September 11, 2001, 10 AM, Seacouver, Washington

Richard Kramer had not expected for anyone else to come in today. When he had first heard of the attacks in New York, he had called the school dean's office, only to hear a pre-recorded message that the campus would be closed today. The dean had been careful to note that the campus would re-open tomorrow, regular schedule. But Richard Kramer didn't care for that information; he just cared that no classes would be held today.

But even as he heard the message, he made the daily ninety minute drive into work. He had paperwork to do, and he had phone calls to make. He could use the quiet. Besides, as his life stood, he was only half-alive, and dared not dwell on the real situations of life.

He allowed himself one sigh. This was as he stepped into the main office of the philosophy/classics department, to flip on a few light switches, and check his mail. He had only one letter, and that too was from the dean's office, stating the offices were closed. He wondered who had placed these in the boxes, and when they had done so. Casting the room into darkness again, he walked from the main office to his own office, and he collapsed in the chair behind his desk.

He wanted to call his children. He wanted to verify they were alive. But he couldn't. Not as his life stood.

He knew his daughter had lived in Seattle, staying with her mother's sister, and attending a public high school in Seattle. Had even maintained a successful three year long distance relationship with her boyfriend, Ryan Ollman, before they broke it off in her senior year of high school, both agreeing they no longer wanted the long absences. For a few years there, he had been able to contact her, through the secrecy the shadow death allowed. But now, as she attended college in North Carolina, he had not heard from her in many years.

His son, he knew, had stayed with her mother. But after his long-time girlfriend had died from cancer two years ago, he had dropped out of school, (he had been a college freshman at the time), and turned instead to his photography full-time. From what he had been able to gleam from the news, his son was gaining success, having only recently landed a full time job with Time, moving permanently to New York.

To Staten Island. And, there he lived, with his new girlfriend, and newborn son. Named for him. Named Richard, but called Ricky.

But he was Richard Kramer, nee Rick Phillips, and he was still alive. Almost. He was not Immortal, but he was no longer strictly Mortal either.

His daughter was now nineteen, almost twenty. His son was now twenty-one, almost twenty-two. Sixteen, almost seventeen years ago, he had left his three-year-old son, young wife and infant daughter to chase a ghost, a dream. For years, he had studied the paranormal. For years, he had chased the paranormal, convinced that if he looker harder enough, he would find the doorway between the two worlds. That night when he had left, he had found a breakthrough, but he had died finding it.

When the authorities had come, and when they had notified his wife, it had appeared that he died in the car crash. But in truth, some force, something had ripped his soul from his body before the car had had a chance to crash.

Only later, after the story had faded into news oblivion, had the same force recovered his body, and returned to it his soul. But since, he had been forced to lead a cursed half-life, living as an interloper, neither there nor there. He had changed his surname to escape the files. He had dyed his brown hair to black, and ordered special non-prescription colored contacts changing his green eyes to brown, and wore non-prescription glasses. Through processes only allowed in the movies, he permanently removed his fingerprints, and found the last job he had wanted: a college professor.

He had needed to convince his family he was dead, and he had. But he had nearly convinced himself in the process.

Richard Kramer frowned once, and picked his head from the elbow crook. He had come to do work, and work he would do. His son lived on Staten Island. He would be safe. He had to be safe. Fates would have informed him otherwise.

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Hour later, and less than half the paperwork completed, Richard Kramer threw the pen across the room in exasperation. He could not do this. He needed to know. Something in him needed to know. Swallowing the last of his pride, he dialed the only number he swore he never would.

"Ciao, Fate Hotline."

"Yes, I need to speak to Whisp. Please, it's urgent." He did not recognize his own voice.

"One moment, please." Then, several seconds later, another voice answered, "Rick?"

"Hello, Whisp. Been a long time. How are you?"

"Oh, you know, no change here. Life is full of thrills when you are nothing more than light and demon. But you, how are you?"

"I'm. . . fine. That's partly why I am calling."

"I see. What did you need?"

"My son. I need to know if my son is alive."

A long pause. Richard squirmed uncomfortably in his seat, wishing suddenly he could take the words back, but it was too late. The damage was already done.

"I'm going to surprise you, Rick. I'm going to tell you. Your son is fine, as is his girlfriend and his child. I'll even tell you that your daughter is fine too."

"Thank you," he breathed. "Thank you, gods and fate."

"But I need something from you as well, Rick. Nothing is ever free these days, especially when it comes to fate."

"No, of course not," mumbled Richard. "What do you need?" he added louder, but he immediately regretted those words too.

"I hear you have been letting your assigned duties go. Something we cannot allow. Surely you understand."

"So, what do you want?"

"I want what you promised. Really very simple."

Richard swallowed, and then quickly, he frowned again. He knew this phone call would be a bad idea. For when they had returned his soul to his body, they had extracted a promise from him. A cost for the job, they had claimed. He would continue his life-long work, he would continue his studies and search for the paranormal, but he would do it to their rules, and listen to their shots.

"We do not accept failure, Rick," Whisp continued, "but we do give second chances. However, we only give them once. Fail again, and this time we will kill you permanently."

"Yes, yes, I understand." Again, he did not recognize his own voice.

"For close to three decades now, we have been tracking paranormal activity in the Seattle area. Unfortunately, we have not determined just what it is."

"Surely though you have Watchers deployed here?"

"We have two sets of Watchers deployed across the world. Three, should you count the renegades. Four, should you count the renegade renegades. One such set follows the darker underworlds of the Demons, the Vampires, and the Slayers. Our second such set follows the Immortals."

"Would they not report the collected information?"

"Oh they do report. Frequently. But even the best-kept secrets have holes in the systems. You have two Immortals and one Watcher working under you, Rick, as well as one former Watcher. I need you to steal everything from them you can."

"But why? I don't understand."

"Politics. Politics. This attack today was no coincidence. There is an underlying to it. Something too familiar underneath the surface."

"Doesn't that diminish the high running emotions that same attack caused? To say such a thing?"

"We have deployed contacts across the globe," continued Whisp, talking as if Richard had not. "We hope between everyone, we will find something. After all-"

"Very well and all, but WHAT IN THE GODS NAMES DOES THIS HAVE TO DO WITH ME?"

A short, harsh sound only to be described as laughter sounded through the phone. "Simple. Track down what we seek, and kill it. I don't care how. But we will have this done."

"Track what down exactly?"

"You will know." Another long pause. "Oh, and Rick, one more thing. . ."

"Yes?"

"I mentioned to you that we deployed Watchers across the globe. Don't think I mentioned that your daughter and her best friend were two of them, did I?"

Richard swore into the phone, only to have the dial tone greet him. For several seconds he stared into the receiver, before he flung it across the room, ripping the phone and phone jack from the wall. Calling them had been a bad idea. He had no clue as to what they had expected of them, and they were blackmailing him into doing it. He sighed, at least now he knew: both his children were alive and well. Even his son, especially his son. If what the Whisp had spoken were true, he would hope for his son to keep his daughter safe.

Richard Kramer sighed. He would be getting very little work done now. Leaving a quickly penned note taped to the door that his phone was broken, he locked the door behind him, and sped away, first on foot to his car, then in his car. He had other work to do.