Full Summary: Junior year is ending. For one group of whacky, crazy, spastic friends, this means a lot of things. Getting ready for senior year, eighteenth birthdays to plan, getting used to the fact that they only have one year left together, Pre-SAT tests this year, SAT's next year, and just everything else that life could throw at them. When one betrayal rocks everything, how will they cope, and Sam in particular? And, what's up with the crazy dreams they've all been having? What do they mean for these girls, and how will they handle the revelation of what they do mean, along with everything else in their lives? Read to find out!
Disclaimer: Okay, Sailor Moon is © to Naoko Takeuchi, BUT I am © to myself! …oh, wait… I don't even own myself… well; you get the point, right?
Anyways, on with the fic! Oh, and 'Shorinji-ryu' means 'Shoalin Temple'; 'Renshinkan' means 'The place where you make your heart strong', or 'strong heart' and 'Karate-do' means 'The way of the empty hand'. All in all, it's a martial-art which does not intend to harm, but to subdue or defend without the use of weapons, which was originally practiced and created by Shoalin monks in China.
A young woman, about seventeen or so, lay on her bed (on her stomach) reading the third volume in a manga series called Suki. Her apparel today consisted of a pair of—what appeared to be—dark-wash men's jeans, and a loose black hoodie sweatshirt with the kanji for Shorinji-ryu Renshinkan Karate-do across the back. It also had a picture of a red and gold dragon on the front. Her long and discreetly muscled legs were bent at the knees; they were also sticking up in the air. This allowed her average-sized, pale feet to be seen since the bottoms of her jeans had bunched up around her calves. Her hair was a light brownish-blonde, and was cut very much like a boys; however, her bangs still sometimes fell into her greenish-hazel eyes, obscuring her vision slightly. Her skin, or what could be seen of it, was a dark shade of olive; not quite tan, but not quite pale either.
But, then again, how tan could ANYONE get, living in Idaho Falls, Idaho? A light, alto-pitched chuckle would occasionally break the silence, if she read something particularly amusing. However, moments after one of these small laughs had escaped her slightly thin, colorless lips; a shrill, annoying voice broke the tranquil silence of that spring evening. (It was about 5:00, to be precise.)
"SAMANTHA! SHOULDN'T YOU BE PRACTICING?"
The girl, now identified as Samantha, muttered something that sounded a lot like, "Sometimes, I really hate you…" as she rolled off her bed. She landed on her feet with soft thump, before moving to her nightstand. She placed the bookmark laying there in her book, marking her page. She then closed the book and layed it down on the nightstand, before making her way out of her room.
As she crossed the 'bridge' connecting her room to the rest of the second floor, Samantha paused for a moment. She looked down into the family room at her mother. No — Sam's mind protested — that woman was not her mother. 'All she did was give birth to me,' Sam thought scornfully, 'it's not as if she ever really loved me, the bitch!'
Barbara Miller was a woman of some forty-nine odd years, and even if her brown hair—which all of her three daughters had inherited (Sam's, however, was more of a sandy-blond, considering how much time she spent in the sun, seeing as she was on the track team)—was now showing streaks of gray, her brown eyes still hadn't lost any of their spark. She was currently engaged with helping her second oldest,—or second youngest, whichever you prefer—Rebecca with her math homework. Samantha sighed, as she continued on her way to the stairs, and quickly decended them, making her way into the formal living room.
Here, among immaculately kept furnishings, was a baby-grand piano—which had been a fifteenth birthday gift—waiting for its sole player.
After Sam lifted the key-cover, she ran her fingers almost lovingly over the ivory and ebony keys. She then pulled out the bench a bit, and sat down. Her fingers played the first note, almost hesitantly, but after a few moments, she continued on to play Beethoven's 'Moonlight Sonata'. This was the last song her teacher had taught her. Her eyes drifted closed, as she remembered her teacher, Setsuna Meiou.
Setsuna had been quite tall for a Japanese woman, her skin having been quite tanned—a rare trait in a pure Asian woman. Her hair was very long, about to her knees even when some of it was up in a bun at the back of Setsuna's head, and it was such a deep shade of green that it was almost black. Her eyes, which were guarded and secretive more often than not, were a mix of violet and garnet. She had always seemed to hold the answers to the questions being asked all over the world.
A sour note, painful to her ears and one Samantha was completely sure she had not played, caused her eyes to snap open. Her hands froze mid-note, the piece cut abruptly, and her head snapped around to see her sister Rebecca's grinning face merely a scant inch from her own. Their eyes met for a split second—grey-blue locked onto greenish-hazel.
Samantha inhaled sharply, her eyes widening. Shocked and slightly disoriented, she quickly backed away. Her anger at having her personal space invaded in such a way was, for the time being, completely overridden by her need to get away from the offending presence. Once she had regained the ability to speak, the older girl demanded, "What was that for?"
"Nothin', I just like messin' with ya; that's all sis," Rebecca said, her grin widening as she took a seat beside her older sister on the piano bench.
"Where's Barbara?" Samantha questioned, once she had reigned in her emotions and placed a carefully practiced, placid look on her face. She didn't comment on how her sister's horrid use of grammar hurt her ears. Rebecca made a face. She still wondered why her sister called their mother 'Barbara', while she called their father 'Dad'. And yet, she didn't ask; getting yelled at by her sister one too many times had taught her to hold her tongue on that particular subject.
"With Chrissie, I think," was the younger girl's answer, as her gray-blue eyes contemplated her older sister. A sardonically muttered, "Isn't she always?" caused Rebecca to nod silently, and place a hand on her sister's shoulder in compassion. The twelve-year-old was surprised—even though she knew she shouldn't have been—when Sam took her wrist in hand, and removed the younger girl's hand from her shoulder.
The elder girl then said curtly, "I have asked you before: please DO. NOT. TOUCH. ME." Sam placed her hands on the key-cover then, and with an expert flick of her wrists, it was once more shielding the piano keys. The martial-artist rose from the bench, and left the room. She was up the stairs before Rebecca could say another word.
In her own room, Samantha took out her cell phone and called up a friend of hers. She—much to her delight—received the number of a girl she had wanted to speak to for a long time: Ashley Michelle Anderson. The track-star smiled, as she dialed the number.
She recalled how this had all begun, as she waited for Ashley to pick up.
Samantha had first seen the other girl sitting in the stands during one of her first track meets a little over three years ago. Sam had felt odd at the time, like she had seen this girl before, or perhaps known her in some previous life. However, when she noted the absurdness of that thought, she said to herself, "Previous lives? What in God's name am I thinking? Okay, maybe I need to cut down on the magical girl manga…"
But, all through the race and all the days that followed, Sam hadn't been able to get Ashley's face out of her head. Those beautiful, sea-blue eyes—ones you could very easily drown in—her long, wavy aquamarine hair, which reminded the track-star of the turbulent, flashing seas, and her dazzling, breathtaking smile… Ashley seemed too sweet—too perfect—to be real.
The violinist's face haunted Samantha whenever she closed her eyes. Whenever she drifted off in Math class; when she went to sleep at night; each time she saw and/or dreamed of Ashley, and each time her eyes snapped back open, the image was gone, leaving her cruelly alone—and in trouble if she had fallen asleep in school. And then Sam realized what had happened: she had a crush on Ashley—and a huge one at that.
And that thought scared the shit out of her.
She hadn't felt this way since she met Alice-sempai, and even then it had only lasted until she had told the black-belt how she felt. She left that karate lesson with a red handprint on her face—yes Alice had slapped her. However, the Vietnamese woman had promised that she wouldn't tell anyone, so that Sam could live with the feelings on her own. Samantha had then vowed she would never fall for anyone again. What a stupid, rash thing to do, she reflected now. She had, however, kept that vow—or at least, until she met Ashley.
"Hello?" Samantha bit her bottom lip in what could have been described a euphoric excitement. Ashley's voice even sounded beautiful!
"Um, hi, uh... Ashley Anderson, right?" Sam waited for confirmation of this before continuing. "You, uh, probably don't know me, but… I think we have mutual friends; Evelyin Steele, or Qaasimah Lang, maybe?"
"You know Evee?" Ashley paused. Then, "Oh, you're the green-eyed blonde from the track team, right? Evee talks about you all the time; says you two are best friends and have been since freshman year. Is that right?"
"My name's Samantha, but you hit the nail on the head other than that. And yeah, I've known that soccer nut since we were fifteen—or, well she was fourteen, but that's not really important. You're a violinist, right?"
The aqua-haired beauty loosed a laugh that sounded liked bells to Samantha, and then said, "Yes, I am. So, why did you call me? Any particular reason, Sam? Oh, um, may I call you Sam?"
"Yeah, it's cool with me, so long as I can find a nickname for you," the blonde replied, smirking slightly.
Ashley giggled sweetly again. "That's alright with me. But really, why did you call?"
"Go out with me?" Samantha posed the question so candidly that the girl on the other end of the line nearly dropped her cell phone in shock.
"What?" When the spluttered response reached her ears, Samantha felt her heart sink.
"I'm sorry I asked; I guess I just assumed that—" the track runner was cut off by the other girl.
"No! No. It's alright; I was just a bit shocked, that's all. I would love to go out with you. Pick me up at seven?" The request and assurance made Sam nearly whoop for joy.
"Alright, I'll see you then Chelly." The nickname the blonde had chosen stemmed from the violinist's middle name, rather than her first, but she figured it would be fine. At least, she hoped it would be fine.
"Well, 'bye Sam." And with a click and a dial tone, their conversation was ended. It also seemed, much to the aforementioned teen's delight, that her nickname for her crush was perfectly okay.
'Hmm, she said I should pick her up at seven... That means I should be there at six-fifty-five. It's five-forty-five now, so I have some time still,' the sandy-blonde thought. She then closed her cell phone and put it on her nightstand beside her manga book, before heading downstairs once more. Upon entering the kitchen, she mentioned to Barbara that she would be going out at six-thirty, and that she would be back at an—as of yet—undetermined hour.
When her mother questioned as to where she was going, Samantha simply turned and headed back up to her room. Once there, she began going through her closet to see what she would wear on her date.
"Nah, can't wear that, too girly," or "Hmm, maybe… wait, gross, that goes in the laundry," were the muttered comments which passed her lips, as she dug through her clothing. It was a known fact that she had more than she knew what to do with—hell, half of it was stuff she didn't even wear—but when your mother is a shopaholic, you tend to have clothing bought for you whether you want it or not. Finally, after much deliberation and searching, she selected what she was going to wear.
As she emerged from her closet, Samantha glanced at the clock. She cursed silently: it was 6:00. "Great, now I only have about half an hour," she muttered to herself, and then shrugged. "Eh, I can do it." She then proceeded to close and lock her bedroom door before stripping down to her undergarments.
Her body never had been shapely and she had never been one to wear anything but the most boyish of clothing allowed—much to her mother's dismay—but lately she had gone from being slightly endowed to not at all. No, plastic surgery had not been a factor in this equation, but a roll of medical tape had. Said roll of medical tape was hidden, along with her rated M (18+) lesbian manga, at the very back of her closet. This was also where the tuxedo she would wear for prom hung, covered by a black plastic bag. She had—and felt no guilt what-so-ever about doing so—convinced her mother it was a dress. After shaking her head to clear if of her presently useless thoughts, the tall blonde set about getting ready.
Once she had finished binding her breasts tightly with the medical tape—she had fished it out while getting her clothing—Sam tugged on and buttoned up her shirt. She paused halfway through, however. Something had happened, just now. It was almost like… being hit with a sense of déjà vu; and then the runner realized that she had felt like this just before the Winter Formal—collectively called the Boat Dance, since it was healed on a yacht, by PCH (Pacifica Christian High School) students—she had attended Freshman year; she had been alone and nervous as all hell. Sam brushed it off and continued getting ready for her date. Little did she know, however, that the feeling was nothing akin to her nervousness from that Boat Dance three years ago.
Sailor Pluto stood before the Chronos Gates. She gazed stoically through the Gates of Space-Time; she watched as Sam prepared for her date with Ashley. 'They are how they were, and yet not… They are changed; perhaps the Inners the most,' the red-eyed Soldier of Time mused. 'It shall be entertaining to see how events transpire.'
—End Chapter One—