DISCLAIMER:  This is a project of the X-Writers.  We have neither asked 
nor been given permission by Marvel Comics to do this.  They get to get 
all their rights and we get to keep ours, but they have the copyright, 
now, don't they?  Don't bother suing us.  We can barely afford college, 
like we'd have something extra?  Ha.

WARNING:  This is a story.  This is only a story.  Had it been a 
recounting of issues from real life, spandex would be in style.

NOTE:  This story may contain cuss words, questionable morals, killing,
death, blatant acts of kindness, brief scenes of nudity, kissing,
friendship, angst, original ideas, risky business, and all sorts of thought
provoking questions regarding the cosmic powers and our unique advantages
in becoming higher than our base animalistic selves.  You may be inspired
to write your own works of art and break free of the chains of Society so
that your mind can be free.  This story may even win a Noble Peace Prize,
bringing warring factions of estranged brothers and sisters to a long
needed era of peace.

------------------------------------------
 Generation X #11: "Strangers in Paradise"
 Written by Lee Atchison and Andy Pressman
 Edited by Marysia
------------------------------------------

     She liked it out here.  It wasn't often that she felt at home.  This
made two places, now.

     The island spread out before her;  it seemed to go on and on forever,
a wide vastness she couldn't comprehend.  Only on the horizon  -- where a
thin line of deep blue divided the green of the island and the fiery orange
of the dawning sky --  was there a hint that this place, this sanctuary,
wasn't limitless.

     Far below the ridge, a figure was walking and dragging another behind
it. She carefully watched them, not wanting to let them know.  They 
travelled slowly, crawling along the trail she had cut for them.  In the 
back of her mind, she wondered why they didn't wonder who had cut it;  
really, though, she knew that she had done a good job of making it look 
relatively natural.  Plus, poor Everett, he was tired and carrying a big 
load.  In fact, she liked helping, liked being a contributing part of the 
team.  Team... for some strange reason, or maybe some not so strange
reason, it was starting to mean home for her.

     Why didn't she go down and help Everett then?  She thought about 
doing that.  It would probably be much easier too.  Well, of course she 
could cut a better path for them, but, more importantly, he'd know she 
was there.  That was a mixed blessing at most.  The lone figure perched 
atop a ridge considered.  She wanted him to know she was there, but she 
didn't want to, too.  Why?

     Part of it was that she wanted to be in the team.  The team was going
to save Jack, not just one person.  The other part was that she felt
wonderful.  Absolutely, positively, and in all other ways, wonderful.  She
liked the freedom, liked letting her body run wild over the terrain.  This
well suited her.

     But... when it came right down to it, well, team/family was more 
important.  They would be there for far longer than this place.  Yes, 
team/family needs help, and so she would help.  That simple, really.

     With a running start, she charged down the side of the ridge.  

-*-

     Sean tapped the edge of his pipe against the heel of his palm, 
settling the tobacco.  With great thought, he brought the match to the 
edge of the bowl and lit it.  He leaned back in his chair as he puffed 
quietly, considering the conversation before making a reply.  No sense in 
being too hasty now.

     "So, let me get this straight.  Penance has stolen away ta yuir
island, an' ye knew o' it a wee bit after I left.  Ye dinnae want ta
consult me because ye thought it might distract me from what was happenin'
in New York?"

     Emma nodded.  She sat back in her large, leather office chair, leaning
back, one arm resting on the desk.  "That's what I said."

     The smoke from the pipe curled upwards in an unsteady line.  "Aye.  So
ye did.  It dinnae erase the fact that ye lied ta me, though."  He gave his
co-headmaster a hard look.  "I dinnae ken what to think o' that, *Miss*
Frost."

     The leather chair turned on its axis soundlessly.  The whole room
seemed to be made of sound-absorbing material.  It only made the two voices
seem louder.

     "Well, *Mr* Cassidy, I thought you were the one called up to meet with
Charlotte."

     "Aye.  But I was hardly so far away that ye an' yuir be-damned
mind-powers couldnae reach me."

     Emma waved a dismissive hand.  "You're the one who doesn't want me
around in your mind.  I do believe you're contradicting yourself... yet
again."  She placed both elbows on the old desk, her fingers steepled, her
cold eyes glaring at the man on the other side.

     "Yuir missin' the damn point, woman!"  His fist slammed into the desk,
a dull *THUD* catching both their attentions.

     Her eyes narrowed.  This was unusual.  Sean rarely ever lost his 
composure.  "Then, pray tell, what *is* the point,"  she whispered
cautiously, just as unwilling to back down as he.

     "The point is that if we are goin' ta run this School, then we must 
talk to each other an' consult one another."  Sean leaned back in his
chair, taking a deliberate puff of his pipe to sooth his raging nerves. 
She was pushing it, and he would not be pushed any longer.

     To his surprise, and hers, she relaxed and said, casually,  "Alright." 
Just that one word.

     Sean forced the surprised look off his face.  "Alright,"  he replied. 
He didn't say any more, though, thinking that this might be one of her
change of tactics, a trick somehow.

     Instead, Emma unclenched her fingers and moved them her temples.  Her
eyes closed while she rubbed them slowly;  a distinct stress line marred
her cold beauty.  Sean stood up and moved to the window.  Outside, he could
just barely see the biosphere.  Bobby would be there right now, speaking to
Artie and Leech, getting acquainted.  That was good.  Some-times, the
co-headmaster thought he wasn't paying enough attention to all the children
and all their different problems.  He sighed.  So many problems, so little
time.  It was unreasonable; this was much harder than his days as an agent
of Interpol.

     His sometime-friend, constant-enemy laughed, and he wondered, briefly,
if she had caught his thoughts.  The idea, accusation really, was quickly
discarded.  If he wanted things to go smoothly here, if he wanted an ally
instead of an enemy, he'd have to give her the benefit of the doubt.

     "Hmm?"  Sean retook his seat, his posture relaxed as it hadn't been
before.

     "Just thinking,"  Emma replied in a voice strained with lack of sleep
and an incredible amount of stress.  "Just thinking how funny it is that
I'm caught in this situation."  When he didn't reply, she continued.  "If
you really want us to communicate more, to consult one another before
starting anything, then you get to shoulder the burden as well."  A sadder
laugh.  "And, trust me, it's something you won't like.  You have to promise
me one thing though."  She lifted her head, and her pale blue eyes reached
out and grabbed him.  Her telepathy wasn't needed to keep him rooted in his
chair.  He knew he had to hear what she said next.

     The glass set next to the stack of papers, the childrens' files, was
drained of its dark gold liquid.  Emma stood, then, and returned the glass
to its place at the fully-stocked bar.  "Well, where to begin?"  she asks
herself, not really expecting any answer.  "Do you know what's going on at
the mansion lately, Sean?" She poured herself another drink.

     "Nae.  Charlotte seemed preoccupied 'bout somethin', but she didnae
tell me what 'twas, even when I asked her."

     Emma nodded.  "She's probably heard rumours, or gotten some hints
somewhere. Very few people know, though."  The glass balanced precariously
in her hand.  "The promise... you must promise that you will think of the
children first, that your first duty will be to this school, to Drake... to
myself."  She turned to look at him  --  stare at him, really.  "Do you
promise this?"

     He was taken aback.  If she seriously believe that he would...  "Aye. 
I promise it."

     The relief Emma felt was almost palpable.

     But for Sean, today was the day of surprises.  The words came and went
before he knew what happened.  He had promised to put the School above all
things.  Above the X-Men.  Above the other teams.  Above his daughter. 
Above Moira.  "Damn. This had better be good,"  he muttered.  The surly
look on his face did nothing to set her at ease, though.

     "I'll put it simply.  The... the X-Men, and others, are involved very
deeply in something which... "  She shuddered.  "Something hideous. 
I've... known this for awhile now."  The liquid contents of the glass fell
quickly into her mouth.  

     To his credit, Sean didn't rush over and grab the woman by the arms
and shake her until her head fell back into place.  What lies were these?! 
How dare she!

     Her eyes held only sorrow.  Only sorrow and helplessness and despair. 
He had never seen this part of her before.  They were having a moment.

     "I see."  He calmly placed the pipe back between his lips;  only his
tight jaw, with teeth clamped on the pipe, betrayed his tension.

     Emma whispered,  "There's more ... I sense a great disturbance in the
astral realm.  Someone, several someones, several psionically powerful
someones are fighting.  They're the key players.  I... didn't get close
enough to find out who they were, though.  I just know they're there.  And
I know that... there have been many deaths and many more are to come. 
Hostility  --  it's all out of control." She looked into Sean's eyes.  "The
X-Men... I sense a great change, no more, no less.  But like the tarot card
Death, whose mere presence instills fear, I cannot tell if it is for good
or ill."

     Sean couldn't move.  Nothing.  He tried.  His fingers twitched.  His
larynx tightened, a slight trembling of his jaw.  That was all.  Emma
walked closer, sat on the desk in front of him, her hands in her lap.  He 
watched her, sensed her sadness, and, somehow, sensed her resolve.  Her 
firm resolve.  One he could never break.

     As if in answer, she telepathically sent  //There's nothing we can do,
Sean.  There's only the two of us who are any good in battle, three if you
count Bobby, which I won't.  The children.  Think of the children.  They
haven't seen battle before, let alone what this promises to be.  We have a
job, a responsibility, a promise to keep.  We must, *MUST* keep the
children safe.  We must protect them. Because if the others should die,
there must the next generation of X-Men ready to take their spots.  It's up
to us to help them through this, to guide them, to make sure nothing like
this ever happens to them.  Please, Sean... tell me you'll stay and help
me.  Help me protect as much of the Dream as we possibly can.//

     He nodded, numbly.  She continued to stare at him for a long moment,
but he would not speak.  Would not, could not?  she wondered.  Calmly now 
--  calmly since she had finally gotten it off her chest  --  calmly she
sat back down in her own chair and leaned back against it, letting it
support her limp form.

     Finally, Sean sighed and removed the pipe from between his lips.  He
set it carefully on the desk and then sat back in his chair, relaxing his
too tense body; his eyes met hers, and finding what he needed to find, he
nodded.  "Aye.  Ta protect the children an' keep the Dream alive, I will do
as ye suggest."  A pause. "Me conscious tells me I must do it this way. 
Well, ye mind-witch ye, what can ye do ta make sure no one else besides the
two o' us know what's happenin' in the outside world?"

     Emma took a long moment to compose herself.  "I've been thinking about
that. This is what I've decided.  If you agree, I'll put it into effect
immediately." She proceeded to lay out the plan she had thought of last
night when she was laying in her bed, trying to sleep.  It had seemed like
a good idea, but she wasn't sure how Sean was going to react to it.  He had
a habit of thinking everything she did was immoral.  Well, this was too,
but it was the only way to do what had to be done.

     Just as she'd predicted, Sean balked at the idea.  "I am *not* goin'
ta be a party to yuir crazy schemes, Emma.  Besides the fact that it'll
never work, it's immoral an' out o' the question."

     "Do you see many options open to us?  Can you think of any other way
to make sure they no one on this campus discovers the truth?"

     "But what o' the psionic lads and lasses?  How could ye make it work
with them?"

     Emma shook her head.  "Already covered.  They might have power, but
they don't have experience.  And that's one thing I have plenty of."  They
were back on their feet now, back in their comfortable roles, and back in
stride.  This was going to work, she thought.

     "Well, ye wouldnae go any further than ta just make them... not
curious 'bout the world around them?  About what happens ta the X-Men? 
What are yuir plans?"

     "I would only keep the children from thinking about the X-Men if their
thoughts go along the lines of wanting to go see them.  That's all."

     Sean nodded.  "But, how will ye know when they'll be thinkin' o' that? 
Ye cannae monitor their thoughts all the time."

     "Ah, but I can."  Her smile was not malicious, and her actions were
meant only for their own good, so she made sure that he saw her in a good
light.  "I can selectively monitor thoughts, and I will.  I will only
monitor them for the thoughts we decided on and no more."  Yes, she was
doing this for his own good. "And, I won't do it on you.  I'll do it on 
whoever needs it, but if you decide that it shouldn't be done, then we
won't." So, she gave him just a little push, just to make sure that he 
would say yes to this plan.  "And whenever you want it shut down, just say
the word."  Subtly... subtly... there.  Done.

     His look of uncertainty still remained, but he said,  "Aye, Emma.  It
sounds like it could work."

-*-

     There was a magic path carved into the forest.  There was a magic path
carved into the forest, and it just called out to Paige.  "Paige!"  it
said.  "Paige! Enter me!"

     Paige hadn't gotten much sleep lately, or else she would have realize
that the path was just really appealing, and not truly calling to her. 
Like a pair of clean clothing shrugged on after a long shower, which itself
followed a rough and very dirty game of mud football, Paige felt cleansed. 
Finally, a man-made path found amongst the previously semi-impermeable
brambles of large trees and
branches.

     "Jono!"  she shouted happily.  "Path!"

     No more words needed to be said.  A Path was Found.  Jonothon dropped
what he was doing;  specifically, he backed away from the tents where he
had been searching for clues as to the whereabouts of his teammates.  A
Path was Found.

     Jono followed Paige, walking a short bit behind her.  At first, the 
Path was rough, uneven, like it simply consisted of branches broken and 
moved out of place, or of grass downtrodden.  But after a while, it became
evident that some heavy-duty, sharply edged instrument was used here. 
Sharp edges abound, slashes in trunks and branches and various other
formerly living objects.

     And, into the woods they went, searching for something they might not
want to find.

-*-

     The biosphere was a relaxing environment, contrary to what all the
others thought.  Contrary to the Danger Room, anyhow.  Bobby glanced down
below him, smiling at where he just happened to be.  A tree house.  How
like him, as Jean would have said back in the good old days.  Firmly
attached to his childish ways of avoiding responsibilities and duties, as 
he had heard some say in these bad new days.  But, well, it was selfish 
of him, yeah, true, but he was glad he was here, instead of back there.  
There being the X-Mansion, of course.
     
     He wondered what was happening to them, where they were, but not 
too hard.  Instead, he focused on what Leech was saying.  The little boy 
was excitedly explaining how the system of pulleys he and Artie had 
designed would be able to act as a sort of elevator.  Bobby agreed to 
help them with the harder parts, the manual labour, and in return, he got 
to know these two ex-Morlocks, current Generation X members better.

     "Leech thinks he can make this work, if Bobby helps.  Can Bobby form
ice-slide to support series of ropes before Leech and Artie try it out? 
And, could Bobby attach these pulleys,"  Leech handed him three large ones, 
"over by that branch?"  The branch in question was only another ten feet
higher.

     "Sure.  No problem,"  Bobby paid attention as Artie holographically
displayed exactly how he and Leech wanted the system set up.  A sudden
thought occurred to him  --  these boys were growing up.  They weren't
content to follow his lead anymore.  I think they're more mature than me,
Bobby thought wryly.

     Leech hopped down the ladder and ran to grab the ropes they took for
this project.  He and Bobby went through the directions in detail;  after
quizzing his friend, Leech was finally sure that everything would go right. 
While Artie stood on the main floor of the tree house, projecting the
directions in case anyone forgot, the other two got to work.

     They were at it for most of the morning, but by the time it was
finished, everyone was in high spirits.  The elevator was built, complete 
with pulleys, ropes, and even a little bell, and all that remained now was
to test it out.

     Artie and Leech entered the wooden contraption, and while Artie
crossed his fingers, and Bobby was ready with the ice slide if it didn't 
work, Leech grabbed ahold of the rope and began pulling.

     The elevator went up smoothly, the pulley system allowing even Leech
to pull up twice his weight.  They reached the level of the tree house and
tied off the rope.  With a triumphant hop, they left the elevator and
slapped hands.  "Yes!" 
Bobby cried out.

     It worked.

-*-

     His tan was unnatural and rough, like the dry dead skin of a lizard
painted with a massive amount of burnt sienna.  Not a particularly bad
looking guy, with a long face and a longer nose.  In fact, he looked sorta
cool in that black suit of his.  The problem was he acted with the
tendencies of a Chihuahua dog on crack, bouncing up on his back heels as he
moved, craning his neck at every whisper or movement.  His name was
Flippin' Tony and he carried quite a large gun. 

     His partner was Dirty Harry without the balls of steel, considering
she was female;  she, as well, carried quite a large gun.  Three, in fact. 
Her hair was down to her waist, jet black  --  though the blond was showing
at the roots  --  and smooth as a sheet of ice.  She wore a wry grin on 
her face, army fatigues on her body, and a pin on her jacket that read, 
"IF YOU'RE CLOSE ENOUGH TO SEE THIS, YOU SHOULD BE DEAD PRETTY DAMN SOON".
Her combat boots were scraped and steel-toed  --  just in case. 

     "Hey Nico?"  Flippin' Tony asked.

     "Mmmn?"  responded Nico Matsakas, her combat boots accidentally
crushing the life out of some small lizard as they walked along the shaded
path.  They were following a line of small, square stones which acted as a
path from the parking lot to the main building of the hotel they were going
to be staying at. 

     "It's hot's hell," replied Tony.

     Nico nodded her head absently.  If there was a laugh track
accompanying these two, it would have just sounded out with some quick 
burst of canned laughter.  Hahahah, that Flippin' Tony, master of the 
obvious.  Nico, however, didn't have much time to ponder what consequences
making their life into a sitcom would entail;  they were en route to stash
away their luggage in the hotel, then have a quick meet with the team that
was already here.  'The idiots,'  Nico thought to herself,  '  --  sent a
man to do what's obviously a woman's job.'

     Tony bobbed his head happily, not because he agreed with her unspoken
commentary but because he was on crack.  The rest of the path was walked in
silence until they reach the front of the actual hotel.  The walls were
made of what appeared to be some sort of white clay, baked dry;  it had the
lovely, rustic feel of San Quentin.

     Opening the door with her right hand, she ushered Tony through it with
her left, following him into the lobby of the hotel.  Immediately, they
were hit by a blast of cool air from the massive climate control system as
well as the smell of chlorine from the in-house pool. 

     "HALO!  And welcome to our fine island, where all your whims and
dreams come 
--  "

     "Oh, stuff it,"  barked Tony as he grinned cheerfully.  "We have an 
Appointment, my good man."

     Nico nodded sagely at that.  'Might as well let Tony handle the
baggage clerk, since he's enjoying it,'  she decided.

     "Yes, my good man,"  Tony continued,  "we'd be under the name 'J. 
Stalin'.  Two rooms?  Luggage?  Free meal?"

     The baggage clerk nodded, only slightly confused at the conversation. 
"Ah, yes, Mistah Stalin, we've your keys right... here," his voice trailing
off as Flippin' Tony grabbed the keys from his hand. 

     Nico says, plainly,  "Suitcases in the room?"

     The baggage clerk nods slowly.  "Ah... yes.  Yes."

     Tony bounced in affirmation before turning from the small table which
served as the front office.  He walked up to the wall opposite it, and,
placing his hands against the wall, he pushed.


     Nothing happened.

     Tony turned his head, somewhat curious at the turn of events.
"Elevator?"  he asked.

     "Don't have one, sir.  We're... sort'f a small hotel,"  the man said.

     Tony nodded.  "No matter."

     Nico stepped forward, taking her partner by the shoulder and leading
him, through his mad crack high, toward the door labelled 'STAIRS'. 
Pushing this open, they walk up a flight of long steps, Nico's boots
echoing throughout the stairwell quite loudly.  Pushing yet another door
open with her back, leaning against it and walking through, she entered a
short, stubbly hallway.  Three doors on this floor, positioned with two set
into one wall and the other opposite them, led into small rooms in the
hotel.  Tony's was room 203 and, according to the other key, Nico's was
room 202.

     Opening her door and walking through, Nico had to let out a soft sigh. 
She'd certainly slept in larger rooms than this.  And probably cleaner. 
And, come to think of it, cheaper  --  not that the last one mattered, with
the amount of cash she was being paid for this job.  She heard, through one
thin wall, Tony's obvious displeasure with his room. 

     "They call this a king-sized???"  he shouted. 

     Ignoring his remarks, she lay down on the  --  well, alright,
surprisingly small  --  bed.  Pretending for a moment she wasn't here for 
biz, but rather for pleasure, she almost found herself believing her own 
lies.  And it wasn't that she didn't enjoy her job, because she did.  And 
it wasn't because she didn't like working with Flippin' Tony, who, despite
his lack of social skills, certainly made work entertaining. 

     Nah.  She just sort'f wished she had more time to read.  You know.
Mark Twain.  Ernest Hemmingway.  JD Salinger!  People who understood war 
and violence.  Understood it like she did, took it for the sick, sadistic 
thing it was. 

     Outside in the hallway, she heard a soft click of a gun cocking. Tony
was humming quietly as he stood outside her door.  "C'mon,"  he said with a
chipper grin,  "'meeting' time."

     Nico growled softly as she stood from her bed, her bones and the 
springs creaking.  "Alright.  Alright, c'mon, let's get on with it."

     Flippin' Tony bobbed his head in affirmation before turning to face
room 201. Kicking the door down, he burst in with a shout,  "DIE, INFIDEL!"

     The two young men inside were quite surprised, to say the least.

-*-

     The light from the window streamed through the cheap glass,
illuminating the small matchbox-like room.  Max and Charlie clung to the 
sweat-soaked sheets, woken from a restless sleep by the mad, drug-crazed 
words of Flippin' Tony.

     "YEGADS!"  shouted Tony for no apparent reason,  "so how the hell did
you screw up this project so damn bad??"

     "It  --  *gasp*  --  wasn't our fault!"  blubbered Charlie.  "We had
it all planned out  --  but  --  but  --  "

     "But you screwed up," Nico stated in her soda-pop, summer of '67, 
cool like that voice.

     "Hey!"  Max started in, craning his neck forward like a turtle, "Hey! 
Now! I wouldn't say... that... "  His voice trailed off at the end, his
last few words swallowed in his throat as Nico stepped away from the window
she was previously staring out of.  Nico tended to have that effect on most
anyone with your typical fear of death. 

     "I think," she began, "it might due to begin with a reevaluation of
your... 'plans'." 

     "Well...  we... "  Max began, but then bit his lower lip as Charlie
started in.

     "Was a small island, right?"  he asked.  While any *normal* person 
would have said it as a rhetorical question, Charlie inhaled a bit too 
much paint thinner as a kid, so he paused at this point for affirmation.

     " -- correct,"  Nico stated after a slight, awkward pause.

     "Right.  So, like, since it was such a small island, we didn't want to
risk being seen.  They might start suspecting something  --  "

     Flippin' Tony's jaw dropped at that last one.  Fortunately, Nico was
there to place a gentle hand beneath it and thrust upwards.  After the pain
subsides, Tony spoke.

     "Excuse me?"  he began. "Ex-CUSE me?  You have any idea where you 
are??"

     Charlie and Max simply sat with big Bambi eyes.  Like, of course we
do, sir!  Not that they'd say it.  Nobody messed with Flippin' Tony when
he's off on whatever his latest drug is.  So they just nodded timidly.

     "The fuck you do!  If you did, you'd know we're on a GODDAMN tourist
island!  The people here EXPECT goddamn pasty-faced bastards like you to
come in, in your ugly-assed Fred Perry shirts and your massive recon'
cameras cause THAT'S WHAT TOURISTS DO!"

     There is a moment of silence.  Tony has spoken.

     "Oh yeah,"  Max said.

     Flippin' Tony nodded vigorously.  "Right.  So now, *we* get called in
to save the goddamn mission!"  Tony threw his hands up in the air at this,
like a televangelist stealing hard-earned cash. "And I'm missing
'Friends'!!!"

     Nico sighed at this.  Tony's 'Friends' fetish would have to die down
someday, she hoped.  But until then...

     "Right.  So what do they look like?"  she asked quickly, holding out
her hand for concrete data. 

     A small photograph was slapped into her hand.  Lifting it to the
light, she glanced at it... then snickered.

     "Oh.  A fat Samoan kid, this should be tough."

     "Ooooh!"  Tony squealed.  "Father Voodoo!"

     "That's Brother Voodoo."  Nico shook her head.  "And he wasn't a fat
Samoan kid."

     Tony shrugs his shoulders.  "Doesn't matter.  Brother Voodoo, Fat 
Samoan Kid, they were both bad characters."  Again, folks, sorry about 
this.  Who knows what's going through this man's sick, sick, drug-twisted 
mind.  Just say No. 

     Framing herself in the doorway, shoulders and back straight up as she
speaks, Nico said,  "Come Tony... we've a job t' do."

     Flippin' Tony reached out to grab the cheek of a somewhat bewildered
Charlie.  "I *love* you, man.  I *love* you!"  he said.  "Bye now."

     And out the door Flippin' Tony and Nico walked, out into the hot 
sweltering day on the island, shirts slicked with sweat and clinging to 
their hot bodies like sugar to a FunDip stick, like nazis to Pat Buchanan.

-*-

     "Thirty four bottles of beer on the wall, thirty four bottles of beer; 
you take one down and pass it around, thirty three bottles of beer on the
wall."

     "Thirty three bottles of beer on the wall, thirty three bottles of 
beer;  you take one down and pass it around, thirty two bottles of beer 
on the wall."

     "Angelo, solo, take away!"

     "Thirty two bottles of beer on the wall, thirty two bottles of beer; 
you take one down and pass it around, thirty one bottles of beer on the
wall."

     "We're almost there, man!"

     "Si!  I take back everything bad I ever said about you, chica."

     "Thirty one bottles of bear on the wall... hey, you said something bad
about me?"

     "Thirty one bottles of beer, you take one down... well, not to your
face."

     "Hmph"

     "Together, now."

     "And pass it around, thirty one bottles of beer on the wall." 

     "Thirty bottles of be... Holy Pope onna Rope, what the heck?!"

     Angelo and Jubilee skidded to a stop.

     "There's no one here."

     "I Caramba!"  Angelo said, laughing a little at himself.  "We got here
before everyone!  We won."  He looked confidently around. "Didn't we?"  he
asks, this voice much smaller than the first.

     "Um... Noooo... I don't think so.  Look!"

     They both stared at the note written in Everett's neat handwriting.

     "Great."

     "Double great." 

-*-

     Mallory, she of the short, blond hair, great bod, and #&$%*in'
attitude  -- which she definitely knew it  --  took another drink from the
bottle.  "Wow.  This is great!  Where the hell'd you get you this from?"

     The man who was trying so desperately to hit on her moved closer on
the couch.  His actions weren't missed by the others, and whispers flew
around the living room.  "Just a little something I picked up when I was
flying down by the border,"  he said, casually and with an unmistakable 
hint of male bravado.

      She smirked and couldn't help it. ::What bullshit.:: she thought. 
::What typical male bullshit.::  Out loud, she said,  "Cool. I haven't had
something this good in ages.  'Course, working with Jacke... "

     Groans of sympathy attested to their opinion of him.  "He's crazy. 
That's all it is,"  Greg, her co-pilot, said, loud enough to echo around
the room.  

     "Hey, if it was only insanity none of us would care, but he's
involving those poor kids in on it too."  Anabella, the short, Hispanic, 
quiet, intelligent  --  in short everything Mallory wasn't  --  woman was 
the navigator of the crew, and though they were best friends, her long 
black hair made Mallory extremely envious.  'Bell hadn't been drinking at 
all, and she kicked her legs up onto the coffee table with ease born of 
sobriety.  "I mean, at his age, doing all of that!  Es loco."

     Mallory shrugged.  "Well, I wouldn't say 'poor kids' if I were you,
some of them were really... weird."  More than weird.  There were a few
there who looked... She couldn't put her finger on it, and there was never
a chance to watch them privately, so she was just left with the feeling
that these were somewhat more than just rich, private-school kids on a
simple field trip.

     The man hitting on her, she refused to use the creep's real name, put
on what he must have thought was a suave and debonair look.  To her, it
just looked like he had way too much to drink.  "I'm sure you handled them
just fine, didn't you?  You're a great little pilot, amazing ability. 
Don't worry about those kids."

     She had no intention of worrying and felt almost offended that he
thought she might have been feeling it.  'Bell held her hand up to her 
mouth and tried not to laugh out loud, and Greg snickered.  Even Dan was 
struggling to hold back a bark of laughter.  Mark and Genna were too
engrossed in each other to really care.

     "Well, thanks, yeah, I'll be sure not to worry about those darn kids,"
Mallory said.  Making up an excuse  --  "Gotta use the potty."  --  she got
off the couch and backed out of the corner, making her way to free land. 
Without taking her eyes off of the man who was batting zero with her, she
walked through the door and into the hallway.

     The door closed behind her with a decisive click, and Mallory wasted
no time in hauling ass around the corner, sprinting down that hallway, and
moving around another corner.  She almost skidded by the door to her
quarters, and then she almost over balanced, but she got there safely and
even managed to open the door on the first try.  "Bed,"  she whispered with
a sick sort of urgency.  "If... I... can just make... it to the bed... "

     The door opened, and she was moved roughly to her bed and then shoved
down. She fell on the soft mattress and looked up, eyes gone wide.

     "Okay, 'Ry, lay back there, get some sleep.  You know, I could've 
sworn that someone said she promised she would never get this toasted by 
noon ever again."  'Bell smiled kindly down at Mallory as the other girl 
just sort of looked at her friend with a wide, friendly smile.

     "Yeah, well, I didn't promise I wouldn't get toasted and stay up all
night," she pointed out.  "I just promised not to start too early."

     'Bell tsks in disbelief.  "Look at you, girl.  You're a mess.  Jack
might be gone till the end of the week, but you can't let yourself go 
to pieces like this."

     "But, it's not... "

     "I won't hear it, chicita.  How old are you again?  I can't believe
you're pushing 30.  You act like my 18 year old sister;  I love Lucciana to
death, but she gets stupid when she's drunk, just like you.  Didn't you
learn anything in Air Force?"  Her words flew by at mock-5, and all Mallory
could do was shut her eyes and let them flow over her.  'Bell noticed she
was speaking to a dead audience when a light snoring came from the
drunkard.  "Okay, enough of being a mama.  I've got two of my own, I don't
need another one."  She flipped a part of the blanket up over the sleeping
form and shut the lights off.  "Sleep tight."  The door closed with a soft
*swoosh* behind her.

--- to be continued ---

-- 
       *Marysia*         | "Some fruitloop waving around the 2nd law of
 Keeper of the Labyrinth Flame |    of Thermodynamics like it's a signed
  and Holy Virgin of Scotland  | confession from God isn't going to convince
 http:\\minuteman.com\x-writers|    me evolution is a hoax."   Vermillion