February 13, 2001
*Thud* *thud* *thud* *thud* . . .
Mich listened to the muted sound of her boots thumping down the carpeted hallway with the odd detachment of someone teetering on the edge of severe exhaustion. She paid no attention to the muddy prints she left behind—Curry would be mad but she didn’t care—or to the mud-and-blood-streaked handprint she left on her flat’s door as she pushed it open.
Nev was sitting on the couch, strumming his guitar. A music script book lay open on his knee, and he clenched a pencil in his teeth. He looked up at Mich as she entered, his expression changing from one of greeting to one of shock. “What the hell happened to you?”
Mich was wearing battered, mud caked armor, her samurai sword hanging limply from her bleeding hand. Her fiery red hair was damp and plastered to her head in filthy ringlets. There were dark circles under her eyes and her lips were alarmingly pale.
“Camille had to go battle the Dragons of Lurk again, and Cin and Anissa and I went with her—to help.”
Nev stood, his guitar and music forgotten. “Are they okay?”
Mich snorted. “They did better than Camille and I. They can fly.”
He reached for her. “Are you okay?”
She held up her hands in a ‘stay back’ gesture. “Yeah, but I’m sore and dead tired. I need a shower and about sixteen hours of sleep.”
“Okay,” he said. “You go take that armor off and get cleaned up and I’ll get things ready for you.”
She stumbled into the bathroom and closed the door behind her. As she peeled off her leather and metal shell she realized what day it was . . . and more importantly, what day tomorrow was.
She faced her wan visage in the mirror. “Man, I need a nice romantic evening now more than ever,” she mused.
She climbed into the shower, sighing with relief as the hot water soothed her abused muscles and sent the dark brown mud spiraling down the drain. She watched it disappear and couldn’t help but giggle ‘Harold, you better get this carriage out of the mud!’ After nearly an hour—and a whole bottle of shampoo and half a bar of soap—she emerged, wrapping herself in a towel with a pleased murmur.
Her armor was gone, along with the dirt that it had displaced on the tile floor. A neat stack of clothes sat on the edge of the sink, and Mich slipped into them, then combed her wet hair into some semblance of order.
After hanging up her towels she re-entered the room, feeling human once again. Nev was back on the couch; he held her sword in his hands, gently cleaning it with an oilcloth. She said nothing until he had finished and placed her sword back on its stand.
“Okay, Miss Dragon Fighter, come here.” She sat down next to him; he brought over her first aid kit and sat next to her, tilting her head back and inspecting the angry red scrape on her forehead.
“So . . . what did you do today?” she asked as he tended to her.
“Well, we had a huge birthday party for all the Peter clones. Hatch gave Nameh—”
“Lemme guess. Fireworks.”
Nev chuckled. “No, actually Hatch gave him a leather jacket, because I told him that if he gave Nameh more fireworks then he and I would have to go have a little chat.”
Mich giggled. “And I’ll bet he was sufficiently dissuaded, right?”
“You bet.” He tenderly swabbed her abraded knuckles and bandaged them. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”
“No . . . just sore. I’m going to go to bed . . . tomorrow’s a special day, you know.”
Nev paused, cocking his head in a puzzled manner. “Wednesday?”
Mich sighed. “No, it’s . . . nothing. Well, I’m off,” she said crawling wearily to her feet. “You gonna join me?”
“No. Me and Nameh got invited to a party in Trotondown.”
Mich refused to allow her disappointment to show. “Okay, have fun.”
“Thanks, darlin’. You sure you’ll be okay here alone?”
“Yes. Go. I’ll be fine.” After the door closed behind him she muttered, “I’m used to being alone.”
Mich awoke the next morning to a body so stiff and sore that sitting up was raw agony. She reached out, expecting to encounter Nev’s warm, comforting presence, but instead she felt only cold blankets.
She fought the tears that rose up and crawled out of bed—her room was empty. She stumbled to the door and found a note taped to it:
‘Hey Mich, had to run out this morning. Could you tune my guitar for me so it’ll be ready when I get back? Thanks a million, Nev.’
“Oh, thanks a million . . . oh, you just . . . ” Indignant anger spurted forth, and she crumpled the paper into an unrecognizable snarl before hurling it across the room.
She allowed a few minutes for her anger to subside before she picked up his guitar and slumped back on the couch. As she landed she heard a rattle from within the instrument’s body.
“Dummy left a pick in there,” she growled. She turned the guitar upside down and shook it gently—a small red object dropped out and she deftly caught it.
At first glance it appeared to be just another plastic guitar pick, but upon closer inspection she noticed that it was heart-shaped.
And not only that, but there was writing on it . . .
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