apparently the light bulbs had burned out. He turned to the left, (which to the right was the way to the engine room) and suddenly was in contact with another form of matter.

"Sorry." It wasn't a *sorry* at all, and though Snape could not see his face, he had a very icy, deep cut edge to his voice- much like his own. Severus just snorted and continued on his way, while a pair of hazel eyes glared that could piece night itself…

Jamie was up off the floor, a look of determination across his face. He charged up the stairs like a rampaging bull, and almost knocked down somebody, but he couldn't tell whom for he didn't waste the time to look and see. As he neared the deck, music and laughter filled his ears.

CHUG CHUG CHUG… Silence. He wasn't quite at the deck yet, just another two steps to climb, but he had to hold onto the railing to prevent being thrown from the sudden abrupt stop of the yacht. He blinked. What NOW?

He entered the dining room, only to see groups of people milling about in the low emergency lighting, curious looks and frowns being exchanged. The ship had indeed stopped entirely, and murmurs were being spread of *what in the world had happened.*

It didn't look like a good time to make a fuss.

But he did anyway.

He went up to where was band HAD been playing only moments before, and politely asked to use a microphone. Before they could say yes or no, he taped it to make sure it still worked- it did.

"Excuse… Excuse me!"

The crowd looked up. Sandy and Alexander blinked, both thinking he was crazy.

"There has been a disappearance."

His reply was a few snickers, and even more stares. If not for being a ghost, he surely would have paled.

"Diane has been missing for over eight hours now. And… unless some sort of action takes place NOW, I am jumping overboard! Either that, or… I’ll take a life-raft and go out there and find her myself." Jamie said no more, and quietly put the microphone back in its plastic holder, holding his head low.

"WHO CARES?"

Jamie's eyes immediately averted towards the voice to see a dark blond curly haired man dressed in white linen stand and set a glass of wine upon an obliging table. Valmont. Jamie noted as the man began to hobble over that he was favoring his right leg. Jamie also noticed for the first time, a distinct scar, huge, actually, that ran all over the side of his upper left arm.

Valmont came very close… so close that Jamie could smell that wine he had been drinking. The Frenchman pointed out his index finger, and poked Jamie in the stomach. "Diane? Isn't she that obese pig, that clumsy, no-class, over-dramatic piece of…"

SPLAT.

Valmont stumbled backwards as Jamie re-pocketed his hands. (Just to keep them warm, mind you.) Jamie grinned with absolute pleasure- for a nice dish of Bananas Foster, which had previously was sitting uneaten on a nearby table, was now acting as a creamy, caramel and pudding-like hat for Valmont. Valmont stuttered, swore viciously in French, and stepped back even more, his face pale with embarrassment and shock.

Laughter filled the deck, amusement taking most all who had seen this simple *attack.* Sandy nudged Alexander, who was snorting through his nose. But Valmont didn't stick around long for the show, unfortunately- he dashed off in the direction of which Jamie had just come from, ducking his head low. And even through the depression and extreme rage that had just passed through him, Jamie couldn't help but smiling at his retreat. "Anyway… about Diane?"

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

Back out in the ocean, in basically the middle of nowhere…

Diane peeped open a feeble blue eye, and mumbled something that sounded like *cold…* She yawned and rolled over- only to splash onto a body of water!

She screamed. Literally.

Diane kicked her legs and swum after her tube, which was slowly being carried away by the waves. She tried heaving herself back into it, but found she was unable to as it continued to flip over repeatedly. She at last gave up, and burst into a case of hysterics- she was in the middle of nowhere, with no land in site, and nothing to eat or drink. (The last time she had a good, square meal was before she had boarded the yacht.) She choked on her sobs, and felt her face grow red hot- oh God, what was next? What was next???

Think, she told herself. You have GOT TO think!

But she was cold, and emotionally exhausted, and not to mention, wet. Her long, blonde hair had become a bushel of strings that flew in her face and poked her blurry eyes uncomfortably.

She looked all around while STILL trying in vain to climb aboard the tube. The sun had already set, and what was left of the horizon were a few streaks of gold. But even with the remaining light she could tell that nothing was anywhere… and anywhere she went there could be nothing. But I've got to go somewhere… make myself useful… She kicked off her sandals and splashed wildly like a little kid, propelling her tube and herself south. She could either be heading in a direction back towards the harbor, or further away, she really couldn't tell. All she knew was that she was hungry (her stomach was reminding her of that nicely with loud, low growls) and hopeless- even her book was probably sunk at the bottom of the ocean. And, not to mention, regular daily clothes were NOT the best materials to swim in, and her head could barely see over the top of the tube.

She swam straight for what seemed like ten minutes and was already exhausted. She stopped, and in hanging onto the tube for her dear life, cried her eyes out. Yes, it was immature and childish- but how would you feel stranded in a cold ocean?

Shark. She gasped, and clung on tighter. "Oh my God…" she whispered hoarsely. "Oh… my… God…" Though the last one she had seen was the one that Mary Anne had caught, she knew that they did indeed live in this region- and a tasty, plump morsel like her could be considered as a shark buffet line…

Diane <crescentmoonluna@aol.com>
Poor Valmont. Not., - Tuesday, October 15, 2002 at 11:31:47 (PDT)

Thank you for your concern about the guestbook, but please don't post inquires here on the Flights of Fancy Page.
Suzanne
- Tuesday, October 15, 2002 at 09:17:56 (PDT)

What´s happened to the Guestbook? Which unruly posters? When I looked to the Guestbook at yesterday,there was still everything okay!?
verena
- Tuesday, October 15, 2002 at 09:03:22 (PDT)

I'm terribly sorry about the guestbook! That is simply awful... but I do hope that our beloved Flights of Fancy does not turn into a second guestbook! I am kindly asking that this remain a place for FoF, but I do not doubt that Suzanne will make sure of that! Thank you.
A Passer-by
- Tuesday, October 15, 2002 at 08:09:51 (PDT)

Suzanne--I understand completely with your frustration with some of the unruly posters in the GB. I feel that way, too! I hope that you do decide to put it back up, but I completely understand and respect if you do not.
ColonelGruber
- Tuesday, October 15, 2002 at 06:57:26 (PDT)

The Guestbook has been taken down due to unruly posters. I'm still debating if and when I'll put it back.

Suzanne <Suz@mail.usa.com>
- Tuesday, October 15, 2002 at 06:47:30 (PDT)

Please help - my 'puter is telling me that the guestbook is no longer available! What's happening????
Severina
- Tuesday, October 15, 2002 at 06:16:04 (PDT)

Suzanne, what has happened to the guestbook? I cannot access it.
Barbara the Australian <hermione(underscore )3@hotmail.com>
Guestbook?, - Tuesday, October 15, 2002 at 02:36:13 (PDT)

Hi Suzanne, what's the matter with the guestbook? Doesn't work any more.
lelefua
- Tuesday, October 15, 2002 at 01:13:00 (PDT)

Ah. Thank you, passer-by. I'll cease and desist...and continue lurking. Apologies directed your way, Jasmine. *bows out*
The Lurker
- Sunday, October 13, 2002 at 18:48:11 (PDT)

To The Lurker: I'm sorry, but I think that Jasmine has already made a claim on Metatron. The Who's Who page can be misleading- it has not been updated for some time, or at least, that is what I can interpret from reading the present stories and then looking back to the characters page. Sorry- I'm just trying to justify a statement.
A Passer-by
- Sunday, October 13, 2002 at 09:28:45 (PDT)

Um, hello ladies.

I've decided to venture out from the shadows for a bit to post something, I know it's at an inconvienent time but, as at the moment, my story is somewhere else, I figured to have a go at it. I do hope you enjoy it, I'd love to post more.

-The Lurker

-

Why She’d sent him here was still unknown, there were plenty of Angels who could have done it. Perhaps it was the fact She did know everything. Perhaps it was the fact She could see all, he thought sourly. Or maybe, perhaps, it was the fact he’d been hovering over her ever since She’d made the decision.

It was raining. The last time he had been in the area it was cold, but still sunny. Perhaps he’d see Bethany, but she was nine months pregnant and a nine months pregnant woman had no place in a bar such as this.

“I hate it here,” he said to himself, crouching under the eaves and making sure he had the right place, “I shiver when it’s cold, I ache when it’s wet,” (homage) and slipped into the side door. It was decidedly cozier, a bit dark in the corners of the bar but warm and glowing amidst the bar and up on the small stage where a band played softly away from the gales outside.

“I think- it's getting to the point, where I can be myself again,” a dark, slightly husky voice traveled over the heads turned in the singer’s direction and he froze.

“I think- it's getting to the point, where we have almost made amends,” forgetting his initial shock, he shook out his hood and made his way to the bar to drink.

“I think- it's the getting to the point, that is the hardest part,” the voice said in a voice filled with more than the singer’s seemingly young years. Sipping down the Tequila and spitting it back into the glass he stared at the bar top, running a pale finger over it.

“And if you call, I will answer, and if you fall, I'll pick you up,” he couldn’t bring himself to look at her, as the crowd stared to her closed eyes, open mouth to the heavens, “And if you court this disaster, I'll point you home.”

How do you dream? she had asked him and for once in his time he had had nothing to voice. Images blurred together into a slew of flashes as music and the low chatter of voices melded into one and he spit out the Tequila again.

“Now it's time to prove that you've come back, here to rebuild,” the song was coming to a close, the band melting into the background in comparison to the voice, filled with longing, filled with wanting something more.

“Rebuild,

Rebuild,

Rebuild…” Clapping, hoots, thumping on the floor and the band gave a small bow and smiles all around before closing up the instruments. The singer hopped down and walked to the end of the bar, ordering a simple glass of water. It was now or never, he thought darkly and continued to stare at the bar.

“So, when did you think of that one? Who wrote it down for you?” he called in a low, thickly London accented voice across the bar, wishing it was allowed for the hood behind his jacket to come up. It was now the female’s turn to freeze, he could see her hand begin to tremble slightly before it reached the glass of water on the bar and the bar mistress gave him a quizzical glance before moving on. The female said nothing so he decided to plunge on.

“You cut your hair…”

“It’s not exactly that normal to have it in the braid that long for a few hundred odd years,” a snarl back, low and growling, “I’ve had to change addresses every ten years, Metatron.” The female finally raised her eyes to them, strangely multi-faceted, all earthy tones, deep and dark brown laced with light and radiating liqueur brown, flecks of light and a rim of fiery green gold. Her hair indeed was shorter than the hip length braid it was before, now cropped and pixyish, layered and chunky that framed her face perfectly. With a Renaissance looking, canvas peasant shirt and royal blue, velvet pants tucked into knee length brown boots, she had changed a bit since their last minute. Her eyes always stayed the same to him, though.

“Look, Lum-,” she cut him off.

“It’s Lou, now…I found Orpheus 7 years ago. He owns this,” she waved a hand about irritably. Metatron raised a sardonic eyebrow.

“Great, you found the only Watcher who was cast out of Heaven for being a Drag Queen, really helped your chances getting back in. Did you even bother to read the ruddy book?” he asked sarcastically.

“I hope you’ll remember what I was doing instead,” she said in a voice full of repressed pain and clenched her fist under the table.

“Aren’t you going to ask why I’ve come, Luminae?” Her eyes flashed dangerously and she turned on him, boots pounding the wooden floor dangerously.

“Don’t call me that again…it’s Lou,” she hissed and tossed the whole glass of water into his face, leaving him spluttering.

Well, he thought, at least it wasn’t tequila. He shuddered to think of what one drop down his throat would do and by the time he had cleared the water from his eyes, she had gone.

*~-~*

Hands still shaking, Luminae, or as she called herself now, Lou, slumped over the kitchen sink in the small apartment.

“So you decided not to tell Her you’d kept that trait, did you?” a voice sneered from behind her and she jumped, feeling a pang in the deep of her human bones, human muscles, human skin in her human back. Whirling, she saw he had yet again return.

“I thought you had realized you weren’t wanted, Metatron…being all seeing, and all saying of course,” she snarled back and he quirked an eyebrow. There was silence until, looking away she added, “Of course I didn’t get to keep that…they take it all away, you know. The apartment is over the bar…I think you’re losing your touch.”

“I was a bit preoccupied with the soaking of my suit,” he bit back, shaking his body a bit like a wet dog. “Hope you don’t mind,” he added lightly before the expanse of snow white wings appeared behind him and he gave a sigh before moving them slowly back and forth to dry themselves.

“Yeah, I do, just slightly,” she responded before storming into her sparse bedroom. He followed, the wings subsiding into folded position.

“Afraid someone’s going to come up? A bit late for a date, isn’t it?” She whirled again, away from the mirror, a lock of hair falling haphazardly into her face.

“So you’ve been watching me as well…Or did you have a Watcher tell you? Playing dirty, even for an angel…” Her eyes stayed on the wings, softening slightly as he gazed at her with tired, dark eyes.

“Well what do you do then? When they,” he looked pointedly with a nod towards her, “have to come out?” She stared at the floor and he softened. “Well, isn’t it a bit odd for a Muse to be stealing other’s music…then again, you probably didn’t. Was it yours?”

There was a short nod before she sat on the bed.

“What did you come for?” He stared at her, incredulously.

“I thought it would be quite obvious! As much as I love,” he drew out the word, dripping with sarcasm, “coming down here all the time, I did have to go somewhat out of my way…”

“Time’s up, eh? A bit early, aren’t we?” This astounded Metatron. He had never known a Heavenly being to actually want to stay on the Earth. Especially the Muses.

“You know Her,” without the sarcasm, the sardonic tone, the edge to his voice, Metatron sounded quite puzzled. “Strange sense of humor…”

“I wanted to be able to do it myself, that’s what I know,” Luminae said bitterly, “Terrible sense of humor.”

“But-,” he asked in growing incredulity, “Don’t you want to come back?”

“Maybe not…” she muttered and turned away from him, laying on the small bed. “Not even for you…” The words stung him, he folded his wings around him and stared at her in shock. Finally, still trying to figure out what to do, he gently, soundlessly, walked to her and ran a line with a finger down the spine and her back seemed to, strangely, bulge. A full body shiver went through her and he was gone again.


The Lurker
Just to let everyone know, I got Miranda's (the previous Metatron keeper!) permission to use him, for at least a while. No worries there!, - Saturday, October 12, 2002 at 22:45:35 (PDT)

“It sounds like we might need to get out and push.” Cindie murmured after her teeth stopped watering from the preternatural sounding screech and what sounded very much like the death of an engine.

Mistral’s reply rang out in the uncharacteristic silence of their group. “Well, at least if we’re stranded we won’t starve. Mary Anne’s shark could feed us all for a week.”

“Too bad its dead, we could have harnessed it up to pull the boat.” Came a rejoinder from Ed across the decking.

“Perhaps George would go and catch us another one,” came a helpful suggestion.

“Well, we have some power, the lights are still on,” the Director reasoned. As fate would have it, they winked out at once as though a blanket had been tossed over them.

“Lumos!” Came an unidentified voice in the darkness. Then, “Damn it” and some unintelligible muttering.

Cindie
Here's a little more for your start, Claudia. , - Friday, October 11, 2002 at 18:15:12 (PDT)

“Oh, my gawd!” Claudia gave a most unladylike screech as she turned a photograph this way and that, looking at Mary Anne standing next to an enormous shark. “I told you we’d miss all the action. “

Ed chuckled. “I also heard that George and Joya had a bit of a fall in the water, and George had a tussle with a shark.”

Claudia sighed. “Don’t tell me, George won, of course. Poor shark… I hope this place livens up a bit, or I’m liable to get tipsy and dance on a table.”

Ed’s deep belly laugh was full of affection. “You’re daft as a brush. I haven’t seen Raz about, if he is here, you’re sure to have company.” He pulled her into his arms and squeezed. “Anyway, isn’t it nice to have some quiet time together for a change? What with chasing burglars and would-be muggers, and all your air-time with the Interrogator, we don’t get to be just us. I miss working with you, and relaxing afterwards.”

“I know, you big goof. Feeling’s mutual.” She rubbed her nose on his. “I promise I’ll get writing on our storyline, and liven things up a bit. I’m fed up with dank dungeon sets, and boring introspectives.”

“Yeah, how about a few love scenes, and relaxing by a pool somewhere.”

“Now, I don’t think that’s very likely. Once the trial is out of the way, perhaps we can get back to being the dynamic duo, and solving mysteries, but until then, we’ll have to go with the flow.”

Ed was about to come back with a retort about ‘Flights of Fancy time’, when he felt a jarring in his teeth. There was a sound, slowly getting louder, like someone running their fingernails down a blackboard. It got louder until everyone was aware of it, and stopped talking, looking around to see what was happening. Then a loud ‘CLUNK’ followed by chuga chuga, putt putt… and silence.

“That can’t be good,” he mumbled, leaning over the railing to see if he could spot anything obvious. Nothing.
Claudia
There you go Cindie - well, its a start!, - Thursday, October 10, 2002 at 23:28:54 (PDT)

After Mary Anne hurried away to chat with Renie, Mistral paused to look about the deck. Most everyone seemed to be here under the stars that were beginning to dot the darkening sky. But where was she? Ah yes, there she was, walking from the deck’s rail and coming in his direction. Her expression seemed pensive he thought, wistful, but then he saw a smile begin on her lips as she continued to move closer. Watching her move toward him, not hurried, but deliberate in her steps, certain of her destination, he recalled again their first party together. The slow inexorable progress she had made towards him then had caused his heart to race. His heart was racing now, but from far more pleasurable sensations. It occurred to him that it would be pleasing too if she hadn’t seen him so that she would continue to walk and he could have the agreeable sensation of watching her move for a little longer. Not prone to voyeuristic diversions he did find that the mere sight of her warmed him much more effectively than the finest whiskey. If their lives were different, less civilized he supposed, he could imagine keeping vigil to ensure her safety.

He heard an exclamation from Mary Anne as it floated above the general murmer of the group. Recalling his conversation with her, he realized his friend had thought he had been singing Suo Gan in lamentation of his mother. In fact his thoughts had been much nearer and he had sung the words with a different bent than had been originally intended. He watched still as she paused and said something to Barbara while gesturing at the Director.

Cindie
Eating too many pretzels tonight., - Wednesday, October 09, 2002 at 19:30:22 (PDT)

Claire--what delicious Brandon pictures! I suppose the poor man does need a little comfort right about now . . .

MA
*THUD* *fanning*, - Wednesday, October 09, 2002 at 04:58:45 (PDT)

On the yacht:

Mary Anne enters the dining room with Mistral, and Renie immediately catches her attention.

"Mary Anne! Come and look!"

Mary Anne immediately hurries over. "Dearest, I’ve hardly had a chance to speak to you since you got here, I’m sorry-"

"Well," chortles Renie, "you’ve been busy today-look."

Mary Anne looks as Renie hands over a sheaf of pictures.

"What in the world-how did they get done so quickly?"

For the pictures are of Mary Anne with her porbeagle shark, taken after it had been hoisted onto the deck. Yes, she had definitely mugged for the camera: here’s a pose with her brandishing the bait knife as if she means to dissect the animal at the first opportunity; another, with one foot propped against the shark’s back in the classic pose of conquest; a third, with Brandon, Mistral, Dev, and Dane standing about her. I couldn’t have done it without them. And still more. One with Snape standing in the background and clearly fascinated by that mouthful of wicked teeth. Another, of Mary Anne stooping to pull back on the pointed snout and expose those teeth even more clearly-Mistral on the sidelines in this one, looking a little alarmed at the proximity of Mary Anne’s fingers to . . .

"It’s a service of the tour. They know people are going to take pictures and might like to look at them right away-you know how it is, when your film sits on your dresser for six months! So they do it for you, here. I think there’s a darkroom below . . ."

A burst of laughter, nearer the buffet tables. Hans, too, is glancing over the pictures; clearly there are a great many in circulation. And Mary Anne can hear his voice, wry and amused: "Many times, in her scripts, Mary Anne has compared me to a shark . . ." This, accompanied by a long look at Mary Anne, who hides her face behind her fan of photographs, but peeks out from behind it to smirk at Hans, who grins back. Like a shark, indeed.

"I made sure to save you a packet of the best, Mary Anne; Chris and Sandy both took shots, that I know of, so there are bound to be lots of them around."

Mary Anne rolls her eyes. "Terrific. Now they’ll be showing up on the bulletin board." Her eyes light with mischief as she points to the shot of herself with her foot on the shark’s back. "Here’s a bet for you, Renie; it won’t be long before this one turns up with the shark labeled ‘The Interrogator.’ Don’t you think?"

"That’s a sure bet if I ever heard one."

Mary Anne looks around to see if Mistral has overheard that remark, but seems to have disappeared into the crowd around the buffet table. She happens to catch Sandy’s gaze and, unable to make herself heard across the room, simply mouths, Chocolate? Sandy looks down the tables and then turns to give her the thumbs-up.

Mary Anne turns back to Renie. "How about a nice chat over a tureen of chocolate mousse, with two spoons?"

"Not so fast, Mary Anne."

Mary Anne turns to find Brandon standing behind her. Where did he come from? He wasn’t there a minute ago. Taken aback by that intent and unsmiling gaze, Mary Anne simply stands and blinks for a few seconds, before Brandon’s eyes crinkle into that gentle regard she knows so well, and he offers her a plate. "Some samples from the buffet. Real food before the chocolate, or The Director . . ." Hint of a twinkle. "He might find another use for those spoons."

"That would be George’s department." Mary Anne snags a fork from one of the tables and offers no objection whatsoever to real food. "Tortellini . . . mmmmm. Thank you, Christopher; you are a saint!"

"Yes," replies Brandon. "The patron of travellers, I believe."

So quietly that Mary Anne does not hear him.

MA
Just noodling around . . . ;-), - Tuesday, October 08, 2002 at 19:35:52 (PDT)

Chris and Hamlet remain sitting in the lounge chairs long after Sandy and Alex have disappeared. The chairs are pushed up close, so that they can talk quietly, and soon Chris is relaxed enough to start feeling sleepy. She yawns widely, and Hamlet laughs at the comical expression this involves. But it's a gentle, friendly laugh, and within moments, Chris is giggling too.

"Keeping you up?" Hamlet asks mischeviously.

Chris smiles sheepishly. "I haven't slept much for a while," she admits. "The stresses and strains of everyday life just seem to be taking their toll, and I can't seem to sleep the whole night through."

Hamlet looks at her with concern in his eyes. He knows she is a private soul, not really letting anyone too close, so if she's mentioning the problem, it can't be a good situation.

While he's mulling things over, he glances over at Chris, and realises that she's fallen asleep on her chair. He smiles gently, and moves to cover her with one of the blankets. She doesn't stir a muscle as he tucks her in, before wandering off in search of another drink.

Chris <why1040>
Surfacing yet again (no pun intended, considering the yacht scene!). Oh, and Hamlet's up for loan if anyone wants to have a crack at handling him...he's not mad yet!, - Tuesday, October 08, 2002 at 05:42:01 (PDT)

test
Suz
- Monday, October 07, 2002 at 22:44:37 (PDT)

Oblivious to the setting of the sun, she continued to stare down at the lower deck as the two figures departed and were replaced with one who gazed out to the West. A function of the breeze? A trick of the wind? Whatever the cause, Cindie had heard every word as if they had been two feet away instead of the twenty or so feet they had been. She had only meant to watch the sun go down and await Mistral. They hadn’t made plans to meet up on the upper deck to grab a bite but it seemed to make sense to her that it would play out that way. So when she looked around and didn’t see him it seemed natural to lean against the deck enjoying the slight breeze up here and the reflections in the water. Instead she had become an eavesdropper. Of course she ought to have called out the minute she realized Mary Anne and Mistral were down there. As it was, the hand that had begun to raise in a wave had fallen to grip the railing as she had listened. And watched.

Little wonder she had heard or seen nothing to give her mind ease or joy. It was what came of watching in secret, like the spy Snape had accused Mistral of being. She had joked with him about her being the spy, alluding to her foray into the files to find out his name. Mistral ought to be the one looking over his shoulder. Mary Anne too, who had been such a good friend to her since she joined up on the show.

Of course it wasn’t just that she was disgusted with herself for having done nothing to remove herself from her post nor anything to make herself known. It was also the sense of having seen something play itself out. Something in itself both secret and dangerous.

Mistral singing in lamentation of his mother she could understand. She’d seen first hand how it wore at him, week after week. She could do nothing for him just as he could do nothing for his mother. If she thought that her presence made some difference to him it had been perhaps wishful thinking.

They had spoken of fun, what he did for fun. A little flare of anger came and went at the thought that Mistral still had to speak of being glad of someone knowing he and his character weren’t one and the same. But no, there hadn’t been much in the line of fun. He was gone on the weekends, and weeknights left precious little time, especially when late hours at work were sometimes kept. Especially when dates always ended early and on neutral territory…

He’d liked Mary Anne’s sandals. Mistral always appreciated beauty. The last time he had commented upon her footwear it had not been an auspicious occasion. At the time she had thought the release of his laughter had been healing and fine. Now, it seemed to her that it would be far better to have his regard without the derision. But that was being silly, as if her pink fluffy slippers compared to Mary Anne’s graceful beaded footwear. But that was the point, wasn’t it? There was no comparison.

It would have been nice if he’d mentioned her, even in passing. That was egocentric of her and she knew it. As if two old friends were expected to speak of her and nothing else. She was being foolish and unsettled over nothing. Mentally she gave herself a shake.

Her focus returned and she could see that the deck below was empty now. Naturally, she wondered if Brandon had seen . . .what? Something. Resolute, she altered the thought to nothing and ignored the niggling question mark that snuck into her thought process.

Turning, she saw that the main part of the deck had been lit with pin points of light strung all about which dappled across the revelers. Her mouth curved up into a light smile as she walked over towards her friends. If she’d been troubled, she’d brought it on herself and she would banish it herself and enjoy the fine evening. She could even see the Director expounding enthusiastically about something as he gestured with both hands while not spilling a scintilla of the liquid from his flute.

Cindie
Oh, de pain, de pain., - Wednesday, October 02, 2002 at 18:27:42 (PDT)

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