Griplines: Prologue
By Brenda Jean Carlson

 


I suppose that if I'm going to tell you the whole story, it'd be best to start smack dab in the middle. I know, that sounds crazy - just the thought seems out of balance. After all, aren't tales normally best told from their very beginnings?

Well maybe most are... or at least most *seem* that they should be. Unfortunately, in real life, it's rarely that simple. Time's just too eccentric to run in a straight -edged line, and justice may be blind, but she's not without a sense of humor. The truth of the matter is that in some circumstances, reality seems to birth itself backward. It's the ultimate paradox - a bizarre kind of coil - where the past exists, but remains locked in stasis.

So are you confused yet? There's no need to deny it. In truth, if you claimed to understand, I'd ask you to leave. That kind of foresight just doesn't come without a high price, and to be perfectly honest, the rest of us aren't sure we're ready to stop hoarding our savings yet.

See, there are folks in life who just find their niches.... those born knowing what to do, and sensing just when to duck. But then there are those like me - and my whole family for that matter. We're the ones who've been left with nothing but in this world but love...we act on necessity, and, when in a pinch, pray for luck.

But listen to me babble...I'm sure that this makes no sense to you... And frankly if it already does, then this story's not worth your time. For those of you who are intrigued, though... feel free to pull up a chair and sit back. Maybe together we'll see whether knowledge actually enlightens, or if it simply destroys your mind.


To everyone else - the busy travelers who saw it only in passing - it seemed a fairly unimpressive family grave site. The tombstones were spartan - matching stones of gray granite. Their gently rounded corners were starting to crumble. The grass was coarse to the touch, and in need of a careful trimming. For that matter, the whole plot needed care. Even the flowers that had been placed by the markers reflected this air of aestheticism: for while they were freshly cut and pungent in their aroma, the roughly clipped handful of daisies seemed no less than unremarkable in their simplicity.

There was something different there, though, that always made him want to stop and look closer: a quiet state of dignity that seemed to demand respect. Perhaps it was the matched dates of two lives that had been snuffed out together, or maybe it was the simple engraving. <Jai'maena and Karysha,> he assumed they must have been foreign - it was one of the few sites that had been dug before he'd taken up the cemetery's nightwatch. They could have been sisters ...or perhaps mother and daughter.

The simple truth was that he didn't know.

He snuck another glance at the man kneeling down on the grass - the lone visitor who came, at best, one or two times a year. Over time he'd learned most regular mourners were willing to share their grief and their stories if prodded, but he'd never been able to bring himself to approach this silent stranger.

He didn't know quite why - couldn't explain with words. It wasn't superstition nearly as much as awe. After all, he'd watched over this graveyard for over two decades...

Long enough to recognize a man on holy ground.


"Well here I am, ladies... for my usual visit. Don't worry...I promise not to stay too long." He smiled at the stones wobbly, tracing the indented grooves with slim fingers. "And I promise, I'm not going to cry this time." He swallowed convulsively, rubbing his eyes - giving a strangled laugh as he reconsidered the words, "Well, okay... maybe I am. But it's just one day a year. So let's just pretend that neither of you noticed, all right?"

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out two letters - holding them up almost as if for inspection. "I'm on strict orders to deliver these to you - Em and Dresden had business. She said to tell you she'd stop for a visit just as soon as she gets back, okay?"

The plain envelopes looked desolate against the grass. He fingered them awkwardly for a few moments before finally leaning them up against the headstones. "I really wish you could see her... you'd be so proud, Jai'maena. She's so much like you at times, that it hurts." A smile tugged his lips, "But then you probably knew that - for that matter you're probably laughing your head off." The thought made him shake his head. <Twenty years, daughter - only *you* could still be affecting my blood pressure.>

The pain was dimming now, replaced with real laughter. His voice strengthened as he forced himself to continue. "I'm still breathing, girls - still going just like I promised. But I miss you - don't you dare think that will ever change." He pushed himself upright, staring down at the markers for another long minute. "Well I better get out here - Emily will be calling. Keep walking the light, loves. I'm not far behind you."

The tombstones didn't answer as he reached out to touch them one more time in blessing. They didn't speak as he turned and walked away. For the past twenty-two years, they'd kept their vigil in silence.

But then ghosts know better than any living being how to wait for the chance to get in the last word.


It was really remarkable to her, sometimes - just how much *hard work* it took to get drunk.

<A high alcohol tolerance may be good for beer and poker night with the boys...yes,> But honestly - what did it take for a girl to get smashed these days?

Her shot glass was staring at her. <Or at least I could swear it is.....> When she squinted hard enough, she could almost make out a pair of condemning eyes. There was only one option, <Better break out the Jack Daniels.> A few more rounds, and she wouldn't care if the tumbler decided to take up the cha-cha.

The TV was booming. <What was it that I was watching?> And while she was on the subject....when had she turned it on? <Oh yeeeeah,> the alcohol *was* working ... far better than she'd thought.

But who in the heck had redecorated never-never land without telling her?!

The small hotel room was nothing less than shabby. <Definite flashback to the late seventies....> All it needed were a set of pea-green throw rugs. <And who turned the lights up?> After she'd already gone to all the trouble to close the window shades. Looked like she'd have to turn off the bedside lamp, too...assuming, of course, that she ever found her feet.

April 19. The best day of the year. <As long as none of it's spent sober, anyway.> But then that was the point... <Everyone needs a day to get stoned and knock themselves senseless.> It reaffirmed her monthly sponsorship check to the Betty Ford clinic.

<If Nate could see this mess.> She snorted at the image of his dark reaction. <Actually I should have invited him along...just to tick him off.> She sighed and fell backward - landing with a thump on the limp mattress, bouncing on the covers with a distinctly rude snort.

<Nah, the last thing I need right now is a lecture. And even if I *were* talking to Mr Anal, I'd get that in spades.> All grudges and other growing affections aside, Nate had never known how to butt out and let some things rest.

So this was definitely more of a Wolverine type event.

*Logan* would get this. She KNEW that he would. And he wouldn't get all tight strung and disapproving about it either. <Course the whole healing factor would make the 'drunk' part rather pointless.> But maybe even that was good...at least she'd have someone to help her untie her shoes and pull the coverlet off the bed when it was over.

Her stomach was heaving, <Damn room won't stop spinning.> She cursed herself for foolishly taking that last piece of pizza as she rubbed her protesting belly. <Definitely got to invite Wolvers to this party next year. I mean who better to take with on a weekend cruise through Hell?>


Part 1

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