Highlander: The Immortal Quickening

Thomas Shining Turtle sat in the ancient roadside cafe, nursing the last of his meal and his beer. The food was good, and the beer had maintained something of it's cold in the Arizona heat. The sign outside, the one that read "Best Food For 100 Miles, Air Conditioned Comfort" hadn't lied, it was just a few decades old. Beyond the kitchens of a few battered mobile homes, there wasn't another kitchen within a hundred miles, and the air conditioner not only wheezed and banged to itself, it required an equally old oscillating metal fan (also banging) to attempt to circulate the air. Thomas had made do with slugging down as much ice water as the jaded waitress would continue to bring around, but she had made it clear that the water service only lasted for the length of the meal. Once the last bite and sip were gone, it was all over, and he'd be expected to pay his tab and leave.

Friendly folks, he thought sarcastically to himself. Not that he blamed them. The dry heat and open terrain sucked more than water out of a person. Most of these people stayed in the area for personal reasons, not for the scenery. The desert offered offered no respite for those claiming tourist status, and less to those that lived here. He himself had spent as little time as possible here, but an old friend lived out in the area. He'd needed some time with Ira (or, as the locals called him, "that crazy ol' Injun beadshaker"), and had left his retreat in the north to come visit the man. Ira was mortal, but he'd recognized Thomas for what he was the first time they'd met. Nothing shook the old man, and he'd served as Thomas' moral compass on a few occasions.

The visit had been good, despite Ira's method of getting to his points. People of the Nations had always had a way of making a point without making a point, and Ira was better than most in that area. Add the heat and remoteness to the issue, and Ira could take the better part of a week to get through "Hello, how are you?". Plus his damned concoctions to better his visions. Two nights in the desert with his head swimming from home brewed halluncinagenics had been almost more than he could bear.

He'd been spared by the arrival of the letter. The Fed Ex man had groused about getting to the retreat, but he'd still handed over an envelope with the clearly printed address that used Thomas' original name, carefully phonetically spelled across the label, in care of Ira. The return address was Tibet, of all places, and the label attached to the envelope's bar code showed that this had been posted three weeks ago. Curious, since he'd told no one other than Coulter that he was coming here, and Patrick was even more closed mouthed than he was. Hell, he hadn't even known until almost that time that he was going to Arizona.

The envelope contained four sheets of paper, and a small talisman. The papers were, in order, a picture of a sword's hilt, a series of small artist's sketches of varying blade styles, complete with measurements, a photocopy of a map section with carefully hand drawn directions added, and an invitation, formally written in phonetic Shoshone, to come to Bolivia for a treasure hunt.

The talisman was what had caught his attention. It was a coin-sized circle of polished stone, one side burnished by years of contact with skin. Small sigils were carved into it, and a pair of tiny beads of amber completed the decorations. The remains of a knotted leather thong still clung to it.

He remembered it well. He'd given it to a lover over a century ago. They'd parted ways, their lives not just hampered by her aging, but also by his inability to give her children. He'd recognized the need in her, and he finally did the hardest thing he'd done up that point in his life. She had eventually married and started a large family. Thomas had kept an eye on her and her brood. Upon her death, he'd quietly introduced himself to her oldest daughter, and told a bit of a fib, claiming to be an old family friend. He promised that if he could ever be of assistance to the family, that they need only to contact him, using the talisman as a proof. The call had never come, until now, if this was what it was.

If not...

Pulling himself back to the present, Thomas finished his meal. He had a plane to catch, and that meant a long drive to the airport. It had taken a bit of wrangling over an ancient pay phone to get the arrangements made, especially since he'd had to remember the details of one of his identities while standing in the narrow shade of an old gas station. Money, papers, flight arrangements, even the specialized considerations for carrying his weapons on an international flight, all had to be dealt with before he had taken his leave of Ira. Of course, after he had argued and finagled his way through the arrangements, Ira, who had given him complete solitude after the letter's arrival, had handed him a Spanish/English dictionary and a set of maps of Bolivian cities, then disappeared into his cabin. Thomas had been only able to smile, then get into his truck and hit the road.

Now, if only he could find out how the talisman had found it's way to him...

Samantha Curtis

PANDORA'S BOX
Antiques
All Kinds, At Fair Prices!

Samantha Curtis, proprietor
142 Mott Street

The bell over the door jingled, heralding a visitor to her shop. Sam set down the Tiffany lamp she'd just finished rewiring, a lovely piece that she was tempted to keep for herself. Then again, if she kept every momento... Well, the warehouse she had over in Jersey was already filled to the brim.

"Be right there!"

Parting the beaded curtains that hung in the doorway to her workroom, she looked around for the customer. Sam hadn't heard the bell a second time, yet no one was there. Stranger things had been known to happen, she chuckled to herself as she headed toward the back again.

That's when it caught her eye. An envelope. Slightly battered yet none the worse for the wear, it was propped against the antique cash register on the counter.

"Jim?" The portly old mailman usually stuck around for a cup of coffee while on his route, but this time he hadn't even said hello. Maybe it was a sub, Sam shrugged as she picked up the letter.

Forward. Forward. Forward. No post mark. No date. She couldn't help wondering how long it had been travelling to make its way here. "So open it already. Sheesh!"

The contents were interesting: An invitation to a scavenger hunt. Someone obviously knew she was a packrat, but in Bolivia? Sam shrugged and looked at the second page. A map -- directions to her destination, no doubt. The last is what caught her eye though. A photograph of a sword.

A Schiavona by the look of it. It had been a while. They were once used by the Dalmatian Slavs who made up the Doge's guard. Good for both cut and thrust.

Sam ran her fingers over the photo before setting it down and picking up the letter once again. How could she resist? Then again, maybe she wasn't supposed to.

*********

The earliest flight Sam could get to La Paz was a day later (with a connecting), but she used that time to her advantage. She'd phoned the cop shop to let them know she'd be out of town and picked up some things she might need while she was off playing Butch Cassidy and Sundance -- or was that Etta Place?

A few stores and more than a few hundred bucks later, Sam had her supplies along with a new backpack and bedroll. She already had a great pair of boots that would do her -- she knew better than to head out in new ones. Clothes, too. As for things she couldn't travel with... well, she'd worry about those when she got where she was going. Anything could be had there -- if you knew where to look. And she did.

And so her journey began...

Gem Fleming

She was born in France, or at least the area that was now considered France. She stopped counting the years long ago, it was depressing.

Currently she was living in a remote countryside enjoying a simple life. A life alone, free from distraction, or so she thought. When the FedEx guy arrived she was startled and as she signed for the package she noticed the return address and her mind flashed back.

She had only know him briefly, another immortal, it had been the most painful and exciting time in her long life. Just from holding the package she knew he was dead. She read the letter...blah blah blah if you are reading this I'm dead...blah blah blah...I was searching for a sword....blah blah blah.....I know you'll continue the search....blah blah blah....if not for me then for what we once wanted.......Eternally yours

she recognized his flamboyant scrawl anywhere

Louis Latrec


Her fingers trembled and she dropped the letter and was forced to look at the rest of the contents of the package. A journal, she recognized it, Louis had toted it around half the world with her.

She wiped away tears she hadn't even realized she had shed. She picked up the phone called the nearest travel agent and arranged a flight to Bolivia, and it was evidentally need a taxi cab
from there.

Oh well nothing like a remote location to hide a precious treasure.

She began packing, her long silky brown hair bound in a braid down her back. Luckily she had a found a flight that would get her to New York, if she could get to the local airport in time. From there is was a mismash of flights and rental cars to Bolivia.

She called her current lawyer and drew up papers in case she returned....and in case she never returned.

Yung Jo

Yung was in the market in Brussels getting ingredients for tonights menu. He was meticulous when it came to doing anything, especially cooking and swordplay. He picked through the bok choi and grabbed the ones that looked freshest.
He took the vegetables to the restaurant and went to the dojo where he was teaching fencing to a handful of teenagers. Upon entering the locked room he noticed a parcel inside the building. He wondered how someone could have possibly got in without setting anything off. Perhaps an assassin had caught up to him. The parcel was addressed to Yung Jo, odd since he hadnt used that name in several hundred years.
He opened the parcel slowly, several pages fell out. Upon examining the pages he found an invitation to a treasure hunt in Bolivia, with a map. He was not interested in some silly hunt. Then he turned to the third page, It was a picture with specs on what appeared to be a Schiavona. A sword which he did not posess in his large collection. He thought of his collection of swords. There were ancient Greek and Roman swords, Gladius, Shamshir, a Scottish Claymore, several Japanese swords, the sword of Charlamagne and of Hannibal. This indeed would be a nice collection piece. He quickly made a phone call to Jose Gubart, the chief of the Policia Nacional de Bolivia in Sucre. Jose could find no information on this hunt as suspected.
Yung packed up his usual attire for action and several thermal underclothes and headed to the airport.

..............

Jean-Claude Jones

A prism-shaped wood chip flew through the air as the axe blade bit into the jack pine. An observer would have been quickly curious about this lumberjack’s style. He looked ridiculously typical for Saskatchewan: a long wool-collared denim jacket over a red plaid flannel shirt that was tucked into well-worn denim jeans, high leather work boots with dirty red laces, and a blue wool knit cap topping a thickly bearded face. But his swing had been soft. Just the tip of the blade had delicately sunk into the tree. He cocked his head and looked at the spot, then gingerly hefted the falling axe again in both hands, took careful aim, and tapped once, twice, then twisted another small piece out. He stepped back and considered his handiwork, then nodded. The misshapen face in the tree trunk stared back at him.

The logging company had long since given up on Jean-Claude Jones showing up to work. They didn’t miss him anyway, considering his low output. He hadn’t swung an axe like he needed to make a living, preferring to wander away from the work sites for hours, even days at a time. He’d taken the job out of a misplaced feeling of need, but soon realized that he just needed to be.

This totem was the latest in a series that strung for miles in a rough circle around his cabin. It gave him a sense of stability, as if this was where he might truly call home. At least, that was what he thought after the twentieth carving. Sometime after the sixtieth, he noted the satisfaction at their completion was beginning to wane. Soon after, he had stopped counting, continuing the habit only to mark a place that was new in his walking journeys. He was comfortable here and had been for a long time, knowing the curves of the streams and hills as intimately as…

His thumb glided along the edge of the axe, and he pulled out his whetstone and sat on a mossy rock. Slowly, expertly, he restored the shining luster to the gently curved edge, briefly allowing his thoughts to return to New Orleans and the dark eyes under dark hair that gazed at him over a bare shoulder. It was as far as he allowed himself to remember.

It was mid-afternoon when he arrived back at his cabin. He was twenty feet from the door when he saw the small package. He stood still, scanning the pine forest with eyes and ears, but nothing was out of the ordinary. He slowly approached the door, thick eyebrows knitting in puzzlement at the lack of tracks. The ground was damp, and the single trail that led here was unpaved. He hadn’t seen anyone else in several months, not since his resupply trek to Sandy Lake. Of those who did know where he lived, none would have a reason to visit him anyway. Even a visit from postal delivery was a rare event, and certainly warranted a drink and small talk in token repayment.

The string-wrapped bundle had multiple postmarks. He took off his boots and laid the package on the table inside. The cabin was small but clean. Bookshelves circled the main room, and the walls were hung with a cacophony of lumberjack paraphernalia. Crosscut saws, bucking saws, falling axes, hand axes, broad axes, sledgehammers, peeling irons, all in varying stages of rust – coils of rope, climber’s belts and spurs, block and tackle, tongs… A collection to please the eye and mind, certainly not for real use.

He lit the fireplace and stove, set a pot of water on its surface, then peeled off his days-old clothes and stepped out the back door onto the slatted wood floor of the shower. It had no sides: modesty had no place in isolation. The water was ice-cold, and he lathered and scrubbed himself and ran the water until his skin was bright red. He shook himself off and slipped into a thick robe, then stepped back inside and poured a cup of tea. Refreshed, clean (finally!), and mildly hungry, he sat at the table and picked up the new arrival, carefully cutting the string with his pocket knife.

The sheets of paper slipped into his hand, but were forgotten when the last item slid out and clunked onto the table. A chill he hadn’t felt in years ripped down his spine, and with a physical effort he tore his eyes away to stare at the papers. An oddly pleasant invitation to a treasure hunt – a photograph of a sword – a map of Bolivia…

The tea was cold when he took the first sip, but he didn’t notice. He watched the object on the table like it might move. It looked nondescript: a goldtone belt buckle in the shape of a butterfly, the style somewhat Victorian. He breathed deeply and touched it, then turned it over. The initials LL were engraved into its back.

It only took fifteen minutes to start the Jeep the next morning, and it bounced down the trail with Jean-Claude and his bags. A puddle-jumper to Saskatoon, another to Regina, and on into the States until he could connect to an international flight. The belt buckle slid against his chest on a leather cord, and two days continued replaying their endless loop through his mind as the road unfurled before him.

The girl looked like a Mod nightmare, so many decades clashing together that it managed to look good.

Away from the throbbing lights and pulsing beats of most teeny-bopper stores that seemed to overrun the town, “Fine Scents” [ god what a contrived name ] was tucked away in a corner, seemingly to call to all the perverts and deviants of the night life.

Well, that is, if they got past the insanely bubble-gum Japanese pop that she tended to blare in the middle of the night.

She was behind the desk, head tilted back. To anyone else, it would seem that she was either high or taken some odd interest in the ceiling. It was really none of the above – she was in the process of blowing a large pink bubble with her gum. As she worked on it, her co-worker sighed and shook his head. How she managed to run anything was completely beyond him, but there was no denying that someway, somehow, she was keeping the little store alive.

Maybe it was the round-rimmed light blue John Lennon-uesqe shades that she wore, even in the middle of the night. Or maybe it was her George Clinton dreads or the Bohemian top or the second-skin jeans and bare feet, or the various zodiac jewelry draped from her form. He would probably say that it was the random way she tended to shout what was on her mind. Whatever it was, it worked. Studying her was enough to take his mind off of the terrible ska-sounding Japanese girl group that she’d picked tonight.

He didn’t have much time to dwell on it as she suddenly bolted upright, jumping on top of one of the counters. “I heard the stars!” she shouted, before leaping off of the counter towards the front of the store. “I see a mail man coming with….” A wave of a multi-ringed hand. “Letters.”

“Don’t they usually bring those,” he muttered, thumbing through a magazine. She seemed to get weirder as the night wore on.

“Not just ANY letters!” she boomed, suddenly turning to slam her hands down on the counter. With the gesture, the blue tinted shades slid down her nose, and he found himself staring into her distantly intense brown eyes.

Definitely the weirdest black person…no, person, in GENERAL, that he’d worked with.

“But a letter of destiny. I spoke to the great lion painted in the stars and that’s what he told me,” she said, pointed to her temples. “I heard him. He also said that 7,8, and 9 are your lucky lotto numbers.”

“Isn’t it usually six numbers for the lotto?”

Bolting up, she looked at him as if he had just told her that God had asked him for a kidney. “SILENCE, vile wretch! I’ve got POWERS!”

He sighed, once more thankful that it was late at night. An odd time for a post man to be coming by, true, but they usually tried to arrange their schedule to avoid running into Kama. Not a big surprise, considering that she had bitten one of their carriers in the past to prove that she was a vampire.

The shadows shifted outside, and there was a tug at the door. The small chime, and Kama bolted up, multi-colored dreads flying back over her shoulders. Whirling about, she faced her co-worker. “Powweersssssss.” Waving her hand at him, she leaned back against the counter. This was a new mailman…or at least, one she hadn’t seen before. Scaring mailmen had gotten old for her, though…might as well play it straight.

The mailman had entered cautiously. He’d heard the rumors about the “crazy witch” that had a tendency to lie beyond most human capability. Still, that wasn’t as frightening as the thought that he might be bitten by the girl. That had to be her leaning against the counter. With one hand grasped firmly about his mace, he handed her the mail, prepared to spray her and run. Oddly enough, she took the mail from him calmly, thumbing through the articles just like anyone else. “Is that it,” she asked, peering at him over those blue shades.

“Yeah, that’s it….” He began to back away, recalling what he’d learned from the Discovery Channel. Wasn’t good to make eye-contact with these types. The slightest thing could set them off. He was jarred out of his thoughts as he ran into the door. Fumbling for the handle, he quickly turned it, and disappeared. She continued to thumb through the mail until she heard the engine of his truck turn over, and become a distant sound in the night. It was the usual fare, though – bills and the like. Nothing ever really interesting came here.

With a sigh, she pushed her shades up her nose, stopping for a moment to scratch at the small gold stud embedded in the right nostril. Then her eyes narrowed, brows knitting slightly. What was this? Nice stationary, totally. She was digging that much of it. “Please let this not be a friggin’ wedding invite…” Sliding a fingernail under the seal, she partially ripped it open. A scavenger hunt? What did she look like, like she was five or some shit? Please.

She was prepared to toss it out when something caught the butter-colored light of the store. Lifting the letter all the way out, she removed a photograph. Her eyes widened slightly. She hadn’t seen this since…like, the day before forever. “Oh my,” was all she could manage to stammer out. Absolutely gorgeous. She turned the picture over and over in her hands. A naked Orlando Bloom…and…and….She screamed, unable to contain herself. Dropping the photo, she did a made to order rain dance, and squealed. Kneeling to pick it up, she dropped it again, feeling the tears come to her eyes. Orlando…AND Johnny Depp! And it wasn’t falsified, either!

Okay, they had her.

“I’m taking a VACATION!” she boomed, tucking the photo and letter away in her jean pocket. And if she left now, she’d be able to make that photo into a poster on her way home. Maybe a shirt. And some stickers. Definitely a mug and a magnet. OOO, what if…

“STAITONARY!” she screeched, causing her co-worked to drop his magazine.
________________________________________________

Packing wasn't hard - all she really needed were some jeans, decent shoes, and incense. She had arranged for one of her friends to watch her pets [ a snake aptly named "Johnny", a few birds, and a hairless cat by the name of "Mr. Dixon" ], and within a few days, she was out of the door.

As she paced down the corridor to the plane, she bit her lower lip lightly. This meant that she now owed her friend some money, but maybe if she brought the woman back some make up, she'd let it slide. Bartering should be brought back in style, she thought idly as she searched for a seat. The bright pinks and feathers in her hair caught the attention of a few children sitting in front of her.

Since she was in a good mood, she'd spare the usual growl. Instead, she waved at them and sat down.

The mere aspect of the flight flight had been more than enough to make the young woman giddy. It’d been far too long since she left the states [ her “Stalk the Cast of LOTR” had fallen through. Bastards. A New Zealand trip would have been wonderful ], and even longer since she’d been able to just cut free and leave. The only person she bothered to tell that she was leaving had been her dad – he had a tendency to worry. Resisting the urge to sing along with Ekin Cheng, she stared out of the window and pulled her hair from her eyes.

But just one thing couldn’t hurt.

“TEEN TITANS!” she shouted, much to the delight to the children on board.

Thomas Shining Turtle

The Shoshone with the long lifeline inched forward in the airliner seat when the arrival announcement was made. It wasn't like he (and the entire passenger complement along with him) wasn't aware that they had landed, it was just the conditioned response. The flight had been long and fairly bumpy, and the passengers had been as polite as possible for the duration. Now, they were about to be released from the plane's confines, and their eagerness overruled courtesy. In moments, they would all be pressing against each other to escape.

Deciding that he could be patient for a few more minutes, Thomas settled back and closed his eyes, letting his mind wander over the journey. He'd had worse, but those had usually been on travels made with more specific purposes in mind. All he had was a destination, a group of pictures of swords, and Amanda's talisman. If only he knew what the connections were.

His truck was now parked in a storage unit near a county airport back in Arizona. He'd caught a puddlejumper flight out from the the tiny airport, then made a series of connections to successfully larger flights. It had taken some ingenuity to ease his luggage onto the name airlines without an overly serious search of the bags, especially in this day and age, but there were ways. Primarily it meant cash and a knowledge of which ear to whisper to. Cash he had, even if it wasn't the massive riches he had once thought he might one day own, and there was a certain look to the people he needed to speak to, a look that he had learned to seek out.

Of course, he did have papers for the weapons. He held a position as a historian, and the items secreted in his bags could qualify as a items of historical interest, if one didn't look too closely. The lance and the tomahawk were built to look authentic, but his ancestors didn't work that much with some of the alloys and polycomposites that these were made of. And no lance had ever been constructed in the old days to break down in the manner that his did. Still, they could be explained if a nosy agent decided to get fresh.

He knew the moment the door opened, even if he couldn't see the action. People in the aisle pressed forward, seemingly positive that they could shove through and no one would notice. Half of them had immediately pulled cell phones from their pockets, only to discover that not all the benefits of modern technology had been gifted to the storybook city in the mountains. Thomas smiled, then noted the faint pressure in his chest, and the extra effort needed to draw what he considered a normal breath.

Twelve thousand feet above sea level. He reminded himself. Pilots are required to begin using oxygen two thousand feet below this. Only mountain goats and indigenous people are used to the effects, the potentials for massive systemic deficiencies, the increased stresses to heart and lungs. His own system could adapt quickly, but the non-specialized bodies would require time to adjust.

Finally finding an opening in the group, he left his seat and entered the airport. This building was one of the most modern facilities in La Paz. He would need to find one of the high quality hotels, a bank, or a government building to find the technology and training that would be noted here. He noted the shiny fixtures, the freshly cleaned floors, the computer monitors keeping meticulous track of the comings and goings of flights to and from all parts of the world. For all that Bolivia was a third world country, it's airport could handle almost any size aircraft that wanted to come here.

Customs was a brief affair. Few officials looked at what people brought into the country. It was the exit policy that would be more difficult. With cocaine production being the largest (legal or otherwise) industry in the country, legal concerns would make a more thorough search of his belongings a certainty on the return flight.

Providing, of course, that he made the return flight. His life was such that he knew he may not survive whatever was about to happen. He harbored no illusions about his immortality, and accepted that he might be decapitated at any time. If so, he intended to go to the next world with as clear a head as possible. And, of course, he might not choose to exit the country the same way. Over half the country was mountainous, and a skilled trailsman could find his way out with relative ease.

Luckily for him, he'd been a skilled trailsman for centuries. The Shoshones had spent plenty of time exploring. Or running and hiding from their enemies, if that was your chosen take on history.

Pulling his backpack on, he left the facilities. Once outside, he found himself in a different world. Beyond the physical stress changes, the financial hardships of this country became readily noticible. Beggars appeared immediately, primarily the blind or the deformed, a few amputees, all pleading in the local tongue. Shining Turtle spoke some Spanish, but noted that this language here had distinct differences. Definitely an older language. Similar to others he had known, but still different.

He had hoped that his heritage would provide him with a degree of anonymity. He was wrong, as he quickly found out. While there was some shared blood in the features, his skin didn't have the weathered appearance, his eyes didn't have the haunted expression. Most notably, the clothes these people wore were an odd mix of flowing robe and flashy colors on the women, and strange copies of business suits on the men. Hats were everywhere, odd felted bowlers that didn't seem to set firmly on their owners heads, or colorful knitted mountain caps that gave a new slant to the shape of their heads. And these people were small, a reaction to the harshness of the environment. In contrast, Thomas stood above them, his face smooth, his hair shiny, his denim jeans and jacket marking him with deadly accuracy as a foreigner.

He considered finding a market and purchasing some local clothing, but quickly banished the idea. It could wait. First, he needed to get closer to his goal. A quick decision, and he dipped a hand into the pocket that carried some folded money for a cab fare. A sweep of his arm, and the beggars were scrambling for the thrown money. He pressed past, and found the city bus stop. Climbing onto the brightly painted bus, he settled in for the ride to the train station, passing the time by alternating between watching the street, and attempting to decipher a Bolivian overdubbed version of "The A-Team".

Twice during the trip, he felt that an Immortal was near. It was only a brief flicker, and he assumed that it meant that the others were taking taxis or something similar. Most likely headed to the same place he was.

Sam Curtis

Sam had opted for cargo pants and a tee to travel in. The heavy jacket slung over her arm got her a few strange looks in New York, but she knew that the climate in Bolivia was not hot and balmy the way everyone thought, and it would come in more than handy.

She felt the pressure in her chest as soon as she deplaned, but knew that her body would acclimate in a day or so. Thank somebody she'd quit smoking.

She was almost there!

The transfer to Sucre took under an hour and the taxi she'd commissioned for the three hour ride to Potosi was waiting. Of course the $50 she'd offered had nothing to do with that, Sam thought, rolling her eyes -- the normal rate was about $18 and she'd dangled the offer of a substantial tip as well.

The roads were hellish and littered with potholes, but she managed to grab a catnap despite the bouncing and jouncing. Right now it was easier to sleep than try to breathe.

"We're here, lady. Hostal Colonial, yes?"

She opened her eyes and looked out through the taxi's window at what was considered to be the best hotel in Potosi. It was far from luxurious, but it had heat -- a definite plus -- and was the only one with bathtubs. Actually, she'd chosen it for it's proximity to the main square.

Sam squared up with the driver after he helped carry her things into the main lobby. There was a certain 'quaintness' in its faded, musty carpets and the antiquated furnishings that appealed to her. The lights were dim and lent an ethereal atmosphere to what was a mere vestige of glory days gone to seed.

The desk clerk took her information and payment in advance -- just in case she decided to opt for better accommodations in a local village or something, Sam thought wryly. He didn't seem over-pleased that his nephew had made himself scarce, but plastered a smile on his face as he struggled to carry her bags up the two flights to her room. The lift, he said was broken.

She grinned and tipped him, listening as he finished his pitch for his cousin's shop... and his uncle's restaurant. Oh, and did he mention that he had a nephew on his wife's side that had a taxi? She thanked him for all of his 'help', locking the door behind him as she gently nudged him out.

She didn't unpack right away, instead opening the French windows to look down onto the brick courtyard below. She remembered how it once was... and couldn't help wondering what she was doing here again after such a long time.

Gem Fleming

Tracking down a cab was a pain, haggling with the driver was giving her a headache.

HEADACHE? Fuck there was an immortal nearby and she wondered about what kind of wild goose chase Louis had sent her on. Suddenly the feeling faded and she wondered who had gone out of range.

She got in the cab cursed herself all the way to the remote Poto....poto something she didn't even want to know the name anymore as she kept one hand on her sword the other one trained on the landscape outside the window.

Kama Previtera

“Gonna dress you up in my LOOOOVE!”

Appropriate hand movements…now. “All over your body!” And now the only thing she was missing was the side ponytail.

The plane had landed shortly, and rather than be in a rush to get out, she had opted to wait with Madonna. Her little friends had long since left, and the only people that seemed to be left were the hecklers. Whatever. If the stares got worse, she’d switch to New Kids on the Block. People didn’t know what they were missing nowadays….Leaning forward, she dug about in her pockets for a piece of gum. You know, just enough to complete the “I’m a causal American girl with headphones” look. Well, gum and a Coke would really suit the image better, but beggars couldn’t be choosers…

Hm. Were people actually starting to thin out now? Raising her eyebrows, she leaned to the side, peering at the aisle. Yeah, it seemed like she’d be able to get out. “Well, I’ve got something that you’ll really like,” she said as she stood up, ducking to avoid whacking her head on the low ceiling. Inching her way to the aisle, she stretched, and reached for her shades. Instead of the usual pale blue, she’d opted for a deep red today. Matched the rest of her outfit better. She didn’t really know the details of the scavenger hunt, but there was no way she was coming to this place without looking half-way decent. Today’s ensemble would include a frilly pink shirt that would make Prince proud, and second-skin black flares, and of course, some black boots. If that hadn’t been enough to catch the attention of the passersby, there was always the random pink dreadlock mingled with holographic streamers [ yes, streamers ] that she had taken the time to weave through her veritable mane.

Oh, wait, the track was changing. It was her own patented 80’s mix, complete with Milli Vanili [ because girl you know it’s true ], and Eddie Murphy’s “Party all the Time.” As the synthesized beats started up, she slid from the aisle. There was a certain way you had to do things, you know? With…style. Or something along that line. Retrieving her backpack from the overhead compartment, she slung it over her bag, and paced out of the plane into the airport. As she walked into airport, she paused for the briefest of moments to just savor the new surroundings, and the charm that was 80’s Eddie Murphy.
_________________________________________________

She hadn’t planned on hitch-hiking.

But, by hook, crook, and natural “charm”, she’d managed to finagle her way to Potosi. After all, there wasn’t a situation in the world that Kama Previtera, gifted with all the suave….ness and leanings of her Italian ancestry couldn’t handle. Or something along that line. As she sat in the back of the alpaca pulled wagon, she studied her nails. Two bright eyed children sat on either side of her, thrilled by the pink of her shirt and her CD player. She usually wasn’t one for kids, but hell, they seemed like something straight from one of those “For only 50 cents a day you can help little Ackbar get his shots” or some shit. They probably didn’t get to see foreigners all that much, let alone get a taste of some outside culture.

The hotel she’d booked wasn’t anything fancy, but right about now, it was all she could afford. Unless, of course, she stooped to doing seamier activities, and that would fly about as well as a penguin.

But these kids weren’t so bad, and a hotel was better than a hostel. Damn hippies.

As the cart stopped, she stretched again, and took a glance up at the musty old building in front of her. Charming. Absolutely fabulous. Something “Blanca”, although the only thing that could be considered remotely white was all the crap on the window sills. Oh well. Hopping from the back of the cart, the two children watched her with wide black eyes. Well shit, now she felt bad. Digging in her pockets and then her backpack, she wondered what to give them. She sighed as she came across her wallet. Didn’t seem like there was much for a tourist [ or at least nothing so far ], but either way she’d be helping the economy. Fishing through her wallet, she gave each of the children a 5 dollar bill. Their eyes widened, and imagine her surprise when one of the little varmints hugged her! Fighting the urge to scream and bolt, she patted the crown of straight black hair, and wormed her way free. Approaching the driver of the cart, she handed him a ten, and sighed as she endured the hug treatment again.

“Personal SPACE!” she found herself shouting at the retreating cart and the waving kids, who apparently took it as an endearment and waved harder.

Lugging her bags, she walked up to the hotel, CD player stashed within the confines of her backpack.

...............

Aidan

The morning sun rose to break in on the lean figure of a man standing quite tall and quite still. The new morning sun glinted off the skin of his torso while a faint breeze rifled his hakima pants. He stood there a moment, breathing deep, his eyes closed. He took a slight step forward, keeping his balance rested on the balls of his feet. The samarai sword flashed out of it's sheath in a blur of moverment, cutting through a small silken cord. A small iron ring, which until a second ago had been suspended by the silken cord, began to drop. The sword circled tightly, reversed, then stabbed forward. The ring clattered around the blade for a second before being whipped off the blase into a small pail of sand a few feet away. The process was repeated with a second ring, then a third. A final, sweeping cut neatly severed a melon in half that was standing about five and a half feet off the ground on a wooden post. The figure released the breath he had been holding. He resheathed the sword and opened his eyes, blinking as he faced the sun. He picked up half the melon and dipped his fingers in to pull away some of the juicy interior and plop it in his mouth. He stode towards the railing a few feet away and looked out over the skyline.

Singapore. Crossroads of five cultures, three continents, and every shipping lane for thousands of miles. Aidan stood on the patio of his penthous in one of the massive skyscrapers overlooking the Straits of Molacca. There was never a time when that narrow strip of water was not crowded with cargo freighters pouring goods, and money, through the tiny island nation.

Aidan turned and headed back inside his spacious apartments, depoisting the kata sword on it's stand and the hakima pants on the floor. He was headed towards the shower when a pair of small feet padded their way into the living area. Li, his maid (or server, or cook, or personal secretary, or any other of a hundred titles), shuffled her way into the room bearing a small package. Li was one of those confused descendants of the Chinese/Indian/South Asian/etc. inhabitants of Singapore. Aidan wasn't sure what that made her aside from exotic and attractive, but didn't care either. If she noticed or concerned herself with his nakedness, it didn't show.

"Sir," she said in a clear voice, "A package has just arrived, sir. I took the liberty." She stepped forward and handed the brown paper parcel to him. He accpeted it with a nod.

"Just tea this morning Li," he said as he turned and resumed his course for the shower. "Thank you."

His hands tore through the package, while he tried to remember who he knew in Barcelona and why he should care if they were sending him packages. The map of Bolivia was uninteresting, the picture of the sword so-so, the third picture stopped time itself. Or more accurately, sent it spinning back thousands of years. It was a photo showing two-sides of an Ancient (phah!) Greek shield. The face was simple, decorated by a single letter. The old Greek lambda. The interior was carved with several drawings, crude depictions of what looked like a the fanciful retelling of the somebody's story.

Aidan keyed the intercom to the kitchen. "Li," he said in a low voice, "I'm leaving on the next flight to La Paz."

He did.

Thomas Shining Turtle

The train ride was a touch of pure nostalgia, especially for someone like Shining Turtle, who had ridden on the old railroads in the United States. If one ignored the rumbling and growling half century old diesel locomotive, one could believe that they were back in those old days. The coaches were seemingly dropped in from that era, complete with oversprung trucks and hard bench seats.

Of course, the illusion wasn't simply visual. As the trip progressed, the sun on the enclosed coaches caused the interiors to become filled with the aromas of humanity. Sweat and minimal personal hygiene were soon overwhelmed by fetid breath and flatulence. Shining Turtle closed his eyes and ignored it. He'd withstood worse, this was merely an annoyance.

He was surprised by the sudden appearance of armed men. No, not men, boys. Beyond the drab uniforms and pristine helmet liners, these were children. Shining Turtle guessed that most of these youths were no more than fourteen. In the days of his youth, an age of adulthood. In this day and age, well, most societies considered the age to be still in adolescence. Here, they were allowed to work in dangerous professions, marry, and carry fully automatic weapons. Weapons like the one that was currently in his line of sight, an assault rifle of Belgian make, it's finish marred by scuffs and rust, the fire selector lever firmly pointed to "Auto". Thomas carefully arranged himself so that he remained out of the line of fire, should an accident happen.

The journey was twelve hours long, with two brief stops along the way. Two hours into the first leg of the trip, the novelty began to wear off. His tail was forcibly numbed by the wooden bench, his breath was alternately taken away by the stench of the coach, and the diesel fumes from outside. An attempt to stretch his legs and relieve his bladder earned him only the knowledge that the ancient toilet had long since been removed, leaving a hole in the rotting floor boards. The return to his seat had been quick enough to catch a roving hand trying to pilfer his backpack. He'd snapped a quick punch that caught the arm just below the elbow and cracked the fingers and hand against the wooden bench. He chose to ignore the fact that the arm was clad in neatly woven olive drab, the type of cloth that the army children wore, instead allowing the arm to withdraw.

Two hours later the train had eased into a town that was essentially obscured behind the so-called station. Before the wheels were completely stilled, vendors had pressed themselves onto the coaches, and were hawking their wares. He considered some of the local clothing and talismans, but passed on them. A waved dollar bill caught plenty of attention with the food vendors, and he soon had a lapful of food wrapped in newspaper and bottles of mineral water. He trusted his enhanced physiology to keep him from any ill effects of the food, and ate what he felt comfortable with, stowing the rest in his pack.

Food and the train's motion had their toll, and he drifted off, lost in the flow of memory and dream...

Luis Ardego was perhaps the most important person in the small town. None of the other residents might notice it, but he was. He never bragged about his status, and he made a point of not pressing the idea upon them, but it was the truth. He was, after all, the best of the town beggars. His livelihood depended upon his ability to be where the wealthy people were.

In this town, wealthy meant foreign. The mines had given out, the authorities were watching the airstrip for drug smugglers, and even the university was giving up on teaching anything beyond reading to their students. Money came from the tourists, those strange people that came here from far away. And Luis knew where to set himself to see them when they arrived. Knew how to move to intercept them at the best moment. And how to pitch his voice and wave his arms in the most pleading manner possible to pry their pockets open.

He wouldn't steal from them. Stealing was wrong, as the priests taught. But accepting alms weren't stealing, these were freely offered to him, and he knew how to best make their offerings suitable for a man of his station.

A new face had appeared in the town, and Luis had moved rapidly, splaying himself before the foreigner, and offering his best gap toothed smile to the benefactor. He briefly marvelled at their smooth features, so different from his own red leather skin. After he had managed to accept a ten dollar bill (Ten dollars! He could do almost anything for the next two days.., he loped back to the shanty that he lived in, the squalor of his domicile a better defense than any security system.

Once inside, he pulled at the mattress that he slept upon, the bed sliding away on smoothly oiled castors. Hidden against the wall was a computer, one that he warmed up and began entering commands with astonishing ease. When a distant communications panel answered, he made his report quickly and sharply, the simpering attitude gone from his voice, his language now English with the accent of education.

"Another has arrived, surely one of the people that you described." He watched as several pictures rose on his screen, and he chose the picture that most closely represented his mark. "I will make sure they get the next invitation. Rest assured, they will enter your complex in an agitated state of mind.

Closing down the console, he quickly adjusted his attire. Another train might arrive, or they might choose to travel by car. Either way, Luis would be looking for them, laughing at those who mocked him, knowing that he had money carefully hidden away that they would never know about.

Yung enjoyed his visit in Sucre. Ht had been a long time due for a visit. He got the information he needed and was looking for. As he entered Potosi he knew several immortals were near. One feeling he knew for sure. He grabbed his items and quickly got a room at the hotel. He had somewhere to be in a hurry so he threw his bags on the bed, checked the side of his jacket he wore and quickly jumped to the staircase outside the window.

He picked a chair in the corner and sat quietly, his hand on his hilt as usual. It seemed the two were attached at most times of his life. He could hear her open the door thanking someone for their help. She threw down her luggage and went to the window and drew the curtain.

I smiled to myself, still the very same girl I had helped so many years ago. "Hello Sam, I was wondering how much longer you would make me wait here in this uncomfortable chair."

SHe turned around fast as a cat with her blade already in attack position. A smile quickly overtook her as she ran towards me with a huge hug. "Dont tell me you got suckered into this too Yung." She smiled. She had a great smile.

"Yeah whatever this is. they got me, you know my hunger for swords. Oh by the way, I never got a chance to thank you for getting me the Viking Stamford, circa 982 . It is beautiful, I cant believe you got it in such great condition. I take it the money arrived to your specifications?" He grinned widely.

We chit chatted about old times and this new hunt or game that we were on. The danger level was definitely high in Bolivia for Immortals. "Shall we persue the near by endeavors or perhaps get a bite to eat?"

The morning sun washed down over his face, and Aidan basked in its pleasant and welcome warmth. The tang of sea water filled his nostrils as he inhaled deeply, throwing the scarlet cloak off of him...

Aidan's eyes popped fully open and the warm sun, saltwater air, and scarlet cloak popped back into the vacany of the dreamworld. He reminded himself that one did not doze in the compnay of strangers in the third world, especially not while riding along a stubby dirt road miles from anywhere in the desolate mountain passes high in the Bolivian Andes. That was a good way to get your throat cut and get dumped down some no-named ravine. Not that he really worried about having his thraot cut or about being tossed down some ravine. But it was a long walk to anywhere, and Aidan would've hated having his sword stolen from him. He resettled his overcoat on his shoulders, pushed his fedora a little further down over his eyes, and rolled his neck to strech. It didn't look like any of of his fellow passengers had noticed him dropping off, but you could never be really certain. He pushed the dream back into his memory, down to the place thousands of miles from where he was, at a time thousands of years ago.

Aidan checked his watch and figured they'd be arrving at their destination in about an hour or so. These roads weren't really constant, and thus never really reliable.

*****

Aidan shook the dust off his boots as he watched the truck that had ferried him up here rattle off away and out of the plaza. He took in the four corners and found the place fairly typical. Hotel. Cantina. Church. Cith Hall (of a sorts). A few townspeople walking around here and there, seeing to their daily business. He nodded, statisfied for the moment that the place was what it seemed to be.

Aidan adjusted his overcoat, pushed his fedora back out of his eyes, then hoisted his bag onto his shoulder. He stepped out and over through the doors into the hotel, walking through its "lobby" towards its "register desk." The sleepy-eyes "concierge" barely noted my arrival.

"Una cuarto por favor," I began, hoping my little Spanish would be recognised and understood up here in the boondocks. "Lo mejor."

"No es posible senor," he intoned. "Esta occupado."

"[Very well, whatever is off the ground floor, has a bed and a bath, and a door that locks will be fine.]"

"[Yes, we have.]" He tossed a key to some kid who was drifting around. The kid beckoned for me to follow, then took off up some near-by stairs. I noticed he didn't even bother to ask to carry my bag.

I trudged up the flight after him, wondering where the nearest kitchen could be founf. As I exited onto the landing on the top floor, the awareness of other Immortals tinged in my skull. My fingers went inside my jacket to the hilt of the broadsword hanging there. There was no nearby movement, nor was it eerily quiet either, nothing seemed out of place. Maybe whoever it was wasn't interested in me at the moment, although they'd now know I was about. I padded down the hall to where the young boy had opened the door to what was now my room. I hadn't expected to run into other Immortals so soon, and for a man who had prayed and sacrificed to the Goddess Fortune I wasn't too happy at the moment.

~Thomas Shining Turtle~

The Past
Oregon Territory
1886

The train rattled and rocked on the flimsy rails that had been spread across the countryside, the engine on the lead chuffing and banging as it sent cinders and bits of ash flying into the air behind it. In the rough coaches being pulled by the engine, armed soldiers in roughspun Union blue watched over sullen prisoners. The air was full of odors, mostly of unwashed bodies and the after effects of woodsmoke, as well as animosity. All the faces glaring at the guards were sharply defined Indian faces, men, women, and children, all chained, shackled, and eager to escape.

It was to the White Man's detriment that none of the soldiers could differentiate tribal differences. For the most part, these prisoners were of the nations of the Southwest, Apache, Navajo, and Chiracahuas. But no small number of them were from other parts of the abundant North American countryside. Nez Perce, Paiute, Yakima, Shoshone, Crowe, Blackfoot, even several branches of the Sioux nations were evident, although they all honored an unspoken agreement not to advertise the differences, since the soldiers would have taken these facts as invitations to provoke fights or mete out corporal judgement for their own greedy reasons.

The train was supposedly carrying followers of the Apache uprising, those that had agreed to wreak havok for Geronimo against the long noses. The group was being transported to a prison in far off Florida, a place so alien to them that the descriptions from the guards struck them as children's tales. There was no way they could believe what these people told them, and so chose to ignore it until they saw for certain. In reality, the prisoners were simply those gathered from wherever they could be found, and thrown on the train to be paraded out during the trip east. While public opinion was hardly in favor of the Indian Nations, the whites had managed to outlast the People, and a war of attrition had been a lost cause in the face of not just the sheer numbers of the Union forces, but the fact that the People had to overcome several centuries of conflict within their society before they could present a serious threat. Especially when their resources were cut out from under them as swiftly as they had been.

Their immortal companion had been captured while on a journey of what passed for diplomacy among the Nations, trying to rally differing tribes to a single cause. Unfortunately he had noted only limited success, especially with some tribes, like the Pawnee, chosing to side with the Whites for monetary gain. Realizing that he knew little of the plans of these invaders, he had chosen to go along with the imprisonment. (Of course, knowing that the profiteers were just as likely to cut Indian bodies up for trophies had managed to have a small say in his decision.) Once satisfied that he knew the worst of the whites' plans, the Shoshone had spent most of his journey working methodically at the locks on the manacles that linked him not just to the fittings of the car, but also to the others. For some reason, the whites believed that tying them together would be a serious detriment. If he could loosen a couple of the connection points, he would prove to them just how strong their numbers could be.

Not that he harbored any illusions about his survival potentials. The officers carried sabers, and an Indian head was just as good a trophy for display as a live Indian. He needed to be careful here. Of course, if he could get his hands on one of those sabers...

The train shook and banged as it decelerated. This usually meant that they were approaching a station, and would be released to be hauled out and shown off before they were fed and allowed to stretch their legs. With luck..

The lock assembly clicked open, and he managed to catch the suddenly loosened cuff in his hand before it could strike the wooden floor. As the train ground it's way to a halt, he began to quietly take up the slack in the chain, waiting for his chance. If only the guards were trusting and non-attentive...

The chance came as the guards began rousting them. One stepped close and lashed at the next man in line with a knotted quirt. The Shoshone simply reached out and wrapped the chain around the guard's neck, then yanked back sharply. As the links bit into his throat, the other guard in the car fumbled for his weapon. Unfortunately, the would be assassin was thwarted by the sudden mad howling press of the prisoners. By the time the first guard had been throttled, the others had managed to disarm and kill the second, although not in as neat a manner.

Men with certain death looming over them can move with remarkable speed, and this group proved better than the standard. By the time the few items belonging to the guards were distributed, the shackles had been removed from all, and the escape had begun in earnest. With two rifles, an equal number of sabers, and the few items they could wrench from the coach's fixtures, they knew instinctively to stick to speed and stealth. Too many soldiers rode the train, but a town could mean confusion.

The two doors of the coach were thrown open, and the group of prisoners escaped by whichever they considered the closest means of egress. So fast was their movement that they had all exited the coach before a cry was made from the guards. The fledgling cry was cut short by a swift response from an Apache that had claimed one of the rifles, and he proved far better with the strange longarm than the soldier that had supposedly trained with it. He was already attempting to reload the rifle with the limited ammunition supply when the soldier struck the ground, having fallen from the roof of a coach.

Townspeople were gathering to bear witness to the bravery of their military, but their pride and bravado were nothing compared to the energy of the indians as they ran for what passed for wilderness. A lesson that had been hard learned over the ages by hunters was that a shock and ruckus on the run can be as effective as loosed weapons, and a variety of warcries rang out from bronzed throats. The Shoshone joined in with a chorus of yipping cries, then flinched as a shot flashed past his ear. Time to spread more confusion, he decided. Spinning the length of chain that he carried in a tight circle, he pressed off in a slightly different direction, scaring a group of elderly women as he ran, his arms and legs pumping smoothly under the rough prison issue.

He found himself on a street, and grinned as he considered the possibilities. The whites had never been given to real work, and they eased their ways and pampered their women as no one else. Sure enough, several of their wagons and carriages were there, still hitched to the animal teams. Shouting an inarticulate yell, he leaped into the seat of the nearest carriage, and flicked the chain at the backsides of the two horses pulling it. For some reason, it hadn't been tied up yet, and the horses took off at an easy gait. He managed to drop the chain and find the reins, and the citizens of the town were honored with the spectacle of the seemingly crazed indian pressing one of their carriages through the street at breakneck speed, screaming and calling as he did.

The Shoshone knew in his heart that he should go back and collect his fellow prisoners, but the carriage would be slowed too much by extra bodies and uneven ground. Better to leave a trail for a while, then cut the horses loose and use those to make better ground for a while. Confusion would give his compatriots a better chance...

His reverie was cut short by the sudden realization of a voice behind him. Not just behind him, but from the carriage. A woman's voice. He risked a glance behind, and saw the reason the carriage hadn't been tied up. Riding with him, albeit against her will, was a woman, her hair flying in the breeze, and a look of determination on her face.

The Shoshone considered briefly, then pressed the horses some more. He would reason with her later, so long as she didn't attempt to attack him. Certainly, she could appreciate that.

He hoped.

To be continued..

Jean-Claude Jones

He got a kick out of the colorful costumes. Wrong word, of course. They might have been costumes in New Orleans, but here they were everyday clothes. It was Jean-Claude’s first time in South America. He’d taken time during the trip down to do a bit of cramming on the local part of Bolivia, and was able to get a taxi with little effort. Apparently he had pronounced “Potosi” correctly, and the 200 Bolivianos made the driver a very happy man. The only part that gave him pause was while loading his bags, when he felt an ethereal touch as another taxi passed. It had been several years since he’d had the sensation, and it set his alertness high. My spidey-sense is tingling, he thought wryly as his vehicle started off in the same direction.

He touched the belt buckle on the cord under his shirt, wondering yet again who had sent it. His list had dried up halfway through the flight. Lily hadn’t been a secret, nor her death at his hand, yet few would have known how deeply he was affected by such an icon. He wondered if the sender knew how much anger it drew from him.

The temperature in Potosi made him glad he still wore the jacket and flannel. It would have been obvious he was an American no matter what he wore, so he decided to stick with comfort. Shouldering his two bags, he stood outside the Colonial Hotel (“hostal,” he told himself) and slowly absorbed the scents of the town. He also felt the closeness of at least two other immortals nearby, possibly watching him, definitely aware of him. His mind slipped back into a long-unused yet still familiar wariness, and with an ease that belied his size, he walked through the front door.

Gem Fleming

The awareness of earlier made her think of the last time she had killed. It swam before her vision like it was yesterday and she wondered why it was that her most painful memories were always the most vivid.

She shook it off like a bad dream as the car lurched to a halt. She was glad she had worn warm clothes, her travel agent had taken enough interest to tell her what the local climate would be like in Potosi. She grabbed her suitcases and looked upward to the hotel. It was definetly not the type of place she was used to, it reminded her more of her younger years. This entire place seemed to have that feel, wild, untamed, primitive, low tech.

Gem had been wearing sun glasses, it was a habit, shielding her eyes from piercing gazes of anyone who might be too curious. The wind whipped her long dark braided ponytail around as she peered upward with her keen green eyes. Her suitcases jostled against her as she took the last twenty feet of so to the hotel.

Primitive indeed, she decided as she checked in, feeling the odd tingle. Oh great she had been right, there was someone else on this trail and she would bet her life there were more to come. Something about the treasure...

“I always feel like somebody’s watching me….!” she hissed as she slid [ butt first ] down the arm rail of the staircase. She had [ sufficient to say ], gotten bored of her room and nearly threw a fit when there was no good porn channels to be found.

Now she didn’t have anything to laugh at.

And sleeping wasn’t an option. She always had those dreams…the ones where it felt like she was just fingertips away from remembering something really really important. Hopefully “really important” in this case was remembering that she had left the rice cooker plugged in. Or maybe it was a premonition! Someone who had been attempting to climb the walls of her said apartment building threw a cigarette butt into her window [ after first breaking out the glass ], it landed in the trash can, caught fire, spread to her electrical sockets and then the toaster exploded and then those little fire safety water-squirter things came down and soaked her apartment and caused the fish tank to overflow and dear God it was the second coming of Noah!

Or maybe not.

Landing lightly on the ground, she rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet, surveying the main room of the hotel. She had been so bored all cooped up in her room, and she knew she was broke. Probably would have no luck panhandling here – they’d take one look at her and think she was on some kind of drug. Psshaw, she was just high on life.

And back in the day a little absinthe.

She still had on her Prince shirt and black pants, although now she’d forgone the boots for some pink fuzzy socks. Not like she minded the boots, but she couldn’t imagine sliding down the banister with those things on. Besides, she wasn’t worried about stepping in something while she explored the hotel. Didn’t seem all that deadly, really. Padding around the room, she pushed her shades up her nose, fiddling with a loose streamer hanging from one of her dreads.

Rushing off like this was something so…Kama, really, but she hadn’t had the time to really sit and think – why her? She possessed no outstanding qualities, and had done nothing that was news worthy. Well, there were those little things about biting people and making t-shirts [ and the occasional bra and panty set ] featuring action figures fighting [ one of her favorites? Gambit Vs. Legolas. Did she pack that one? Damn the world if she didn’t! ]

As she stepped forward, she realized the floor beneath her was slick stone. Her eyes lit up. Turning around, she took a running start and slide across the floor smoothly. Oh, this was nice. It was…it was…

Perfect Moonwalking floor!

As she reversed again and started the tedious task of the perfect Moonwalk, she couldn’t help to think that she was on the verge of thinking about something really important, but for the life of her couldn’t remember what. As she glided backwards across the floor, she bit her lower lip. It had been something about why she was here. Because she couldn’t book a better hotel. No…something past that. The picture. She’d made it into a shirt like she had planned [ Damn the world if she didn’t pack that one, too! ], but….why? Why was she so important that they had sent it to her? And how did they know?

“CONSPIRACY! C-O-N….SPIRACY!” She screeched, mid-Moonwalk. There was no other word for it! They knew something she didn’t! Come to think about it, why had "I always feel like somebody's watching me" gotten lodged in her head right before she started thinking about this? It was her POWERS coming into play! Oh, they all laughed when she said she had them...but they had no idea....

"Powers....BLAME IT ON THE BOOGIE!"

As she muttered to herself inaudibly, the desk clerk watched her as she glided back and forth, Moonwalking from one end of the floor to the other as easily as others would walk.

Thomas Shining Turtle

~THE PAST~
1886

Thomas has spent the rest of the day rushing for safety. His luck had been that the mass escape had been so chaotic that none of the locals had been able to muster a decent pursuit, let alone have an idea of which way to go, should they have managed the posse. The wagon and team that he had appropriated had been a mixed blessing, since the horses were strong and used to working as a team, but the wagon had been chosen for it's gleaming paint and semi-plush interior. A wagon alone would have limited his options of where to go, but this one was likely to fall apart if he took it too far into the wilds.

The woman was another issue all together. He'd managed the first couple of miles with her screaming and lashing at him with her parasol, but this treatment ended when he shifted hands enough to grab the frilly item, and tossed it into the brush. She attempted to continue the abuse with her hands, but a glower from ended that effort. For a while she simply shouted at him, the indignation in her voice slowly fading as her energy died. He ignored her for a while, enjoying the quiet, and trying to get an idea of any pursuit.

When he was satisfied that they were alone, he slowed the team, and pressed for deeper cover. Foundering the horses wouldn't do them any good, and he knew that they would be needed. The carriage on the other hand...

He found enough of a clearing that he could unhitch and graze the animals, and he began ransacking the carriage for supplies. He had just found a usable hatchet, and was starting to sharpen it, when a metallic click sounded behind him. Turning, he found himself facing the lady, a squat derringer in her shaking hand. Disgusted, he lifted his hands, and motioned with his head for her to leave.

Instead, she fired. The ball struck him square in the chest, and he fell, his sight dimming as his bodily functions failed. His failing thought was to hope that she wouldn't attempt to take some trophy part of his body, particularly his head.

Some time later, he recovered, his nerves firing to remind him that he was, in fact, still alive. The rough shirt was now soaked with blood, but his skin beneath was whole and untouched, not even showing a scar where the ball, now rolling within the shirt, had entered. There was no sign of the woman. Muttering to himself, he shucked the shirt, and reclaimed the hatchet, which she had apparently ignored in her effort to escape. A moment of searching thr ground showed that she had wrestled the horses back into harness, then taken off in an attempt to find her way home.

Part of him screamed to head off in a different direction. She would report him dead, and the issue would be finished. But, there was also the fact that she wouldn't have been in this fix if it hadn't been for him. It wouldn't hurt to track her for a bit, to make sure that she would be all right.

Her track was obvious, and painful. She wasn't a driver of any skill, at least not in the rough wood paths. Thomas would have had to be blind to have missed the path, and he actually had to work harder to keep stealthy than to track her. If she could get to a road, she should be all right, but he needed to make sure.

A mile further, something tickled at his senses. No simple feeling of unease, this was the warning of his kind. Another immortal was near, and he should be ready. The hatchet was small defense, but it was all he had. He hurried along, a feeling of fear creeping in. His good sense told him to run, but something greater kept him to following her.

Fate was said to be a cruel mistress, and this time she certainly held true to it. The carriage had broken an axle finally, and the woman had been thrown. She lay on the ground, stunned, and Thomas moved to check on her. As he did, a familiar sound came to his ears.

The clash of metal, stroke upon stroke, unmeasured and chaotic, floated upon the breeze. The metal had the ring of good steel, and the strength of the strokes spoke of hardened bodies wielding the blades. It could be nothing else. Someone was fighting, and the duel was coming closer to him.

The duelists soon arrived, their battle a thing of beauty. One of these people was a dark man of some sunsoaked land. His blade was a wavy affair, something that seemed almost liquid in it's movements. The opponent was smaller and wirey, a creature wrapped in dark cloth. The only glint of cover in it's form was the blade that seemed almost too large for it's wielder, a crescent affair with a handle that seemed offset. (In later years, Thomas would learn of the Japanese rachi, and the Middle Eastern yataghan blades.)

The two finally recognized his presence, and they declared some sort of unspoken truce. Their blades returned to scabbards, and they turned to face him. The dark man spoke first, bowing slightly as he did. "Fahreed al-Nahziir." His opponent stripped away the facial covering, and revealed the face of a young woman, her face delicate and reminiscent of the celestials that worked west and north of where they were, her hair braided and tied around her head. "Shimi Takeda." Thomas smiled, and nodded, following the formal aspect of the Game by identifying himself, using his original name. Then, the formalities recognized, he gestured to the lady on the ground. "My apologies for disturbing you. I have no quarrel with either of you, and she is not of us. I would ask that you let us go our way, before you go about your business." His hands stayed clear of the minimal weapon, and he kept himself still. While neither had made a declaration of their intents against him, things were known to go wrong, and some immortals weren't so picky about how they took a head.

The two stared at him, then at each other. Finally, the dark one, Fahreed, nodded. "Our battle is between us. In fairness, we will allow you a day lead. But beware, we know you are around, and one of us will be coming for you."

"Fair enough." Thomas bowed, as his trainer had taught him, and picked the woman up, tossing her over his shoulder. He moved down the hill, away from the two.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
THE PRESENT

Thomas pulled himself awake, startled by the reality of the dream. It had taken the winner of that fight, Shimi, another year to track him down. By then he'd gotten a decent weapon, and the fight had been almost as spectacular as the one he'd seen her in. And that had been the start of his relationship with Marie.

The train pulled in to the station, and he fought his way off of the car. His pack jostling on his back, he found his way into the street, and tried to remember the way from the map. Of course, he did want to have a certain degree of anonimity. His first stop, therefore, was the local market.

The market was something of an experience. The building proper was closer to a sports arena, two levels of arguing and bartering people and stalls. The third world still fought getting malls, and there was a certain flair to this arrangement. Anything and everything was available, from clothing to electronics, furniture to bootleg music, miracle substances to coca leaves. And, for those with stronger stomachs, there was the market. Refrigeration had yet to make it's claim on food service here, and freshly dressed carcasses were hanging or laid out for the customer's perusal. Thomas had eaten worse in the years, but that didn't mean that he was eager to go back to those ways. He did end up buying some smoked cuts of meat, and a poncho-like wrap of spun llama hair, as well as a pair of the local sandals. Carefully used, these clothes would provide some cover. Plus, the open sides of the wrap allowed access to his weapons.

He was halfway across the upper level of the market when a small child blocked his way, chattering at him in a sing-song tone. She offered a handful of charms and necklaces, babbling away as she obviously tried to demonstrate the virtues of each. He ha almost found a way to slip past her, when he noted one she was offering. Metal, real gold, not the local fake charms, and old.

And familiar. He'd known it, hell, he'd had it made. Reaching for it, he lifted it, and slipped a finger to the hidden clasp. It opened easily, and there she was. Marie, in an old tintype, staring out at him. and around her neck, the charm, that little sign of affection that he'd given her.

The last time he had seen this necklace, it had been on Marie's neck, at her funeral. Rage filled him, and he started to reach for the girl, demanding answers.

But she was gone, running away, laughing and chattering, disappearing into a group of similar children. Thomas stared, then dropped the necklace into his pocket.

Someone would answer.

Sam Curtis

"Food sounds wonderful! How bout the Café Museo San Marcos? It's been eons since I've had llama and they serve it with a lemon and mint butter sauce that's to die for." The look on Yung's face made Sam's grin even wider. "It's the house specialty, but they have regular dishes, too."

Sam really had wanted a long soak in the tub after her trip from Sucre, but that could wait. She hadn't been expecting to meet anyone she knew here -- least of all Yung -- but the Hostal Colonial seemed to be fairly buzzing with surprises. "Just let me rinse my face and brush my hair and I'll be all set. Besides... I can't wait to hear what you're doing here."

It didn't take her long to get ready, though she stood in the doorway of the bathroom watching him for a moment or two before she cleared her throat to let him know she was. Yung was as handsome as ever -- always a ladies man. His jet hair flowed down over his shoulders and the bright awareness in his almond eyes when he turned brought back memories that she would rather have left just that. Memories.

"All set," Sam said brightly as she lifted her pack and slipped it over her shoulder. Her passport and cash -- as well as the map and some other things of import only to her -- were in it and she was certainly not leaving it behind for some curious maid to slip her hand into. Some things were best not left to temptation.

They made small talk as they descended the stairs, but there was a crackle of sorts in the air that made the short hairs on the back of Sam's neck raise to attention. But before she had a chance to consider exactly what it was, they had reached the lobby and the second of what she realized would be several more surprises to come.

"Kama???"

"You... know her?" Yung asked, indicating the eccentric young woman who was smoothly gliding back and forth across the room.

"I think so. It looks like... Kama!" Sam called out to catch her attention. Her store wasn't far from Kama's and they'd gotten to know each other quite well over the past few years. She couldn't believe... No. There were no coincidences, she nudged herself. Things were getting curiouser and curiouser with every passing minute.

"Get some shoes on. We're going to dinner." Not wanting or willing to take a no for an answer as she forestalled the inevitable greeting cum tirade that was sure to ensue, Sam pointed Kama toward the stairs. "Hurry up. I'm starved. And yes, the treat's on me."

..............

And it was always when she was on the verge of recalling something important.

Which was reality, and which part was the dream? That supposedly tangible line always alluded her…and it had to be something out of a dream to why she was here. But why couldn’t she remember? She was born, had her awkward teenage years…Grew up…but something had to have happened between then and now to lead her here. Sort of like after you…..There it was again, that pain that stabbed itself into her temples. Squeezing her eyes shut, she took a deep breath to steady herself. Thoughts flashed across her head, old and grainy. Something that she would’ve had to have in common with Sam….but what?

Shaking her head, she realized that the only reason Sam had crossed her thoughts was because she heard the woman calling out to her. She gave her head another good shake. This was exactly why she didn’t like sleeping. Her dreams posed too many questions for her to answer, and always lingered at the back of her mind. When did it end, reality and the dream time…?

She answered Sam with a cat’s yowl.

“Imagine finding you here,” she started, pushing her shades up her nose and stopping in her endless gliding. She knew that Sam understood that she could be deeper than the usual cracked surface, but whenever she was, it usually meant something bad had happened or would happen. Powers. Fiddling with one of her pink dreads for a moment, she took a deep breath.

And then noticed that she was with a guy.

Ick.

The third-wheel alarms went off in her head. Sam wasn’t like that, though, was she? Kama had to realize that she really didn’t know. By nature the eccentric girl was a loner [ more often than not people couldn’t deal with her…odd nature ], but…a third wheel. That was never cool. But she was already locked into thought mode. Who was this guy, and why was he so familiar with Sam? He obviously wasn’t one of the locals. As she thought, she faintly felt her body inching away from the pair. There was something really…really odd going on here, and the more she thought about it, the more she got a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. What the hell did they all have in common?

“Is it real….?” She murmured softly to herself. Playing connect the dots in her mind, she came to a conclusion – whether it was real or not still had yet to be seen. On a more important note, if she went to dinner [ despite the third-wheel factor ], then she’d be able to find out more about both of them and why they were there.

Odd. It felt like a completely different person was thinking now…

She gave her head another firm shake. None of that. There could only be so much reality doubting in one day before she just zoned out all together and that was never pretty.

“Yeah….I guess….” Damn, now she knew she sounded disjointed and very un-Kama. Sam’d pick up on that right away. Shit. “I’m gonna go get my shoes…” She said, more to the ceiling than to the pair, and headed back up the stairs.
_______________________________________

Once in her room, she found herself, or rather, her body, moving idly to the task at hand. “Boots…boots…boots…” she murmured over and over to herself, pausing every once in a while to push her shades up her nose. With the way the weather was turning, she’d probably have to wear a coat outside, too….

Finding her boots, she jerked them from under the bed and leaned back against the mattress, tilting her head back. Now it just wouldn’t leave her mind. It felt like that thing that she was so close to remembering could be right at the tip of her nose, and for some reason, it overshadowed the naked Johnny and Orlando [ God forbid! ].

Maybe she just needed to wash her face or something.
________________________________________

Heading back down the stairs, she tugged on the black bohemian jacket. Pausing for a moment to push her shades up her nose again, she rubbed her nose stud for luck [ she had switched from the usual gold piece to a little gold skull, although she doubted that people would be really paying that much attention to her nose ], and took a deep breath.

Show time.

“What planet is this?!” she boomed from the foot of the stairs. What the scary thing was is that she sounded serious in asking.