Sam Beckett's eyes snapped open and saw nothing but ceiling. Well, at least
he wasn't in yet another sticky situation, in front of several college
grads without any notion of the speech he was supposed to be saying, or
being Dr Ruth or...
Was he a woman? He looked around the room frantically. A mirror, a chair, a bed, pictures - lots of pictures, mostly hand drawn, and they didn't seem to be all drawn by the same person, although they did all have a bizarre similarity - the subject was the same. A tall, evenly built man with short, wavy hair. He lurched over to the mirror, almost tripping over the chair in the process.
Sam liked what he saw. He was the man of the pictures reflected in the mirror. The man looked in his mid thirties, was clean shaven, with light brown hair, an aquiline nose and coffee brown eyes. The man reminded him of someone. He heard the Imaging Room door slide open and turned when he heard Al speak.
"You won't believe this, Sam!" Al exclaimed excitedly.
"Surprise me," Sam said dryly. "Who am I?"
"You're Alan Rickman!" Al looked darkly at his friend when he blinked. "Terrorist in Die Hard? Jamie in Truly Madly Deeply? Damn your Swiss cheesed brain, Sam! It's like forgetting Cliff Richard!"
"Who?"
Al ignored him. "Alan Rickman was born 21st February 1946-"
"That makes him 56! I thought he was in his mid-thirties!" Sam turned fully around to face his friend.
"What can I say? He's young for his age. You're in New York - doing a play or something - today it is 3rd March." He slapped the handlink. "That can't be right," he muttered.
"What?" Sam moved behind Al so he could see the handlink.
"It says 2002. It can't be. The project's not even in 2002! Ziggy!" Al's voice rose to a shout. Sam went over to the chair where a white shirt and jeans were hung.
"Never mind. Just tell me what I'm here to do," Sam said. He decided the shirt looked better with the cuffs open, and he didn't do the button up to the top. Nice.
"Ah..Ziggy doesn't know yet, Sam. She's gone a bit star-struck, to tell you the truth. I'll go back and see if I can get anything out of her. Meanwhile, behave yourself, and for God's sakes don't do anything stupid." He was gone.
Sam was left in the room - it looked like a hotel one, but not a grotty one - and he decided to go and have a look downstairs, or at least find out what he was meant to be doing. He took a set of keys off the table by the door and let himself out.
A few minutes later he was down in the reception. It was glitzy, with marble and chandeliers and bustling visitors. It was then he noticed two people snaking towards him out of the crowd. The woman looked small and weasly with her blonde hair tied ridiculously high on her head, and she was followed by a man of a similar age and build. Something was wrong and Sam could feel his host's instincts of anger.
"Mr Rickman! Mr Rickman! How is the Harry Potter movie coming along?" she asked breathlessly. "What's your opinion on Private Lives at the moment?" she quickly followed it up with, without giving him time to answer.
"I.er..um." Sam stuttered. It was then his knight in shining armour arrived, as it were, and a tall, dark haired young woman jumped between him and the journalists like a Rottweiler.
"Back off!" she snarled "If he want to do an interview he'll come to you." The blonde haired woman sniffed and marched out of the lobby, and once she was out of sight, the younger woman turned. Sam didn't know what to say. "I.um..thanks," he said.
"My pleasure, Mr Rickman. I'm Sabrina," The young woman held out her hand and smiled reassuringly. "I read in an interview that you hated journalists. They shouldn't be allowed in this place anyway." She cast a reproving glance at the front desk. "I know this must sound incredibly forward, but I was wondering, if you're not busy and all, if you'd like to go for coffee?"
"Coffee?" Sam sure felt like coffee right now. "Sure." He followed the girl - Sabrina - weaving in and out of passers by until they got to the street. The pavement wasn't as crowded as the lobby, surprisingly, and he noticed a coffee shop next to the hotel. Sabrina seemed to be heading there, so he followed her. "I've heard this place is great," Sabrina was saying over the noise of the crowd. She opened the door for him and he followed her in, sitting down at a table while she ordered two regular coffees.
"So, what are you doing in, erm, New York?" Sam asked. He still hadn't got used to using this guy's voice. It was deep, but not too deep, smooth, but not without it's roughness, and it had an English accent which suited it perfectly. People in the coffee shop, he noticed, especially the women were turning to look at him with mesmeric expressions. He bought his attention back to the pretty girl on the other side of the table. "Funnily enough, coming to see you," she said, smiling. He looked at her blankly. "You know, with Private Lives?"
"Oh," he replied, not really knowing at all. Private Lives was a Noel Coward play, some say one of his best. He'd studied it once in college, he remembered. It mainly was performed awfully by people - apparently there was no 'on stage chemistry' between the leads. That was all he remembered.
"You know, it's got some of the best reviews this season," Sabrina continued, stirring the coffee. "It's sold out months in advance. I had to wait eight weeks to get a ticket." "Have you seen it before?" Sam asked, but the question wasn't answered. Two girls had approached the table, one taller than the other, the taller one wearing glasses. "Hi!" the shorter one squeaked.
"Hellooo Alan!" the other girl added "Remember us?"
Sam suddenly had a fleeting memory of a hyperactive girl brandishing a picture by a stage door, her companion merrily bouncing beside her. These two.
"Y-yes," Sam said with a little trepidation. The shorter one went very pale and fainted, and the taller one quivered as if she was on the verge of doing so herself.
"Um, would you mind signing my t-shirt, please?" she squeaked. Sam looked up, and Sabrina passed him a black pen.
"Name?" Sam asked on a whim. He didn't know if she wanted it personalized. He hoped so.
"Amanda," she said proudly. He wrote her name and then signed - it was as if he remembered every curve of every letter when he wrote it. It came out almost perfect and he stifled a sigh of relief. "Thank you!" she squeaked, and flounced off.
Sabrina laughed. "That's the trouble with being world famous I guess," she smiled n the direction of the girls.
"What is?" Sam was confused. Between having coffee with complete strangers and being accosted by two lunatics, this wasn't turning out to be a good day.
"Barmy fan girls," she said. "You must get a lot of them."
Sam didn't know what to do, and in a fit of inspiration he lifted his eyebrow. It seemed an entirely natural thing for his host to do, but the girl snorted into her coffee cup. She set it down on the table and burst out laughing. Just then the Imaging Room door opened and Al stepped out.
"Whoa. Mad fan girls at this time in the morning? Sam, we gotta talk." Al said.
"Um, back in a minute," Sam said, and scooted after Al. He headed towards the gents at the back of the shop.
"Sam, do we always have to talk in toilets? It's perverted," Al moaned, looking at the rapidly-greening tiles. Sam glared darkly and Al stepped backwards. "You oughta stop doing that, Sam. That glare is a lethal weapon, I'm telling you. I've got enough of the real him doing it to me."
"Perverted?" Sam snorted "And why is he glaring at you? No, let me guess. He thinks he's been kidnapped by aliens."
"Nope. Worse. He thinks its fan girls," Al told him. Sam shook his head, and at that moment a cubicle door opened and a middle aged man stepped out and eyed Sam. "Who were you talking to?" he asked.
"I was..er..practicing," Sam said hurriedly. "My lines."
"Hey, that's right, you're that Alan Rickman guy, aren't you? Well done, man, I think you're great." The man patted his shoulder and went out, and Al walked along the line of cubicles.
"There's no-one else here. Anyway, the Zigster is still star-struck, but I did find out something from her."
"Enlighten me," Sam said dryly. Al's eyes widened before he continued. "There's this girl, Sabrina-"
"I've met her. She's out there," Sam pointed his thumb in the direction of the door. "She's sixteen, and thinks she's madly in love with you. Alan, that is. In three days time three other fan girls are going to murder her."
Was he a woman? He looked around the room frantically. A mirror, a chair, a bed, pictures - lots of pictures, mostly hand drawn, and they didn't seem to be all drawn by the same person, although they did all have a bizarre similarity - the subject was the same. A tall, evenly built man with short, wavy hair. He lurched over to the mirror, almost tripping over the chair in the process.
Sam liked what he saw. He was the man of the pictures reflected in the mirror. The man looked in his mid thirties, was clean shaven, with light brown hair, an aquiline nose and coffee brown eyes. The man reminded him of someone. He heard the Imaging Room door slide open and turned when he heard Al speak.
"You won't believe this, Sam!" Al exclaimed excitedly.
"Surprise me," Sam said dryly. "Who am I?"
"You're Alan Rickman!" Al looked darkly at his friend when he blinked. "Terrorist in Die Hard? Jamie in Truly Madly Deeply? Damn your Swiss cheesed brain, Sam! It's like forgetting Cliff Richard!"
"Who?"
Al ignored him. "Alan Rickman was born 21st February 1946-"
"That makes him 56! I thought he was in his mid-thirties!" Sam turned fully around to face his friend.
"What can I say? He's young for his age. You're in New York - doing a play or something - today it is 3rd March." He slapped the handlink. "That can't be right," he muttered.
"What?" Sam moved behind Al so he could see the handlink.
"It says 2002. It can't be. The project's not even in 2002! Ziggy!" Al's voice rose to a shout. Sam went over to the chair where a white shirt and jeans were hung.
"Never mind. Just tell me what I'm here to do," Sam said. He decided the shirt looked better with the cuffs open, and he didn't do the button up to the top. Nice.
"Ah..Ziggy doesn't know yet, Sam. She's gone a bit star-struck, to tell you the truth. I'll go back and see if I can get anything out of her. Meanwhile, behave yourself, and for God's sakes don't do anything stupid." He was gone.
Sam was left in the room - it looked like a hotel one, but not a grotty one - and he decided to go and have a look downstairs, or at least find out what he was meant to be doing. He took a set of keys off the table by the door and let himself out.
A few minutes later he was down in the reception. It was glitzy, with marble and chandeliers and bustling visitors. It was then he noticed two people snaking towards him out of the crowd. The woman looked small and weasly with her blonde hair tied ridiculously high on her head, and she was followed by a man of a similar age and build. Something was wrong and Sam could feel his host's instincts of anger.
"Mr Rickman! Mr Rickman! How is the Harry Potter movie coming along?" she asked breathlessly. "What's your opinion on Private Lives at the moment?" she quickly followed it up with, without giving him time to answer.
"I.er..um." Sam stuttered. It was then his knight in shining armour arrived, as it were, and a tall, dark haired young woman jumped between him and the journalists like a Rottweiler.
"Back off!" she snarled "If he want to do an interview he'll come to you." The blonde haired woman sniffed and marched out of the lobby, and once she was out of sight, the younger woman turned. Sam didn't know what to say. "I.um..thanks," he said.
"My pleasure, Mr Rickman. I'm Sabrina," The young woman held out her hand and smiled reassuringly. "I read in an interview that you hated journalists. They shouldn't be allowed in this place anyway." She cast a reproving glance at the front desk. "I know this must sound incredibly forward, but I was wondering, if you're not busy and all, if you'd like to go for coffee?"
"Coffee?" Sam sure felt like coffee right now. "Sure." He followed the girl - Sabrina - weaving in and out of passers by until they got to the street. The pavement wasn't as crowded as the lobby, surprisingly, and he noticed a coffee shop next to the hotel. Sabrina seemed to be heading there, so he followed her. "I've heard this place is great," Sabrina was saying over the noise of the crowd. She opened the door for him and he followed her in, sitting down at a table while she ordered two regular coffees.
"So, what are you doing in, erm, New York?" Sam asked. He still hadn't got used to using this guy's voice. It was deep, but not too deep, smooth, but not without it's roughness, and it had an English accent which suited it perfectly. People in the coffee shop, he noticed, especially the women were turning to look at him with mesmeric expressions. He bought his attention back to the pretty girl on the other side of the table. "Funnily enough, coming to see you," she said, smiling. He looked at her blankly. "You know, with Private Lives?"
"Oh," he replied, not really knowing at all. Private Lives was a Noel Coward play, some say one of his best. He'd studied it once in college, he remembered. It mainly was performed awfully by people - apparently there was no 'on stage chemistry' between the leads. That was all he remembered.
"You know, it's got some of the best reviews this season," Sabrina continued, stirring the coffee. "It's sold out months in advance. I had to wait eight weeks to get a ticket." "Have you seen it before?" Sam asked, but the question wasn't answered. Two girls had approached the table, one taller than the other, the taller one wearing glasses. "Hi!" the shorter one squeaked.
"Hellooo Alan!" the other girl added "Remember us?"
Sam suddenly had a fleeting memory of a hyperactive girl brandishing a picture by a stage door, her companion merrily bouncing beside her. These two.
"Y-yes," Sam said with a little trepidation. The shorter one went very pale and fainted, and the taller one quivered as if she was on the verge of doing so herself.
"Um, would you mind signing my t-shirt, please?" she squeaked. Sam looked up, and Sabrina passed him a black pen.
"Name?" Sam asked on a whim. He didn't know if she wanted it personalized. He hoped so.
"Amanda," she said proudly. He wrote her name and then signed - it was as if he remembered every curve of every letter when he wrote it. It came out almost perfect and he stifled a sigh of relief. "Thank you!" she squeaked, and flounced off.
Sabrina laughed. "That's the trouble with being world famous I guess," she smiled n the direction of the girls.
"What is?" Sam was confused. Between having coffee with complete strangers and being accosted by two lunatics, this wasn't turning out to be a good day.
"Barmy fan girls," she said. "You must get a lot of them."
Sam didn't know what to do, and in a fit of inspiration he lifted his eyebrow. It seemed an entirely natural thing for his host to do, but the girl snorted into her coffee cup. She set it down on the table and burst out laughing. Just then the Imaging Room door opened and Al stepped out.
"Whoa. Mad fan girls at this time in the morning? Sam, we gotta talk." Al said.
"Um, back in a minute," Sam said, and scooted after Al. He headed towards the gents at the back of the shop.
"Sam, do we always have to talk in toilets? It's perverted," Al moaned, looking at the rapidly-greening tiles. Sam glared darkly and Al stepped backwards. "You oughta stop doing that, Sam. That glare is a lethal weapon, I'm telling you. I've got enough of the real him doing it to me."
"Perverted?" Sam snorted "And why is he glaring at you? No, let me guess. He thinks he's been kidnapped by aliens."
"Nope. Worse. He thinks its fan girls," Al told him. Sam shook his head, and at that moment a cubicle door opened and a middle aged man stepped out and eyed Sam. "Who were you talking to?" he asked.
"I was..er..practicing," Sam said hurriedly. "My lines."
"Hey, that's right, you're that Alan Rickman guy, aren't you? Well done, man, I think you're great." The man patted his shoulder and went out, and Al walked along the line of cubicles.
"There's no-one else here. Anyway, the Zigster is still star-struck, but I did find out something from her."
"Enlighten me," Sam said dryly. Al's eyes widened before he continued. "There's this girl, Sabrina-"
"I've met her. She's out there," Sam pointed his thumb in the direction of the door. "She's sixteen, and thinks she's madly in love with you. Alan, that is. In three days time three other fan girls are going to murder her."