Thomas Shining Turtle sat in the ancient roadside cafe, nursing the last of his meal and his beer. The food was good, and the beer had maintained something of it's cold in the Arizona heat. The sign outside, the one that read "Best Food For 100 Miles, Air Conditioned Comfort" hadn't lied, it was just a few decades old. Beyond the kitchens of a few battered mobile homes, there wasn't another kitchen within a hundred miles, and the air conditioner not only wheezed and banged to itself, it required an equally old oscillating metal fan (also banging) to attempt to circulate the air. Thomas had made do with slugging down as much ice water as the jaded waitress would continue to bring around, but she had made it clear that the water service only lasted for the length of the meal. Once the last bite and sip were gone, it was all over, and he'd be expected to pay his tab and leave.

Friendly folks, he thought sarcastically to himself. Not that he blamed them. The dry heat and open terrain sucked more than water out of a person. Most of these people stayed in the area for personal reasons, not for the scenery. The desert offered offered no respite for those claiming tourist status, and less to those that lived here. He himself had spent as little time as possible here, but an old friend lived out in the area. He'd needed some time with Ira (or, as the locals called him, "that crazy ol' Injun beadshaker"), and had left his retreat in the north to come visit the man. Ira was mortal, but he'd recognized Thomas for what he was the first time they'd met. Nothing shook the old man, and he'd served as Thomas' moral compass on a few occasions.

The visit had been good, despite Ira's method of getting to his points. People of the Nations had always had a way of making a point without making a point, and Ira was better than most in that area. Add the heat and remoteness to the issue, and Ira could take the better part of a week to get through "Hello, how are you?". Plus his damned concoctions to better his visions. Two nights in the desert with his head swimming from home brewed halluncinagenics had been almost more than he could bear.

He'd been spared by the arrival of the letter. The Fed Ex man had groused about getting to the retreat, but he'd still handed over an envelope with the clearly printed address that used Thomas' original name, carefully phonetically spelled across the label, in care of Ira. The return address was Tibet, of all places, and the label attached to the envelope's bar code showed that this had been posted three weeks ago. Curious, since he'd told no one other than Coulter that he was coming here, and Patrick was even more closed mouthed than he was. Hell, he hadn't even known until almost that time that he was going to Arizona.

The envelope contained four sheets of paper, and a small talisman. The papers were, in order, a picture of a sword's hilt, a series of small artist's sketches of varying blade styles, complete with measurements, a photocopy of a map section with carefully handdrawn directions added, and an invitation, formally written in phonetic Shoshone, to come to Bolivia for a treasure hunt.

The talisman was what had caught his attention. It was a coin-sized circle of polished stone, one side burnished by years of contact with skin. Small sigils were carved into it, and a pair of tiny beads of amber completed the decorations. The remains of a knotted leather thong still clung to it.

He remembered it well. He'd given it to a lover over a century ago. They'd parted ways, their lives not just hampered by her aging, but also by his inability to give her children. He'd recognized the need in her, and he finally did the hardest thing he'd done up that point. She had eventually married and started a large family. Thomas had kept an eye on her and her brood. Upon her death, he'd quietly introduced himself to her oldest daughter, and told a bit of a fib, claiming to be an old family friend. He promised that if he could ever be of assistance to the family, that they need only to contact him, using the talisman as a proof. The call had never come, until now, if this was what it was. If not...

Pulling himself back to the present, Thomas finished his meal. He had a plane to catch, and that meant a long drive to the airport. It had taken a bit of wrangling over an ancient pay phone to get the arrangements made, especially since he'd had to remember the details of one of his identities while standing in the narrow shade of an old gas station. Money, papers, flight arrangements, even the specialized considerations for carrying his weapons on an international flight, all had to be dealt with before he had taken his leave of Ira. Of course, after he had argued and finagled his way through the arrangements, Ira, who had given him complete solitude after the letter's arrival, had handed him a Spanish/English dictionary and a set of maps of Bolivian cities, then disappeared into his cabin. Thomas had been only able to smile, then get into his truck and hit the road.

Now, if only he could find out how the talisman had found it's way to him...

__________________
"Bucky, we're not playing Rock, Paper, Scratches." - Get Fuzzy.

OOC- Okay, here's the low down. As you can see, the quest will take place in Bolivia. I chose this region for several reasons, most notably remoteness, a mixture of modern world and ancient culture, a seriously capitalist society (in equally serious financial trouble), the availability of virtually any vice you can imagine, and the fact that I've been there.

I'll be using a fictional gathering point and ruined city, but the gathering point will be based upon Potosi. This is a small city located at 14,000 feet above sea level in the Andes. Sporadic vegetation, little formal education despite a local university, a love of the American dollar, and groups of drug lords using local labor. For those seeking realism, the best way for arrival is through the La Paz International Airport, then a train ride of about twelve hours. The local military is primarily conscripted youths of about 14 years of age. Bolivia has had a history of making money through various mining projects, but the deposits are now playing out. For all intents and purposes, the primary money comes from natural gas rights and drug running. (cocaine)

Immortal characters will recieve a mysterious invitation similar to Thomas', with a map and information on a sword.

That's all I'm giving you now.

__________________
"Bucky, we're not playing Rock, Paper, Scratches." - Get Fuzzy.

The Shoshone with the long lifeline inched forward in the airliner seat when the arrival announcement was made. It wasn't like he (and the entire passenger complement along with him) wasn't aware that they had landed, it was just the conditioned response. The flight had been long and fairly bumpy, and the passengers had been as polite as possible for the duration. Now, they were about to be released from the plane's confines, and their eagerness overruled courtesy. In moments, they would all be pressing against each other to escape.

Deciding that he could be patient for a few more minutes, Thomas settled back and closed his eyes, letting his mind wander over the journey. He'd had worse, but those had usually been on travels made with more specific purposes in mind. All he had was a destination, a group of pictures of swords, and Amanda's talisman. If only he knew what the connections were.

His truck was now parked in a storage unit near a county airport back in Arizona. He'd caught a puddlejumper flight out from the the tiny airport, then made a series of connections to successfully larger flights. It had taken some ingenuity to ease his luggage onto the name airlines without an overly serious search of the bags, especially in this day and age, but there were ways. Primarily it meant cash and a knowledge of which ear to whisper to. Cash he had, even if it wasn't the massive riches he had once thought he might one day own, and there was a certain look to the people he needed to speak to, a look that he had learned to seek out.

Of course, he did have papers for the weapons. He held a position as a historian, and the items secreted in his bags could qualify as a items of historical interest, if one didn't look too closely. The lance and the tomahawk were built to look authentic, but his ancestors didn't work that much with some of the alloys and polycomposites that these were made of. And no lance had ever been constructed in the old days to break down in the manner that his did. Still, they could be explained if a nosy agent decided to get fresh.

He knew the moment the door opened, even if he couldn't see the action. People in the aisle pressed forward, seemingly positive that they could shove through and no one would notice. Half of them had immediately pulled cell phones from their pockets, only to discover that not all the benefits of modern technology had been gifted to the storybook city in the mountains. Thomas smiled, then noted the faint pressure in his chest, and the extra effort needed to draw what he considered a normal breath.

Twelve thousand feet above sea level. He reminded himself. Pilots are required to begin using oxygen two thousand feet below this. Only mountain goats and indigenous people are used to the effects, the potentials for massive systemic deficiencies, the increased stresses to heart and lungs. His own system could adapt quickly, but the non-specialized bodies would require time to adjust.

Finally finding an opening in the group, he left his seat and entered the airport. This building was one of the most modern facilities in La Paz. He would need to one of the high quality hotels, a bank, or a government building to find the technology and training that would be noted here. He noted the shiny fixtures, the freshly cleaned floors, the computer monitors keeping meticulous track of the comings and goings of flights to and from all parts of the world. For all that Bolivia was a third world country, it's airport could handle almost any size aircraft that wanted to come here.

Customs was a brief affair. Few officials looked at what people brought into the country. It was the exit policy that would be more difficult. With cocaine production being the largest (legal or otherwise) industry in the country, legal concerns would make a more thorough search of his belongings a certainty on the return flight.

Providing, of course, that he made the return flight. His life was such that he knew he may not survive whatever was about to happen. He harbored no illusions about his immortality, and accepted that he might be decapitated at any time. If so, he intended to go to the next world with as clear a head as possible. And, of course, he might not choose to exit the country the same way. Over half the country was mountainous, and a skilled trailsman could find his way out with relative ease.

Luckily for him, he'd been a skilled trailsman for centuries. The Shoshones had spent plenty of time exploring. Or running and hiding from their enemies, if that was your chosen take on history.

Pulling his backpack on, he left the facilities. Once outside, he found himself in a different world. Beyond the physical stress changes, the financial hardships of this country became readily noticible. Beggars appeared immediately, pleading in the local tongue. Shining Turtle spoke some Spanish, but noted that this language here had distinct differences. Definitely an older language. Similar to others he had known, but still different.

He had hoped that his heritage would provide him with a degree of anonymity. He was wrong, as he quickly found out. While there was some shared blood in the features, his skin didn't have the weathered appearance, his eyes didn't have the haunted expression. Most notably, the clothes these people wore were an odd mix of flowing robe and flashy colors on the women, and strange copies of business suits on the men. Hats were everywhere, odd felted bowlers that didn't seem to set firmly on their owners heads, or colorful knitted mountain caps that gave a new slant to the shape of their heads. And these people were small, a reaction to the harshness of the environment. In contrast, Thomas stood above them, his face smooth, his hair shiny, his denim jeans and jacket marking him with deadly accuracy as a foreigner.

He considered finding a market and purchasing some local clothing, but quickly banished the idea. It could wait. First, he needed to get closer to his goal. A quick decision, and he dipped a hand into the pocket that carried some folded money for a cab fare. A sweep of his arm, and the beggars were scrambling for the thrown money. He pressed past, and found the city bus stop. Climbing onto the brightly painted bus, he settled in for the ride to the train station, passing the time by alternating between watching the street, and attempting to decipher a Bolivian overdubbed version of "The A-Team".

Twice during the trip, he felt that an Immortal was near. It was only a brief flicker, and he assumed that it meant that the others were taking taxis or something similar. Most likely headed to the same place he was.

__________________
"Bucky, we're not playing Rock, Paper, Scratches." - Get Fuzzy.

PANDORA'S BOX
Antiques
All Kinds, At Fair Prices!

Frederica D'Argenio, proprietor
142 Mott Street

The bell over the door jingled, heralding a visitor to her shop. Freddie set down the Tiffany lamp she'd just finished rewiring, a lovely piece that she was tempted to keep for herself. Then again, if she kept every momento... Well, the warehouse she had over in Jersey was already filled to the brim.

"Be right there!"

Parting the beaded curtains that hung in the doorway to her workroom, Freddie looked around for the customer. She hadn't heard the bell a second time, yet no one was there. Stranger things had been known to happen, she chuckled to herself as she headed toward the back again.

That's when it caught her eye. An envelope. Slightly battered yet none the worse for the wear, it was propped against the antique cash register on the counter.

"Jim?" The portly old mailman usually stuck around for a cup of coffee while on his route, but this time he hadn't even said hello. Maybe it was a sub, Freddie shrugged as she picked up the letter.

Forward. Forward. Forward. No post mark. No date. She couldn't help wondering how long it had been travelling to make its way here. "So open it already. Sheesh!"
The contents were interesting: An invitation to a scavenger hunt. Someone obviously knew she was a packrat, but in Bolivia? Freddie shrugged and looked at the second page. A map -- directions to her destination, no doubt. The last is what caught her eye though. A photograph of a sword.

A Schiavona by the look of it. It had been a while. They were once used by the Dalmatian Slavs who made up the Doge's guard. Good for both cut and thrust.

Freddie ran her fingers over the photo before setting it down and picking up the letter once again. How could she resist? Then again, maybe she wasn't supposed to.

*********

The earliest flight Freddie could get to La Paz was a day later (with a connecting), but she used that time to her advantage. She'd phoned the cop shop to let them know she'd be out of town and picked up some things she might need while she was off playing Butch Cassidy and Sundance -- or was that Etta Place?

A few stores and more than a few hundred bucks later, Freddie had her supplies along with a new backpack and bedroll. She already had a great pair of boots that would do her -- she knew better than to head out in new ones. Clothes, too. As for things she couldn't travel with... well, she'd worry about those when she got where she was going. Anything could be had there -- if you knew where to look. And she did.

And so her journey began...

Russell Long stood in the shadows of the giant live oak as he watched his wife Katherine sobbing at his gravesite. His coffin was empty since he had been lost at sea and no body was ever found, only flotsam from the sailing craft. This was only the fourth ‘own’ funeral he had attended, all the other times he simply disappeared, leaving her alone to wonder what had happened or where he’d gone.

She would find him again, in the next generation, presuming she lived another forty-five to fifty years, then twenty more to mature into a woman again. She would find him like she had over the last ten or twelve centuries. She wouldn’t remember but he would know it was ‘she’ and they’d live twenty or perhaps thirty years of happiness, until the questions started like they always did.

“Goodbye Love,” he said as he turned to walk away. “See you the next time around.”

Russell (at least that’s what it said on his new drivers’ license and all other forms of identification) opened the door to his new apartment. It wasn’t exactly new, he had maintained to for a year now preparing for today. He looked down and saw an envelope lying on the floor.

Dallin McCracken It read.

“Now there’s a name I’ve not heard in a long time,” he said picking up the letter and ripping open the envelope.

Inside was an invitation to meet in the small Bolivian city of Potiosi, also a map, and a photocopy of a sword with some information.

Well, he thought. What else do I have I got to do for the next sixty years.

He spent the next two days making preparations for Bolivia, airline tickets, some quick research on the local Geographic’s of the area, some shopping for appropriate clothing. The evening of the third day found him on a Pan Am flight into La Paz International. He pulled his fedora down over his eyes and lightly napped for the duration of the flight. As he disembarked, he could feel the thinner air in his lungs. Collecting his luggage he stepped from the terminal to hail a cab, the street urchins mugged him almost immediately, begging him for handouts. He had been through this type of scene before, in other parts of the world.

“Mire, hay un turista rico gordo detrás de mí,” he said in perfect Spanish.

All the urchins scrambled to the door for the rich fat tourist, while Russell tossed his bags into the cab and climbed into the back seat.

“Hotel por favor,” he said to the driver.

The train ride was a touch of pure nostalgia, especially for someone like Shining Turtle, who had ridden on the old railroads in the United States. If one ignored the rumbling and growling half century old diesel locomotive, one could believe that they were back in those old days. The coaches were seemingly dropped in from that era, complete with oversprung coaches and hard bench seats.

Of course, the illusion wasn't simply visual. As the trip progressed, the sun on the enclosed coaches caused the interiors to become filled with the aromas of humanity. Sweat and minimal personal hygiene were soon overwhelmed by fetid breath and flatulence. Shining Turtle closed his eyes and ignored it. He'd withstood worse, this was merely an annoyance.

He was surprised by the sudden appearance of armed men. No, not men, boys. Beyond the drab uniforms and pristine helmet liners, these were children. Shining Turtle guessed that most of these youths were no more than fourteen. In the days of his youth, an age of adulthood. In this day and age, well, most societies considered the age to be still in adolescence. Here, there were allowed to work in dangerous professions, marry, and carry fully automatic weapons. Weapons like the one that was currently in his line of sight, an assault rifle of Belgian make, it's finish marred by scuffs and rust, the fire selector lever firmly pointed to "Auto". Thomas carefully arranged himself so that he remained out of the line of fire, should an accident happen.

The journey was twelve hours long, with two brief stops along the way. Two hours into the first leg of the trip, the novelty began to wear off. His tail was forcibly numbed by the wooden bench, his breath was alternately taken away by the stench of the coach, and the diesel fumes from outside. An attempt to stretch his legs and relieve his bladder earned him only the knowledge that the ancient toilet had long since been removed, leaving a hole in the rotting floor boards. The return to his seat had been quick enough to catch a roving hand trying to pilfer his backpack. He'd snapped a quick punch that caught the arm just below the elbow and cracked the fingers and hand against the wooden bench. He chose to ignore the fact that the arm was clad in neatly woven olive drab, the type of cloth that the army children wore, instead allowing the arm to withdraw.

Two hours later the train had eased into a town that was essentially obscured behind the so-called station. Before the wheels were completely stilled, vendors had pressed themselves onto the coaches, and were hawking their wares. He considered some of the local clothing and talismans, but passed on them. A waved dollar bill caught plenty of attention with the food vendors, and he soon had a lapful of food wrapped in newspaper and bottles of mineral water. He trusted his enhanced physiology to keep him from any ill effects of the food, and ate what he felt comfortable with, stowing the rest in his pack.

Food and the train's motion had their toll, and he drifted off, lost in the flow of memory and dream...

__________________
"Bucky, we're not playing Rock, Paper, Scratches." - Get Fuzzy.

The world closes around me like a familiar glove. Looking out down the avenue I see paper lanterns, hung from buildings and power lines and lights indiscriminately. Tiny women hawk live chickens in huge voices, wrangling their customers to pay more than they want to. The smells wash over me and my eyes close to savor it. My ears and nose tell me I am back in Xu Chang, perhaps Jian Ye.

Then a horn blares. Oh yes, that's right. I am standing in the middle of the street like a damned idiot in San Francisco's China Town... damn. Nodding apologetically to the cab I hurry to the curb. Walking to Mei Fong's always brings back memories. That's why I do it at least three times a week, for at least ten years now.

Ten years already? I sigh heavily. Nearly time to move on again.

Arriving in the restaurant I hang my long overcoat on the hooks provided for regulars and seat myself at my table. The kitchens savory aroma reaches me as Mei Ling opens it's door and walks over to me. That sway in her hips would affect me a lot more if I hadn't known her since she was nine.

"You're late Jun." she says flatly as she sets a glass of water down for me. "As usual."

"And you are rude, Ling." I add, continuing our long tradition of adversarial meetings, "As usual."

Smirking at me she says in perfect Cantonese, "Welcome to Mei Fong. Would you like to order soup before your meal?" she blinks in a vapid way that makes me doubt my eyes. I had no clue she could do ditzy.

"What do you want anyway?" she continues in English, "The usual? Again?"

I decide to surprise her, "Tell you what, surprise me. I trust you."

The smirk stops as she is surprised by this. "Sure, Jun.", she says in a rush and hurries off before I can change my mind. Her backside makes me doubt that I have any memories about a scabby kneed tomboy from years ago.

Opening my paper I peruse the articles. It seems some idiotic rock star got high or drunk and wrapped his car around landscape in New Orleans. I'll bet his latest album goes double platinum by tomorrow. Nothing else happening of any note. Fluff stories all over the place. Maybe Ann Landers will be good today. I shudder as I think about if she had been around when I was with Liu... she and Chuko would have had invincible strategists for generations in their family if they had wed!

The kitchen opens again after a few minutes. The aroma makes me salivate and I look up as she unloads the tray. There seems to be an awful lot of it.

"Am I supposed to eat all of this?..' I trail off as she sets two plates out and sits across from me, serving up two plates of lunch. "Er, alright." This was new.

After a few bites Ling looks at me directly, "You never took me to the Fine Arts Museum like you promised.", she states.

What? When did I... Oh, wait. I told her when she was twelve that I would take her to see the exhibit that they put up. An anonymous philanthropist had donated a large sum of money and an extraordinary collection of items from ancient China. The art world had been stunned and Ling had wanted to go. As an anonymous philanthropist I had wanted to go along to see how the public appreciated it. I had promised her that I would take her when I went. Before we could go I had had to attend to some "business" in Germany. We never had made it after all.

"I'm sorry Ling," I begin, "but that was so long ago. You probably wouldn't be interested anymore."

"You said an upright and honorable man is nothing without his word." she says scathingly, "You promised me. Aren't you honorable?"

Ouch. Guerilla tactics of the worst kind. I give in, I'll take her.

"Okay, you win!" I say, holding my hands up in mock surrender, "Tell you what, if you are free tonight we can go. I don't have any business until day after tomorrow anyway. What say I pick you up around eight or so?"

I am graciously given permission to pick her up at that time and I finish my meal in bemused and perplexed silence. It really wasn't like her to play hardball. I just hope she'll dress appropriately for the museum. Kids do have weird ideas of "acceptable" nowadays.

God, I sound old.

Wait, I am.

__________________
a smile like the sin of angels

Luis Ardego was perhaps the most important person in the small town. None of the other residents might notice it, but he was. He never bragged about his status, and he made a point of not pressing the idea upon them, but it was the truth. He was, after all, the best of the town beggars. His livelihood depended upon his ability to be where the wealthy people were.

In this town, wealthy meant foreign. The mines had given out, the authorities were watching the airstrip for drug smugglers, and even the university was giving up on teaching anything beyond reading to their students. Money came from the tourists, those strange people that came here from far away. And Luis knew where to set himself to see them when they arrived. Knew how to move to intercept them at the best moment. And how to pitch his voice and wave his arms in the most pleading manner possible to pry their pockets open.

He wouldn't steal from them. Stealing was wrong, as the priests taught. But accepting alms weren't stealing, these were freely offered to him, and he knew how to best make their offerings suitable for a man of his station.

A new face had appeared in the town, and Luis had moved rapidly, splaying himself before the foreigner, and offering his best gap toothed smile to the benefactor. He briefly marvelled at their smooth features, so different from his own red leather skin. After he had managed to accept a ten dollar bill (Ten dollars! He could do almost anything for the next two days.., he loped back to the shanty that he lived in, the squalor of his domicile a better defense than any security system.

Once inside, he pulled at the mattress that he slept upon, the bed sliding away on smoothly oiled castors. Hidden against the wall was a computer, one that he warmed up and began entering commands with astonishing ease. When a distant communications panel answered, he made his report quickly and sharply, the simpering attitude gone from his voice.

"Another has arrived, surely one of the people that you described." He watched as several pictures rose on his screen, and he chose the picture that most closely represented his mark. "I will make sure they get the next invitation. Rest assured, they will enter your complex in an agitated state of mind.

Closing down the console, he quickly adjusted his attire. Another train might arrive, or they might choose to travel by car. Either way, Luis would be looking for them, laughing at those who mocked him, knowing that he had money carefully hidden away.

__________________
"Bucky, we're not playing Rock, Paper, Scratches." - Get Fuzzy.

~Thomas Shining Turtle~

The Past
Oregon Territory
1886

The train rattled and rocked on the flimsy rails that had been spread across the countryside, the engine on the lead chuffing and banging as it sent cinders and bits of ash flying into the air behind it. In the rough coaches being pulled by the engine, armed soldiers in roughspun Union blue watched over sullen prisoners. The air was full of odors, mostly of unwashed bodies and the after effects of woodsmoke, as well as animosity. All the faces glaring at the guards were sharply defined Indian faces, men, women, and children, all chained, shackled, and eager to escape.

It was to the White Man's detriment that none of the soldiers could differentiate tribal differences. For the most part, these prisoners were of the nations of the Southwest, Apache, Navajo, and Chiracahuas. But no small number of them were from other parts of the abundant North American countryside. Nez Perce, Paiute, Yakima, Shoshone, Crowe, Blackfoot, even several branches of the Sioux nations were evident, although they all honored an unspoken agreement not to advertise the differences, since the soldiers would have taken these facts as invitations to provoke fights or mete out corporal judgement for their own greedy reasons.

The train was supposedly carrying followers of the Apache uprising, those that had agreed to wreak havok for Geronimo against the long noses. The group was being transported to a prison in far off Florida, a place so alien to them that the descriptions from the guards struck them as children's tales. There was no way they could believe what these people told them, and so chose to ignore it until they saw for certain. In reality, the prisoners were simply those gathered from wherever they could be found, and thrown on the train to be paraded out during the trip east. While public opinion was hardly in favor of the Indian Nations, the whites had managed to outlast the People, and a war of attrition had been a lost cause in the face of not just the sheer numbers of the Union forces, but the fact that the People had to overcome several centuries of conflict within their society before they could present a serious threat. Especially when their resources were cut out from under them as swiftly as they had been.

Their immortal companion had been captured while on a journey of what passed for diplomacy among the Nations, trying to rally differing tribes to a single cause. Unfortunately he had noted only limited success, especially with some tribes, like the Pawnee, chosing to side with the Whites for monetary gain. Realizing that he knew little of the plans of these invaders, he had chosen to go along with the imprisonment. (Of course, knowing that the profiteers were just as likely to cut Indian bodies up for trophies had managed to have a small say in his decision.) Once satisfied that he knew the worst of the whites' plans, the Shoshone had spent most of his journey working methodically at the locks on the manacles that linked him not just to the fittings of the car, but also to the others. For some reason, the whites believed that tying them together would be a serious detriment. If he could loosen a couple of the connection points, he would prove to them just how strong their numbers could be.

Not that he harbored any illusions about his survival potentials. The officers carried sabers, and an Indian head was just as good a trophy for display as a live Indian. He needed to be careful here. Of course, if he could get his hands on one of those sabers...

The train shook and banged as it decelerated. This usually meant that they were approaching a station, and would be released to be hauled out and shown off before they were fed and allowed to stretch their legs. With luck..

The lock assembly clicked open, and he managed to catch the suddenly loosened cuff in his hand before it could strike the wooden floor. As the train ground it's way to a halt, he began to quietly take up the slack in the chain, waiting for his chance. If only the guards were trusting and non-attentive...

The chance came as the guards began rousting them. One stepped close and lashed at the next man in line with a knotted quirt. The Shoshone simply reached out and wrapped the chain around the guard's neck, then yanked back sharply. As the links bit into his throat, the other guard in the car fumbled for his weapon. Unfortunately, the would be assassin was thwarted by the sudden mad howling press of the prisoners. By the time the first guard had been throttled, the others had managed to disarm and kill the second, although not in as neat a manner.

Men with certain death looming over them can move with remarkable speed, and this group proved better than the standard. By the time the few items belonging to the guards were distributed, the shackles had been removed from all, and the escape had begun in earnest. With two rifles, an equal number of sabers, and the few items they could wrench from the coach's fixtures, they knew instinctively to stick to speed and stealth. Too many soldiers rode the train, but a town could mean confusion.

The two doors of the coach were thrown open, and the group of prisoners escaped by whichever they considered the closest means of egress. So fast was their movement that they had all exited the coach before a cry was made from the guards. The cry was cut short by a swift response from an Apache that had claimed one of the rifles, and he proved far better with the strange longarm than the soldier that had supposedly trained with it. He was already attempting to reload the rifle with the limited ammunition supply when the soldier struck the ground, having fallen from the roof of a coach.

Townspeople were gathering to bear witness to the bravery of their military, but their pride and bravado were nothing compared to the energy of the indians as they ran for what passed for wilderness. A lesson that had been hard learned over the ages by hunters was that a shock and ruckus on the run can be as effective as loosed weapons, and a variety of warcries rang out from bronzed throats. The Shoshone joined in with a chorus of yipping cries, then flinched as a shot flashed past his ear. Time to spread more confusion, he decided. Spinning the length of chain that he carried in a tight circle, he pressed off in a slightly different direction, scaring a group of elderly women as he ran, his arms and legs pumping smoothly under the rough prison issue.

He found himself on a street, and grinned as he considered the possibilities. The whites had never been given to real work, and they eased their ways and pampered their women as no one else. Sure enough, several of their wagons and carriages were there, still hitched to the animal teams. Shouting an inarticulate yell, he leaped into the seat of the nearest carriage, and shouted flicked the chain at the backsides of the two horses pulling it. For some reason, it hadn't been tied up yet, and the horses took off at an easy gait. He managed to drop the chain and find the reins, and the citizens of the town were honored with the spectacle of the seemingly crazed indian pressing one of their carriages through the street at breakneck speed, screaming and calling as he did.

The Shoshone knew in his heart that he should go back and collect his fellow prisoners, but the carriage would be slowed too much by extra bodies and uneven ground. Better to leave a trail for a while, then cut the horses loose and use those to make better ground for a while. Confusion would give his compatriots a better chance...

His reverie was cut short by the sudden realization of a voice behind him. Not just behind him, but from the carriage. A woman's voice. He risked a glance behind, and saw the reason the carriage hadn't been tied up. Riding with him, albeit against her will, was a woman, her hair flying in the breeze, and a look of determination on her face.

The Shoshone considered briefly, then pressed the horses some more. He would reason with her later, so long as she didn't attempt to attack him. Certainly, she could appreciate that.

He hoped.

To be continued..

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"Bucky, we're not playing Rock, Paper, Scratches." - Get Fuzzy.

The twelve-hour train ride to Potosi was not only long it was boring. Had it not been for the Local Boy Scout troop and their Russian made machine guns the whole ride would have been a lose, what with the strutting and bullying of the other passengers. Russell merely pulled his hat over his face and drifted off to sleep. A few hours later, he woke and could feel the thinner colder air. He pulled a nutrition bar out of his leg pocket, eating it and trying to ignore the stench around him. He flipped the collar of his wide ribbed black turtleneck up over his mouth and nose and let his mind drift back over the centuries. It was more of a mental exercise than anything else, just a little game he played with himself, trying to remember all his past selves. Inevitably, his mind drifted to ‘her’, Katharine this last time. She would find someone new to live this life out with, she always did, having children and doing the things a normal human female did. She would find him again. He would know it was her instantly. His biggest enjoyment was watching her fall in love with him all over again. It was that that made it tolerably to leave her each time he had had to let her go.

The next time he woke, he was in Potosi. The train screeched to a halt and he grabbed his duffle bag and left the train. There were no street urchins here to harass him, just the native population going about their daily lives. He hailed an old 1950 something Studebaker taxi and climbed in the back seat, wondering if should tell the driver what it might be worth in the US.

“Hotel por favor,” he said to the driver.

He settled into his room and waited.

The gutter is overflowing. It's raining again. Might as well live underwater. My shoes are soaked and so are the socks underneath. Damn puddle, ambushed me. Why the hell does she insist on living in this second story walkup on this horrible street is beyond me. The rent is way too much and I could certainly afford a better place for her. Oh well, it is her decision.

I'm early, about twenty minutes. Knocking on her door I am not surprised when she opens it not ready. Just the towel on is what takes me by surprise. Ling has picked up some curves that I have never had occasion to pay attention to before, and they are certainly abundant.

"Um," I begin brilliantly, "I'm early?" Like it's a question.

She opens the door to let me and I can feel her smirk burning into the back of my skull. I lay my coat across the arm of her couch and remember my soaked shoes.

"I need to use your dryer for a bit if you don't mind. Stepped in the middle of a lake on my way up.", I already know the laughter is going to start now.

"The door in the kitchen, that's the laundry room.", her voice is surprisingly soft, and even though I can tell she is amused she seems reserved. So I go back and toss my socks in her dryer and then my shoes. What the hell, I can buy six more pairs tomorrow.

Walking back in the living room I hear her in the back humming softly to herself as she goes about the various feminine "getting ready" rituals. A large curtained bay window lines one side of her place, out of mild curiousity and boredom I draw it open.

Oh. This is why she insists on living here. Even at night the Bay is beautiful. The lights of the city and the bridge reflecting off of it in a softly undulating visual symphony of blended lights. Further out than that the darkness of the waves eclipses stars low on the horizon for a moment and then reveals them aagin, a sort of celestial peek-a-boo game with the unfortunates stuck on the surface of this mudball. Enchanted with the view I quite lose track of time...

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a smile like the sin of angels

Ling studied herself critically in the mirror, turning this way and that, even looking over her shoulder to see what his view of her from behind would be. Her raven hair was lustrous and twisted into a chignon held in place by an ivory comb. She thought it made her look older. More sophisticated.

Her dress was black silk, a hand-embroidered dragon trailing from the edge of its mandarin collar to the hem and there was a thigh high slit in the side that showed off her high heeled and black nyloned covered legs to perfection. Ling smiled. She looked good. Very good. Better than that Soong Li who was always putting the make on Lao Jun.

They teased her about him. They always had. The way she looked at him with those puppy dog eyes of hers, pushing everyone out of the way to wait on him when he came into Mei Fong. Always hoping to catch a glimpse of him on the days when he didn't come into the restaurant. But Ling didn't care. She knew something that her family and friends did not and she had known it from the first moment she had laid eyes on him when she was nine years old.

Ling walked quietly across the living room, coming to stand beside Jun as he gazed out over the bay. "It is beautiful, isn't it?"

The look in Jun's eyes as he turned to answer her was everything she'd hoped... and more. "Wassa matter? Cat got your tongue?"

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Eat a live toad the first thing in the morning and nothing worse can happen to you for the rest of the day.

My rapt attention has been turned from the bay to a beauty that is much younger, yet still ancient. She could be carved from the same jade as Diao Chan or Sun Shang. Her hair is perfect in the comb and then dress now enhances what she already abundantly has. I smile at her remark and lean down to kiss her on the cheek.

She ambushes me. I am not sure exactly how it happens but somehow she turns her face and snakes her hand behind my head so I cannot draw back in surprise. We share a much different kiss then I had intended, my lips meet hers and she is soft. I try to pull back but feel her hand. She is vulnerable, this child, but so am I. I kiss her anew with feeling, slipping my hand around to the small of her back and pulling her to me. Thoughts rush in my head. I should not be doing this. I can't not do it. She is more yielding, yet aggressive than I imagined she could be. Her lips part slightly and brush mine and I return. Her taste is heaven. The noise of the city recedes as we embrace and for many long moments we stand locked with each other. Eventually I feel wetness sliding down her cheeks and pull back questioningly. She is crying.

"What is wrong, Ling?" I ask a bit yet not fully confused.

Dabbing her cheek with a kerchief she looks at and with no logic whatsoever replies, "Damn you, now I have to fix my make-up."

Bemused I watch her retreat to her boudoir and wait the few minutes it takes. She comes out just as stunning as before and lets me give her one short kiss again just to make sure the peace is kept. Taking her arm we walk outside to my car and drive toward the museum. Her hand is on mine and we drive in silence, perhaps fearful that to speak might break the magic.

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a smile like the sin of angels