The Land of Make Believe
By Jillian Storm
(the purpose of this Disclaimer is two-fold. First, this is an alternate reality story
in which I crossover characters from anime series that I happen to enjoy.
Second, the lyrics belong to Catatonia's "Blue Song." Aside from those
borrowed aspects, the rest is my restless imagination at work—rather persistent
since this is the eleventh part. I'm considering this practice for any longer pieces
I might write in the future—ones hopefully without the need of a disclaimer.
Enjoy.)
"Don't bother with the formalities."
"That seems unusual, coming from you." Trowa lifted his head while leaning
against the foyer wall. The sickly glare of the fading fluorescent light making
his features a tint of green. Otherwise, he returned to calmly reading his script.
"Come now, you know what I mean. None of the 'how was your day' chit-chat."
Dorothy glided next to him, tipping backward to perch on the edge of the front
desk. She examined a box half full of toothpicks before pushing it aside and
turning back to her silent companion.
"How was your day?"
Dorothy laughed, a different sound that she used with others. This one carrying
a weight that almost overshadowed her amusement. "Simply splendid. And
yours?"
"Normal."
"Normal, ah?" Dorothy stretched luxuriously, transforming into the image of a
contented cat. "And it's only beginning." Glancing over, she watched the first
waves of actors coming in to rehearse for the day.
I do think that you could be
Anything that you want to be
"Public transportation? That's not your usual fare, is it?" He'd taken a glance
around the train car as it began to slink its way from the most recent stationed
stop. A handful of new passengers were taking their seats, fragilely stepping
down the aisle to find the next open seats. Above the top of his daily paper,
Nichol had spotted a familiar face. "Looking for a place?" He indicated the seat
across from him.
Shiori glanced at it, and sat down heavily, barely acknowledging him and
turning to stare out the window to watch the world fly backwards beyond her.
"You do have a car, don't you?" Nichol asked, turning back to the paper.
Sounding disinterested, but undeniably intrigued.
"Yes," Shiori responded, reluctantly. She began to pilfer through her canvas
bag looking for something to distract her. Pulling out a book.
"Frost?" Nichol raised an eyebrow, but immediately turned back to the article
he was scanning after noticing her paperback of choice. "Now there's a simple
seeming fellow for you with a lot of dark secrets floating about his text."
Shiori scowled, stuffing the book back into her bag and returning to stare out the
window. "I get sick reading on the train. Especially when I'm facing the wrong
way."
"You chose to sit there." Nichol commented, letting a touch of arrogance flavor
his tone. Amused at her unwarranted, instinctual and powerful dislike. She
looked so ordinary really, with her unstyled hair a similar color to dead leaves.
A pert nose, tiny lips at that moment stretched thin over a pointed chin. All
together forgettable, and resenting that with every breath. And for all that
stubbornness—she still succumbed to those around her. It was a question not of
power, but of tact and talent.
Unless Shiori learned those lessons, she'd be nothing more than a mosquito's
annoying pinch.
When the train stopped at the end of the line, Shiori grabbed her bag and fled.
Pushing through to exit the train as far ahead of Nichol as possible. He
followed, with a bemused expression across his broad boned features.
It's easy, easy when
You say that time will tell
It don't mean the last orders
bell is ringing, ringing
It was all too easy to interrupt. Turning the corner, she saw them a few yards
further down the corridor. The taller woman pushed back against the wall,
retreating into it, her curls a dark crimson color in the distorted lights. And
Shiori, pacing a little, the end of her hair vibrating with a growing impatience.
Keeping both eyes on her unspeaking prey.
But that was where the young one was wrong. She wasn't toying with
something harmless.
Dorothy walked between them, amused by how Shiori ceased speaking and put
her hands on her hips with more than a touch of annoyance. Whatever moment
the girl was trying to create was spoiled as Juri moved more swiftly that Shiori
could recover—the older woman's pace so quick that she overtook and passed
Dorothy with no trouble.
The stiffness of her shoulders, the way her fingers hesitated from becoming fists
but were curled so tightly. How her head leaned forward as if to break the wind
and the hair fell on either side, exposing her neck.
The kitten was fortunate. Dorothy could see that true feelings, even those of a
dark secret passion, when not held in check would unleash a hurricane of depth
enough to skin a cat. Shiori would never survive getting what she desired.
Pondering that thought with no little amusement, Dorothy turned into the prop
room innocently enough.
And there's always plenty more
In the sea...
Dorothy's apartment was certainly accustomed to entertaining guests, both those
she meant to impress and those she meant to impose upon. The matching
furniture not unlike white marshmallows, the immaculate glass coffee table and
the elegantly shaped lamps spread like peacock feathers over it all.
Nichol was the only dark spot, immune to the apparent purity of it all. Taking a
tentative sip of the coffee Dorothy had offered him to see if it was to his liking,
pausing just a moment before dedicating his attention to the well brewed bean.
Listening to Dorothy's preamble.
"And Saitou's little assistant might have some talent hidden under all of the
inconveniences, but there are moments, mere moments mind you, during which
I wonder if that Chang fellow at the Glass House might have been the lesser
evil."
"She doesn't hold a torch to you and you know it." Nichol stated, "Ms.
'Valentine' " he emphasized the name with a low chortle, "will do whatever
Saitou tells her and will diminish when the official fall production begins. I
don't see Hajime Saitou letting an amateur carrying so much weight during the
next season."
"Quite true." Dorothy lounged in her armchair, crossing her slender legs, letting
one fair knee pull free from the flowing golden skirt. "But I don't see you as one
to lecture me on having a slight quarrel." She glanced at her companion with
clear, almost all blue eyes. "You haven't quite forgiven Mr. Barton for being
talented enough to distract your lovely lady . . ."
Nichol snarled, quite obvious with his feelings and unashamed, "Matters of the
heart should have nothing to do with *talent* even thought that aspect is still
undetermined in our case."
"Now let's not recreate to our liking what's already happened," Dorothy
laughed, every movement sparkling under the brilliant lighting of her room.
"Let's all hope we lose with as much tact as you have, my dear." She let the jab
linger before interrupting Nichol's retort, "Now, speaking of matters of the
heart—have you heard what spurs on our lovely little Shiori?"
"Resentment."
Dorothy nodded, "Of the worst kind. Misguided resentment. She seems to
believe that matters of the heart might truly be rearranged by talent . . . although
the depth of her abilities does leave a lot to be desired."
"Perhaps if we could sic her on Barton . . ."
"Now, now." Dorothy said quickly, "Demonstrate a little bit more of your class,
Nichol. I wouldn't associate with you if you didn't have any." Nichol bristled,
but held his tongue. "But there is something I find so charming about your
indignation."
Nichol studied her for a moment then, again finding himself curious as to what
motivated Dorothy to her meddlesome interests. Was it simply the pleasure of
the game, or was she simply a master at utilizing her own well-hidden anger.
When dealing with actors, one guess would always be as good as another.
Unless one uncovered the truth.
You keep playing the
Same tired old blues songs
Over the same tired
Old blues chords
Put those songs to sleep
They don't make me
Weep anymore...
"They're watching her, aren't they?" Juri spoke without looking up, certain that
it was the person she always met at that moment in that place.
Trowa sat next to her, in his usual spot, stretching his legs out ahead of him,
resting his upper body and shoulders against the wall behind the stone bench. It
was Tuesday, when the art museum was free and when Juri had a moment to
practice her art.
"Watching?" Trowa thought for a moment, not to understand her question as
much as to decide how to formulate his answer. His voice became more gentle.
"It seems above all other things, Shiori wants to be noticed."
"Perhaps," Juri's voice responded by taking a bitter edge. "But she has no idea
what she's asking for. What would they do to her? Ridicule her?"
Trowa puffed out his cheeks, "I doubt that, unless she already was aware of their
mocking. But it's not like that yet. I think, at best, they're looking for a play
thing."
"She's not a thing."
Trowa considered the remark and the following silence thoughtfully.
"Is there anything to be done so that they stop . . . being amused by her? Could
you speak to them? I would defend her myself but . . ."
Trowa lifted an eyebrow, still without comment.
"She has no idea. No idea. And it kills me to know that some day . . . she
might." Juri's pencil strokes began to press more heavily into the paper. "That
some day, she might insist on something definite. She might get to ask her
questions. And then, however will she live with the answers?"
Your empty glass ain't
No crystal ball
It can't tell you
What the future's bringing
Bringing it's bank
holiday mundane
Responding to Sano's inquiry, Spike's voice was cheerful enough, but each word
he spoke was deliberately chosen, "Sure, sure, I've heard from Ruka. The old
bloke keeps meeting folks of international prowess, directors and the like, so
that he can't decide if he likes their offers or if he wants to come back to all of
us. Overall, he's enjoying himself."
"What a hiatus," Sano coughed, "Getting to meet ultra-beautiful yet brainy
babes from all those independent films, I suppose. Damn him. I can't wait until
I have enough seniority to take a summer vacation."
"What a bunch of baloney," Faye whispered, just loud enough that she knew
Juri could hear, "I bet he's got issues with an old college loan and is wrestling a
life debt away from a loan shark. Didn't I hear he went to a super snotty school?
I'm sure that cost a bundle." She glanced Juri's direction, but the woman kept
quiet, not revealing her knowledge of Ruka's whereabouts to contradict or
coincide with Spike's assertion of the situation.
"Who exactly was Ruka?" Dorothy's silky voice did answer Faye's pregnant
pause. Faye felt her insides darken as she turned the other way to confront the
elegant actress. "I do hear his name so often. He seems well missed, if
mysterious."
"He was here before I came to the Road Rage." Faye said shortly, trying to be
as unhelpful as possible. "He was a quiet, but talented actor. I'm sure you'll get
to meet him in the fall."
"If he comes back from . . . where did you say? The loan shark?" Dorothy
laughed like well practiced church bells. "It sounds more like he's in some
imaginary Hollywood."
"I think I have some place I need to be." Faye said with exaggerated sweetness
and pivoted to go the other direction.
"Ruka Tsuchiya." Dorothy said, confidently lifting her head and observing
Juri's silent presence, until the other woman straightened and simply walked
away.
Medazalan may help to stop
That stinging, stinging
And there's always plenty more
In the sea...
"Oh my goodness, do you hear that?" Faye rolled over on the blanket so that she
was side by side with her companion, as close as she could get. "Bird, Shin,
birds. Isn't that nice?" Shin acknowledge her with a sound deep in his throat,
keeping his eyes closed and persisting in his attempt for what he called a "quick
nap."
They were picnicking at a park several miles outside of the city, one that Shin
had promised was worth the trip, and so far Faye had found herself terribly
amused. By the park. On the other hand, somehow, her mischievous brother
had managed to invite himself and a few of the others along. All in all, it had
become a rather elaborate outing.
Nearby, Spike and Sano were arguing over who was going to wear the "Kiss the
Chef" apron, speaking to each other with gritted teeth and trying to settle their
differences before either Julia or Misao could recognize the quarrel for what it
was. To their good fortune, Trowa was actually tending the grill.
The quiet man had agreed to come along, even though at most of their social
gatherings he kept his thoughts to himself. Besides common politeness, Trowa
only entertained an outward friendship with Saitou, Utena and occasionally
Juri—none of whom were attending Faye and Shin's barbeque getaway.
"I'll let you where this if and only if . . . " Sano grinned devilishly and his voice
lowered, "You give me Catherine's telephone number."
"*As* if," Spike shook his head in bewilderment, "Must you have every
woman's phone number?"
"Technically, I don't need Faye's . . ." Sano rubbed his chin in mock
thoughtfulness, the other hand holding the apron-in-debate tightly under his
opposite elbow.
"If you're so stuck on Catherine, why do you keep asking Misao out?" Spike
growled.
"Well, Misao is fun, but Catherine . . . she's much cuter." Sano shook his finger
forward to emphasize each word. "And she can cook."
"That's not Catherine Bloom you're talking about, is it?"
"Har--umph?" Sano's head twisted amazing fast to catch Trowa listening with
the beginnings of a crooked grin crossing Trowa's lips. "Do you know her?"
Sano asked, torn between hope and despair. His eyebrows lifted high.
"You could say, I see her quite often . . ." Trowa half turned back to the evening
meal, appearing very intent, and letting his hair hide a quite amused expression.
"And what exactly do you mean by 'see'," Sano stood straighter, become more
reserved as Trowa relaxed.
Spike stepped forward, the apron forgotten in this new revelation. "Don't tell
me, Catherine caters for the old Glass House gang?"
"She's kind of like family," Trowa began turning the meat with exaggerated
deliberateness. "Especially after her mum married my dad."
"You're siblings?" Sano cried out with disbelief.
"More like step-siblings, but yeah," Trowa grinned, facing Sano completely.
"She's way out of your league, Sano. Trust me. For your sanity, at least."
Sano steamed, "Now, how do you think . . . I get it, you're her *step* brother,
you're jealous!" Sano snapped his fingers delightedly, a wicked gleam in his
eye.
It was Trowa's turn to look flabbergasted, "What the heck?"
Sano snorted confidently, "Prove you're not as mad as hell that I'm interested in
good ol' Cathy . . . by giving me her phone number!" Sano practically pounced
Trowa who instinctively curled over the grill.
With acrobatic reflexes, Trowa still managed to cover up his initial surprise,
"Dinner's ready."
"Like hell!" Sano cried indignantly, "I'm going to haunt you forever until you
cave in, Barton my boy! Give me Cathy's phone number!"
And let it begin again
Let it begin again
With a hearty meal
And a map to read
She somehow realized it was a dream when her lazy wave and order to "repeat"
went without question. Or perhaps it was the large yellow chicken suit that
Dorothy was wearing with perfect posture. And that the dialogue was
reminiscent of the toothpaste commercial she'd seen last before turning off the
television.
Faye was in the theater, but it was strangely elongated so that the actors seemed
far far away. And somewhere Saitou was saying, "Floss and Listerine. Floss
and Listerine and Floss are the keys to good acting."
Next to her, Mikage was sleeping in one of the deep red seats. His eyes opened
and quite plainly said, "I know the key to good acting. Why don't you ask
Ruka?"
And then the buzzing of her alarm.
Faye stretched, letting her consciousness puzzle over the sound until it
remembered that the persistent noise was not the fire alarm in the Road Rage.
She pushed back the sheets with her legs, still stretching her reluctant limbs,
unwilling to get up. Still she managed to stay mostly asleep until she got into
the shower.
When the dream came back to her again in all it's peculiarities.
Simply letting the water wash over her, hot enough to numb her toes and just
shy of scalding her back. Uncertain what she was afraid of, Faye trembled. The
nagging thought still echoing in the back of her skull, like a ghost in her mind.
In a flash it was gone, and she turned, almost too quickly as her right foot slid
wildly across the slippery surface. Turning the water temperature back to
something more bearable, which inevitably felt too cool, Faye tried to remember
what it was that unsettled her so much.
But it had disappeared. With a shrug, Faye put it behind her.
Oh life's been good to me...
So keep playing those same
Old blues songs...
You keep playing the
Same tired old blues songs
Over the same tired
Old blues chords
Put those songs to sleep
They don't make me
Weep anymore
They don't make me
Weep anymore...
By Jillian Storm
(the purpose of this Disclaimer is two-fold. First, this is an alternate reality story
in which I crossover characters from anime series that I happen to enjoy.
Second, the lyrics belong to Catatonia's "Blue Song." Aside from those
borrowed aspects, the rest is my restless imagination at work—rather persistent
since this is the eleventh part. I'm considering this practice for any longer pieces
I might write in the future—ones hopefully without the need of a disclaimer.
Enjoy.)
"Don't bother with the formalities."
"That seems unusual, coming from you." Trowa lifted his head while leaning
against the foyer wall. The sickly glare of the fading fluorescent light making
his features a tint of green. Otherwise, he returned to calmly reading his script.
"Come now, you know what I mean. None of the 'how was your day' chit-chat."
Dorothy glided next to him, tipping backward to perch on the edge of the front
desk. She examined a box half full of toothpicks before pushing it aside and
turning back to her silent companion.
"How was your day?"
Dorothy laughed, a different sound that she used with others. This one carrying
a weight that almost overshadowed her amusement. "Simply splendid. And
yours?"
"Normal."
"Normal, ah?" Dorothy stretched luxuriously, transforming into the image of a
contented cat. "And it's only beginning." Glancing over, she watched the first
waves of actors coming in to rehearse for the day.
I do think that you could be
Anything that you want to be
"Public transportation? That's not your usual fare, is it?" He'd taken a glance
around the train car as it began to slink its way from the most recent stationed
stop. A handful of new passengers were taking their seats, fragilely stepping
down the aisle to find the next open seats. Above the top of his daily paper,
Nichol had spotted a familiar face. "Looking for a place?" He indicated the seat
across from him.
Shiori glanced at it, and sat down heavily, barely acknowledging him and
turning to stare out the window to watch the world fly backwards beyond her.
"You do have a car, don't you?" Nichol asked, turning back to the paper.
Sounding disinterested, but undeniably intrigued.
"Yes," Shiori responded, reluctantly. She began to pilfer through her canvas
bag looking for something to distract her. Pulling out a book.
"Frost?" Nichol raised an eyebrow, but immediately turned back to the article
he was scanning after noticing her paperback of choice. "Now there's a simple
seeming fellow for you with a lot of dark secrets floating about his text."
Shiori scowled, stuffing the book back into her bag and returning to stare out the
window. "I get sick reading on the train. Especially when I'm facing the wrong
way."
"You chose to sit there." Nichol commented, letting a touch of arrogance flavor
his tone. Amused at her unwarranted, instinctual and powerful dislike. She
looked so ordinary really, with her unstyled hair a similar color to dead leaves.
A pert nose, tiny lips at that moment stretched thin over a pointed chin. All
together forgettable, and resenting that with every breath. And for all that
stubbornness—she still succumbed to those around her. It was a question not of
power, but of tact and talent.
Unless Shiori learned those lessons, she'd be nothing more than a mosquito's
annoying pinch.
When the train stopped at the end of the line, Shiori grabbed her bag and fled.
Pushing through to exit the train as far ahead of Nichol as possible. He
followed, with a bemused expression across his broad boned features.
It's easy, easy when
You say that time will tell
It don't mean the last orders
bell is ringing, ringing
It was all too easy to interrupt. Turning the corner, she saw them a few yards
further down the corridor. The taller woman pushed back against the wall,
retreating into it, her curls a dark crimson color in the distorted lights. And
Shiori, pacing a little, the end of her hair vibrating with a growing impatience.
Keeping both eyes on her unspeaking prey.
But that was where the young one was wrong. She wasn't toying with
something harmless.
Dorothy walked between them, amused by how Shiori ceased speaking and put
her hands on her hips with more than a touch of annoyance. Whatever moment
the girl was trying to create was spoiled as Juri moved more swiftly that Shiori
could recover—the older woman's pace so quick that she overtook and passed
Dorothy with no trouble.
The stiffness of her shoulders, the way her fingers hesitated from becoming fists
but were curled so tightly. How her head leaned forward as if to break the wind
and the hair fell on either side, exposing her neck.
The kitten was fortunate. Dorothy could see that true feelings, even those of a
dark secret passion, when not held in check would unleash a hurricane of depth
enough to skin a cat. Shiori would never survive getting what she desired.
Pondering that thought with no little amusement, Dorothy turned into the prop
room innocently enough.
And there's always plenty more
In the sea...
Dorothy's apartment was certainly accustomed to entertaining guests, both those
she meant to impress and those she meant to impose upon. The matching
furniture not unlike white marshmallows, the immaculate glass coffee table and
the elegantly shaped lamps spread like peacock feathers over it all.
Nichol was the only dark spot, immune to the apparent purity of it all. Taking a
tentative sip of the coffee Dorothy had offered him to see if it was to his liking,
pausing just a moment before dedicating his attention to the well brewed bean.
Listening to Dorothy's preamble.
"And Saitou's little assistant might have some talent hidden under all of the
inconveniences, but there are moments, mere moments mind you, during which
I wonder if that Chang fellow at the Glass House might have been the lesser
evil."
"She doesn't hold a torch to you and you know it." Nichol stated, "Ms.
'Valentine' " he emphasized the name with a low chortle, "will do whatever
Saitou tells her and will diminish when the official fall production begins. I
don't see Hajime Saitou letting an amateur carrying so much weight during the
next season."
"Quite true." Dorothy lounged in her armchair, crossing her slender legs, letting
one fair knee pull free from the flowing golden skirt. "But I don't see you as one
to lecture me on having a slight quarrel." She glanced at her companion with
clear, almost all blue eyes. "You haven't quite forgiven Mr. Barton for being
talented enough to distract your lovely lady . . ."
Nichol snarled, quite obvious with his feelings and unashamed, "Matters of the
heart should have nothing to do with *talent* even thought that aspect is still
undetermined in our case."
"Now let's not recreate to our liking what's already happened," Dorothy
laughed, every movement sparkling under the brilliant lighting of her room.
"Let's all hope we lose with as much tact as you have, my dear." She let the jab
linger before interrupting Nichol's retort, "Now, speaking of matters of the
heart—have you heard what spurs on our lovely little Shiori?"
"Resentment."
Dorothy nodded, "Of the worst kind. Misguided resentment. She seems to
believe that matters of the heart might truly be rearranged by talent . . . although
the depth of her abilities does leave a lot to be desired."
"Perhaps if we could sic her on Barton . . ."
"Now, now." Dorothy said quickly, "Demonstrate a little bit more of your class,
Nichol. I wouldn't associate with you if you didn't have any." Nichol bristled,
but held his tongue. "But there is something I find so charming about your
indignation."
Nichol studied her for a moment then, again finding himself curious as to what
motivated Dorothy to her meddlesome interests. Was it simply the pleasure of
the game, or was she simply a master at utilizing her own well-hidden anger.
When dealing with actors, one guess would always be as good as another.
Unless one uncovered the truth.
You keep playing the
Same tired old blues songs
Over the same tired
Old blues chords
Put those songs to sleep
They don't make me
Weep anymore...
"They're watching her, aren't they?" Juri spoke without looking up, certain that
it was the person she always met at that moment in that place.
Trowa sat next to her, in his usual spot, stretching his legs out ahead of him,
resting his upper body and shoulders against the wall behind the stone bench. It
was Tuesday, when the art museum was free and when Juri had a moment to
practice her art.
"Watching?" Trowa thought for a moment, not to understand her question as
much as to decide how to formulate his answer. His voice became more gentle.
"It seems above all other things, Shiori wants to be noticed."
"Perhaps," Juri's voice responded by taking a bitter edge. "But she has no idea
what she's asking for. What would they do to her? Ridicule her?"
Trowa puffed out his cheeks, "I doubt that, unless she already was aware of their
mocking. But it's not like that yet. I think, at best, they're looking for a play
thing."
"She's not a thing."
Trowa considered the remark and the following silence thoughtfully.
"Is there anything to be done so that they stop . . . being amused by her? Could
you speak to them? I would defend her myself but . . ."
Trowa lifted an eyebrow, still without comment.
"She has no idea. No idea. And it kills me to know that some day . . . she
might." Juri's pencil strokes began to press more heavily into the paper. "That
some day, she might insist on something definite. She might get to ask her
questions. And then, however will she live with the answers?"
Your empty glass ain't
No crystal ball
It can't tell you
What the future's bringing
Bringing it's bank
holiday mundane
Responding to Sano's inquiry, Spike's voice was cheerful enough, but each word
he spoke was deliberately chosen, "Sure, sure, I've heard from Ruka. The old
bloke keeps meeting folks of international prowess, directors and the like, so
that he can't decide if he likes their offers or if he wants to come back to all of
us. Overall, he's enjoying himself."
"What a hiatus," Sano coughed, "Getting to meet ultra-beautiful yet brainy
babes from all those independent films, I suppose. Damn him. I can't wait until
I have enough seniority to take a summer vacation."
"What a bunch of baloney," Faye whispered, just loud enough that she knew
Juri could hear, "I bet he's got issues with an old college loan and is wrestling a
life debt away from a loan shark. Didn't I hear he went to a super snotty school?
I'm sure that cost a bundle." She glanced Juri's direction, but the woman kept
quiet, not revealing her knowledge of Ruka's whereabouts to contradict or
coincide with Spike's assertion of the situation.
"Who exactly was Ruka?" Dorothy's silky voice did answer Faye's pregnant
pause. Faye felt her insides darken as she turned the other way to confront the
elegant actress. "I do hear his name so often. He seems well missed, if
mysterious."
"He was here before I came to the Road Rage." Faye said shortly, trying to be
as unhelpful as possible. "He was a quiet, but talented actor. I'm sure you'll get
to meet him in the fall."
"If he comes back from . . . where did you say? The loan shark?" Dorothy
laughed like well practiced church bells. "It sounds more like he's in some
imaginary Hollywood."
"I think I have some place I need to be." Faye said with exaggerated sweetness
and pivoted to go the other direction.
"Ruka Tsuchiya." Dorothy said, confidently lifting her head and observing
Juri's silent presence, until the other woman straightened and simply walked
away.
Medazalan may help to stop
That stinging, stinging
And there's always plenty more
In the sea...
"Oh my goodness, do you hear that?" Faye rolled over on the blanket so that she
was side by side with her companion, as close as she could get. "Bird, Shin,
birds. Isn't that nice?" Shin acknowledge her with a sound deep in his throat,
keeping his eyes closed and persisting in his attempt for what he called a "quick
nap."
They were picnicking at a park several miles outside of the city, one that Shin
had promised was worth the trip, and so far Faye had found herself terribly
amused. By the park. On the other hand, somehow, her mischievous brother
had managed to invite himself and a few of the others along. All in all, it had
become a rather elaborate outing.
Nearby, Spike and Sano were arguing over who was going to wear the "Kiss the
Chef" apron, speaking to each other with gritted teeth and trying to settle their
differences before either Julia or Misao could recognize the quarrel for what it
was. To their good fortune, Trowa was actually tending the grill.
The quiet man had agreed to come along, even though at most of their social
gatherings he kept his thoughts to himself. Besides common politeness, Trowa
only entertained an outward friendship with Saitou, Utena and occasionally
Juri—none of whom were attending Faye and Shin's barbeque getaway.
"I'll let you where this if and only if . . . " Sano grinned devilishly and his voice
lowered, "You give me Catherine's telephone number."
"*As* if," Spike shook his head in bewilderment, "Must you have every
woman's phone number?"
"Technically, I don't need Faye's . . ." Sano rubbed his chin in mock
thoughtfulness, the other hand holding the apron-in-debate tightly under his
opposite elbow.
"If you're so stuck on Catherine, why do you keep asking Misao out?" Spike
growled.
"Well, Misao is fun, but Catherine . . . she's much cuter." Sano shook his finger
forward to emphasize each word. "And she can cook."
"That's not Catherine Bloom you're talking about, is it?"
"Har--umph?" Sano's head twisted amazing fast to catch Trowa listening with
the beginnings of a crooked grin crossing Trowa's lips. "Do you know her?"
Sano asked, torn between hope and despair. His eyebrows lifted high.
"You could say, I see her quite often . . ." Trowa half turned back to the evening
meal, appearing very intent, and letting his hair hide a quite amused expression.
"And what exactly do you mean by 'see'," Sano stood straighter, become more
reserved as Trowa relaxed.
Spike stepped forward, the apron forgotten in this new revelation. "Don't tell
me, Catherine caters for the old Glass House gang?"
"She's kind of like family," Trowa began turning the meat with exaggerated
deliberateness. "Especially after her mum married my dad."
"You're siblings?" Sano cried out with disbelief.
"More like step-siblings, but yeah," Trowa grinned, facing Sano completely.
"She's way out of your league, Sano. Trust me. For your sanity, at least."
Sano steamed, "Now, how do you think . . . I get it, you're her *step* brother,
you're jealous!" Sano snapped his fingers delightedly, a wicked gleam in his
eye.
It was Trowa's turn to look flabbergasted, "What the heck?"
Sano snorted confidently, "Prove you're not as mad as hell that I'm interested in
good ol' Cathy . . . by giving me her phone number!" Sano practically pounced
Trowa who instinctively curled over the grill.
With acrobatic reflexes, Trowa still managed to cover up his initial surprise,
"Dinner's ready."
"Like hell!" Sano cried indignantly, "I'm going to haunt you forever until you
cave in, Barton my boy! Give me Cathy's phone number!"
And let it begin again
Let it begin again
With a hearty meal
And a map to read
She somehow realized it was a dream when her lazy wave and order to "repeat"
went without question. Or perhaps it was the large yellow chicken suit that
Dorothy was wearing with perfect posture. And that the dialogue was
reminiscent of the toothpaste commercial she'd seen last before turning off the
television.
Faye was in the theater, but it was strangely elongated so that the actors seemed
far far away. And somewhere Saitou was saying, "Floss and Listerine. Floss
and Listerine and Floss are the keys to good acting."
Next to her, Mikage was sleeping in one of the deep red seats. His eyes opened
and quite plainly said, "I know the key to good acting. Why don't you ask
Ruka?"
And then the buzzing of her alarm.
Faye stretched, letting her consciousness puzzle over the sound until it
remembered that the persistent noise was not the fire alarm in the Road Rage.
She pushed back the sheets with her legs, still stretching her reluctant limbs,
unwilling to get up. Still she managed to stay mostly asleep until she got into
the shower.
When the dream came back to her again in all it's peculiarities.
Simply letting the water wash over her, hot enough to numb her toes and just
shy of scalding her back. Uncertain what she was afraid of, Faye trembled. The
nagging thought still echoing in the back of her skull, like a ghost in her mind.
In a flash it was gone, and she turned, almost too quickly as her right foot slid
wildly across the slippery surface. Turning the water temperature back to
something more bearable, which inevitably felt too cool, Faye tried to remember
what it was that unsettled her so much.
But it had disappeared. With a shrug, Faye put it behind her.
Oh life's been good to me...
So keep playing those same
Old blues songs...
You keep playing the
Same tired old blues songs
Over the same tired
Old blues chords
Put those songs to sleep
They don't make me
Weep anymore
They don't make me
Weep anymore...