Doodily-do: or else what? You'll kill Terry off again? Okay, I'm updating, alright? Look!

Andrea Christoph: Yes, you must. And you must review the rest as well.

Grace: hey, you read my VH fics? Wow... brave of you!

Ayan Syria: I know, the last chapter was pretty stupid... I keep trying to be insane, but reality bogs me down a bit, sometimes... hope this one re-ups the bar... that sounded rude, didn't it?

Bloodcandy: AKA Sophie, I like to make fun of McDonalds, because they have the worst food in the world... and the squirrels seem to follow me around...

Lady Lara Croft: Glad that you like it and its making you laugh! Lara is going to show up pretty soon... (checks watch) aaaany minute now...

Weapon of Choice: (hello again) Yes he is! He's been in so many crappy movies I have lost count! And the really bad thing is... I've seen most of them, and I own one of them! Aaack! Can't wait for "Phantom" to come out on DVD... the first good Gerry movie... hope it isn't the last (thinks hopefully of "Beowulf" and "Burns" and "Dear Frankie" and "Game of their Lives"... man, Gerry's getting popular, isn't he?)

Nickless: I agree, no excuses. Except the dog ate my computer...

Circe Rose: I think I'm going to marry Terry off again a few times... that should be fun... (evil giggle)

Okay peeps, read and review! And please forgive me for calling you peeps!

Chapter Five: Fun With Angels

Sheridan opened his eyes, which were almost aggressively blue. The first thing to swim into his misty sight was an African death-mask, which scared him rather badly and also made him think this was not a good sign.

The door opened and a young woman came in. She was impossibly skinny and not at all attractive. She was also wearing a halo.

Sheridan bit his lip.

"Am I dead?" he asked quietly.

"What?" said the young woman, in perfect English. "Oh. No." She took the halo off her head and put it on a bedside table, which he hadn't noticed before. "No, no, I just like to wear that. Keeps the rain off. Not very well," she admitted, "but some."

She seemed to be expecting an answer to this, so he said, "Ah. I see," even though he didn't. "Can I," he went on, "see about getting out of here? I've got a date with Vengeance on another continent. This is still Africa, isn't it?"

She shrugged. "It was the last time I looked. Hang on a second, I'll check." She strode to the window and peered out. "Giraffes, lions, other exotic animals, huge trees, rolling plains, raging AIDS epidemic— yep, its Africa all right."

Sheridan laughed. "Well if nothing else I like your sense of humour."

She looked at him with a face like stone. "That was humour?" she inquired. "I ask merely for information."

"Why do you really wear a halo?"

"I'm what they call an angel. I tend people that no one else will bother with, no matter how good looking they are."

"Well, angel," said Sheridan softly. "Is there anything I can do to repay you?"

She was quietly succumbing to his manly whiles when suddenly he noticed his money was sitting on the table next to him.

"Never mind," he said quickly, "I don't need to after all." Lurching up out of bed he grabbed the money and ran for it.

Half of the money saw him on a plane to England, by way of France.

He prayed and prayed that that wasn't actually a bad omen, and was just a bad decision on the pilot's part.

He was wanted in France.

Wanted very, very, very badly.

He could see himself now, telling his grandchildren about the experience—

"France was very interesting," he would say, a far-away look in his eye. "I behaved very oddly there."

If you could call blowing up the Prime Minister's mistresses' doghouse "interesting."

Well—

He rather thought he could.

Unbeknownst to him, on the flight immediately behind his, there were about twelve head-hunters, out for blood. Specifically the blood of a Scotsman who had welshed on a flesh-debt and marriage vows—

Thankfully for Sheridan's peace of mind, he had no idea about the headhunters. As far as he knew, the only thing after him was—

Well—

The Prime Minister's mistress. And, probably, her dog.

But all that would be sorted out in time. Right now he needed to concentrate on finding Croft. Where would she be? France itself? Africa, where he'd just come from? America, where Hollywood was? Canada, where people were frighteningly nice? Brazil, where the nuts came from?

Or even— at her home?

Now, there was an odd idea. But Croft had always delighted in surprising him.

Her home it would be, then. If he managed to escape France without meeting up with the Prime Minister's French Poodle— and her little dog, too.

He stopped a passing stewardess and flashed her his best grin. She responded to it, melting through the floor and falling out of the plane. Sheridan heaved a sharp sigh— he'd overdone it again— he caught another stewardess and tried a wink instead. This worked better, though she did trip over her drinks carriage and broke her ankle.

"Sorry," said Sheridan, looking down at her, "but do you happen to have a full-length mirror anywhere on board?"

"Absolutely!" said the stewardess, hauled herself off the floor and hobbled away down the corridor. She returned after a moment with the biggest mirror she could find and set it down in front of Sheridan, then looked at him expectantly.

He looked at her.

She smiled hopefully and bit her lip.

"Oh, alright," said Sheridan, "but you might want to get a parachute on first."

Five seconds later, another stewardess had melted through the interior of the plane, faring rather better than the first one, who had to rely on the voluminousness of her dress to slow her landing.

Sheridan himself settled back in his seat and peered pleasedly at the mirror. He'd have to watch himself. This guy, he noted, should come with a warning label.