This story is being written in collaboration with mabelreid, who is kindly letting me play with her angels. (She's learning about my crew in exchange). If you like, be sure to post reviews and send her a PM or two!

Disclaimer: The angels belong to mabelreid, my usual crew belongs to me, and the more familiar Quantico people...well, someone not us owns them.


The notice on the giant white bulletin board was enough to put shivers down Stanley's spine.

New Year's Challenge Swap-Off

The following angels are to report to the main office for temporary reassignment:

Stanley

Gina

Peter

Reginald

Connie

Wilhelm

Charlene

Anya

Terrence

Malcolm

Jorge

"What's this?" Charlene asked, peering at the announcement. Her large wings bristled against Stanley's face, and he could barely make out her squeal of delight. "Ooh—wonder who I'll get? Always wanted to try one of those fancy chefs…do some protection from ovens or grease fires or something."

"Charlene, I think it's just our group," Stanley said, pulling himself out from her feathery wings. "Same old people we see every day."

"Four newbies there, Stan," the woman said in that heavy Southern accent of hers. "I've heard of Anya—fiesty one, her—but the other three are new to me…"

"Reassignment?!"a shrill voice shrieked. "Oh, no, no, no, no, no!"

"Honey, relax. I'm sure your man there isn't gonna stand in front of a speeding truck or start sunning on a nuclear missile testing base," Charlene said, giving Connie a withering stare.

"Don't even joke about that, Charlene! Ohh, new people always put me so out of whack…what if they're a klutz? What if they're reckless?"

"What if they—horror of horrors—actually stay home and watch TV for a change?" Stanley pointed out, heaving a sigh of relief. He'd nearly wanted to throttle Connie's charge after that high-speed chase in California a few weeks back. The first time his charge wasn't out trying to get himself killed or acting like a klutz with a death wish, and hers tries to get the poor kid killed…

"Hmm," a neat, clipped voice murmured. "Vell, I vonder vhat Stephen ees up to now. He deed say zat zere vould bee a 'game' to play for ze hol-ee-day."

"Game?" Connie asked.

"Game?" Stanley parroted.

"Ooh, yeah, right," Charlene seconded, making the younger angels' eyes widen even further. "Old bushel britches did say we'd be swapping for the first of the year."

"Charlene, you have no respect for o-thor-ah-tee," Wilhelm admonished.

"Stuff it, Sparky," the Southern woman retorted, her size becoming a very imposing tool. "Might be fun. Lord knows you've forgotten the meaning of that word."

Wilhelm just shook his head. ""Oo arr thees people?" he said, looking closely at the last four names on the announcement. "I doo not remember zhem…"

"Oh, those," a smooth British accent replied, casually looking over the announcement. "They look after some people down Virginia way, I believe. We've worked with them before, once or twice."

"Ve have?"

"Oh, yeah," Stanley said, smacking his forehead with the heel of his hand. "I know one of 'em—Anya, the Russian chick."

"Anya, the Russian chick," Connie said. "Sounds ominous."

"Nah, she's cool. Watches over some guy named Lawrence…she doesn't pull punches, but she's a little lax sometimes on the job."

"Sounds vonderfull," Wilhelm snorted. "Another Charlene."

"Can it, toad. You know of any others?"

"Peter might—he's had to work with Malcolm once or twice. Usually ends up singing some strange song every time he's got a job with him…"

"This Malcolm, he's a singer?"

"The old Gaelic kind. Scottish through and through. Even wears plaid."

"Oh, great," Connie said. "Is he cute?"

"Unh-uh, honey," Charlene cut in. "No more cute men for you. Like as not you'll have some old goat to work with…"

"Did someone say 'goat'?" a voice asked. The angels looked around to see Peter waltzing in, his shirt on backwards and his wings mussed.

"Peter?" Stanley managed to stammer out as the angel in question looked at the board.

"Yeah, Stan?"

"You, ah, forget something this morning?"

Peter looked around him. "Shoes, socks, shirt---shoot, forgot to brush my wings. Anyone got a brush handy?"

"That's, ah, not what I was going for…"

"Then what?"

Stanley pointed downward towards Peter's legs.

"Oh…"

"Oh." A chuckle erupted from the group as everyone began to admire Peter's yellow-ducky print boxer shorts.

"Maybe I've got time…"

"Late again, Peter?" The voice of the head angel was unmistakable as he managed to draw everyone's attention towards the main office.

"Ah, sir…I, ah…"

"Well, no time. You'll have to make do. Come in—the rest got here an hour ago. I've still got more to fill you all in on as part of this next assignment."

The gaggle of angels filed inside the main office and took seats. Charlene noticed the new faces right away, immediately hoping with all her might that Connie was placed as far away from the clearly distinguished but oh-so-dashing Malcolm as possible. Girl won't pay any attention to her charge, she gets put with him, she thought to herself as she straightened out her wings.

Beside her, a small Latino man began to smother a chuckle. His eyes began flittering towards Peter's bare legs, and the more the little man tried to hide his mirth the more obvious it became.

"Jorge," Stephen said sternly. "Yes, Peter did manage to pick some rather decorative underclothes today, didn't he?

Now even Peter, who normally was as calm as a cucumber, began to blush.

"All right, all right, settle down. As you know, you eleven are here today because the boss upstairs has decided that we angels should partake in a little holiday fun. Why we didn't do this at Christmas, I don't know, but hey, there are things even I don't understand about the Big Man."

"Okay, so we're swapping," Charlene said quickly, cutting Stephen off. "Sounds good. Do we get to pick new temps or what?"

"If you'd let me finish, Charlene, I'll get to that. First question: are you getting entirely new charges? The answer is no. You'll be dealing with the same group of people, more or less."

"So, zhere ees a shanse I might have to vatch over ze one zhey call 'Garcia'?" Wilhelm asked? "Gott in Himmel. Vill ve get to choose our replacement charge?"

"No," Stephen replied. "Random draw. It's only for three days, people, so smile and see what you can do with it."

The smile on Stanley's face was worth it. "Three days without having to worry the poor doctor's going to get himself killed," he murmured softly.

"Three days?!" Connie choked out. "But…sir, you know my charge…he's reckless…"

"And I'm sure the temporary angel will do a fine job, Constance," Stephen said, showing his exasperation by using her full name. "We're not in the business of killing other angel's charges for kicks."

"Finally, three days of actual talking," said Jorge, who didn't have much of an accent. "I love my charge, really—not a risk-taker, not a problem per se, but the sign language is starting to creep into my personal life. I ended up holding a conversation last week with Mavis over in accounting in American Sign and she thought I'd lost it."

The Scot, Malcolm, merely nodded. He knew that whoever got his charge was in for a trip. Joshua Hollenbeck was the easiest person to watch over and yet the most difficult all at once.

"Three days without having to wonder if that woman's going to shoot someone or drive herself crazy," a thin, dark haired man said, looking like he'd enjoy the challenge. "Since Don slipped up on that Rothschild fellow, my girl hasn't been quite the same."

As the angels continued to chatter, a telegram floated out of the mail chute and onto Stephen's desk. "Oh, wait, everyone," he said, spreading his wings out to full span to catch attention. "Big Man upstairs has another caveat for this event."

"What now? We all dress like chickens while we do the looking after?" Peter quipped, gaining several chuckles.

"As amusing as that sounds, Peter, I'm afraid not. Big Man says that all of your charges are supposedly playing some sort of game over the three days, and that while you are looking after your 'replacement' charge you are not to impede on them in any way so as to influence the game's outcome in favor of your regular charge."

"Come again?" Connie asked.

"Connie, it's simple—you can't drop a rock on the new charge in order to let your regular charge win," Gina said crisply. Sometimes Connie got on her nerves. "Nor can you shove the new charge in front of a truck, or make them sleep throughout the day, or anything like that."

Connie's face fell six stories. "Wait a minute—they're all playing a game down there, and I can't help Morgan win?!"

"Yeah. That's about it."

"Well, now," Reginald said, his smooth accent breaking the pervasive silence. "Won't this be interesting…"