The idea for this story has been knocking around in my head for four years. It was inspired by several sources.

The first source was Richard Sirois, Lionheartcartoon at Deviantart-dot-com, famous Kim Possible fan-artist--as stated in my profile.

The second was MinnesotaMutt, another fan-artist at Deviantart-dot-com. She portrayed Indiana Jones as Kim Possible's grandfather.

The third was--I won't say who he was. See if you can guess.

I soon found that MinnesotaMutt's sweetheart--her "Bear", as she calls him--G-Go, a fellow Fanfiction-dot-net Kim Possible fan-author, already had a story about Indy as Kim Possible's grandfather. Indiana Jones and the Tempus Simia. I promise, my storyline is not plagiarized from him.

I am the Glacially Slow Writer. I don't know long this will take. Please be patient, my readers. To pass the time, browse my Kim Possible Narnia story, The Lion, The Naked Mole Rat, and The Treehouse--or my Kim Possible Undead story, Heroine's Legacy--or my Kim Possible --yadda, yadda. Shameless self-promotion.

Indiana Jones and Henry and Anna Jones are the creation of Steven Speilburg and George Lucas. The biographic material is from the Internet Movie DataBase. Coronado Butte, Utah, is a reference to the Coronado Cross, an archaeological artifact shown in Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade.

Christopher Walker and Uzuki are the creation--nah--I can't give away the secret yet.

INDIANA JONES AND THE FACE OF UZUKI

chpt1. "the masterpiece of nature"

1912

Anna Jones was laid to rest. The world tour the family took while Dr. Henry Jones, Sr. was on the lecture circuit broadened their son Henry's horizons immeasurably. But it took its toll on their wife and mother. For two years she lingered. Her husband loved her dearly, but he by nature easily that love. He dealt with his grief and sorrow by retreating into his studies.

Henry Jr. seethed with resentment. And he dealt with that resentment by retreating from his father.

September, 1913

CORONADO BUTTE, UTAH

It was the first day of the fall semester at Coronado Butte Junior High School. History class. The teacher was taking attendance.

"Jones, Henry."

"Here," he said. What a bore. Just like his life. He had a head full of fantasy, dreams, and adventure. He wanted to shout, "Indiana! Call me Indiana!"

But the children would laugh

And the teacher would sternly admonish him, "Mr. Jones, your name in is Henry. Not a state. Indiana is a state."

The teacher droned on. "Walker, Christopher."

"Here."

Something about the voice caught Indy's attention. He lifted his head and looked back. Everyone did.

Christopher Walker was tall--almost a head taller than anyone else in class. Ramrod straight. Jet-black hair. Piercing blue eyes. A commanding voice.

The girls wanted to swoon. The boys muttered. Indy shrugged. Big deal.

Indy was in his funk--

--Until he heard the teacher mention "Julius Caesar ordering the execution of Cicero."

What? Augustus Caesar ordered Cicero's death! Indy was all set to raise his hand--.

The commanding voice spoke up. "I'm sorry, sir, but it was Augustus Caesar who ordered the death of Cicero. And it was more akin to murder than execution."

The teacher was flustered. "Uh, Mr. Walker, are you sure? I've been teaching this course for fifteen years--."

Indy's hand shot up. "Yessir! That's correct!" He rapidly flipped through the text--not to check his knowledge. He was already aware that his knowledge surpassed that of most of the faculty--and they knew it too. He just wanted to show it to the teacher in black and white. It might be the only time that year he would need to open the book.

Indy caught up with the boy after class. "Hey, Chris! I'm impressed. I"

Christopher shook his hand. "Call me 'Kip'--uh, Henry? Hank?."

Indy grinned broadly. "Indiana. But call me Indy. I'm headed for math class."

"Same here." Kip Walker grinned broadly. Two progenies. Two unconventional names.

They were inseparable. To the casual observer, they couldn't look more different. Indy was slovenly. Unkempt hair, wrinkled shirt, dusty pants, scuffed shoes. Kip was the picture of propriety. Pressed pants, shirt buttoned to the collar, shined shoes. Some days, he wore a suit jacket.

They studied together, had lunch together, and were Boy Scouts in the same troop. They often browsed the library until closing.

Some of the other boys made crude jokes about sexual preference--until Kip looked at them eye-to-eye with a steely glint. Even upperclass football players were intimidated by the stern glare. And Indy had a reputation for being handy with his fists.

Sometimes they would engage each other in a lively debate.

"Stonehenge couldn't have been built by the Celts! It had to be a higher civilization! The Celts didn't have the technology to move stones that size! Look at the Egyptians and their pyramids! The Mayans and their pyramids!"

"The civilizations you mentioned shaped their stones! Look at Stonehenge! Unfinished! Crude! Typical Neolithic style! And as for the means to move stones--look at the Easter Island statues! Those people! Where is their written history? Where is their classical architecture?"

The teachers listened in awe.

And sometimes, the two would converse in French--or German--or Latin.

And they shared private sadness, too.

"My mother died last year."

"My grandfather was killed when I was little. My father's occupation is dangerous. It takes him all over the world. My mother lives overseas. I rarely see them.

"Dad's work took him all over the world, too."

And in such times, when feelings were too deep for words, they would only clasp forearms and embrace each other in a manly way.

And they would repeat one of their favorite sayings from Emerson.

A friend might well be reckoned the masterpiece of nature.

to be continued