Author's Note: Huh. I really have a habit of doing author's notes for my stories, even when they really don't need them. Um... yeah. This is a chapter story, or will be, if I get REVIEWS (hint hint). So other than that... Enjoy, and please R&R!

Disclaimer: I don't own Indy, Marcus, or any of the other LucasArts characters mentioned from here on. I did invent a few people in this story, but I think you can figure out who. Yada yada, you know the drill. Sigh... if only I had created the Man with the Hat...

Indiana Jones and the Spirits of Avalon

By Carabiner Boy

Chapter One: The Serpent's Lair

Barnett College, New York

March 5, 1939

The beautiful craftsmanship of the Tiki idol was astounding, even to someone as experienced in the realm of artifacts as Indiana Jones. After a few thousand years cooped up in a grave, it still shined, the light from the desk lamp beaming off of its golden surface. It was almost too good to give away. He had thought about keeping it for his own collection, maybe just telling the museum that he had been unable to retrieve it. But then he'd lose their business, and going out in the field was the only sustaining part of his life at the moment. Nonetheless, it seemed to be taking a toll...

He sighed, loosened his tie, and leaned back in the office chair, hands intertwined behind his head. That throbbing, by now a familiar part of his waking life, was coming back again, beating against the side of his head. Stress is what the doctor had said, and even his father had agreed that it was probably an accurate diagnosis. "Junior," he had said, "The man's right. Even I, a stubborn old Jones, can admit that. I admire your work ethic, but it has to stop somewhere. You're an archaeologist, for Christ's sake, not a goddamn secret agent."

Dad was right, of course. As always. But the thought of sitting in the same dreary classroom day after day, teaching bored college kids about the ins and outs of archaeological study... Now there was a nightmare. Besides, any headache could be cured by a stiff belt of whiskey. He opened the top drawer and extracted a bottle filled with the revitalizing stuff. The name on the front said Old Oscar Pepper Brand. It should have said "Oscar's Miracle Drink," Indy thought, popping the top of on the edge of his aging desk. "For headaches, chest pain, and anything else you might encounter while on life's path." He took a swig.

As the burning sensation passed through his throat, the archaeology professor recounted the events that had led him to acquire the golden statue...

Douglas Seaplane, en route to the Marquesas Islands

One week prior

The view out of the plane window was amazing: crystal blue water stretched out endlessly before him, seemingly perfect and untouched; small islands sprinkled the surface, the glowing sun shimmering above. Indy might have enjoyed the view more, but eight hours of flying and the constant whir of twin propellors can take the beauty out of anything.

He rubbed his eyes and glanced at the pilot. The man looked like a native, and Indy wondered where the hell he learned how to fly a plane. He looked hefty enough, so it was probably best not ask questions, or do anything that he might take as a provocation, because broken bones were less than fun. Then again, he had killed a man of that size once. With a plane propellor, no less. He almost laughed at the irony, then realized it wasn't all that ironic.

Indy began to drift off, at the same time questioning the logic of taking this job. He had been doing a fair amount of work for the museum in the past year, but this was stretching it. There were bad things going on here, things that a college professor should be dealing with. Eyelids drooping, he tried to forget it. Those kind of thoughts had been penetrating his mind much too often lately...

And suddenly, almost at the moment that his heavy eyes shut and he gave in to weariness, a terrific smash jarred him awake, and he instinctively yelled out. "Hey! What..."

"We here," said his hefty pilot in broken English. I noticed, Indy thought, and suddenly felt disturbed that the rickety plane was being held up only by two pontoons, which somehow didn't seem sufficient. He rubbed his eyes and glancing out of the water-specked window. The runway, if one could call it that, was made up of two lines of crudely constructed wooden buoys. The view beyond was far more impressive, however, and the archaeologist couldn't help but letting out an awestruck whistle. Nuku Hiva... The largest island in the Marquesas Island chain had a beauty that could not be described. A white sand beach slowly gave way to a veritable forest of palm trees, behind which lay the many hills and valleys of the island. And then there were the-

"Grave robbers," Indy muttered, as two men stepped out of the dense foliage. "Damn."

The pilot lit a cigarette, no doubt a habit picked up on the mainland, and narrowed his eyes. "Grave robber? Nobody here last time..." He trailed off, and Indy almost kicked himself at his own idiocy. Marcus had warned them that there was some grave pillaging in this area, because of the gold that was put in many of the chieftains' graves. Indy had brushed the warning off. It was a big island. They were most likely in another part altogether.

Idiocy, indeed. He was here to pick up a gold statuette, so it only made sense that gold hunters would be in the vicinity...

Gunfire erupted. Indy yelled out and ducked as the seaplane was sprayed with bullets. The windshield exploded and the pilot was killed instantly, slugs ramming into his body, the cigarette dropping from his mouth, igniting... There was a dull smack as the spare fuel tank in the back of the cockpit was hit, and Indy slammed through the passenger's side door, into the water. He had to get away, goddamnit-

And the airplane exploded.

The blast rocketed him underwater, so deep that his head felt like it would follow in the aircraft's footsteps. Shards of metal sliced through the water around him. A grunt, and he kicked away from the wreckage, praying to God that the men on the beach didn't decide to let off a few rounds in the water around him.

He kept swimming until he felt that his lungs would implode, then swam some more. Finally he thrust his head from the water, sucking in air as though he had never tasted anything so sweet.

Thankfully, he'd swum in line with the shore, and he was still close. After swimming a few more strokes he was there, and the sand felt cool and damp as it ran through his fingers. Sure, he was on the island, but the grave robbers now knew of his existence, even if he was presumed dead, all of his gear was sopping wet, and he didn't have a ride off the Godforsaken place.

Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a familiar object. He trudged over, and, sweeping up his hat, he shook his head. Sure, he had the fedora, but it was sopping wet, as was everything else. If he got out of this, with or without that damn idol, he was buying himself the most expensive champagne he could find, and he wasn't sharing any.

X

The sharp blade of the machete hacked down again, the thick vines finally giving way. Wiping sweat from his brow, Indy crept farther into the dense forest. Where was he now? The compass in his hand pointed ahead. Due north was where he was headed. According to the map, anyway. It was still sodden from his swim, as was everything else. He only hoped that his Webley still worked, because with each passing minute he felt as though he would need it more and more.

A flurry of exotic birds burst forth from the treetops, angry caws quickly following their departure. Only moments after that loud voices reached his ears. "Qui cherchons-nous?" One voice asked. "Who are we looking for?"

Another voice, this one deeper and more controlled, answered, "L'homme de l'avion. The man from the plane."

"Isn't he dead?" The younger one answered in French, sounding confused.

"Dubois is convinced he lives, so we must search for him." The elder one answered, somewhat sardonically.

"Yes, well, Dubois isn't paying us to search for a dead man in the jungle. We shouldn't be here."

They both fell silent and continued to walk, cutting their own path through the vines. Unfortunately, it ran straight into Indy's.

The intrepid archaeologist, however, was formulating a plan. Grabbing a long vine from the bough of a tree, he hotfooted it to the other side of his handmade path and tied the other end of the vine to a thick branch, careful to leave enough slack so that the vine drooped harmlessly on the ground. Holding on to the end of the vine, Indy crouched behind a tree. He wished he could just shoot the bastards, but he was probably nearing the grave robbers' camp, and he didn't want to attract any unwanted attention.

Seconds later the two Frenchmen appeared around the corner, still conversing about their boss, the enigmatic Dubois. They were walking side by side, as Indy had hoped. Professionals wouldn't have done anything of the sort. These guys were obviously untrained, just amateurs hired to do the grunt work. The older one sounded a bit more experienced, but not enough. Which was good for Indy, because if they were experienced, he would've already been dead.

"Bizarre..." said the elder man. "It looks like someone has already cut a path."

"Probably just another search group," the young one dismissed.

"Oui. You are probably right." They continued on, and stepped right into Indy's trap...

At exactly the right moment he pulled the vine taught. The improvised rope sprang up from the ground, and the two unlucky grave robbers stepped into it. The young one fell first, followed closely by his partner. Just as they hit the ground Indy stepped out from behind the tree, bullwhip in hand.

"Merde!" one of them yelled, reaching for his revolver. Indy cracked the whip. It wrapped around the man's wrist, and with a hard tug the feeble thing snapped like a twig. The man cried out in pain and hit the forest floor once again.

The younger one hesitated for moment, his face full of fear and bewilderment. He finally made up his mind and charged, but Indy had taken the exta time to snap a branch off of the tree he was next to, and now he swung it forcefully into the grave robber's head, making like Joe DiMaggio would with an easy fastball. The man crumpled, his desperation giving way to unconsciousness.

The man with the broken wrist groaned pathetically. Indy tromped over to him and knelt down. "Bonjour. Comment-tappelle tu?"

He groaned again. Taking hold of his wrist, Indy twisted it and put a hand over his mouth as the man screamed in pain. "Now, do you have something you want me to know?" the archaeologist asked again in fluent French, still grasping the man's wrist.

"What... what do you want to know?" His voice was haggard, and Indy knew he might pass out from the pain.

"Where's the camp?" he asked.

"In... in the ruins..."

"The ruins, huh? You mean the Temple of Tiki?" The Frenchman nodded. "How many others are there?"

Yet another groan, then, "I'm... not sure..." Indy put some more weight on the wrist. "Non! Non, wait... There are about twenty, maybe twenty-five..."

Indy smiled. Torture really does work, he thought. "One more question. Ever seen a little gold Tiki statue, maybe around the site or something?"

He shook his head rather vigorously, using up the rest of his dwindling strength. "Non, non... Je n'ai pas..."

Indy could tell the man was giving him an honest answer. In that case, the grave robbers hadn't gotten to it yet. Or maybe some had, and they just hadn't come back out. From what he'd heard, getting into the grave of Chief Amana, said to be the last human descendent of the god Tiki, was no cakewalk. Hell, if it was, the artifact would've been stolen a long time ago.

X

A giant statue of Tiki, the Polynesians' main god, provided the centerpiece for the grave robbers' camp. Seemingly leaning greatly on one side while the other crumbled, the monument looked like the lovechild of the Leaning Tower of Pisa and Easter Island's moai. Indy chuckled dryly at the joke, one that only a professor such as himself could truly appreciate.

All around the Tiki statue were a large cluster of tents, accompanied by a few fire pits and stones that had been rolled in to act as seats. Sitting on these stones, and mulling around the camp, were the grave robbers, none of whom seemed to have any work ethic to speak of. They were playing cards, smoking, drinking, and generally doing the things that an unsuccessful band of criminals tend to do. A few were cleaning their rifles, though, and Indy was surprised at the quality of the guns. He suddenly hoped the Frenchmen were as bad shots as they were workers, but the incident on the seaplane made that seem very unlikely.

From his perch, Indy could see the doorway that led to Chief Amana's tomb, all the way at the other end of the camp. Here goes nothing, Indy thought, sliding down the rocky embankment and landing in a crouch on the weedy stone floor of the temple. His descent had been hidden, thankfully, by a group of pillars. These pillars lined the side of this area of the temple all the way around. If he could just stay behind these most of the way, he might make it.

Indy backed against the first pillar. At a glance it looked as though most of the murderous grave robbers had their eyes on something else, like their hand of cards, so he sprinted to the next pillar. And the next, and the next. So far so good, until one of the men near him muttered that he had seen something behind the pillars to one of his smoking buddies.

"Probably just a bat," another one said in a reassuring tone. The man who'd seen Indy nodded dismissively, and they continued smoking. A bat? Indy thought. These guys really are idiots. He sprinted out of the cover of the last pillar and through the doorway of the tomb, the door sliding shut behind him-

-and threw himself to the floor as two spears exploded out of the mouths of carefully made Polynesian headmasks, carved into the stone walls. He picked himself up and brushed off his brown leather jacket. There were a huge number of headmasks lining the passageway before him, but at the end of that, in a small room, was a pedestal. The body of Chief Amana was obviously beneath it. On the pedestal was the golden Tiki idol, shining in all its glory. The light came from a hole in the low ceiling, possibly made by a former grave robber. An easy escape, if it came to that.

He shook his head in amazement. Could it really be that easy? Granted, he had to get past the spear-spitting native gods first, but after that it seemed that he was home free.

Indy took a deep breath, cracked his knuckles, and ran forward.

The first spear he dodged easily, ducking under its path. But as he ducked another spear was loosed from the mouth of a mask, and he threw himself forward, the spear taking a piece out of his jacket... The next two came together, and he hurled himself onto the dusty floor... Only one part left! As spears whistled by, Indy barreled past the last two head masks... and the floor gave out underneath him.

He yelled out, shoving his hands forward, groping for a handhold and finding it. He swung inward and hit the wall, but the grip held. Heaving a deep sigh of relief, he looked down into the pit that he had so luckily avoided falling into.

"Mother of God!" Coiled in the bottom of the rather shallow pit was the largest snake he had ever seen, just now waking from what seemed to have been a very deep sleep. It hissed menacingly, and a paralyzed Indy couldn't help but notice its rows of fangs, the front two roughly the length and width of his forearm. The monstrous thing narrowed its yellow eyes. Then it lunged.

Indy, feeling so awake that the effects of hours of intercontinental flying left his body completely, tore the Webley from its holster and fired three shots into the beast that was inches away from his leg.

The snake recoiled, hissing. "Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed," he muttered, pulling himself out of the hole and dashing towards the artifact. Almost there.

The giant serpent slithered lithely out of the pit, coming towards him at an alarming rate. Indy completely disregarded any security measures that might have been taken when the idol was separated from the pedestal and wrenched it off. The moment that it was removed there was a hideous grinding noise, and two walls, full of spikes, began moving towards him on either side. Indy was trapped. walls of spikes on both sides, smooth stone in front, and an angry snake behind him, closing fast. He looked up and immediately realized that the "skylight" was too far above him. Unless...

The snake lunged again, and Indy hurled himself downwards; it rammed against the wall. The spikes were closing in... He jumped up, his foot resting for an instant on a spike, then another, then another, his head coming into the sunlight-

and fangs tore into his pant leg, the beast hanging on to him by the fabric. "Go back... to sleep!" Indy yelled, kicking the monster hard in the face. It let go for a moment. That was all the time he needed. He pulled himself out into the sun as the creature's head came through the opening. Just then the spikes collided, and blood spewed from the mouth of the eviscerated serpent.

Indy examined the once-menacing animal and shook his head. "I guess your people-eating days are over..." He pulled open the gas mask bag that was slung over his shoulder and extracted the idol. A wide smile spread over his face as he saw the motor boat docked below him. Expensive champagne, here we come...

Present Day

Indy's recollection was interrupted by the shrill ringing of his phone. Startled, he leaned forward in the chair and picked up the receiver. "Yeah?"

"No time for pleasantries, hm?" said a familiar voice.

Indy smiled, despite the incessant throbbing in his head. "Heya, Marcus."

"Hello, Indiana," replied Marcus Brody, and Indy couldn't help but hear the pain in his voice. "I... I'm afraid I must be the bearer of bad news, for you and I both. Er..."

The archaeologist narrowed his eyes. "What is it?" he coaxed, concern lacing his voice.

The curator sighed. "I've been fired, my friend. By the Museum Board. It... It happened last week. On Tuesday."

The throbbing increased tenfold. Running a hand through his hair, Indy tried to console his friend, but the anger in his voice was perfectly evident. "They fired you? What! That's..." Indy paused. "Why?" he finished lamely, annoyed at himself. Marcus needed comfort, not a sermon.

But the former curator seemed happy to receive support of any kind. "I'm not... sure. That's what's so confusing. I mean, they could at least have the dignity to tell me what I've done wrong."

"Don't let it get to you," Indy muttered, his lip curling. He had always disliked the Museum Board. Every seat on it was taken up by suit-wearing, gray-haired men, the kind who never went out into the field but nonetheless thought of themselves as veritable experts on archaeology. In fact, the only one on the Board who deserved to be there was Marcus. But now he was out, fired by his own goddamn colleagues... "That's just bullshit."

"Yes... But I must tell you something. The new curator, Edmund Black-"

But Indy wasn't listening. At the door of his small office stood the most breathtaking woman he had seen in over a year. Even Elsa Schneider couldn't compare, and plus, she had been a Nazi, one of the two things he hated most about the field of archaeology, the other being snakes. This dame put the blonde haired female Fascist to shame.

"Marcus?"

"Yes?" he replied.

"I'll have to call you back." Without waiting for a response, Indy hung up the phone and looked again at the beautiful girl in front of him. She was dressed in a thin trench coat which exposed her many curves. It stopped just above the knees, showing some of her thin skirt. On her feet she wore stilettos, which looked hideously uncomfortable but attractive nonetheless.

But it was her face that really got his attention. It was framed by midlength, fiery red hair, which parted to expose high cheekbones, a slightly upturned nose, full lips, pencil thin eyebrows above long, wet lashes... and those eyes. Those amazing green eyes, now staring intently at him as though peering into his very soul...

"Doctor Jones, I presume?" Her voice had a definite British lilt, and for some reason it made her all the more sexy.

He shook himself out of the trance. "That's me."

Striding confidently up to his desk, she reached out a hand. He stood hurriedly and shook it. "Vivian Monroe. I'm with the museum." The badge on her shirt could've told him that.

Wasn't Marcus worried about the new staff at the museum? Slightly suspicious but refusing to show it, Indy nodded. "I guess you'll be wanting this-" he produced the Tiki idol- "for the exhibit. Sorry I kept you waiting."

She accepted the statue readily. "I was wondering if you might accompany me to the museum, Mr. Jones." She paused for a moment, then, motioning to the pile of papers on his desk, asked, "Are you busy?"

Indy followed her gaze. Christ. Mid-terms. "Those can wait."

She smiled dazzlingly. "Then let's be on our way. I have a car waiting."

Indy pulled his suit jacket from the back of his chair and shrugged it on. He had his reservations about visiting a National Archaeology Museum that was devoid of Marcus, but he was wondering what the new curator wanted him for so soon. And the fact that he would get to spend time with the alluring Vivian Monroe, well... That didn't hurt either.