Chapter 1: The Organization Sends Fallon and Stacy to Retrieve Whitney Donovan, but Their Search Leads Them to the Wrong Person. Oops! Blame That One On Fallon.

Kent State University has had a very high expectation of its students. Those who applied were generally top-of-their-class type of situation. Classes were intense, homework was extraordinary, and tuition caused most of its students to take two, even three jobs in order to pay for it month by month. Of course, there were those exceptions: certain people who received scholarships to the point that they were actually receiving money rather than losing it every month.

The young woman in Cypress Hall Room 205 was not this person, yet she acted as if she were. She was a light brunette wearing the most casual of clothes she could find. Class had only ended ten minutes before, but she had already forgotten everything she learned. It wasn't towards her major, so why bother? She had more important things to attend to.

At that moment, she had her shoes kicked off into a corner with her other shoes, and she was standing on her bed in anticipation. Her roommate's bed was directly across from hers and it was neatly made. She felt somewhat bad about what was about to transpire, but it had to happen. Not a day goes by that it doesn't happen. Why does she even bother to make her bed anymore anyways?

The young woman picked up the stereo remote from the nightstand that stood between the two beds. She took a deep breath, and waved her arms lightly in preparation. Finally, she hit the play button. The upbeat intro for Katy Perry's "Hot and Cold" began to play, and she began to moved slowly to the beat. As Katy went through the first verse, the girl began to move faster.

Katy hit the chorus. Just as Katy began to say the title of the song, the girl leapt from her bed onto her roommate's. This continued until the end of the chorus. The girl slid off of the bed and began to dance a faux-style of ballet throughout the second verse. She hopped back onto the bed and returned to her jumping back and forth for the repeat of the chorus. She laughed and giggled insatiable throughout the chorus.

The guitar solo came next. She slid back off the bed and began to dance her own version of hip-hop until the chorus returned, in which she returned to jumping from bed to bed. She was already out of breath, but she wasn't about to give up before the song finished. She began to do more unique jumps, including a 360 spin and backwards jump. Finally, the last line of the song came up, and the young woman and went in for the front flip.

She landed successfully, but she hit her leg on the wall. She screamed a little bit in pain before retuning to her unstoppable laughter. She managed to open her eyes to see off the corner that her roommate had returned, and that she had been standing at the doorway for quite sometime. "Are you sure your name is Dancer?" the blonde woman at the door asked inquisitively. "I think there may have been a slight mix-up at the hospital when you were born. Lazy. Maybe. Beautiful? Yeah, I'll give you that. Talkative? Absolutely. Totally not Dancer."

"It's not like it's my given name," Dancer shot back and she managed to slide herself off of her roommate's bed, which no longer resembled the tidiness it once was. "Dancer just came with the family. And for your information, I think I'm getting better and better everyday."

"You can't really get worse."

"Clever. Tell you what, Lisa. You can sit here and think of wittier comeback because you have that kind of time. I have date to get to. Whitney is meeting me the diner."

"You're still dating him? " Lisa asked. "It's bad enough that he has a girl's name. Does he really have to act so much like a girl, too? You need a real man."

"I'm not looking for relationship advice from a girl who hasn't had a date in five years--"

"Boyfriend," she corrected. "I haven't had a boyfriend in five years. I've had plenty of dates."

"Whatever. I'm out of here."

Thirty minutes later, Dancer was sitting alone in the corner booth Hanson's Diner. This was where Dancer met Whitney Donovan almost one year ago. The day was surprisingly busy for the diner, who generally saw steady competition from the diner just around the corner, which sold similar food for a cheaper price. Whitney preferred Hanson's Diner because the owner, Roger Hanson, was a much nicer person that the jerk who owned the diner around the corner. Dancer felt that she had enough money for it, even though she didn't.

Anyways, the health department closed the diner around the corner for minor health violations. They were fixed in a few days, but in the meantime, the regular customers from that diner were forces to relocate to Hanson's for the week. Dancer generally took the booth in the back by herself, but Roger was forced to sit Whitney with her since there were no other spots open. Dancer ignored him for most of the time they ate, but Whitney opened up a conversation on Prison Break, and the rest became history.

The booth became their favorite date spot, and Dancer was waiting impatiently for Whitney to arrive. He was ten minutes late, which was extremely unusual. Punctuality was big for him. Dancer looked out into the aisle. She could see a young man casually walking over the booth, but he certainly wasn't Whiney Donovan, and he certainly wasn't permitted to sit down across from Dancer like he did.

"Hello Whitney Donovan," he began coyly.

Dancer looked him over a few times. His eyes were a bright green, full of resolve and overconfidence. The coyness in his voice was fake, and it was clear by the way he tapped his finger on the table that he was nervous, that he was probably doing something wrong or said something wrong. On top of that, his words were covered with a heavy Welsh accent. He wore a black leather jacket that he also did not seem comfortable in. Underneath was a white T-shirt that looked brand-new. What did he wear on a regular basis, and why didn't he wear something more comfortable for this occasion?

"You're not allowed to sit there," Dancer shot back. "And on top of that, I'm not Whitney Donovan. My name is Dancer."

The young man looked back the aisle. He stood up and went over to look at the sign that read Hanson's Diner. He retuned to sit across from Dancer and asked, "This is Hanson's Diner, right?" Dancer nodded cautiously. "I'm in Kent, Ohio, right?" Dancer nodded again. "This is the back booth right?" Dancer nodded once more. The young man lost his appearance of confidence and was now looking in dismay at a small sheet of paper he took out of his jacket pocket. "Something must be wrong here. I knew we shouldn't have let Stacy do this. Wait. Maybe it's a code. Whitney Donovan might be smarter than I thought."

The man pocketed the paper and stood back up, only to sit back down again. Dancer groaned as he placed his bravado back up. "Unless you're Whitney Donovan, and you're just trying to get rid of me."

"I'm not Whitney Donovan. My name is Dancer."

"That has got to be the lamest excuse I've ever heard. Last I checked, humans had both a given name and a surname. Your name can't just be Dancer."

Dancer sighed heavily. "Whitney Donovan is my boyfriend. We're supposed to be on a date right now, so go away."

"That's an even worse excuse," he shot back. "You've been sitting here for some time. You either got stood up, which you don't seem to upset about, or he doesn't exist, which makes sense since Whitney is generally a girls name."

"Why is everyone dumping that on me today?"

"You are Whitney Donovan," he insisted. "I know it. I can smell it. Is that weird to say? Anyways, I'm supposed to give you this." The young man pulled a cell phone from his other jacket pocket and handed it to Dancer. "Someone will call you on that in two hours." Just as he let go of the phone, it began to ring. The ring tone was clearly "Killer Queen." He had a disappointed look on his face before he took the phone back and answered it.

"Stacy! I thought Durai said to call at 5:00!" Pause. "What do you mean it's five already? My watch says it's 3:00." Pause. "Time zone? Damn it! Hold on."

The man put the phone down and asked Dancer, "California is two hours behind here, right?" Dancer nodded. "So, if Durai said to call at 5:00, did he mean Pacific Time or Central Time? It's 5:00 over here, but it's still 3:00 in California. If he wanted it at 5:00 from there, he would have said 7:00." He went back to the phone. "Call Durai and ask him if he meant now or in two hours."

Another pause. "Durai! How's it going? Are you enjoying the California beaches?" Pause. "You're where?" Pause. "So Stacy was right?" Pause. "So she's coming in right now?"

"Yes, I am," she said, standing right next to where he was sitting. The woman whose name was Stacy was a tall slender figure wearing a black overcoat similar to the one the young man was wearing. Her eyes gave off a piercing glare much stronger than his. She was a blonde, with hair cut short like a boy and spiked to the sides. "This wasn't a hard assignment, Fallon."

"It's not my thing," he insisted. "I'm the tech guy. I get paid to sit back in my chair and go with the clickity-clack on the keyboard, okay? I don't do field work."

She breathed in heavily before turning to Dancer. She held the same blank look she had all conversation. "You must be Whitney Donovan. It's a pleasure to finally meet you. I'm sure you're probably asking yourself who we are and why we need you. We'll explain it to you if you'd come with us."

"I'm actually wondering a different question. Why are you interested in my boyfriend, who is Whitney Donovan and not me?"

Stacy looked at Fallon, who replied; "She's been pitching the same excuse this entire time. She's not Whitney. Her boyfriend is Whitney. Her name is Dancer. No full name. Just Dancer."

"What's your full name then?" Dancer shot back.

"Stacy Tabak," she replied.

"None of your business," Fallon said.

"You either come with us or we force you. I don't care how much fighting training you've had in your life, I'm going to warn you right now that I could kill you easily. It'll be a cinch to knock you unconscious without the other two steady patrons noticing. I could even have Fallon make a distraction so no one would notice me carrying you out to the van. Yes, I can carry you easily."

Dancer looked outside the window to see a black van parked outside. Fallon was obviously tired of sitting and desperately wanted to return to the comfort of his computer desk. Stacy continued to stare at Dancer, waiting for a reply. Dancer stood up silently and followed Stacy outside and towards the van. Fallon scurried to catch up. Stacy opened the door and Dancer slid into the middle row. Fallon hopped on the back seat and immediately began to play with the seat until it was leaning at a 45-degree angle. Stacy slid inside next to Dancer before ordering the driver to begin driving.

"What do you want with my boyfriend?" Dancer asked.

"What we want from you is rather simple." It was clear that none of them were going to listen to her insistence that she was not Whitney Donovan. "I suppose you can say that we're in the middle of a struggle against another group. They have an agenda that directly conflicts with our peacekeeping efforts. We've won some battles and they've won some battles. Neither of us have had the upper hand, at least until the name Whitney Donovan came up in their system."

Fallon jumped back into the conversation. "And thank me for getting that information. See? Clickity-clack. That's what I do. Do you know how much intel we could be missing because I'm not at my computer?"

"Anyways, your name came up as a possible venue for victory in their on-going struggle. We tried to locate you, but we had to remain low-key to make sure that they didn't know that we got you first. We have no idea what they want with you, or what you could possibly give them. We were hoping you could tell us, or at the very least offer to work with us to stop them."

"Why aren't you guys listening to me? It all adds up. My boyfriend, Whitney Donovan, was supposed to meet me at the diner for a date. He's never late. The only reason I can think of that he didn't show up, assuming everything you say is true, is that your enemies have already taken him and are already using him to further their dastardly deeds. You're wasting your time!"

"You're wasting your breath," Stacy replied. Stacy turned to the driver. "Take Weaver Avenue down to Flint Street."

The group remained quiet for a little bit. The only sound came from Fallon who continued to play with the seats as if he had never been in a car with movable seats. The driver took a turn onto Flint Street and parked alongside the curb. Stacy opened the door and led Dancer out onto the grass. "Run," she told her. Dancer didn't believe her for a second, but she repeated it with enthusiasm.

Fallon was now out of the van as well, and he was fidgeting with a digital camera he had produced from his pocket. What didn't he have in that jacket? Dancer took a deep breath and glanced at her captors once more. They seemed serious, so she looked forward and began to run straight down the empty grassy field.

She didn't get very far. Only a few yards into the field, another man jumped out from the bushes and blocked her path. He was a dark-skinned man, someone who lived close to equator all of his life, perhaps. His dark shirt and dark pants offset the darkening sky. His eyes were in a state of fury as he growled incoherently.

Dancer tried to go around him cautiously, but he stood his ground, blocking her path. She tried the other way, but he proved himself to fast. She glanced back to see Stacy watching emotionlessly, but Fallon was nowhere to be found. She turned back to her assailant and made a mad dash towards him. He lurched forward with his left hand, but Dancer managed to slide back in avoidance.

He seemed off balance, so Dancer lifted her leg to kick him over. Just as he moved in, a bright flash distracted her long enough for her opponent to regain composure. Dancer turned to see Fallon sitting on a tree branch photographing the fight with the digital camera. Dancer's assailant moved in again, this time successfully grabbing on to her arm. This was photographed as well.

Dancer squirmed back, and his grip seemed to be getting looser. Dancer instinctively moved in and bit him on the hand until he let go. Fallon didn't photograph it, but he did photograph Dancer next successful kick to his leg, which caused him to double over. He moved in to grab her arm again, but Dancer simply stepped back slowly and knocked him over with a slight tap. Fallon took three pictures of that exchange.

"Too easy," Dancer noticed.

"You're right," Stacy said, now standing directly behind her. Before Dancer could react, Stacy stabbed her in the arm with a needle, and began to inject the liquid. Dancer's legs buckled under her until she blacked out completely. The last thing she saw was Fallon's bright flash of light.

Her head hurt intensely. Her eyes had not yet accommodated themselves to the new bright light above her. She felt around to see that she was lying on a metal table with her head resting on a nice, soft pillow. It seemed new. Finally, Dancer pushed herself to sit up and her eyes were coming back to their full usage. She was in a small room with two cement walls and two glass walls. Out of the two glass walls she could see a hallway with a handful of other rooms similar to the one she was in. Unfamiliar faces and bodies dotted the intersection between the rooms. One spotted Dancer sitting up and began to walk in the opposite direction from where he was headed.

Dancer didn't know what to say, but her body knew what to do. She needed to get out. She needed to forget all about Stacy Tabak, Fallon, and the field attacker. The only thing important was finding an exit and finding Whitney Donovan. She exited the glass walled room, but Stacy was coming faster than Dancer's legs would allow her to walk. (The effects of the drug Stacy gave her had not yet worn off completely.)

"Didn't quite expect you to be up and about so soon," Stacy commented as she put Dancer's arm around her shoulder. "I guess that's why you're Whitney Donovan. I guess that's why they want you so much."

"I'm not Whitney Donovan!" she growled yet again to no avail. "My name is Dancer!"

"That's odd," Stacy replied. "You see, Fallon doesn't like to tell people his last name, but he does have one. You just don't seem to have a first name. You don't have a driver's license in your wallet. Your student ID only names you as Dancer. On any piece of identification that requires you to sign, you sign with only that surname which you keep repeating. You've gone to a lot of trouble to hide your identity, but why did you pick Dancer? Why didn't you add a first name to it?"

"It's my real name!"

"That'll be up to Durai to decide. Speak of the devil." The effects of Stacy's drug still made it hard for Dancer to lift her head, but she managed to lift it high enough to see a man coming towards them. He was wearing an expensive suit blue in color. His skin was dark, but different than the field attacker. He seemed Indian, or at least from the region of India. Durai was certainly a name of Sanskrit origin. His face remained out of view.

"This must be Whitney Donovan," his voice said, with a distinct, but not annoying Southeast Asian accent. Dancer felt some self-pride in the fact that she seemed to be guessing his nationality correctly based only on his partial appearance and voice pattern. He knelt down—proving himself to not be that tall of a man, or at least notably shorter than Stacy—and lifted Dancer's head. She could see his dark face clearly: His eyes were dark and uncaring, guarded by glasses. His hair was dark and short. "How do you feel?"

Dancer didn't find it worth the pain to answer him. "That's okay," he said. "I don't really care, anyways. I want to work well together in our fight against the evils that plague our kind, so I want us to get off on the right foot. Whitney, my name is Durai Ramesh. I was born in Sri Lanka on February 9, 1949. I came to the United States in 1968 and began my undergraduate studies at Columbia in mechanical engineering. I received my doctorate in the field in 1979. For the next ten years or so, I was on the payroll of Yale University. At that point, I was offered tenure. I turned it down because I had found something new to devote my time. Certain ones of our people have been, in a broad sense, been giving us a bad name. They want to wage war against humans, as if we deserve the land more than they do. For some reason, they believe that you, Whitney Donovan, are the key in defeating us. Since 1990, I've been stopping all of their efforts of warfare. We need your help, or at least your cooperation, to make sure they don't get what they want. Now it's your turn."

Dancer lifted her feet and forcibly made Stacy let go of her. Dancer stood shakily on her own as she spoke her next words; "My name is Dancer."

Durai looked closely at her strained eyes, then looked at Stacy's uncaring eyes. "How sure are you that this is Whitney Donovan, and on what are you basing your assumption on?"

"I am one-hundred percent sure," Stacy replied. "This is based on the text message that Fallon intercepted. Whitney Donovan was to have a date in the booth at the time that Fallon came. She was the only one sitting at the booth, and she did say that she was waiting for her boyfriend."

"She's telling the truth and you're wrong. Although she doesn't seem to have a past at all, she certainly is not Whitney Donovan." Stacy seemed to take his observation as fact over her own. Not once did she argue her point.

"So we wasted out time."

"We can't afford to waste time. If they find out that we don't have Whitney Donovan, they'll increase their efforts in finding him."

"But if we don't have Whitney Donovan, then it is likely that they already have him."

"If that is the case, we need Miss Dancer more than ever."

Durai pointed down the hallway to the other end of the hallway separated by yet another glass wall with a glass door in the center. The group of three could see Fallon walking up with the laptop under his arms. He came through the door and, with no place to sit; he placed himself on the floor and opened the laptop. "I sent the pictures over an hour ago. I got worried that they didn't send their reply soon enough. Here it is, though." The email read:

There's no way that's Whitney Donovan. You need to do your research. Donovan is a man.

"Tell them they're wrong," Durai ordered. "For some reason or another, Whitney Donovan is missing. We don't have him. They don't have him. Regardless, we need to make them think that we have him—or her rather—so they stop their search for him. We won't."

Durai turned to Dancer. "Your name is Dancer. For your own personal reason, you don't want to tell us any more than that. That's fine, because for all intents and purposes, you are now Whitney Donovan. Stacy will take you down to the kitchen to grab something to eat. I'll come back to explain the situation in detail to you later."

"One more thing," Dancer said. "You speak of humans as if you're not one. Why?"

"I'm sorry," he said. "I figured Stacy told you."

"I figured Fallon told her," she defended.

"I figured it was obvious, so I didn't have to tell her," Fallon explained.

"We're vampires," Durai revealed nonchalantly.

Quick Author's Note: I hate vampires. Seldom are they ever written beyond their one-note origins, and people like Stephanie Meyer (no offense. I'm sure she's a very nice and sociable woman) is making millions off of writing books on books with horrible one-note characters. I'm hoping to change that.

Secondly, the long chapter title, which will be a recurring theme, is based on another story I read on this site. I feel bad that I don't remember the user or the story, but I remember that she wrote the chapter title after the chapter. The reason she gave was that she felt chapter titles were spoilers, but she still wanted to include them. I thought it was a weird thing to do, so I went with the polar opposite: make the chapter titles as full of spoilers as I could possibly make it. Stories aren't so much what happens, but rather how and why it happens.