Note: I'm hard at work on all of the fantastic requests that you lovely people sent me, never fear! In the meantime...

Scott Westerfeld said in an interview that the Leviathan will be visiting Mexico in Goliath. (I'm pretty sure it's not going to be like this.) According to my book of historical slang, "sparrow" is an authentic 19th-century term; on the other hand, I don't know if the US Navy had a formal shore patrol in WWI, but I thought it was funny, so they do here. Finally, special thanks to my New Year's Eve friends (all of legal drinking age, I might add) for the hilarious tequila stories.

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Five Things Deryn Learns On Shore Leave

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I. The loris does not, actually, want to come along.

Of course, Bovril insists that it does – clambers up her arm and digs its little claws into the shoulder of her jacket and refuses to be pried off no matter how hard she, and then Alek, tries.

"Shore leave," it says, eyes bright, repeating its new favorite words. "Mexico."

Deryn thinks about for a few minutes, then gives a mental shrug. Maybe the beastie is feeling just as cooped up as everyone else; crossing the Pacific had been barking boring, and nighttime Tijuana looks (and sounds, and smells) awfully inviting from the airfield where they're moored. She, Alek, and Newkirk are all escaping, despite being strictly ordered to stay on board. Why shouldn't Bovril want the same?

"All right," she tells it. "But don't go blethering on and scaring the locals."

"It was quite well-behaved whenever we went out in Istanbul," Alek says to her, as if they're discussing a child.

Newkirk has a different opinion: "You can't bring that thing with us!" he exclaims.

"Shhh! D'you want to sneak out or not?" Deryn demands, and her fellow middy subsides into grumbles.

They make it all the way to the ground, past the guards (who look like they'd rather be in the city as well), and have just set foot in the streets proper, when some very drunk American sailors reel over to them.

"How much for the monkey?" one of them asks, to the raucous laughter of the others.

Deryn reckons their breath is a fire hazard. She takes a step back, wincing.

"It's not a monkey, it's a loris," Alek says, indignant, unaware that Deryn is fighting the strong urge to smack him for drawing more attention to themselves.

More laughter. "What the hell is a looooris?" the sailor asks, then belches. "Here, loris, loris, loris!" He makes a grab for Bovril, who positively squawks in fright and ducks behind Deryn's back, claws threatening to tear her jacket.

"You don't sound like a Brit," one of the other sailors says to Alek, squinting through a drunken haze.

"Aye, he's – er – he's Canadian," Deryn says, grabbing for Newkirk and Alek both and hustling them away, calling over her shoulder, "Enjoy your shore leave, men!"

As soon as they're around a corner and safely out of range of the American sailors, Newkirk says, "I told you bringing that thing was a bad idea!"

"Bad idea. Leviathan," Bovril says, sounding rattled. "Bad idea."

Which is why Deryn ends up sneaking back aboard the ship with a loris, and then back off again without one, while Newkirk and Alek wait.

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II. Mix British airmen with American sailors, add alcohol and pretty girls, and there's going to be a fight.

It's just coincidence that there's an American Navy ship in port tonight. But what it means is that the streets are full of sailors as well as airmen, and all of them are looking for exactly the same things.

There are plenty of places to drink, and plenty of dark-haired, dark-eyed working girls just waiting for arms to hang on, but you'd never know it. The Leviathan's crew aren't about to take any guff from any barking sailors, either, especially not Americans.

"Oi, shut your gob, Yank!" a rigger shouts, audible above the din of drunken conversation and lively music.

"Lobster bastard!" an American voice shouts back, to a scattering of supportive calls of "Attaboy, Johnny!"

"Perhaps we should leave," Alek says, sounding uneasy. They've found a table in the back of this particular pub, where they can sit and gawk at everything and drink some very bad, watered-down beer. (Alek, citing his refined Austrian tastes, took one sip and refused any more.)

Newkirk shrugs and says, "Can't be worse than a pub fight back home." Clearly, he's not worried, but that might be because his eyes have been glued to every sparrow that wanders by, hips swaying and colorful blouses pulled down to show off bare shoulders.

Newkirk likes Tijuana.

Deryn is not so sure. It beats sitting aboard the ship, but she could think of better things to be doing. For example, watching a pub fight sounds perfectly daft.

Johnny and the rigger start pushing and shoving; a couple of sparrows try to get in between them and, using only twining arms, languid eyes, and coquettish voices, break up the fight before it properly starts. They're not successful.

Glass shatters, and then everyone is shouting. Fists are thrown, tables are overturned, and Deryn suddenly realizes two things.

First: His Highness the Archduke of Austria-Este probably shouldn't be in the middle of a pub brawl.

Second: Count Volger will kill her if he is.

"Let's go," she announces, knocking her chair over in her hurry to stand. Alek is right with her, but Newkirk is busy watching the fight, eyes alight, almost shadowboxing in his eagerness to join in.

"We can't leave!" Newkirk says. "We ought to help our crewmate – er, whatever his name is."

Deryn rolls her eyes. "Fine, then, I'll just explain to Mr. Rigby why –"

Just then a bottle whistles past Newkirk's head and crashes into the wall behind him, where it explodes into a wet splotch and a million splintered pieces of glass.

"Right, time to go," he says.

Back on the street, Deryn buys herself and the boys a bit of something from a vendor. It's greasy, spicy, and delicious - though compared to Air Service food, anything would taste lovely. They eat it and watch as the Navy shore patrol wades in and hauls away everyone dumb enough to still be inside and fighting, including American Johnny and their crewmate.

"Bad luck," she says.

"Aye," Newkirk says. "Sodding Navy."

"Indeed." Alek brushes off his hands. "So, then. What shall we do next?"

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III. She is not ready for tequila.

Deryn was expecting something similar to the rum that the other middies used to pass around – not that she'd snuck drinks as often as the rest of them, she was minding her secret; but not drinking, at all, would've been like waving a flag. Especially to that bum-rag Fitzroy.

At any rate, she thought tequila would be like that. Or the brandy she'd filched in Istanbul. Maybe a bit stronger.

It burns; she gags; and the only thing that keeps her from spitting it out is that she just made fun of Newkirk for doing the same.

She swallows the tequila down, but gasps and coughs as it sets her innards on fire. Alek helpfully pounds her on the back, which doesn't help at all.

"I'm not choking, Dummkopf," she says hoarsely, pushing him away. She takes several deep breaths, trying to stop her eyes from watering. "Blisters! That stuff's barking terrible."

"Really?" Alek says, frowning down at the finger's worth left in her glass. He picks up the glass and gives the liquid a sniff. "It can't be that bad – everyone's drinking it."

"It's that bad," Deryn and Newkirk say together.

When Alek looks like he's tempted to try it regardless, she does him a favor and dumps the contents of the glass onto the floor.

"Trust me, aye?" she says. "I'm Scottish. If it's too strong for me, it's too strong for you."

"You're probably right," Alek says, thoughtful.

Newkirk is nodding and working his jaw experimentally. "Another sip and I think I wouldn't be able to feel my tongue."

"In that case, then," Deryn says, "maybe you should have another whole glass."

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IV. No one should have to see Newkirk dancing.

Deryn would blame the tequila, but Newkirk barely tasted it.

She groans and buries her face in her hands. "Tell me when he's done thrashing about like a mammothine in summer."

Alek says, in a tone of horrified awe, "I don't think I've ever seen someone dance like that."

"Can you even call it dancing?" She peeks through her fingers and immediately wishes she hadn't. "Barking spiders. He's a disgrace to the Air Service!"

Luckily, they aren't the only ones to think so. The poor sparrow who's been trapped into dancing with him manages to distract him with a few well-timed sways of her hips and a bit of whispering into his ear. Stunned, Newkirk allows her to drag him to a table.

"Thank goodness," Alek says. "That was painful."

"Aye. No more drinks for him," Deryn says. "Now, come on. We have to convince the poor sod that he's not in love, or 'painful' won't be the word for it."

Still. At least he's not dancing anymore.

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V. Ladies of the night are difficult to dissuade.

It's funny, the first time a sparrow comes up to Alek – mostly because Alek is plainly scandalized.

"You dance with me, chico," the girl says to him, all fluttering eyelashes and sly smiles. Her accent is thick, but the English is perfectly understandable, and her body language, is, of course, universal.

"N-no, thank you," Alek stammers, going bright red, while Deryn tries not to fall over with laughter. She has a sudden sympathy for Clanker chippies; it must be rough, working a trade with all your customers stumbling and embarrassed about the biology involved.

The sparrow clicks her tongue and sashays closer, running a hand across Alek's shoulders and ruffling his hair, leaning forward to put her charms on prominent display. "Yes! One dance, maybe more. We have fun, chico, I promise."

Deryn finds it less amusing now that the girl's got her barking hands all over him.

"I – I really must refuse," Alek says, positively scarlet, trying to get her off and away. Deryn reckons she'll give it five more seconds before she steps in to make the point more firmly. Perhaps with a punch to the sparrow's face.

"I'll dance with you," Newkirk says eagerly.

The sparrow looks at Newkirk, flicking her eyes up and down, from his toes to his hair. "Lo siento, señor, pero no hablo inglés," she purrs, and then makes herself scarce.

Newkirk looks confused. Deryn has no idea what the girl said either, but she laughs at him just the same, and Alek joins in after a minute.

The next time, however, isn't funny at all. The next time, she's standing in the street, waiting for Newkirk and Alek to get done in the loo so they can all go back to the ship, when a sparrow comes up and starts fawning over her: good time this, handsome chico that, lots of fun, giggles and hands all over the place.

Deryn panics. Why is it that other girls keep finding her attractive? "No," she hisses, pushing the sparrow away and darting glances around to make sure no one's overhearing. "I'm – barking spiders – not a chico!"

The sparrow blinks and steps back to scrutinize Deryn more closely. Then the fluttering eyelashes drop away to reveal a thoroughly businesslike attitude. The girl shrugs and says, "Okay, but costs extra."

"No!" Blisters, if her ma was here, she'd never hear the end of this! Deryn finally spots Alek and Newkirk and says, relieved, "I was just waiting for my friends, and there they are, so that's it."

The sparrow follows her line of sight. "Oh, you friends can join us, chica. Will cost triple. Okay, sí?"

"No!" Deryn exclaims. This is like a nightmare. Her and Alek, alone – aye, a couple years down the road, that idea's not half bad. But with a sparrow? And sodding Newkirk? There's not enough tequila in the world. She almost gags again. "I'm not bloody interested, lass. Go ask someone else, and leave me alone!"

She shakes the sparrow off and hurries to join the boys. The chippy, sounding cross, calls out something in Spanish; Deryn's just as glad not to understand her.

"What was that about?" Alek asks.

Deryn shudders. "You don't care to know."

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And One Thing She Already Knew

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I. Alek needs to do more things he's not supposed to.

He's still dead terrible at sneaking. Newkirk is, too, but Deryn chalks that up to him being, well, Newkirk, and satisfies herself with smacking him when he makes too much noise. Alek, on the other hand, ought to be better at this by now.

It's late (or rather, early) when they slip back onboard the Leviathan, and she's positive that the officer on watch spots them crossing the airfield… but escaping for shore leave is one of those things that officers expect middies to do. They probably won't get in too much trouble with Mr. Rigby.

Deryn, after a bit of internal debate, follows Alek to his stateroom, telling herself it's to check on Bovril. And indeed, the loris wakes up as they enter, yawning and stretching out like a cat from the middle of Alek's pillow.

"Shore leave?" it says.

"Aye, you didn't miss much," Deryn tells it. The fabricated beastie tilts its little head and looks curious. She finds herself explaining, "There was a pub fight, and Newkirk tried to dance."

Bovril considers this. "Bad idea," it eventually says.

"You've got it dead right," Deryn agrees.

"I thought that it was… fun, all things considered," Alek says. "More so than I expected."

"That's because you didn't drink any tequila," she retorts. "And we'll see how much fun it is when we're both falling asleep mid-watch tomorrow."

He grins, but says with perfect seriousness, "I've never done anything like that before. Thank you."

She grins back at him. "Anytime, your archdukeness."

And she means it: sheltered prince that he's been, he really needs to get out more.