Chapter Eighteen:
Starbuck’s, It Ain’t
by Deanna, Mari and Proto
In downtown Roanoke, inside a cozy but comfortable coffeehouse, the drinks were flowing and so was the music ... and the curtains. The spot was popular among the denizens of Roanoke, but nevertheless managed to be one of the most tackily decorated. Dimly lit and with so many curtains that the walls were invisible, it almost had the impression of being in some large creature's innards. Each table had a small scented candle and the entire room smelled of incense and coffee.
As waitresses zipped like bumblebees from table to table, a familiar face took to the stage. A dark-haired youth, obviously well-known to the coffeehouse's regulars judging by the warm applause and cheering he received, brought an electric guitar with him onto the stage and plugged it into the provided amplifier. As he fiddled with the settings on the gadget, he took to the microphone.
"Hey, everyone. 'S good to be here yet again ... tonight I have a new song to play, and a few old ones ..."
Some cheers and whistles rose from the small audience at the mention of a new song. Having finished tweaking settings, the guitarist sat upright on his stool, pulled the microphone to his new height, and continued.
"I'll start with the new song, then ... it's about changes. I call it 'Says Who?'"
With that, he began to play. The guitar was set to simulate an acoustic, and the song was somewhat slow. Ritchie Farrel began to sing about changes. Little did he know what changes were in store for him this night.
As she started to drive to Virginia Tech for her night class, Yaira decided to take a detour to a local and highly recommended coffeehouse. She had never been, but it was on the way and her fellow chemists loved it.
She buttoned her denim jacket up all the way and entered the crowded coffeehouse, being lucky enough to find an empty table. A waitress suddenly materialized at the table, and returned just as fast with black coffee and a thick slice of apple pie.
Decent, Yaira thought. She pulled a thick textbook out of her bag and began to read, absorbing the guitar music and the general atmosphere of the eclectic coffeehouse.
She really shouldn't have expected to get much studying done. Studying was for corner booths in all-night pancake houses, where the caffeine went for about a quarter of the price it commanded in places like this. Dark, music-filled, and probably infested with philosophy students who deeply resented missing the Sixties, a coffeehouse promised dedicated students that they would soon be asked, as Yaira was, "Mind if I sit? I don't think there are any other tables free--" The brown-complexioned woman who made the request flashed a smile at Yaira, gesturing at the crowded room with the steaming, frothy mug in her hand. She'd evidently decided to err on the side of caution and get her precious caffeine first before braving the crowd for an empty and welcoming seat.
"Of course," Yaira replied in her thick accent. She pushed her things away to clear a spot on the table. She gestured to her thick textbook. "I am just preparing for my class. Unfortunately, I am not getting that much done! It is my fault for not preparing earlier, I believe."
She looked around the coffeehouse, which seemed to be getting more packed by the minute. "I am amazed that this place fills up!" After the woman sat down, Yaira offered her hand. "I am Yaira Cohen. What is your name?"
"Ann," the woman said, taking Yaira's hand firmly and nearly tipping over her caramel cappuccino in the process. "Ann Bronwen," she expanded as she shot a warning glance at the recalcitrant drink. "Am I interrupting you? I can find someplace else to sit if you need to study."
Yaira shook her head. "No, I am not studying. I am teaching an undergraduate introduction to analytic chemistry, and it is hard to try and make them understand certain concepts. Please, sit." She smiled a bit. "I could use the company."
She gestured to her slice of pie. "You should try a slice of this. It is quite good! Hot, too. It is quite nice because it is freezing to me outside."
Ann eyed the pie in a way remarkably similar to a frazzled woman seeing empty calories. "You're TA-ing? Which of the universities? We might be working together." As she spoke, her hand went up to snag the attention of a waitress, presumably one with a direct pipeline to pie.
He blinked, trying to regain his composure as he scanned the audience, trying to figure out from whom the feeling was coming. Two women caught his eye ... not regulars, obviously. But he was doing a gig and had no time to speculate. Clearing his throat, he continued. "Uh ... right. Guess I kinda lost my head there for a second." As the grin returned to his face, he continued. "The next song will be one of the older ones ..."
Reaching out, he changed the amplifier to a more distorted, more metal-sounding mode, and began to play once more. Still, he found himself glancing every so often at the table of Yaira and Ann.
Yaira nodded. "I am an assistant at Virginia Tech in the chemistry department for an undergraduate chemistry class for those who do not major in it." Her face held a slight hint of a grin. "It is quite frustrating to dumb down concepts! Do you come across the same problems? I do not know why I use my own textbooks for ideas."
She reached over to close the textbook, but as she snapped it shut, the music had changed to a harder sound. Her hand jerked suddenly and knocked the white china container filled with different artificial sweeteners onto the floor, breaking it. She cursed creatively in Hebrew for a few seconds before crouching on the floor and starting a futile attempt of cleaning up her mess. However, since the guitarist was playing a more punkish tune, she was in the mood for headbanging and breaking stuff, the latter of which she had just accomplished.
Ann winced at the harsh sound of ceramic shattering but hesitated, not sliding out of her chair when it was probable that an extra set of hands and knees would just make a greater mess. The waitress, unseen by either woman, took a detour in transit toward their table and arrived with a brush and dustpan, shooing them both brusquely out of the way as she made the pale shards and slivers disappear. At the waitress' quirked eyebrow, Ann pointed silently toward Yaira's pie and received a curt not in response.
"Friendly staff," she murmured as soon as the noise of the performer and the crowd had masked the table from the retreating young woman's hearing. Tossing a crooked smile at Yaira, she commented, "I had figured that I'd be the one to do something like that. I'm nervous as a cat tonight, for some reason." She paused, smile fading a little before a quick swig of coffee restore it. "So thanks for getting it out of the way. And to answer your question, honestly, I have no idea what I'm doing. I haven't taught since ... since forever, really. A few lectures in grad school, but that keeps getting farther away." A wry glance around the room indicated just how few patrons of this particular hang-out were on the far side of grad school.
"I've only been in town since yesterday; I'm not even done unpacking yet, really," she clarified with a slight shrug. "I've got a temp position at Roanoke U.-- adjunct-- so you've got a better idea than me how to handle undergrads. Especially non-majors ... which I'm sure I'll have to face. Adjunct."
Although she didn't say anything, Yaira agreed with Ann's nervousness. The coffeehouse, being dark, crowded, and smoky, reminded her quite a bit of the nightclubs that got bombed with increasing and frightening regularity in Israel. She had gone to school in America, she should be used to the fact by now that it wasn't something that occurred often here.
She took a sip of her coffee to steady herself before responding. "I am quite new as well. I have only been working here since September. Haven't met very many people yet."
She surveyed the crowd once more, looking for any suspicious characters. Finding none, she returned to her drink. "As for teaching, it depends on the field, I believe. I have friends who are English instructors who do not have problems with non-major students. I also had some blindingly incompetent instructors when I was an undergrad, but I probably was viewed just as incompetent. What do you teach?"
If Ann found the younger woman's wariness odd, she was too polite or too distracted herself to comment. "Psychology. And saying that to a chemist, I'm probably inviting the 'soft science' argument, but there you have it. I got the job Friday-- some prof decided that she absolutely had to have a sabbatical right now, not that I'm complaining about a chance to pay the bills-- finally wriggled out of my lease Sunday, and I start work tomorrow. At 8 o'clock." She grimaced and tapped a staccato rhythm with a fuschia fingernail against her ceramic mug. "Which means I should probably be in bed, but if I'm going back to college, even tangentially, I might as well recall what it's like to treat sleep as optional."
Yaira laughed. "I know exactly what you mean. For me, it is 8 o'clock sharp in my lab instead of class now. But when I was at Tulane, it was always study until one in the morning and then hit the bars." She took a sip of her coffee, now cooled. "I don't know much about psychology, but my roommate was a psychology major." A wry grin spread across her face. "She introduced me to the psychology of American bars."
"Tulane? I did my master's just up the road in Baton Rouge, at LSU. Can't think of a better place than New Orleans to study American bars." Ann's voice was a little too fast, a little too high. It wasn't 'off' enough for anything to be clearly wrong, but there was a strained note to her general demeanor, the almost-sound when fillings met tinfoil. "Where are you from, anyhow? If you don't mind me asking, that is. I've been trying to place your accent and can't decide-- Middle Eastern?"
"Right! I'm from Israel. I moved to America for school when I was twenty." Yaira took another sip of her coffee, which now tasted strange to her. She put the cup down quickly, and it hit the table with a soft clank. "I like living here and I am fascinated with your television programs! I send copies of 'Star Trek' to my younger brother so he can practice his English. That Captain Kirk is quite ... oh, what's the word?" She paused for a moment, thinking. "Handsome! Yes, that's the word." As an afterthought, she added, "Is it just me or is this coffee taste strange?"
Reflexively, Ann lifted her mug and sipped, then looked at it in mild surprise. When she lowered it, Yaira could see that it was empty-- the other woman evidently hadn't noticed that she'd run out. It was a safe bet that all that Ann's nerves weren't going to be helped by the caffeinated deluge. "I didn't notice, looks like," she said vaguely. "Maybe you should get another cup?" She glanced at the young man on the small stage but looked back to Yaira quickly. "He's pretty good, for a kid. Sometimes the performers in places like this are the kind that should only be allowed in bars so the drinks can make them sound better."
Yes, he is quite good," Yaira agreed. She took another glance around the shop, having felt that sense of dread that overcame her when she thought that the bombers were in a club. Once again, no suspicious people. Reflexively, she gripped the mug handle until her knuckles turned white. "Did you ever go to the Velvet Dog when you lived in Baton Rouge? I hung out there a lot in college, and I think I might have seen you before." She looked at Ann quizzically.
"Mmm-- sometimes. Wasn't really my scene. I preferred Shadowbox and Blind Unicorn, and the bands there." Her lips quirked. "Though the Dog had amazing drink discounts on ladies' nights, as I recall. God I miss the Nineties."
Yaira gave a half shrug. "I just graduated from Tulane in May, and the drink discounts were still there. Tucks still has the best, though. Five dollar cover and free drinks all night. On Saturday!" Yaira abruptly pushed back a chunk of her hair with a little more force than necessary; her nerves overcoming her. "I did not really go to Baton Rouge. From what I heard from my friends, the only thing there was American football, and I did not care for it."
She glanced down for a moment and noticed that her free hand was shaking. Subtly, she slipped her hand under the table and grasped the edge of her chair.
Mirroring Yaira's unseen gesture, Ann's hand flew to her own head, the motion abruptly halted lamely turned into a pat of her loosely bunned hair, then quickly jerked away to 'rest' on the table. "Yeah, pretty much," she said indistinctly, eyes sliding off of Yaira and around the room before being dragged back. "Does it-- is it hot in here to you?" Her lacquered fingernails tapped a ragged beat on the tabletop, her other hand making its unsupervised way to her hair. Pulling out the wooden chopstick stuck through her bun sent the heavy, dark mass of hair to her shoulders, making her face look hooded.
As she rubbed her fingers over the carved wooden stick, her other hand quieted, and her manner calmed a little.
Perhaps, then, it was an eerie coincidence that the entire coffeehouse seemed to calm at the same time. The most likely reason seemed to be that the guitarist had switched to a quieter song as his last for the evening. It was one of those songs whose melody and lyrics tend towards the deep and thought-provoking. It seemed to be discussing the intricacies of life in general, and had set the whole room into a pensive ponderance.
Exactly what he sang of was not easy to discern, but it had something to do with a certain emptiness and he was putting forth his best effort. Perhaps if the audience knew that Ritchie was actually singing about his own life it would have been touching. As it stood, the song was at least interesting.
Yaira could feel every muscle in her body tighten as a hush fell over the coffeehouse. The silence bothered her, like someone had just entered with a gun. It reminded her of the few seconds of silence just before everyone started screaming.
Fortunately, there was no madman, no mass hysteria, and no one screeching bloody murder. She merely tightened her grip on her chair and agreed with Ann. "Yes, it is quite hot. Perhaps they turned on the heater?" she suggested feebly.v She bit her lip for a moment. "Why-why did everyone get so quiet?"
"Mmm?" Ann murmured, looking up from her left hand where her hair stick was cradled. Her thumb, the nail painted eggplant with a touch of glitter at the edge, moved languidly up and down the thin piece of wood. She looked around. "I--" a shrug, and her voice became steadier, her attention visibly snapping back to the world outside her head. For the moment, at least. "Just a lull in conversation, maybe. Or the music--"
Nibbling the inside of her lower lip, she looked at the younger woman intently but not unkindly. "I'm not-- quite sure why I'm so nervous, but you look like you've got some old reasons to be. Bad experiences in crowded clubs?" Chagrin overtook her face. "Sorry. Therapist instincts. Don't mean to pry."
Yaira gave a thin lipped smile. "I was one of the lucky ones. It is custom in Israel to be on the lookout in crowded clubs, because of suicide bomber attacks. I was never caught in one, but it is merely instinct." Internally, however, she knew it was something different. Although she couldn't quite put her finger on it.
She stood up shakily. "Could you please excuse me? I need to get some air." Without another word, she left the table and walked outside the coffeehouse. Yaira leaned against the outer wall, trying to calm herself down. In a few minutes, she had regained hold of her senses.
Back inside, Ritchie had just played the final few chords to the song, which were hastily followed by enthusiastic applause and a little bit of cheering from the patrons of the coffeehouse. Grinning, obviously glad that his music had been so well-received, he set the guitar on its stand near the edge of the small stage and took the microphone again.
"Hey, thanks, ladies and gents ... hope you enjoyed listening to a few songs 'cuz I had a great time playin' 'em ... I'll see yaz all next week!"
With those closing remarks, he quickly descended the stage steps and made his way to the door and outside, in an obvious hurry to get out. Upon stepping out onto the sidewalk, he was surprised to see Yaira standing there and figured that she was probably out there for the same reason.
"I guess you can't stand the smoke in there, either, eh?"
Yaira was momentarily startled at the sound of Ritchie's voice. Deciding not to expand on the actual reason why she was out there again, she nodded.
"Yes. After a while, it gets pretty bad. Reminds me of my old bar haunts in college."
She turned to face him and smiled. "You were playing tonight. It was very good! Do you plan to take it any further, or is this just for fun?" She stuck out her hand. "I'm Yaira, by the way."
In response to her compliment, Ritchie returned her smile as he gave her a firm handshake and gave her a bit of an odd look before releasing her hand. That feeling was coming over him again, like he was supposed to know her from somewhere. Clearing his throat to get his thoughts back in line, he introduced himself. "Ritchie. Pleased to meet you ... and thanks! Not everyone enjoys my music."
At least, he thought to himself, no one in the house ...
Stifling his thoughts, he answered Yaira's question. "I'd like to make a career out of it, but then, I don't really know what my chances are of not living in a box for the rest of my life. I guess I'll just wait and see what happens."
Yaira laughed. "You sound just like my little sister. No idea what she wants to do! But she is currently in the defense force, so maybe Michalla will find something."
Her expression turned a bit quizzical. She knew that she had seen him around before, but not as one of her students. Then again, her lecture class was pretty large, so she decided to take the plunge. He looked college age, anyway.
"Are you by any chance a Virginia Tech student in an introduction to analytical chemistry course? I believe that I have seen you somewhere, but I cannot figure it out." She supplied a follow-up. "Or perhaps you have gone to New Orleans in the past few years and played there?"
Ritchie raised an eyebrow and shook his head. "Still doing the high school thing, actually ... almost out though. As for N'awlins, never been there. Lived in San Fran for awhile though ..."
He gave a unassuming shrug. "I dunno, I feel like I should know you from somewhere, too ... maybe we're both crazy," he added a grin to show that he wasn't entirely serious about that comment. Before either of them could say anything else, however, another voice interrupted their conversation.
"Pfft ... you feel like you know each other because you do! You just don't know it yet." Emerging from the alley next to the coffeehouse came the source of the voice, a large raccoon. He looked up at Yaira with beady analytical eyes.
"Giles ..." hissed Ritchie. "What do you think you're doing?"
The raccoon glanced at him for a second. "Pipe down over there." Returning his gaze to Yaira, he studied her for a moment before continuing, "Hrm ... you must be Raphael. It's been a while."
"Wha-- what the hell?" Yaira managed to sputter out. Then screamed.
Suddenly, all the processes in her brain started malfunctioning at once. A talking raccoon. A RACCOON, for cryin' out loud. She turned around quickly, to see if some person named Raphael was behind her. Unfortunately, all Yaira saw was a full parking lot and some trash cans.
She took a step backwards and assumed a basic defense posture. "I do not know what kind of people live here, but in my country, we did not like practical jokes!"
She stared at Ritchie and the raccoon angrily. "I know Krav Maga. I am an expert," she threatened, heavily glossing over the fact that she only had two years of training and was extremely far from being an expert. For the final threat, she summoned her little knowledge of American action movies and took a line from there.
"Do not mess with me!"
The raccoon made a noise that could be equated to a sigh. This was obviously not going to be easy. Ritchie, meanwhile, raised his hands defensively and pleaded with Yaira. "Hey, we're not messing with you ... please, calm down. Maybe you should listen to the rodent."
Giles snorted indignantly. "Rodent?! I'm going to have a chat with you later about respect. But first," he said, turning back to Yaira, "why don't you drop the toughness act and listen for a minute?"
Yaira slowly dropped her arms, but kept them tense. If the military had taught her anything, it was never to let her guard down when dealing with an opponent. She did not see Ritchie as a probable threat, but that talking raccoon ...
Her muscles relaxed. She could perceive that the thing had too much snobbery to consider itself a fighting raccoon. Then again, the thought of a fighting raccoon was pretty funny. She gave a thin smile. "You will have your minute. Make it good."
Yaira looked up at Ritchie. "And it is rather sad that your raccoon friend refuses to accept the fact that he is a member of the rodent family. Perhaps you should show him the Latin classification for raccoon. It is available."
As Giles once again snorted indignantly, Ritchie merely grinned. "He wasn't always a raccoon so he hates when people don't recognize his humanity."
Giles reinforced this sentiment: "Of which there is plenty! Now, here's what I have to tell you ..."
Before continuing, the raccoon looked all around, checking to see that they were sufficiently alone. Satisfied with the unpopularity of the district, he continued.
"This will be hard to believe, but I assure you that every word is true. You, my dear, are the reincarnation of an ancient warrior who was killed eons ago. That warrior was the personification of the angel Raphael, and now that warrior has been reborn as you. Do you follow?"
Yaira stared.
"Pardon? A giant talking rat comes out of nowhere and tells me I am some sort of reincarnated warrior?"
She shook her head. "I guess the fumes in the laboratory today were particularly strong. I must wear stronger protection."
When she thought it over, however, the reincarnation seemed plausible. She shook her head, trying to think clearly. It still seemed calculated, and if it was just a hallucination, they'd disappear soon.
She nodded. "Okay, I follow. This is kind of hard to believe, though. Go on, rat."
Giles glared for a moment at being called 'rat' before continuing. "Excellent. The reason I am telling you this is the same as the reason you were reincarnated in the first place. The war is brewing once again. The same old enemies that were involved in the conflict ages ago have returned and now is the time for the new warriors like yourself and Ritchie, over there, to take up arms and finish what your ancestors started. But you don't have to fight in as weak a state as you are now ... if we can find a nice, sheltered spot where half the city won't see you, I can teach you how to unlock your true power."
"Who are you calling weak, you overgrown mutated squirrel?" Yaira challenged. "I am a trained ex-Israeli military combatant specialist! To assume that I have no fighting capabilities is not logical. But this whole thing has absolutely no logic! I am-" She abruptly cut herself off. "Still talking to an uppity raccoon." She sighed again. "All right. I am unfamiliar with this part of the city, so I do not know of the secluded areas. Perhaps Ritchie does?"
Ritchie offered a meek grin following Yaira's outburst. Gesturing towards a black Celica in the parking lot, he commented, "This isn't the best place to find seclusion, but I know a few places. Care to go for a drive?"
Giles nodded emphatically. "Please do. You see, you're not weak compared to a normal human. Compared to what you'll be fighting, this is your weak form. You'll need to unlock your true strength and that is where I come in."
Ritchie sighed. "As stuck-up as he is about it, he has a point. Shall we?" he gestured towards the car.
Yaira shrugged. "Sure. No more use in fighting it. I learned in primary that when arguing, it is stronger to admit defeat."
Pausing for a moment, she added, "Besides, it may be useful to learn another form of attack."
She followed them to Ritchie's car. "Nice. My Chevy is about to heave its last breath. I do not want to pay for another one, but it has become ... I believe the word is burden? But trying to talk to a salesperson at a car dealership is going to be one! My English is not so good when it comes to certain topics, and they like to take advantage."
Yaira stopped on her tangent. "So, how old is your car?"
Ritchie grinned as he unlocked the passenger door. This car was his pride and joy, next to his music, of course. "It's only a year old. It was my sweet sixteen present, I guess. If there's one thing my parents give me, it's expensive stuff." He opened the door and made a sweeping gesture towards the seat, as Giles took his opportunity to hop in and curl up on the small back seat.
"Hop in."
Had Yaira and Ritchie not been so focused on the matters of automobiles and ancient warriors, they might have seen a short, round figure walking out of the coffee house, pausing to wrap itself more tightly in a coat heavier than a native to this weather would wear. Looking warily at the shadows around her, Ann shivered in a way that had nothing to do with atmospheric conditions and strode quickly away.
They might have noticed her leaving. Or they might have noticed the lessening of dread as she moved away.
Yaira slid in quickly, examining the interior of the car with interest. "Your parents gave you this? Amazing. I am the oldest of three, and on a rabbi's salary, my parents could not afford many luxuries. We were always very well cared for, though."
She laughed. "Just wait until you are trying to buy a car on your own! That is how I ended up with mine. College students are not wealthy." She closed the door and then asked, "What do you call the raccoon? Pure curiosity."
"His name is Giles," said Ritchie as he slid the key into the ignition. "Though I didn't give him the name. That's what he told me to call him."
To the background noise of the car starting, Giles added, "So I did, and it is a perfectly respectable name, make no mistake."
Ritchie took to the wheel and began the arduous maneuvers of exiting the parking area. "I guess we'll go to the nearest foresty place ... unless you'd rather go to my place. At least there's food there and my parents are probably out. Your choice."
"Giles, eh? In my culture, that is a strange name. In yours, of course, Yaira sounds like some sort of health supplement. Maybe a torture device." She made her accent thicker to displace the sarcasm. Unfortunately, it made half her words sound like she threw them in a meat grinder.
"As for areas ... I do not know. My apartment is also rather close, and the rest of the tenants in my block are about 50 years older and 60 times more deaf. But if you plan on blowing anything up, I would not suggest anywhere indoors." She tensed for a moment. "Do you plan on blowing things up?"
Ritchie evaded answering the question unconditionally, grinning evilly and offering, "Maybe. The woods it is!"
Giles was a bit more serious. "Well, goodness knows Ritchie can't blow anything up. Figures that I should get stuck with the wimp ..."
Ritchie swerved, causing Giles to smack into the side of the car.
"And one who can't take a joke ... by the way, I suppose since I told you that you are Raphael I should add that Ritchie is Leliel."
"And damn proud," came Ritchie's reply. "Angelus senshi of the night at your service."
"But Giles just announced that you can not blow anything up. It does not shame you to be weak?"
Yaira smiled thinly. "Of course, I will probably end up being something a little less frightening than a child's teddy bear, and just a little more cuddly. It is ... astonishing how these things work out."
"And, ah ... just how far into the woods are we going here?" she asked. Unconsciously, she touched the scars on her cheek and silently prayed that they would not meet any of the local wildlife. The raccoon was too much already.
The answer to Yaira's question came more quickly than she might have expected. Ritchie replied, "This far," as he pulled over to the shoulder. "And I wouldn't call myself weak just because I can't blow anything up ... I opt for the stealth end of the spectrum rather than the sheer destructive blatant force end. Anyway, shall we?"
Not giving Yaira a chance to answer, Giles added, "We shall. Let's go then."
Ritchie rolled his eyes as he pushed open the door, sarcastically mocking, "Yes, master," at Giles.
Yaira quickly stepped out of the car and immediately did a general scanning of her surroundings. Not entirely convinced of its safety, she walked around the area's border, performing the same sort of checks that she did six years ago. After a few minutes, she nodded and returned to Ritchie and Giles.
"Nothing here," she said, "so I think this place is suitably secluded."
Yaira then straightened up and crossed her arms.
"Do not attempt to play any tricks. Show me what you have, rat."
"Precisely what I intend to do," Giles replied, a look that could be construed as a devilish grin crossing his raccoon face. "I suppose we should begin with a demonstration. Ritchie, if you please? Seeing is believing."
The sound of the car's trunk closing abruptly permeated the quiet night air, and Ritchie came up from the road bearing the item he had retrieved from the trunk: a black spindly shape. "Okay, here we go, then ..."
He held the shape above his head.
"Leliel Angelus power, suit up!"
Immediately, a black mist rose from the ground to conceal him out of sight as Giles looked on proudly. "You haven't seen anything yet."
Yaira looked at the mist in stunned silence. This was making her even more convinced that this was all an elaborate prank, probably put on by some teens looking for a bit of amusement.
"All right, okay. Where is the hidden camera? This is that stupid show, right?" She looked at Giles with interest. "I wonder how they put the batteries in you. You are quite a realistic puppet!"
When no camera crew came out, when it continued, she grew a bit paranoid. Yaira became so stunned that she began to lose her grip of English. After stammering out a smattering of Hebrew, she was able to muster out a "What is going on?"
As Giles harrumphed at the battery comment, the mist faded away, mostly, leaving a shroud around Ritchie, who was fading back into view in a completely different outfit ... a rather odd-looking one, all told, that looked like it belonged on some science fiction character. As the mist receded, Ritchie's voice emanated from its depths.
"Well, it's hard to explain what's going on exactly, but suffice it to say that I transform like you just saw and now ..." He took a running jump and sprung over her head, landing behind her, as if to emphasize his point, "I have powers and stuff."
"And he's not the only one with powers 'and stuff,'" added Giles resolutely. "Now it's your turn. Are you ready?"
Yaira was still bewildered at this new information. It just didn't fit within the limits of her perfectly logical world.
"It still seems like a fantasy," she muttered.
She closed her eyes briefly and took a deep breath. When she exhaled, Yaira opened her eyes and nodded.
"I am ready. Tell me what I need to do."
Giles grinned broadly, as well as the raccoon face can manage it. This was easier than he had expected it to be.
"It's simple. First, you'll need this ..." The raccoon held up a paw and a small glinting object flashed into existence quite suddenly in the air just above it. Catching the coin in his paw, Giles flung it to Yaira.
"Catch that shekel. Things will probably start coming back to you once you have it, but just to refresh your memory, give that thing a toss and say - listen carefully now - 'Raphael Archangelus Power, Make Up!' You'll know what to do after that."
Yaira caught the shekel easily and gripped it. Suddenly, she had an urge to straighten up to her full height. These directions were rushing at her from the back of her subconscious, and she had the feeling that she had done this thousands of times before.
She flipped the coin in the air and called out, "Raphael Archangelus Power, Make Up!"
When the first cyclone picked up, she thrust her left hand up and took the coin, which now had a hole in the center, and placed it on her finger.
The second cyclone started when she knelt down, and after it disappeared, there was Sailor Raphael, in all magenta glory.
She opened her eyes, looked down, and groaned. "So ... why do I look like a disgruntled fairy turned soldier? And what else is there to this?"
Giles and Ritchie were too busy staring incredulously for a moment to reply. Finally, Ritchie began to applaud half-jokingly as Giles answered Yaira's question.v "Well, besides the fact that you'll now be able to pull of ridiculous acrobatic feats like that jump Ritchie did a minute ago, you'll also be able to use two special powers of your very own. Here, why don't you try one ..." Giles paused for a moment, searching his memory. "Here, why don't we use Ritchie as a guinea pig ..."
At this comment, Ritchie's eyes widened noticeably beneath his foggy shroud and he raised his objection. "Hang on just a minute here ..."
Giles, of course, was quick to interrupt. "Calm down and have a little faith, will you? I won't let her kill you or anything." Turning back to Yaira despite Ritchie's complaints, he nodded, having remembered now what he was wracking his brain for, and nodded towards Ritchie.
"You should remember now how to use a little maneuver called 'Final Breath' ... why don't you give it a try on our test subject, over there?" He expected that stating the name of the attack would jog her memory.
Yaira looked decidedly uncomfortable.
"I think that I do remember this," she said haltingly.
In an instant, she snapped to attention. Taking a moment to compose herself, she lunged forward on her left leg and linked her fingers together. When she pushed them above her head, she cried out "Final Breath!"
When she watched the vacuum form, that uncomfortable feeling rose again. Anticipating the worst, she stepped back and awaited the results.
Ritchie was taking a deep breath in anticipation of whatever was coming when he found, to his considerable dismay, that it was suddenly cut off. And he realized that he couldn't finish drawing the breath, however hard he tried. His eyes going wide, he shot a helpless look at Giles.
Giles, on the other hand, was not the least bit worried. In fact, he looked like he was ... smiling. "Ah, well done. Surprise often defeats the mightiest sword, remember that. Your enemies won't see it coming. At least ..." here he looked up at Ritchie again and pointed a paw at him, " ... he didn't."
Ritchie, meanwhile, was busily freaking out. In silence, of course, since no airflow equals no noise, but freaking out nonetheless.
Yaira watched the scene with a tiny smile of amusement. It was ... satisfying to see an "enemy" captured. She was still confused and more than a bit wary, but she had the feeling that she was going to enjoy this. Even if she had to dress like a fairy turned Rambo.
As she watched Ritchie struggle, however, she began to grow concerned. "Eh ... rat?" she asked. "How long does this last? He does not look very well."
As if in response, Ritchie, now on his knees, suddenly drew a deep, gulping breath and spent a few seconds hyperventilating as his body attempted to bring its oxygen levels back up to par.
Giles looked up at Yaira and answered her question. "I'd say about that long."
"Okay! Great." Yaira smacked her hands on her knees. "Now that I have been shown this, can we get the hell out of here? This place gives me the creeps."
She then glanced down and saw magenta. "But, ah, before that ... how do I get out of this thing?"
"Simple," replied Giles, "just imagine yourself in your civilian form. Picture yourself the way you previously were, and you'll change right back."
By now, Ritchie had caught his breath and nodded in agreement with Giles. "Here, let me demonstrate." He closed his eyes for a moment, envisioning his normal self, and the fuku melted away, leaving him back in his civilian clothes. He blinked a few times, having forgotten momentarily that it was indeed dark out.
"And while you're trying it, I will kill the raccoon." He was still bitter at being made into a guinea pig.
Shrugging, Yaira closed her eyes and blurred for a moment, and then she was back in her jeans.
"That is interesting. And I approve of your intention to kill the rat, but I do not believe he would be amused." Feeling a bit childish, she stuck her tongue out at Giles.
"Fantastic. Let's go back, and do you know where a good bar is? I need a rather strong drink after this."
Having decided in an instance of mercy to not murder Giles after all, Ritchie merely shrugged in reply to Yaira's question as he took a few steps back towards the car.
"Well, I'm not old enough to drink, but I have played in a few bars so I could probably take you to a decent one."v "You only have to be 18 to drink in Israel. It was very fun at the clubs after I turned 18!" she grinned.
She followed him back to the car. "But I'll probably end up stopping at a store, anyway. And aren't you going to kill the rat?"
Ritchie looked down at Giles, who was tagging along, and shook his head. "Nah ... I think he's more useful alive. Barely. Although he probably would make a nice hat." Ritchie stifled a laugh as Giles growled at him. Reaching the car, he unlocked the doors and opened the passenger door for Yaira. Giles took the opportunity to hop into the back seat.
Yaira was a bit confused as she climbed into the car, but that was to be expected. Suddenly, she got the joke.
"Ah! Like Davy Crockett! You want to go out and shoot at animals with a rat cap on your head?" She settled back for the ride into town. "Interesting."
Ritchie shrugged as he closed the door behind her. After crossing around, opening the door, and climbing into the driver's seat, he elaborated.
"Well, I'm not particularly interested in doing any shooting ... no, if I were to make him into a hat, I'd probably sell him."
Giles, of course, felt the need to interrupt. "Excuse me," he said with mocking courtesy, "would it be possible to discuss a different topic of conversation?"
"Hmmm ... no." Yaira teased. "I am being educated on American culture! Even though I have lived in the states for four years now." She leaned back and sighed. "I will never understand the obsession with wild frontiers and bad pop singers, though. Of course, you would think that our singers sounded awful too."
She thought about that for a second. "Perhaps that is why techno music is so popular?"
"Well," replied Ritchie as he pulled onto the street, giving a mock shudder at the mention of techno music, "I can't vouch for my culture. Frankly, I don't much understand it myself. But then, again, I was born into it, so I guess I don't really have a choice but to accept it for what it is."
Giles made a dismissive 'pfft' sound from the back seat.
"I don't think ... I would have liked it so much," Yaira said slowly. "Here, I am having problems finding kosher food that tastes good!" She grinned. "Most of the food comes from European recipes, and since I am Israeli, I like Middle Eastern food." She stopped, realizing that she was talking a bit too much. She did, however, have one more question. "I am sorry, but is there any good Middle Eastern restaurant in this area? I am a bit homesick."
Ritchie thought for a moment. "I might know a place," he decided, taking a right turn towards an area on the edge of downtown.
"They carry all kinds of Middle Eastern cuisine, though it can be a bit pricey if you're not careful about what you order."
Giles, from the back seat, made several grumpy 'hmph' noises.
Obviously, he wasn't fond of the time-consuming detour. When they reached the restaurant, Yaira had an idea. "Hey," she said, "Why don't we check it out? My treat, and I know what's all the good stuff." She grinned. "Consider it bonding time or something like that."
"Sounds like a plan!" came Ritchie's enthusiastic reply, "After all, we have to celebrate your awakening somehow, right?"
He maneuvered through Roanoke's streets towards the restaurant, the occasional sharp turn sending Giles tumbling back and forth in the back seat.
Yaira noticed Giles scrambling around in the back seat and laughed. "Your rodent friend would never survive the drivers in Israel. No speed limits in some areas, and a group of teenagers with a car was to see how fast we could go was an adventure in itself."
She smiled at the thought of the weekends spent careening around the city. The sudden thought of the food made her homesick.
"Anyway. Good food and a night with my lab reports. It will be quite exciting."
Ritchie couldn't help but snicker at her comment. Science had never been his friend. "The food I can agree with, but you're some piece of work if you find lab reports exciting," he said, a bit of mirth playing across his eyes as he spoke.
The restaurant fast approaching, Ritchie slowed down in anticipation of parking just ahead.
Yaira laughed. "They're fun if you like what you're working with." She waited until they parked. "Come on. Let's go eat something. I'm starved!"
"Ditto," replied Ritchie enthusiastically. He was feeling quite starved himself. "I'll get the door."