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arfic-l-digest        Monday, November 5 2001        Volume 01 : Number 056




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Date: Sat, 03 Nov 2001 12:05:11 -0600
From: Wendy Perkins <[e-mail]>
Subject: (arfic-l) Grimm's Law - Part 01/10

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Grimm's Law
A Tomorrow's Future Story
by Wendy Perkins
[e-mail]
Part 01 of 10

Warnings: A racial slur occurs in this part.

Chapter 1

"Lisa, are you feeling okay?"

"What?" Lisa looked up at her boyfriend, sitting across the small coffee
shop table from her. The nub of one pencil stuck out from behind his right
ear, while he tapped the gnawed end of another against his lower lip.
"Yeah, I'm fine," she said.

Her words were almost lost in the hum of talk that filled the shop. It was
early afternoon, yet the sun's last rays already shone through the front
plate glass window onto the students seated at crowded tables. When the
tables ran out, some students had even taken up positions on the floor,
improvising chairs and tables out of backpacks and stacks of books. She
and her boyfriend had been lucky enough to stake out an actual table,
which was now obscured by a scattered assortment of papers and
notebooks.

As the front door opened and closed with the traffic, gusts of chill air
sweetened the burning leaves smell of coffee that filled the shop.

"Ya sure?" he asked, eyebrows creasing. "You look kinda distracted."

"I'm fine," she repeated. "I'm just worried about finals. You know.
Greenberg's is going to *kill* me." She indicated the open notebook in
front of her for emphasis. She was highlighting the few notes that applied
to the class in a color scheme that was more aesthetic than useful. "1204?
Did you write down what happened in 1204?" Lisa stretched across the
table to get a better look at her boyfriend's notes. There wasn't that much to
see. The college ruled page had a couple of lines at the top that might be
course related, in a scrawling handwriting that was nearly impossible to
read upside down. The rest of the page was, as near a Lisa could tell,
devoted to song lyrics. "Did you even bother to take notes?" she asked,
falling back into her seat.

"Sure," he answered. He flipped back a page. "See," he said, pointing to a
block of text. "Here, and here." He went through the pages too rapidly
for Lisa to verify what he was showing her.

"Okay," she said, "So, did you happen to write down what happened in
1204? It's going to be on the test. You know it is."

"What do your notes say?"

"September 29th. That was the day of the lecture. 'External History of
English - Highlights'," she read aloud. "Then I have a list of dates: 449,
597, 865, 1066, and 1204. I didn't write down what happened on those
dates."

"You even bother to take notes?" he mimicked.

"Yeah, yeah," she said, subdued. "I know it was something important, or it
wouldn't be in here."

"Gimme." He grabbed her notebook away and started paging through it. "It
can't be that important," he said, after a minute or so of looking. "You only
have them in here once." He started to turn the page, then looked closer at
what it said. "What do 'carpal', 'metacarpal', 'phalanges', 'ulna' and 'radius'
have to do with English history?"

"They're words," she answered. "You know. Vocabulary words. They're,
uh, descended from Latin and are, uh, you're not buying any of this are
you?"

He shook his head, then gently reached over and took her hand and started
to massage it. "I know this is a phalange," he said, touching her index
finger. He rubbed each finger in turn saying, "and so is this one." The
massage finished, he pulled her hand up to his mouth and kissed her palm.
"You have beautiful hands."

"Thanks," Lisa answered, the glow of the attention heating up her face.
The best part about being in a relationship, she decided, was the random
compliments. Too bad finals were fast approaching and compliments
didn't make good grades.

She pulled her hand back and deliberately opened the notebook to the page
with the dates. "Adam, we need to study."

There was a slight pause in which everyone in the coffee shop seemed to
stop talking. "Adam? Who's Adam?" he asked, then the noise started up
again, louder.

"What?" Her voice caught as her words started to catch up to her.
"Where'd you hear 'Adam'? I said Isaac." No she didn't. She knew what she
had said. What she couldn't figure out was why she said it.

"You didn't. I know my name when I hear it. I didn't hear it. Who's
Adam?" He let the pencil drop to the page and leaned back in his chair, as
if to get a wider view of her.

"I must have gotten mixed up. It's a pretty common name." She protested,
but didn't feel it.

"Lisa. You don't need to keep secrets from me. There ain't nothin' I can't
handle." He said the last with a downward swipe of his hand. He was
slipping into what Lisa had come to think of as his 'tough guy' accent. He
only used it when he was trying to prove something.

"It's not important," she said at last. "Just this guy I knew a long time ago. I
don't know what made me think of him now."

"We look alike?" Isaac asked.

She took a moment to size him up. Isaac wasn't what anyone would call
gorgeous, but he was good looking. Clear skin, full lips, straight teeth,
wide brown eyes with thick, dark lashes. His head was shaved in some
current fashion that was probably an attempt to hide a retreating hairline.
"I can't really remember," she answered, picturing Adam perfectly. There
were no similarities at all. "He was white. Still is, I guess." She shrugged.
"I think he had dark hair."

Why was she lying? She was dating this guy; she should be telling him the
truth. As much as she was allowed to tell, anyway.

Isaac's eyes widened and he half stood up in his chair. "You got it on with
a cracker!" He sounded repulsed at the mere idea. His lower lip began
quivering in a way Lisa had never seen before, and his throat looked tight.

So much for there being nothing you can't handle, she thought. "It bothers
you that much?"

"Hell, yeah. That's a sell out. African-American queens should only be
gettin' it on with African-American kings."

"We didn't 'get it on'," Lisa protested. Out of the corner of her eyes she
glanced around the cafe. The noise level hadn't changed again, but she felt
like everyone was looking at her. One person was, a grad student type
person at the next table who quickly looked away. Lisa lowered her
volume. "I can't believe you're even saying what you're saying.
We didn't date. We didn't kiss."

'I teleported with him,' she remembered trying to explain to her mother.
That conversation had gone only slightly better than this one.

"Sit down," she continued. "You're making people stare. Adam was just a
friend. I met him on a trip overseas and haven't seen him since. There's
nothing more to tell you and nothing, absolutely nothing, for you to be so
worked up about."

"I ain't worked up." He sat down, reluctantly.

"Bull. We've been seeing each other for over a month and this is the first
time you've ever been anything but pleasant towards me. Come on. We
were having a nice afternoon. As nice as possible, anyway, considering
Greenberg's exam is less than two weeks away. Can you just drop it and
let's study in peace?" She bent back over the notebook to lead by example,
and started highlighting the dates. She'd have to remember to look them
up.

Isaac stood up without a comment and walked over to the register. Lisa
didn't turn around to see what he was doing over there. Mostly, she was
afraid to know. She tidied up some of the loose papers that had spilled
from her notebook, old homework assignments and the like. She couldn't
wait for the end of semester bonfire when she could turn all this paper into
fuel.

A minute later he returned. He plunked two large, paper cups on the table.
"Green tea," he said. "We need a break from the caffeine." He sat down in
his chair again, then scooted it over so he was sitting next to her. The legs
squealed against the tile floor. No one seemed to notice. "1204, you said?
That the date?"

"Yeah," she said. "I think it has something to do with Vikings. Or
Romans?" She picked up one of the textbooks for the class and started
paging through it. "Maybe it's the French."

Isaac slipped is arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer to him.
"Tell me again why we studying this. They all been dust for centuries."

She let herself lean in against him. He smelled of Old Spice deodorant; a
scent she was beginning to associate just with him. "It's going to be on the
test." She almost added a comment about his grammar, but decided to let it
slide. It wasn't too late to rescue the evening.

"Don't he say that 'bout everything? He can't put everything on the test he
say he gonna put on the test."

She tilted her head to look up at him. "Remember the midterm?"

His throat tightened again and he nodded. "1204," he said. "You find it
yet?"

"Not yet," she answered. "I can see I'm going to be up very late tonight."

****

Professor Grimm hated grading undergraduate research papers. At least
once every semester he came to that same conclusion. The problem, as
much as he hated to degrade other educators, was that high school English
teachers seemed less and less interested in teaching grammar, spelling,
vocabulary and form, and more and more interested in making sure the
kids graduated with high self-esteems.  The sad result was undergraduates
who couldn't express a thought to save their lives, yet paradoxically
believed that all of their writing was brilliant, award winning even.

He set the current paper on the end table next to him. The top page was
almost covered in red inked comments; comments he shouldn't have had to
make to a student at the university level. Her paper was too long, for one
thing. While he encouraged his students to go beyond the terms of the
assignment, he still expected their work to be coherent. This one wasn't.
There were topic sentences, but the arguments were mainly of the "because
I said so" nature. Sadly, it was one of the better examples from this
particular class.

Letting out a deep breath, he pushed back into his leather easy chair and
reached for the cup of coffee on the end table to his right. It was cold. He
knew that before even touching the mug; it probably wasn't even the same
cup he had made before coming into the den to get the grading finished.
Indeed, one glance at the congealed cream floating on the surface of the
liquid confirmed that. That meant he'd left the new cup somewhere else.

He grabbed the handle on the side of the chair to lower the foot rest. It
stuck in place. With the heal of his palm he pounded at it--and caused the
chair to rock enough to bump the end table which sent the cold coffee mug
tumbling to the floor.

"Of course," he said out loud. He watched the dark strain spread across the
beige carpet and remembered a time in his life when little problems like
this would have ruined his day. He'd never had much of a temper, but he'd
always taken petty problems far too seriously. Now his petty problems
were a welcome relief.

A pounding at the door broke into his thoughts. It took him a moment to
connect the staccato with its meaning, and more awkward seconds to
climb out of the chair.

The hallway was dark; a storm having come in so fast while he was
grading that the sunlight had all but disappeared. Who knew how long he'd
been grading in artificial twilight.

He opened the door to find one of his students, Alejandro, on the doorstep.
The young man was standing as close to the door as he could without
letting himself in, huddled under the overhang. Rain dripped from the
eaves and fell from the sky so hard only the pock marks on the cement
gave it away.

"Hello, Professor," Alejo said. His hands were shoved deep into the
pockets of his yellow jacket.

Alejandro - Alejo - was an import from Mexico, an international student
working on his English under Grimm's tutelage. He was, Grimm reflected,
one of the best students in the department, and one of Grimm's personal
favorites. Unlike many international students, Alejo didn't act like studying
English was beneath him. He also wrote papers that weren't too long and
which did get to the point.

"Please, come inside. I can't have you standing outside in this weather.
You might get too sick to go to class tomorrow." Professor Grimm ushered
his student into his house, a strong breeze whipped up by a nascent snow
storm all but forcing the young man to accept the invitation.

No sooner was Alejo inside than the wind pulled the door shut with a loud
bang that caused both men to jump.

"I have sorry bothering you in home," Alejo said, squinting into the
darkened room.

"No, no. That's no problem. My students are always welcome to visit."
Grimm stepped over to the nearby wall and flipped the light switch. One
of the two bulbs in the overhead fixture came on without incident, the
other burnt out with an electric pop and a flash of light. Grimm sighed.
"That's about how my day has been going." He looked at his student.
Alejo's broad cheeks were scattered with patches of dark red, like a bad
allergic reaction. Involuntary tears from the cold gathered in the corners of
his eyes. "Can I entice you with a hot drink? You look like you're
freezing."

"Yes. The temperature is much cold." Alejo unzipped his jacket, reached
inside and pulled out a small package wrapped in a plastic grocery bag.
"Professor, here iss the book that you borrowed to me." He unwrapped a
small black text and handed it to the professor.

"Lent," Grimm corrected automatically. "It's 'borrow from' and 'loan to'."

"Lent," Alejo repeated.

"Or 'loaned'," the professor said, stressing the final 'd'. "'Loan' typically
refers to money, while 'lend' is what I did with this book." He rubbed the
bridge of his nose in thought. "The two words used to be quite separate in
meaning, but appear to be converging into one word now with several
forms. I'm sure some would argue that the convergence is near completion,
and that 'lent' is the current past tense of 'loan'." He looked up, suddenly
aware of his rambling. His gaze caught Alejo's, and Grimm felt his face
warm. "Never mind. That's a different topic for a different day . . . and
class."

Alejo nodded. English language history had never been part of his studies.
Both of them knew that even if Alejo had understood, he still wouldn't be
able to comment. "How iss your daughter?" he asked instead. Though they
had never met, Sara's health was a topic of constant concern amongst his
students.

Grimm hefted the book, idly flipping through the pages. "She's not getting
better." He grimaced. That was all he could say with any certainty. None
of the assorted professionals who had seen Sara could give a definitive
diagnosis about what was wrong with her; none of them could offer any
hope for her future.

A piece of folded paper stuck between the last page and the back cover of
the book slipped out and fluttered to the floor. Grimm bent down and
retrieved it. It was a photocopy of the front page of a newspaper: "The
Virginia Post". "Local Girl Vanishes," the headline announced. Little else
of note had happened that day; the headline took up the center front page.
Below the headline was a reprint of the picture of a young, black girl, mid-teens, flanking the
column of text that made up the story. The girl looked
uncomfortable in what was obviously a school photo. The picture's ink
was smudged, as if someone had touched the original too often.

"What's this?" he asked, turning the paper around so Alejo could see it.

"I don't know. I not see previous." Alejo's eyes flicked over the text.
"Maybe is Eric's paper. He was read book too. He was read all books. Was
spend many times in the libraria. Was no sleep . . . sleep . . . sleeping?" He
looked up at Grimm for confirmation.

Grimm acknowledged the correct form with a nod, then refolded the page
and stuck it in his back pocket. "He wasn't sleeping? Insomnia?"

Alejo shrugged. "Not say. He say have bad dreams."

Grimm turned and walked down the hallway to the kitchen, motioning
behind him for Alejo to follow. As he passed them, he flipped on every
light switch along the way. "Have you heard from him?" He set the book
down on the kitchen counter.

"No. He no answer the door. I knock many times, all the days."

Grimm frowned. "That's worrisome. Usually when a student misses that
many classes, he calls or emails or something. Or someone calls on his
behalf. I haven't even received a drop notice. Tea, coffee or hot
chocolate?"

"Hot chocolate," Alejo answered.

"Good choice. Take a seat. You can hang your jacket on the chair." He
watched as Alejo complied, choosing the seat at the kitchen table closest
to the stove, then he started gathering the chocolate making ingredients.

He was putting the water on to boil when movement out of the corner of
his eye caught Grimm's attention. He turned to see his daughter standing
framed in the doorway. She was dressed in worn, but clean, grey sweats,
her shoulders hunched as through trying to draw into herself. Her gaze
fluttered around the kitchen, not seeming to see anything, or even to
recognize where she was.

The kitchen chair scraped, then Alejo was standing at Grimm's side.
Grimm was suddenly conscious of how tall the younger man was,
towering a good six inches above him.

"Mi chica suena," Alejo breathed, slipping into his native Spanish.

****
End Chapter 1
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------------------------------

Date: Sat, 03 Nov 2001 12:10:12 -0600
From: Wendy Perkins <[e-mail]>
Subject: (arfic-l) Grimm's Law - Part 00/10 (retry)

Sorry about that, folks. I didn't mean to send an attachment. Let's try
this again.

Title: Grimm's Law
Author: Wendy Perkins
Email: [e-mail]
Fandom: Tomorrow People
Spoilers: None
Archives: TPFICT, Alternate Realities, Paradigm Twist
Distribution: Ask first.
Feedback: Of course.

DISCLAIMERS:

Some characters and elements of this story are the property of
Thames/Tetra television, Nickelodeon, and Roger Price, used without
authorization but with much gratitude.  Any character bearing the surname
Grimm, as well as assorted lesser beings, belong to me. Any similarities to
people real or imagined is a coincidence.

"Grimm's Law" will be archived at the TPFICT archives, Paradigm Twist,
and Alternate Realities site. Anywhere else, please ask first. This story
cannot be sold or translated into any other form without written permission
from the author. The author receives no compensation from the creation or
distribution of this work.

SUMMARY:

Lisa dreams only of being left alone, until a girl who is alone walks into
her dreams.

RATING:

I pretty much rate all of my stories PG13 by default. There're a couple
instances of swears (the kind you'd hear on network television) and one
instance of a racial slur, along with an instance or two of a character
expressing a rather controversial viewpoint. To make it clear, there is a
character in this story who is a racist. He uses racial slurs and expresses
nonPC thoughts. You have been warned.

AUTHOR'S NOTES:

"Grimm's Law" is set within the Tomorrow's Future time line. Sort of. I
tried, I really did, but Lisa did not want to be a Watcher in this story. The
end result is that this story is now officially TF AU. Fortunately, alternate
universes are an established TF concept (how else could the universe cross
over with Sliders?) This story is not a crossover piece at all; it is very
strictly New Series Tomorrow People. It takes place after my previous TF
story "The Atropos Project". "Grimm's Law" should make complete sense
regardless of whether or not you've read "Atropos", but it might make
more sense sooner if you have read it. It is not necessary to have any other
familiarity with TF in order to understand this piece.

For purposes of continuity on the timeline, "Grimm's Law" occurs in
December 1998, on a world that does not have Immortals (hence, no need
for Watchers). For those who don't have the TF timeline in front of them,
you should be aware that the dates of the show were altered to better fit
with the other shows in the universe. In TF, "The Origin Story" takes place
in 1995, with the other serials bumped up accordingly.

Thanks are due to many, many people. This story has been in works for 3
years, which means dozens of people have glimpsed some part of it in
some incarnation or another. Thanks are due to (in no particular order)
Caroline Fales, Beth Epstein, Michele Bumbarger, Selma McCrory and
probably a bunch of other people who have helped in numerous ways big
and small throughout the writing. Special thanks are due to: Todd Jensen
who *may* have seen the Tomorrow People once as a kid, but who was
still willing to cold read this story and make me answer some very
important questions; Anne Olsen who has been on board since January of
this year, and due to her constant prodding, and willingness to be a
sounding board, actually made this story possible; Megan Freeman who
has great potential to be a professional editor, and who wasn't afraid to say
"do it again."; and my husband, Rob, who spent a whole Sunday doing the
final editing with me.

Apologies are also due to Beth Epstein. Some time ago (perhaps best
measured in years), she made an unofficial challenge for anyone to write a
story in which the requisite mad scientist was not a geneticist. This story
was intended to answer that challenge by pitting a mad linguist against the
TP. This story was also intended to be a parody. Or possibly a comedy. It
failed completely to be either of the latter two. There is a linguist in the
story, but he's not mad. Sorry.

As always, questions, comments, and constructive critiques welcomed and
encouraged at [e-mail].


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------------------------------

Date: Sun, 04 Nov 2001 12:51:16 -0600
From: Wendy Perkins <[e-mail]>
Subject: (arfic-l) Grimm's Law - Part 02/10

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Grimm's Law
A Tomorrow's Future Story
by Wendy Perkins
[e-mail]
Part 02 of 10

Chapter 2

"Your dream girl?" Grimm translated. He wanted to face his student--years
of lecturing had left him uneasy talking to someone he wasn't looking at--but he didn't dare take his eyes off Sara. Her behavior around other people
had become unpredictable, sometimes even dangerous. He positioned
himself between Alejo and Sara, ready to catch her if she tried to attack
this student as she had done to another just a week ago.

"This last night, I dream of her," Alejo said.

"You dreamed about her?" Grimm was too stunned to be angry. While he
well knew the kind of dreams teenage boys usually had about teenage
girls, the notion that Alejo had dreamed of someone he had never met with
enough detail to recognize her piqued his curiosity.

"Si. In my dream, her hair iss long."

Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see Alejo miming a hair length just
reaching his elbow. Sara's hair had been that long once . . . when she had
been well. Now it was shorn close to her head to prevent her from ripping
it out during her all too frequent panic attacks.

"She talk to me," Alejo continued. He hesitated, then shook his head. "No
remember what she say."

"Are you sure it was Sara?"

"Si. Yes. I no have doubt." Indeed, he did sound very sure. "Look. She
know me also."

At some point, Sara's unfocused, wandering gaze had settled on Alejo.
There was no expression on her face, no indication of any emotion or
desire in her stance, yet she was clearly looking at--and seeing--the young
man.

"I should take her upstairs," Grimm said. "She doesn't do too well with
people anymore. Especially strangers." He paused, not sure how much
information was too much. Most of the school knew that something had
happened to his daughter--his daughters--over the summer. Both the town
paper and the university paper had covered it extensively for over a week,
then dropped coverage when no new information was forthcoming. The
interesting information wasn't believable, and the believable information
wasn't interesting, especially when it failed to develop or resolve in short
order. "I'm afraid we don't know what's wrong with her," he supplied,
answering the question he knew Alejo would be too polite to ask. "Some
of the doctors think it's a nervous breakdown of some variety."

Alejo didn't respond. He was locked in some silent communication with
Sara, neither moving.

Then it broke. Whatever had been happening between them ceased;
perhaps a decision had been made. With mincing footsteps, Sara began
walking around the edge of the room. She moved towards Alejo but stayed
next to the wall instead of cutting straight across. Frowning, Grimm
headed over to intercept his daughter.

He took hold of her hand to lead her from the room. With an uncanny
strength, she jerked her hand from his grasp and pressed her back to the
wall as if to get as far away from him as possible. She tried to continue
towards her goal, but found her way blocked by a wooden cabinet on one
side and her father on the other.

Sara sank to the floor then and, meshing herself to the cabinet, began to
rock. Her fists were bunched up next to her ears, arms pressed against her
face.

"I'm sorry you had to see this," Grimm said without turning around. He
didn't want Alejo to see the pain he knew was on his face. "You should
leave. I'll have to give you a rain check on the hot chocolate." Behind him,
he could hear Alejo gathering up his coat, the chair scraping back into
position under the table. He waited until his student left the room, then sat
down on the tile across from his daughter and prepared to wait with her
until she was ready to move. "Someday," he promised, "we're going to
laugh about this."

They sat together, separated, the young professor in his suit and tie, and
the teenager wearing the female version of his face and too-large sweats.

"I can hear the ocean," she replied, speaking to the floor.

"I know, honey," he answered sadly, because that was all she knew how to
say anymore.

****

Famous last words, Lisa thought, as she closed the door to her dorm room.
It was just after 1:30 in the morning. The coffee shop had closed and the
library wouldn't become 24 hour until next week.

She slung her backpack into the corner and rolled back her head, trying to
loosen some of the tenseness in her neck and back. Tanya still wasn't back,
she noted, her eyes falling on the empty top bunk. That wasn't much of a
surprise. She might wander in eventually, or it might be days before she
returned. Like the time she ducked out for a bag of Doritos. Six days later,
she returned, with no clear explanation of where she'd been. And without
the chips.

The answering machine was flashing. Lisa crossed over to the heavy
wooden desk on which it sat and pushed the playback button. There were
five messages.

"Lisa, honey," the first one said, in the careful tones of someone doing her
best to stay calm. "I know you're probably in class. Call me when you get
back."

She cringed; it was her mom. The only person who couldn't take "we're not
in; we'll return your call when we are" as an acceptable reason for
someone not to answer the phone. She had forgotten to call her mom.

"Dear, I had to step out for a minute. Hopefully, I didn't miss your call. It's
dinner time and I was hoping to talk to you. It's so hard to sit here and eat
at this big table without you. Please call back."

She glanced at her watch. It was far too late to call her mom now. It was
possible that her mom was still up, still pacing around like she always did.
Lisa could practically smell the brownies baking. On the chance that she
wasn't however . . . and, Lisa'd been warned about making early morning
phone calls unless there was a hospital involved. With a beep, the machine
started playing the next message.

"Lisa, where are you? It's been dark for hours. It gets dark so early this
time of year and I just worry about you so much, having to walk across
that great big campus by yourself in the dark. You just never know what
can happen to a pretty girl like you."

Beep.

The next message started, and there was nothing calm about her mom's
voice anymore, fake or otherwise. "Young lady, I don't care if you're laying
dead in a ditch. You'd better pick up that phone-"

Lisa slammed her hand on the delete button. "You have no new messages,"
the machine informed her, in its polite, assembled speech.

"Thank you," Lisa breathed.

How many times did they have to go through this? They'd been through
finals twice before. The first time, Lisa sat her mother down and explained
what was going on. The problem with a mother who never went to college
herself was that she couldn't, or refused, to understand the nature of the
beast.

"It means I'm going to be out a lot," Lisa remembered trying to explain.
"I'll be at the library."

Arms akimbo, her mother answered, "And there are no phones at the
library?"

"Of course there are phones. In the lobby. I won't be in the lobby. I'll be
where the books are. If I have to go down to the lobby to call you all the
time, I'll never get any studying done. I'm eighteen years old," she said.
"You should trust me to take care of myself."

A look of hurt crossed her mother's face. With a rush of words, Mrs. Davis
covered it up. "I trust you. You know that. It's the people out there," she
said, with a sweep of her arm, "who are trying to take my little girl away
from me. I don't trust them. You need to be careful."

The conversation didn't end there. It never did.

As much as she loved her, Lisa decided that her mother was just going to
have to wait until tomorrow for that phone call. She grabbed her Anatomy
text book from the bookshelf and settled down at her desk to look over the
diagram of muscles before going to bed.

****

That night Lisa dreamed. One minute she'd been staring at the Anatomy
text; the next she was standing in a child's bedroom, one she'd never seen
before. The walls were painted a soft yellow with a bright floral runner
framing the ceiling. Two beds occupied most of the room, each covered in
a thick white duvet with lace trim, barely visible through a mound of lacy
pillows and stuffed animals. The room felt bright and cheerful and
unimportant.

Feeling too awake to be asleep, she was reminded of another dream once:
Of the first time she teleported, and the first time she met another
teleporter. The beaches of Tapahini bore no resemblance to this space. Not
physically. But there was an overwhelming sense of deja vu. She'd been
here before, wherever 'here' was.

"Hello?" she called, her voice sounding distant. "Is anyone here?"

She strained her ears, and heard nothing. If this was a dream, it was unlike
any she could remember. Digging her nails into her other forearm, she held
it until the grasping hand started to tremble. Nothing else changed.

"Okay . . . ." she said, as she started looking for anything that would
answer any of the six basic questions.

Her eyes found the door, a simple wooden affair. She reached out to grasp
the doorknob.

"That's not the way," someone said. "Not the way at all."

Lisa turned a circle, but found no speaker. The room was just as empty and
still as when she first arrived, even the lacy drapes in the windows didn't
move. The sound seemed to begin and end in her head. But this wasn't
telepathy. Telepathy didn't use words, not as such. For the Tomorrow
People to say that one talked telepathically or heard someone's telepathic
voice was an inadequate description at best, but it was the only way they
knew. This sounded like someone talking directly into her head, like
listening to herself think. She realized that was also how her own calls had
sounded.

"Come out!" Lisa demanded. "I'm tired of this game."

"This isn't a game," the voice returned. The air to the left of the door
shimmered, thickened into a teenaged girl with long tea brown hair and
china blue eyes. The girl looked pained to see Lisa, her eyebrows drawn
and face twisted as if she were hurting. "How did you get here?"

"You're asking *me*?" Lisa responded.

The girl disappeared back into the air, then coalesced on the right side of
the door. "You can hear me?" she asked, crossing her arms protectively in
front of her.

"Should I not be able to?"

The girl tilted her head to the side before saying, "No one's ever answered
before."

Big surprise, Lisa thought. The girl didn't seem to understand when a joke
had gone on too long. "What are *you* doing here?" she asked. With any
luck, she'd get a straight answer and then they could all go home and get
on with their lives.

"Waiting."

Lisa sighed. No luck. "Waiting for what?"

The girl faded out, then back in. She didn't change positions, but she gave
an impression of movement, as if she were shaking.

When no answer was forthcoming, Lisa gestured to the door. "Why don't
you leave?" She reached for the knob again, and was stopped by
something that felt like a slap on the wrist, though the girl still hadn't
moved and she could sense no one else present.

"No!" came the panicked response. "You can't go there, Lisa Davis. Don't
go there!"

Lisa blinked. The next question caught in her throat as she realized what
the girl had said: The girl had known her name. Had this been a normal
dream, that wouldn't have been interesting at all. But this had never been a
normal dream, if it was a dream at all. Lisa didn't have to search to find the
girl's name in return: Sara Grimm. She only knew of one context where
names where exchanged without introduction. Tomorrow People always
recognized one another. Maybe it was an offshoot of their telepathic
abilities, or maybe it was something else.

Then, before Lisa could figure out how to respond to the last statement,
the dream was gone and she was laying awake in her bed.

****
End Chapter 2
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------------------------------

Date: Mon, 05 Nov 2001 09:38:58 -0500
From: "Michele Bumbarger" <[e-mail]>
Subject: (arfic-l) Entangled (Part 0/20)

Title: Entangled

Authors: Michele Mason Bumbarger & Anne Olsen

Email: [e-mail], [e-mail]

Thanks: To our beta readers, Amethyst Maiden, Kirstin, and Victoria.
Thanks for all your work, guys. It's much appreciated.

Category: Crossover. Angel/New Series Tomorrow People.

Rating: PG-15/TV-MA (language, mild violence, dark themes - but
nothing worse than you'll see on the television show)

Summary: Disturbing dreams plague Angel and intensify his guilty
feelings. But the soul cursed vampire isn't the only one having
sleepless nights, and together with the Tomorrow People, Angel and
the gang must figure out the dreams and their connection to Ami's
increasingly erratic behavior before it's too late.

Archive: This goes, of course, to Shadows and Light
(http://www.alternate-realities.net/shadowsnlight) the TPFICT
archives, and Elysia. Anyone else, please ask first.

Disclaimer: The characters featured here are not ours. Angel, Doyle,
Cordelia Chase, Lilah Morgan, Lindsey McDonald, Holland Manners,
Wolfram & Hart, and any other names or recognizable characters from
Angel belong to Joss Whedon, David Greenwalt, Mutant Enemy, Greenwalt
Productions and Fox Production. Likewise, Adam Newman, Megabyte
Damon, Ami Jackson, Jade Weston, Kevin Wilson and any familiar names
and characters from The Tomorrow People belong to Roger Damon Price,
Thames Television, Tetra Television, and ITV.  All are used here
without permission, but no profit is being made from this. Kristoph
Cordovan, Giselle Vassal, Derrick, Celia, and Pete sadly enough are
products of Michele's own depraved imagination.

Notes: This story is part of the "Shadows & Light" Universe. Earlier
stories may be found at the Shadows & Light website
(http://www.alternate-realities.net/shadownslight). It is helpful if
you are familiar with the earlier stories.

Timeline: "Entangled" takes place during the first season of Angel.
It comes after the episode "Sense & Sensitivity" and follows the
story "Another Round."

Feedback: Duh. Yes, please. Check the email addresses above.


**********************************************
Michele B.
Archivist, Author & Webmistress
Alternate Realities Fan Fiction Archive
http://www.alternate-realities.net
**********************************************


_________________________________________________________________
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------------------------------

Date: Mon, 05 Nov 2001 09:45:27 -0500
From: "Michele Bumbarger" <[e-mail]>
Subject: (arfic-l) Entangled (Part 1/20)

Entangled
A Shadows & Light Story
by Michele Mason Bumbarger & Anne Olsen

Notes & Disclaimer in Part 0

***

Prologue



"Eww. You look bad."

Allan Francis Doyle paused in mid-stride, caught halfway between the
front door of the office that housed Angel Investigations and the
comfort of the burgundy sofa. The astute comment, and one that he
truly didn't need to hear, was delivered by none other than Cordelia
Chase, work associate and pseudo-secretary.

And, in Doyle's personal opinion, major stiffener.

Raising his hand to gingerly touch the deep purple and blue mark
around his right eye, Doyle forced a smile in her direction.
Unfortunately, his split lip made smiling painful and the smile came
out as more of a grimace accompanied by a faint groan of
pain. "Thanks, Princess. I knew I could count on you to deliver your
usual rays of sunshine."

"What?" Cordelia frowned at him, "I'm supposed to pretend like you
don't look like your face ran into someone's fist?"

"Did you ever think that maybe my face looks like it ran into
someone's fist because," Doyle dropped down to the sofa, "my face ran
into someone's fist?"

"Hmm." Cordelia appeared to consider that and nodded in acceptance.
Her hazel eyes darted downward to the paperwork sitting besides her
keyboard and then, refocusing on the keyboard, she began to hunt and
peck for the words to type. She did this for a good thirty seconds,
leading Doyle to believe that the conversation was closed, until her
head rose and she studied him again. "So, you went out to fight the
big evil with Angel and got your ass kicked again, huh?"

"I did not get my --" Doyle sputtered indignantly, straightening up
and waggling a finger in her direction. "For your information, Angel
and I dusted two vamps and took down a Rinoki demon last night."

That drew the former cheerleader's attention. "The demon is dead?
Does that mean we aren't going to have to deal with anymore demons
going on a rampage because they're in withdrawal?"

"No." The answer came from the back office as the tall and brooding
form of their employer slowly filled the doorway. Carefully skirting
the sunlight spilling into the office from the open blinds, the soul-
cursed vampire made his way to the coffeepot. "That just means that
we shut down operations. We're going to have to be a lot more
vigilant for the next few weeks. Demons don't deal with drug
withdrawals any better than humans. Maybe worse."

"Thinking back to the riot at that little demons-r-us club, I'm going
to have to go with worse," Cordelia remarked.

"But, on the upside here, we did put an end to Cordovan's little drug
operation. That's got to earn us some points upstairs. And a little
bit of downtime, don't you think?"

"Good point," Cordelia smiled brightly at Angel. "We did good -- or I
guess that means that you did good last night, so today's a happy
day. Stop with all the doom and gloom and Broody-boy stuff over
there."

"We got in Cordovan's way again," Angel began, but was interrupted by
Cordelia shaking her head.

"It doesn't matter. We're the good guys. He's the bad guy. We won.
End of story."

"No, it's not." Angel set down his coffee mug and turned to face his
two employees. His dark eyes darted back and forth between them as he
spoke, an edge of annoyance to his voice. "It's never over with
Cordovan. We keep stepping on his toes and getting in his way. And
one day, he's going to strike back."

Without another word, the vampire turned and exited the office the
exact way that he had come in.

Cordelia stared after him and rolled her eyes. "Well, somebody woke
up on the wrong side of bed this morning."

****

"It's all destroyed?" Kristoph Cordovan leaned back in the high-back
leather chair, fingertips steepled beneath his chin. Through
partially opened blinds, the city of Los Angeles baked below him
underneath the searing sun. He felt a muscle in his jaw twitch, a tic
which demonstrated how close to anger he truly was.

"Yes -- sir. We tried -- we tried to control things, but they were
too --"

Without turning, the half-man in the chair raised his arm and
signaled his babbling minion to silence. The babbling stopped
immediately, and Cordovan sat in silence, studying the city. He would
say what needed to be said very soon and very shortly. After he made
them sweat and wonder, after the fear began to gnaw at them, then he
would speak. Once they were quivering, he would let them know their
fear was not unfounded.

Very slowly, he turned his chair until he faced the piteous creature
before him.

Vampires, how they both amused and disgusted him. They were supposed
to be the powerful and frightening creatures of the night. They were
supposed to be the most vicious of killers, and yet this one stood in
his office, quivering and shivering, the demon's fear evident on its
face. It tried to melt into the shadows, avoiding the light of the
open window, hands squeezed tightly together.

"How many of them were there?" Cordovan asked quietly. He was only
passing time and stalling, drawing out the torment. He knew the
answer; he had known from the moment the report reached his desk. His
eyes darted quickly over the shoulder of the vampire to the other
creature of the night that lurked within the office. The other was a
fiend that lived on the blood of humans as well, but the other was a
warrior and soldier. The other at least held some small measure of
Cordovan's respect.

Cordovan watched as the second vampire's hand flexed and tightened
around a sharpened wooden stake and felt the corners of his mouth
twitch into a faint smile. Eyes returned to the yellow gold of the
fearful and trapped vampire. "How many, Michael? Do not lie to me,
because I will know if you do."

"Two." Michael swallowed, stepping backwards again and jumping
slightly as he came into contact with the other vampire. "Two -- but,
Mr. Cordovan sir, one of them was -- he was one of us only he wasn't.
I -- I -- did some asking on the streets and his name is --"

"I know his name, Michael." Cordovan silenced the vampire with
simple, whispered words. "His name is Angel, and he seems to think
that he can take over my city. Tell me, Michael, do you think that
Angel can take over my city?"

"No, sir. No, he can't. He got lucky last night and --"

"Lucky, yes," Cordovan nodded. "Too bad you didn't, Michael."

A kick of his feet and the chair swiveled back to face the window as
a faint gasp and scream of death filled the office. Cordovan waited a
few moments before speaking again. "Angel. Are you as tired of him as
I am, Derrick?"

"More."

"We should take care of that, don't you think?"

"Just say the word."

Cordovan smiled and spun again to face the inner office. His eyes
swept with distaste over the small pile of ash and dust that lay at
Derrick's feet and covered the vampire's clothing. "The cleaning
company really doesn't like having to vacuum in here so often. Oh
well." He stood and tugged his suit coat into place, "We've had this
conversation before, Derrick. I will not send one of my best men to
deal with that abomination.

"Besides, he knows you. He knows your face. He's probably expecting
you any day now."

"It's been long enough. Let's give him what he wants."

Shaking his head, Cordovan made his way to the wet bar and began to
pour himself a glass of cognac. "No. He has friends, Derrick and
friends can be a dangerous thing. But his friends can be our asset.

"We are going to strike him where it will hurt the most and where he
will least expect it." Cordovan raised the glass in a toast, "And we
will watch the world around him crumble."

*** End of Prologue



**********************************************
Michele B.
Archivist, Author & Webmistress
Alternate Realities Fan Fiction Archive
http://www.alternate-realities.net
**********************************************


_________________________________________________________________
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------------------------------

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