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Okay, so as yet I only have one piece of fanfic up here - my own. But if you like it and want to see yours up here then mail me!

'Angel's Medley'

Love

Force of death and birth

Still lies naked when next to the truth

So spins the earth

- KD Lang, Tears of Love's Recall

Sydney was in the middle of organising her kitchen when Oliver entered. Duncan was perched on the kitchen worktop, watching her as she straightened one of the many family pictures that hung from her wall.

"You know, I remember when that was taken."

She paused in her work, fingertips grazing the photoframe glass gently. "When?" Although she could remember it as though it were yesterday.

"We were in the garden, playing at Greek Gods. And Samantha was Helen of Troy, and you . . ."

"Let me guess. Prometheus."

Duncan turned, and glared at the figure who stood in the doorway. "Wrong myth."

Oliver shrugged. "Whatever." He dumped a sheath of papers onto the worktop beside Duncan. "You've got another case." He glanced meaningfully at Duncan, who scowled, but obediently slid off the benchtop and disappeared though the window.

"What is it?"

He tapped the folder with one elegant finger. "Matthew Willis. Works as an aide to the Ambassador to Britain. It appears he's been . . . a little less than confidential about certain information. Certain files appear to have been copied - from an inside source."

She glanced at him. "Why not just arrest him?"

"Come now Sydney, you know us better than that. Besides, we haven't any proof, not yet. That's what your job is. We want to know what files he has, and what he intends to do with them."

She turned, suddenly, to face him. "Why?"

"You know I can't answer that - so why ask?" He turned, began walking towards the door. Then he paused. "Sydney, no messing about on this one. Just go in there, find out what we need to know, and then get out."

"Where should I take him?"

"That's up to you. I'll call you when I want the results." Then he was gone, before she could ask any more. But that was always the way.

Duncan appeared at the window, one hand on the frame as he slipped back into the kitchen. "Such a warm man" he muttered. "So who is this guy?"

"I don't know." She glanced at the file, but when she made no attempt to open it Duncan took the initiative and removed the first sheet.

"Woah. They've given you a lot of info here Sid - this guy must really be important. Name, age, education . . . hell, even a picture of his house!"

"I wonder what they want."

"You'll find out. Maybe he knows something about a conspiracy - you know, like those FBI cover-ups. Like Watergate . . ."

She picked up the second sheet, then walked into the other room, pulling back the curtain that hid her computer. "I won't be long."

"No." He handed her the piece of paper, then returned to the window. "I'll just . . . um, you know." But she was already tapping into the computer, lost amidst it's programming. "Yeah, well. I'll be off then."

Beach.

Sydney stared at the programmed scenery, then pushed down the VR goggles and picked up the phone. Dialled the number, then listened.

"Hello?" A male voice.

"Hi." Her voice sounded hesitant, nervous. "Is that Mr Willis?"

"Yes - who . . ."

She slammed down the receiver.

She was on beach, just as she knew she would be. Dressed in a black swimsuit, a tie-died purple sarong wrapped around her waist. A man stood at the other end of the beach, dressed in a simple brown suit, staring out into the sea. Matthew Willis. Six foot two, soft brown hair, hazel eyes. Gaze fixed on a point beyond the horizon. Slowly she walked up to him, enjoying the feel of sand against her bare feet. A foot away, she reached out, and touched his shoulder.

"Mr Willis?"

"Sydney?"

She stifled a gasp as he turned, managed to change it into a smile. "You know my name."

"Yes. He frowned, causing ripples across the ocean surface. "I don't know you, though. How . . ?"

"This is a dream." She took his hand, pulled his gaze away from the ocean. "I need to talk to you."

"Who sent you?"

She hesitated. "Someone . . . your government. They think you copied papers, official documents. They sent me to find out why."

The scenery changed dramatically. Physically, the cliffs, sand and water remained the same, but the waves no longer brushed the shore, the breeze had turned chilly. Colours had sharpened, focused. His features had suddenly become more shadowed, dominating. "And they sent you?"

"Yes." She felt inadequate, inferior.

"And they thought I'd just tell you? Just like that?"

She studied the sand between her toes. "I don't know."

"Matthew! Matthew, there you are!"

A woman was running across the beach together, long, copper hair swept behind in the wind. Running, but she didn't seem to be getting any closer, as though perception had been distorted.

"Erin?" His eyes widened, and he broke away from Sydney's grasp, began to run towards her.

"I was worried. They said there'd been an accident."

"It's alright," he cried, "I'm here now. I'm here for you -" He reached out to take her into his arms, but upon his touch she dissolved into thin air, only the gentle timbre of her voice still hanging in the air. "Erin -" Again he turned back to Sydney.

"What is this? Where did my wife come from?"

"I don't know . . ."

He took her by the shoulders, shook her violently. "What is this place? Not a dream - too real to be a dream. Who are you?"

The words came to her lips from somewhere other than her mind. "I don't know . . ."

A gasp.

Pulling off the goggles, Sydney stared for a moment at her computer, and at the simple display which indicated VR was over. "He has a wife . . ." Dead. She wasn't sure how she knew - just a remnant of his consciousness lingering after the link-up was over. Erin. Swapping to another one of her many screens, she began a net search for any information regarding Erin Willis.

Six items found. Scan all?

Tapping enter, she watched the screens fill with information about Erin Willis. The first four pieces seemed to be irrelevant, about Erin Willis's long dead. But the others . . .

A small piece. Just a notice in the 'announcements' section of a local newspaper. 'Erin Willis, married Matthew Willis. Died 8th August, 1989, due to unfortunate circumstances.'

She frowned, then turned to the second piece. Another newspaper article, from the same paper. 'Erin Willis, wife of respected diplomat Matthew Willis and local resident, died yesterday in a state hospital after becoming the latest victim of a hit and run. The driver was speeding down Stateside main road when the unfortunate victim stepped out from between two parked cars. As yet there have been no leads as to the perpetrators identity. The late Mrs Willis was known for her in depth theories in electronics and computer research, and though only an inhabitant of Stateside for a short number of years, will be greatly missed by all who knew her.' And there was a picture of her above it, of the same woman who had appeared on the beach.

Switching off her machine, she considered the dark space for a moment, trying to remember what little she could of the man in her 'dream.' In VR she seemed to connect with him more than she had any other. As though their conscience was not only shared, but had merged. And he had called her by her name.

"Well?"

Duncan was perched once more on the kitchen worksurface, legs swinging over the side. "So what happened?" he persisted.

"Nothing." Sydney bent down and opened the fridge, searching for something more edible than tomato juice. Locating a bag of slightly soggy potato chips, she pulled them out then returned to the surface beside Duncan. "He has - had, a wife. She was a victim of a hit and run."

"Woah. Was this recent?"

"No . . . but he feels guilty."

"About what? Her death?"

"Maybe. But it's more than that. If I can figure it out . . ."

"You're obviously not paying attention to Oliver then."

She glanced at him. "What?"

Reaching over, he took a handful of her chips. "He told you not to get involved. Just to get the information and get out, remember?"

"I can't. Every time I go in there, it's like I'm seeing into the other person's mind. And the death is important - it links together, somehow."

"How can you even know that? You still have no idea what information he's copied from this diplomat. What happens when Oliver calls?" He paused, considering something thoughtfully. "Hey, listen to me. I'm being the responsible one for a change."

She got up and dumped the potato chips into his lap. "I'm going back in."

"So soon?" He shrugged. "Alright, I guess you know best."

She returned to her chair at the computers, and started programming another scene. This time, in a bar. A restaurant, overlooking the sea.

It was not quite what she planned. But then, rarely did things turn out the way she wanted them to.

He was sat on his own, at one of the tables overlooking the harbour. A half-empty glass of wine stood by his elbow, but he seemed to have forgotten it, in the depths of his thoughts.

Sydney walked up to the table with much more grace than she could muster in reality, this time dressed in a slim, low cut red evening dress, her hair falling to one side in soft ringlets. "Hello." A sultry voice, not her own.

"You again." He did not look up at her. "What do you want?"

"Where are the files?"

"Everywhere. You just need to know where to look for them."

She took the other seat at the table. "What are they?"

"You mean they haven't told you? No, they wouldn't. You know where I work, don't you?"

"A diplomat."

"More like a secretary. I deal with all the Ambassador's accountants, his appointments and his personal life. His PR."

"And these files - are they diplomatic files?"

"You couldn't imagine."

She took his hand gently. "Why are you doing this?"

"What? Copying files? If you'd read them, you'd know."

Another feeling, as indistinct as the last. "You're angry. You want revenge, and something else . . . your wife?"

He pulled away. "This has nothing to do with her."

"She died, didn't she."

Again the scenery changed, put this time to a more obvious setting. A hospital room, and a bed, draped with drips and painkillers, machines monitoring the patient's heartbeat and breathing rate. And the patient was Erin Willis, but a paler, more drawn version. Hollow cheeks, and dark shadows beneath her eyes. This time it was she who was clear, in focus, and it was Matthew and Sydney who were indistinct.

"What happened?"

"You know. Hit and run."

A nurse entered the room, and began adjusting the various needles plugged into the woman's body. As she did so, the woman stirred, began whispering hidden words that only the nurse, by bending down and placing her ear against the patient's mouth, could hear.

"She's asking for me."

"Who?"

The nurse was shaking her head, then turned to leave the room. Just as the heart monitor ran clear, and the body in the bed lay still. One hand slipped form the covers and hung, alone and pale in the dim light. The nurse screamed, and ran from the room, but Sydney and Willis had already returned to the restaurant, now two chairs and a table on the shore.

"I'm sorry." Her hand was once more on his, but he did not pull away.

"She never knew. They told her that they were unable to call me, that I was still out of the country on business. They lied to her. But I'd promised her - she asked them time and time again, but they still wouldn't let me go."

"Who? Who wouldn't?"

"The people she worked for."

"And that's why you stole the papers?"

"I didn't steal them. I copied them - I have so many copies. Information, names, things they wouldn't want released to the general public." He turned, to gaze into her face with liquid eyes. "You know. You know who they are."

The answer was there - but she couldn't find it, not yet. "I don't know" she confessed.

"Daddy!"

Hands, reaching out to her. Water, filling her ears, her lungs, but she barely noticed past the fear. She could see Samantha, teddy, forgotten, floating to the top of the car. A remnant of lost childhood.

Banging on the windows, so hard she could feel the bone bruise. Grabbing the handle and pulling, watching the window slowly, unbearably slowly, open up a small crack, just enough to wriggle out of. But she was leaving them - and didn't care. Only wanted to get to the surface to pure air. She wanted to breathe again . . .

Another gasp. They were standing alone on the beach now, holding each other, consumed by each other's grief. He knew, more than she herself knew, and he understood.

"I'm sorry." They were speaking in unison, trying to comfort the other, and knowing they could never hope to alleviate the pain.

"She was your wife . . ."

"Your father. Your sister."

"Your lover."

"Your twin."

"Your soul mate." Again, in unison, because they knew.

"Who are you, Sydney Bloom?"

"Who are we?"

And he reached up, slowly, and stroked her face gently, Pulled her towards him, and their lips touched ever so gently . . .

On to Chapter Two