Warning: this storyline also describes the development of a relationship between the OC and Steel, so if you don't like the concept, maybe you should skip it. But if you really want to enjoy it, just identify yourself with the OC! Also consider that the characters are more emotional than the original series.

My name is Constance Stunt. I am 39 years old, and I am a detective at the Marina del Rey police department, L.A.

I keep two different logs: the official one, where I formally record all my cases, and the unofficial one – the one you're reading right now – where I keep track of my "time adventures."

You might be wondering what I'm babbling about. It's actually pretty hard to explain.

You see, I occasionally cooperate with a law enforcement agency of a different kind. A very different kind. They call themselves "operators", but I prefer to call them time agents. What does time have to do with them? Well, you see, these fellows actually fight time itself.

One of them once explained it to me: time is like an endless corridor flowing in one direction, but once in a while it feels the irrepressible need to sneak into the present and mess with it. So that's when these people step in and struggle with it.

And believe me, it can be a very harsh struggle sometimes. All of them have risked their lives more than once. Including me. Yes, because for some reason I seem to be especially sensitive to time, although I'm merely human, and they found out that I can actually help them in their fight. In exchange for my help, they assist me in catching the bad guys, so we have reached a mutually profitable deal.

But there's a catch: we can help each other only when time is involved, so don't start thinking that my percentage of solved cases is 80% just because I get some otherworldly help. That's mostly my doing, although a small part of those cases did involve people who realized that time could lend a big hand in accomplishing their criminal aims.

About one year ago I stumbled into one of their "time assignments", which incidentally was also my case, and that was when I met the team of operators I currently work with: Sapphire and Steel. Weird names, aren't they? That's because they're not just names; they actually are the elements they are named after, only in human form.

So Sapphire is sparkling, blue and precious, while Steel is ruthless, cold and grey.

That is, until you get to know them better. Sapphire is a beautiful woman, tall, blonde and always graceful, but she can be as hard and unrelenting as the gem she takes her name from. Steel, on the other hand, is apparently callous, unemotional and uncaring – and mostly he is – but if you look hard enough, you can see a passionate, warm and intense man.

Well, maybe that's stretching it a bit, but on more than one occasion I had the privilege of seeing this side of him – which I thought was meant only for his partner Sapphire – and I must say that it was a pleasant surprise. Very pleasant.

You might wonder what kind of relationship they have. Well, if you're not wondering, I sure was, but when I pressed the subject with said operators, I couldn't get a clear answer. Probably because they don't know themselves. Funny, really, because it's so clearly written all over them: they feel for each other very deeply, but they are too scared to explore those feelings since they must work together. Which is not a good enough reason not to shift their relationship to a more intimate level, if you ask me, but then again I'm not in their shoes.

At any rate, I can't deny that I grew quite attracted to Steel, although I still haven't figured out how it happened, since he's so ill-natured most of the time, and when I first met him I would have gladly shot him.

But then he saved my life, and that's when I started to see him in a different light. That's also when I got a glimpse of his inner self, which is so different from the mask he likes to wear. Add it to the fact that he's quite handsome, with smooth, blond hair that begs to be stroked, grey eyes that sometimes turn the nicest blue, and a full lower lip that feels so soft and warm.

How do I know? Well, that's an awfully private question to ask, so I plead the fifth. Of course, if you're really interested, you could always go read my previous log.*

Anyway, that's what happened lately.

I hadn't seen my elemental friends for over four months, so I was beginning to think that maybe time had taken a break, although I should have known better: time, just like crime, never goes on vacation.

It was the end of my Friday afternoon shift. I was running after a guy who just tried to rob an ATM, and who happened to do so in front of the hot dog stand where I was buying my dinner. I knew I didn't need to call in for reinforcements, for the fellow wasn't even armed. I was running much faster than him, so I also knew that I was going to catch him.

All of a sudden, though, something happened. The fabric of space somehow changed for a split second, causing me to lose my footing and land hard on the sidewalk.

My confusion was much harder to control than the sudden pain to my knees and hands, so I just sat on the pavement for a couple of minutes, trying to figure out what happened.

When I managed to get up, very slowly and wincing from the pain to my bruised limbs, I had the impression that something was wrong, almost out of place. So I looked around but, although I knew there was something different in the buildings, I couldn't quite pinpoint what it was.

I slowly walked back to the hot dog stand to ask the owner if he had seen the thief, but he wasn't there anymore. Maybe he quickly moved the stand to avoid troubles. Nobody likes to have the police around asking questions.

Resigned, I decided to go looking for my dinner someplace else, but first I had to report the incident to the station. I extracted my radio and opened the channel, but all I got in response were statics. I tried recalibrating the device, but still no change. So I figured that it probably got damaged in the fall, and when I tried to take my cell phone out of my jacket's inner pocket, I came out empty-handed. I couldn't have misplaced it, since the pocket was securely zipped up.

The first rational explanation that came to my mind (why do we always try to rationalize what we cannot understand?) was that I forgot it at home in the morning, although that did not explain the zipped-up pocket. To my credit, I must say that I did look at my watch to check if time was flowing normally, but it was working quite well, and it showed the exact time: 7:30 pm. So I ruled out a time incident and settled to take my car and reach the station.

Too bad the car was missing, too. I begged: please, not the car! That was my personal vehicle, a nice – well, decent – Toyota Four Runner that had served me well for over 10 years. I walked around for a few minutes, but my faithful 4WD was nowhere to be seen. Fuming, I began walking toward the station, which was approximately 20 minutes away on foot.

I was trying to figure out why these things always happen on Monday mornings and Friday evenings, so I wasn't paying the due attention to my surroundings. If I had, I probably would have noticed that the car models looked obsolete, and the shop windows had an outmoded look.

When I reached the station, I unsuspectingly climbed the two flights of stairs that lead to the office I share with my fellow officers and marched into the room, still mulling over the incident, when I was suddenly stopped by a stocky man who was wearing the detective badge, but who was a total stranger to me. Only when he asked me if I needed something, I looked around and noticed that I knew none of the people inside the office.

'Well', I thought, 'I'm so upset I even got into the wrong office', so I just apologized with the man and told him that I was trying to reach the detective squad, but that I had evidently entered the wrong room.

Only when he confirmed that that was the detectives' office, did I notice that everything looked wrong. There were no computers, no keyboards, no screens. Every desk sported an old-fashioned disk phone and typewriter, and piles of yellow paper folders. And almost everybody was smoking. That explained the terrible smell that was making my nose burn.

I probably heard the detective's question only the third time he asked it: "Who are you looking for, ma'm?"

I tried to sound nonchalant. "I'm looking for a detective Stunt."

The man shook his head. "Sorry, ma'm, there's nobody with that name here. Maybe I could help you find him in the station?"

"It's not a him; it's a woman. Constance Stunt."

The man chuckled. "A woman? There are no female detectives here. I know there's a couple of them at the Beverly Hills station, but that's 'bout it."

I mumbled a thank you and hastily left.

Once outside, I stopped a taxi and gave my home address. I was starting to have a very bad feeling about the whole affair.

Fifteen minutes later I was standing in front if the apartment building where I lived, and I couldn't help letting out a sigh of relief. At least my house was still where it was supposed to be. I climbed the stairs to the second floor and took out the keys to my little studio, already foretasting a nice, long shower and a hearty dinner, followed by some serious thinking.

But when I tried to unlock my door, I realized that the key didn't fit. I tried many times, to no avail. When I finally read the name on the bell, I winced: "Mark Shroediger". Who the hell was Mark Shroediger? I rang the bell and, sure enough, Mr. Shroediger showed up at the door.

"Yes?"

"Excuse me, does a Ms. Constance Stunt live in this building? I was given this address and suite number."

He scratched his balding head and shook it. "Constance Stunt? No, I'm sorry, there's no one with that name in this building. How does she look like?"

That was easy enough. "Well, she actually looks a lot like me."

He looked at me with a puzzled expression, but he shook his head again. "Then she definitely doesn't live here. Sorry 'bout that."

When he closed the door – my own door – on my face, I just stood there and stared at it for a good minute, unable to move.

Then I slowly left and walked out of the building, my mind reeling. What the hell was going on?

I kept walking without really paying attention to where I was going, and I finally found myself in front of the marina.

I almost bumped into a newspaper rack, and I had the brilliant idea of looking at the date on the front page of L.A. Times. The printed characters mercilessly claimed it was October 9, 1983.

1983? The date on the other newspapers wasn't different, so I could rule out a typo.

Dear God, somehow I was hurled back in time 30 years, no less! That explained the strange tearing I felt when it all started; it did not affect the fabric of space, but of time.

What the hell was I supposed to do now? The only possible solution was trying to get in touch with my elemental friends. After all, they were the experts on time misplacements, weren't they? So I sat on one of the piers and just stared at the water, concentrating hard in an effort to summon the time agents.

About an hour later my brain was fuming, but no familiar face had showed up yet.

I felt desperation crawling into my heart and shattering my resolve. I was alone, more alone than everybody else on Earth, for I did not belong to this time. Stranger in a strange time.

But misquoting Heinlein did not help me fight the overwhelming wave of hopelessness that slowly brought tears to my eyes.

Almost thankfully, I silently wept.

* Author's note: "Stunt" is the title of that story.