Author’s Notes:

You'll notice that Talia is the speaker, the first person narrator in past tense. Her thoughts within that narration are in italic and are in present tense. This is to separate her telling the story from the thoughts she had when the scenes actually took place. Telepathic dialogue are quoted in italics.

"Heaven has left us," sang a voice that made me think of glass shards being swallowed. "Heaven has left us, and Hell’s run away too."

He took a swig of his Meisner’s 44, stumbling into the alley wall as he did so. The rotten strength of the alcohol didn’t keep him much warmer than his Swiss cheese clothes did. Another sip, a cough, and he continued onward, singing, "My trouble’s are so deep, the night’s sky has been filled. No more stars up above, just my worries, winking at me."

He came to an intersection. No auto traffic, just another back alley. He scratched his stubble. He chuckled, feeling the long bristly hair there.

He thought, "Well, it was just stubble once... "

"Pah! About a million years ago," a second voice thought from within the same mind. "You look like one of those guys from that Zeta Top band."

The second voice was a Singer, a complete life essence residing inside a living man, a host. Singers always argued with their hosts. It seemed a common source of amusement for them since the hosts never really knew the Singer was even there.

"Huh?"

See?

Of course, while on target, we Veners—hunters to the common folk—tended to refer to the whole bundle as a Singer. We often got apathetic about it. I’m sure there were a lot of human and apparition rights activists that would throw a fit at it, but who really cares. Too many classifications to worry about the technicalities of it. Sure, I knew them all. I had to. I helped define some of them after all. But, right now, on the job, only one term really mattered: Target.

He spun around. The only sound was the scrape of his soles on the damp road. The only movement was the lazy lilting of the falling snow. The only smell, well, lets just say it was bad. Even I had a hard time ignoring it. Drea, she wouldn’t have had a problem with it, but Drea was better with the five standard senses than I was.

I fired twice. Standard practice.

Fwump. Fwump.

Thud.

I retracted. The two tiny metallic orbs returned whence they came.

I stepped through the brick wall—heh, right where he had just leaned only a moment before—and verified the kill. I checked him and he was dead all right. Dang, I hit the heart. He’d be a bleeder. I could already see the red spreading. At least on the muddy, snowy alley road, it looked more like a rusty black than that bright red on white I hated so much. Gotta be thankful for the small things.

"Talia?" Pant, pant, run, run.

He, the person who called out to me, was closing in on me right quick. I raised my Stoard, my projectile weapon of choice, even though I didn’t need it. Fifteen feet, fourteen feet...

"Oh my God! Talia, is that really you? It’s me, Ulan."

Shit, it couldn’t be. Of all the luck! I holstered the Stoard, and continued packing up the Singer. I had to freeze him before he leaked too much. All the while, I kept an eye on the man jogging up to me and a spatial feeler on the one I was packing, the one I just killed.

"I can’t believe it." Pant, pant, run, run. "It’s really you."

Nine feet, eight feet...

"It’s really you."

Four feet. I raised a hand. The walls shuffled in on him. At least, he thought they did. Really I just made them warble, stretch and bubble out. It had the effect I wanted. It made him stop. It kept him from invading my personal space.

"Talia?" He was confused. The walls pulled back into place and I stepped back, the dead Singer between us. I had thirteen feet to my own now, not counting the dead Singer.

"Stay back, Ulan," I said, then pressed the button. I only had a limit of four minutes for guaranteed containment.

Zing. The field encased him. Two smoky clouds swirled underneath. Their coloring were shaded by the field. Pink. Just dandy. Bet you are just laughing it up.

"I’m not laughing, Talia." He seemed confused, like my thoughts had been about him.

I moved to the packed Singer, preparing to pick him up in a fireman’s hold. I looked at Ulan. He was waiting for an explanation.

My thoughts... that means he’s a telepathic reader.

"Grew, did you?" I hefted the Singer up with an "Uhn!" For a half-starved, homeless guy, he was a heavy one. "What’s your radius now? Fifteen, twenty feet?"

"Thirty-three, actually."

"Oh, so you heard...."

"Yeah," Ulan said, then replayed my thoughts as proof. "Dang, I hit the heart." It was deadpan. "Gotta be grateful for small things. Shit, it couldn’t be. Of all the luck." His repetition of my thoughts didn’t have quite my flair. "Dang, it is. Well, so much for the small things. Pink—"

"All right, already. Give it a rest." I finally had the Singer up, and well, I wanted out of there. I moved beyond Ulan, to the spot where I’d exited through the wall.

"And you’ve grown too. Superhuman strength is new."

"Not exactly." I put the Traveler on the wall and depressed it. It hummed, charging. Army issue, gotta love it. Not, Ulan, though. Never, Ulan. I could feel him frowning at the sight of the Traveler.

"Are you legal?"

I didn’t face him. I just focused on the winding color dial on the Traveler.

"Are you at least getting paid?"

I shifted the Singer. The weight on my shoulders was getting heavier.

"Merc or Sanctioned or what, Talia?"

He sighed. "A watched pot never boils."

I almost laughed. I almost cried. I wanted to wretch. Ulan and his hideous sayings. What can I say, I snapped. "Three years, Ulan!"

"I looked for you."

"Yeah, from your computer room?!"

"I’m out now, aren’t I?" It was frustratingly gentle.

Charged.

"Roam. Tango four," I ordered the Traveler.

"Merc, should’ve known," he scoffed.

"No. I’m sanctioned, damn it." Breathe in, breathe out. "It’s not what you think, Ulan."

"Then tell me."

"What’s the point?"

"Number of passengers?" The Traveler had one of those perfect feminine voices.

"Go back to your computer, Ulan."

"I sold it."

The Traveler asked, "Passengers?"

I looked at him. Finally, I really looked at him. He had... changed.

"You coming or not?"

He nodded. And I swear to God, he grinned like a kid in a candy store. Ugh! I did not just use that phrase.

"Contagious, isn’t it?"

I ignored him, and answered the Traveler, "Me, one package—"

"And me," Ulan eagerly finished.

"Thank you, boarding now," it answered. I really hate it that they speak.

"Admit it, you found it charming," Ulan needled.

Is he flirting or was he always this awkward? "What?" The portal opened.

He chuckled. "The hideous sayings." A shy smile. A slight blush. "And yes. To both."

The portal snared us. Perfect fucking timing.

When we arrived, Ulan did wretch. Justice is served.

"Who’s that?" Drea asked poking her head out from under the car, which was out of service once again. The Traveler was only for Sanctioned use. With all that had changed in the last fifteen years, the IRS was just the same. I was going to have an argument with my accountant over Ulan stowing on that trip.

"Ulan." I had tossed the Singer on the floor and was filling out the paperwork on him. It would all be loaded onto a computer, but still they had to have a hard copy... in triplicate.

"THE Ulan?" Drea was at my side in an instant.

"Yes, The Ulan," I mocked.

She grinned. It was a mixture of mirth and mischief. God, could she get on my nerves!

"Get back to work," I told her. Thankfully, she did. Like I said before, gotta be grateful for the small things. Bet Ulan got me hooked on that sentiment. It was another cliché phrase, after all.

I was almost done with the forms by the time Ulan came out of the bathroom. He was wiping his face with a towel and watching Drea as he came up to me. I think he even picked out her shape in those grungy coveralls she wore. It was a surprise to me that he did it. And I was a bit proud of him for it, but damned if I would let him know that.

He looked at the forms I was finishing up. He looked at the two, yes two, operative names on it.

"Just Twain, now, I see," he commented as he wrapped the towel around his neck. The pause that followed was long enough that I thought he was actually building up his courage to ask his next too obvious question. "Did you drop the Markhos again or aren’t you married anymore?"

I broke my pen. I actually broke my pen. It shattered right there. Two splinters pierced the skin on my forefinger. Thankful for the distraction from his question, I pulled pen splinters out and sucked on the small wounds. They were closed quickly enough, like I knew they would be, but I inspected my finger anyway. Like I said, grateful for the small things. In this case, it was the distraction I was grateful for.

Ulan gestured to my finger. "So, you have been growing." He obviously noticed the healing.

"Yes." It was curt.

"What are you up to?"

"Twenty, all right?" It was a lie, but damned I was angry. He was just pushing all my buttons, wasn’t he? Damnit, more of his hideous sayings! And great, he heard. "Fuck off. You’re a bad influence and I’m not telling." How could someone make me feel old, yet make me behave like a child all at the same time?

He was still looking at me with that look. That waiting look. He wanted more.

I snapped at him, "What?!"

"Your name."

Breathe in, breathe out. What is the most judicious answer for this one? How much am I willing to divulge. Oh, I know, nothing.

"Yes," I told him. I didn’t tell him it was the entire reason for everything I was doing. I thought he was just going to get in the way. Now, as I think back, I wonder if I should have told him then. Maybe things would’ve turned out differently.

"’Kay," he said. He smiled. Smiled, and blushed. He looked over the names again. It was a way of filling in the awkward silence that my answer to him had created. He looked up at Drea, who was bending over, working under the hood. He pointed at her and asked, "Who’s that?" It was a common question that day.

"That’s ‘You’."

"You?" A puzzled moment of figuring, then he replayed, "Oh, Pink. Just dandy. Bet you are just laughing it up."

"Oui."

He smiled. I’d forgotten he thought the French stuff was cute.

"But who is she? Your new partner?" He nudged me with his elbow. That was risqué for him. He wasn’t much of a touching type of guy. The nudge was for the following insinuation, "Your New Partner?"

I was proud of him. Comments as such in the flesh. But, then, we had talked for four years like that. That is, the manner of speaking, not speaking face to face. I guess some habits, even when made easier through the mask of IM, came as second nature when the masks were removed. I didn’t think they would. I could’ve attributed it to the changes in him over the last three years we hadn’t been speaking, but for some reason I didn’t really fully believe that. Maybe he really had gotten out more. Maybe it was just that he was always very fond of the lesbian thing. At one point he had vowed he would turn me onto it or—or something. I can’t remember what the other option was. Back then, I’d frequently corrected him, telling him that’d make me bisexual, not lesbian. I wouldn’t ever give up the stick.

"Pervi," Drea purred in his ear. She didn’t give him a chance to look back at her, to be startled. She was behind us, reaching between us to point at her name on the forms. "I’m her," she said, keeping her face out of his peripheral. I guess she wanted to draw out the surprise. "Drey-yuh. Everyone says it wrong when they just read it." She held her hand up for him, waiting for him to kiss it. He shook it, and with a pout, she finished the introductions with, "Saine. Drea Saine."

And then she revealed the surprise. She turned so he could see her.

His reaction was typical. He looked to her; he looked to me. Her. Me. Her, me, her-me-her-me. I grabbed his head. He was making me dizzy.

"Clone," I simply said, then released him.

"But," he stammered.

"But not exact," Drea finished. "I’m not a copy, but I’m not original. There are differences, as you can see."

He looked from her to me to her, once more, then said, "They were right, blonde is a good color for you."

I didn’t have the same hair as three years ago, but it wasn’t blonde, that’s for sure. Drea was blonde; mine was naturally a deep burgundy. It was about shoulder length, styled perfectly straight. The tips, at some points up to four inches, only up to two inches at others, were dyed pitch. The effect was that my hair had been singed. I wore it that way for two reasons—fashion and symbolism. Three years ago I’d been burned.

"Who was right?" That was Drea. Only two years old, she was in the question phase.

"Nobody important." I grabbed another pen, signed, and then pushed the forms to her. "Sign." She did. At least she was obedient. Messy, but obedient. I gestured for her to keep the pen after she’d grimed it all up with her greasy hands from working on the car.

"So, now what?"

Drea and I both looked at Ulan. I, of course, was forced to answer. "It’s up to you. You were the one who followed me home."

Ulan frowned. "I’m not one of your puppies," he said, "I didn’t just trail after you."

"Well, what did you come here for?"

"I don’t know. It was a bit of a surprise to just see you there. I mean, three years, Talia. I didn’t want you to just disappear again. I’ve missed you."

"Well, I’m not much for socializing." I had to chuckle at that. That was an understatement if there ever was one.

"Could’ve fooled me," Drea chimed in. I could’ve hit her.

"Correction. I’m not much for socializing in person."

"She has this IM friend," Drea said, explaining, "Calls himself Feral Icon—"

"Ding!" It came from all the speakers all at once. I had them placed so I could leave the computer online all the time and would always be able to hear when someone Instant Messaged me no matter where I was. I even had a remote signal on the Traveler. Oh, don’t look at me like that. It’s not as obsessive as it sounds. IM was my primary means of communication. I hadn’t liked talking on the phone before, but after—well, a lot happened in three years. I utterly despised talking via the phone now. IM was so much more ambiguous... and less intimate.

"Right on cue!" Drea exclaimed.

I frowned at her and checked the computer.

Feral Icon: Salut, Mademoiselle!

Toreogames: Bon Jour, Feral.

Feral Icon: I’ve got a contact. I’ll have info on WordOne tomorrow.

Toreogames: Great. Thank you so much.

Feral Icon: So... got time to talk tonight?

Toreogames: Not tonight. I’ve got an unexpected visitor.

Toreogames: Sorry.

Feral Icon: It’s okay. You have nothing to be sorry for. Go out! Have fun!

Toreogames: More like, "good luck."

Feral Icon: Is this not a nice visitor?

Toreogames: I don’t know yet.

Feral Icon: :-(

Feral Icon: Is there anything I can do?

Toreogames: You’re already doing it.

Toreogames: g2g.

Toreogames: Talk tomorrow?

Feral Icon: Definitely.

Feral Icon: Night.

Toreogames: Nightie.

It was really hard to go from the anonymity of that Internet chat to talking to Ulan face to face. Ulan was my first Feral Icon. He used a different name, of course; he was a different person. But, he was my first IM buddy. He’d never wanted to meet in person. We never did... Until that very day. It was not comfortable for me.

"So, what’d you decide," I asked, facing them both. Might as well get it over with.

Ulan was silent. A strange frown filled his face.

Drea made up for it, though. "He’s joining the team!"

Once again, I was forced to wonder how they made her from me. "There is no team," I said, stabbing Drea with a flick of my gaze, which, in her obedience, caused her to quiet down. I directed the rest of what I had to say to Ulan, though. "So, there is no joining. You want to grab a bite to eat, chat a bit? Fine. I can do that. But that’s all, Ulan. That’s all." His deflated expression prompted me to add, a bit more politely, "There’s nothing here for you."

"But he’s an Etherpeeper!"

Drea to the rescue! She could even make peeping toms of the electronic net seem cutesy.

Ulan’s responding sheepish grin gave me pause. It made me consider what him being one meant. An Etherpeep. A computer psycho, a television psycho, an every kind of electrical or whatnot signal psycho. Those are not really negative terms. Not anymore at least. The psycho part came from a term used for psi-sensitive people, for telepathic people. There were several different kinds. A computer psycho... well, do I really have to explain? The point is that Etherpeeps were big deals. They were fairly rare. They were useful. I could really use the help of one.

"Thirty-three feet too?" I asked. I was working it out in my head.

He nodded. That damned adorable sheepish grin was there too. It distracted me for a moment, but for just a moment. I mentally measured the distance between us. It couldn’t have been more than ten feet from him to my computer.

The realization hit me like a sledgehammer.

"Damn you!" He had been privy to my entire conversation with Feral Icon. "Get out!" I stomped up to him. I wanted to grab him and throw him out so bad I could already feel the texture of his shirt in my balled up fists. I had to make myself stand still, five feet out of reach, to make sure I didn’t go through with it. "Leave before I hurt you."

"I was worried."

"You were always worried, Ulan." My hands were starting to shake with my urge to grab him, hit him, and throw him out.

"Because I care, Talia. I’ve always cared. I want to help. If there’s anything I can do, let me do it. For once, let me do something."

Oh, and that was the key, wasn’t it? That was the familiar phrasing he always used. Just like Feral Icon did, he always pleaded for me to tell him what he could do to fix me. But unlike Feral, Ulan never took the initiative. He was always too shy, too bashful, too frightened of what the consequences would be. It had been so endearing back then. I had loved him for it. And a spark of that old love flared with the remembering of it, despite my current anger, despite my hatred of it now.

"I can access WordOne," he offered. It was firm, it was sure, and it was filled with more confidence than I’d ever gotten from him.

"Fine. Stick around. Help out." Even to me, the last two words were overtly venomous.

"Are we friends?"

"Don’t push it." He smiled. He fucking smiled. "Drea, start the rundown. I’m not in the mood for conversation."

"Without giving away too much, and still whetting your curiosity, I’ll tell you this much," Drea said. "Expect anything. Do not dismiss anything. People’s perspectives are often narrow, even in this impossible time and place."

I rolled my eyes at her ominous opening and again wondered how she was made from me. She was a drama queen.

Drea wiped her still greasy hands on her pants, but it didn’t make her any cleaner. Rather, now, her pants were dirty too.

Ulan nodded, and Drea narrowed her eyes at him. He almost nodded again, but didn’t. He really thought about what she said. It was a lot to take in, considering that basically every type of creature and oddity concocted in fantasy and science fiction stories had become a common part of daily life over the last six years. Instead of nodding, he said, "I’ll try to keep that in mind."

"You better, Ulan, you better," I said, not feeling the least bit relieved or reassured. "I didn’t ask for any of this, but it’s my life we’re dealing with."

"Mine too," he whispered. He had the most sincere and caring expression. It was just how I imagined it to be during all those IM conversations.

Did I mention how much I’d missed him?