It paid to be responsible. At 16, Katrina felt very responsible now. Rather than begging, whining, and pleading to get something she wanted, which she totally hadn't done at all since she was at least like 10, she had organized all the necessary information ahead of time, planned every angle, and anticipated every question. She had flight times, itineraries, phone numbers, separate hotel rooms, round the clock security guards guarding said hotel rooms all night long, proof that the country was stable again, it was an educational opportunity of a lifetime, and she wasn't even missing any school.

Her mother had a hard time finding any reason not let her go. After a thorough grilling, for which Katrina had completely prepared every answer, Claire Dumonde had consented.

“Call me every single day,” she made Katrina promise. They would work out the time differences. She'd get a prepaid international calling card. She promised, she promised, she promised.

Katrina was going to Egypt with Slate!

Slate was technically twenty-one years old (and very nearly five). Therefore, he felt obligated to be the responsible party in this excursion. Using experience hard-won from his years as both Kabal Leader and Mondragon Labs CEO, he delegated with great efficiency.

Noin Mortman, of course, was charged with procuring their airplane tickets and forwarding the e-confirmation to his Blackberry.

Emile Verhulst and the other Belgian grad students, already on the ground, were tasked with securing adjacent hotel rooms in a reputable establishment. As opposed to the sort of establishment that grad students who had already blown their money on plane tickets might prefer.

To Katrina, of course, were left all other details. He had signed off on her itinerary before boarding the plane.

So it was that Slate soon found himself walking the Khan El Khalilli Bazaar (after some thought, he bought a small cat statue for Calley, and a small satchel for himself, to carry such things as small cat statues), boarding a bus to the Giza Pyramids (it was quite stifling inside them, but also quite fascinating, if one was not bothered by being entombed alive in a literal sense), and pursuing the collection at the Egyptian Museum (whose main exhibit—King Tut—was, for whatever reason, currently in… Minnesota. Still, they bought a nice postcard for Katrina’s mother).

The main event, of course—the very reason they were here—was today. Friday. A day that had, in recent months, become a traditional time for protestors to flock to Tahrir Square.

Emile’s elbow was on Slate’s shoulder. It was rather hard to dislodge, once it had settled there. “Twitter! Facebook! Social media! What did I tell you, Swartzy, eh? This is how our generation runs a revolution.”

“…What was that?” Slate blinked up from his Blackberry, where he had been updating his Facebook status. Emile smiled fondly down at him.

“I am so happy with you, I could cry. Isn’t he just precious when he uses modern technology, Katty?”

Going to Tahrir Square in Cairo. Term paper for Modern History: on hiatus.

He had three “likes” before they finished crossing the street. He did not post, of course, that he’d brought one of his smaller text books there with him. It was in his satchel from the bazaar. His grade in Modern History was something he was not fond of discussing, recently. The paper was about World War I. He would have preferred something about South America. And… more during his lifespan. World War I did not strike him as particularly “modern.”

Tahrir Square was a bustling place on Friday afternoons. Yes, the government had already been successfully overthrown, months ago, but the people of Egypt seemed intent on making sure that the interim government did not forget their demands.

“With our soul and with our blood,” they chanted, “we redeem this revolution!”

Katrina could only understand what they said because of the 'dragon-speak' gems Slate had shared with her for the trip. It was really quite remarkable, to be able to hear every word of a foreign language as if it were her own native language.

Slate's friends spoke in a smoother, silkier language where all the syllables flowed into each other, and yet, it still sounded like English to her ears. It was prettier English than that of the protesters and prettier English than her own.

She nodded at the one that addressed her, though couldn't help but think that he was being a little patronizing. As a sixteen year old girl, she was allowed to think that Slate was 'cute' or even 'precious', but the male college student from a fancy Belgian school was kind of pushing it, in her opinion. Even if he did have a girly name.

By way of revenge against the Belgian-boy, she pulled Slate's techno-phone out of his hand and slipped it into her own pocket. “You're going to miss all the excitement,” she protested, replacing the empty spot in his hand with her own hand so she could pull him along. “I think someone is going to give a speech over here.”

Unfortunately, someone else had the same idea she had. The gap between people that had been open just a moment ago was suddenly filled with a dark skinned boy about her age. Katrina had just enough time to see that he had a really awful bowl haircut and a candlestick in his hand before she ran right into him.

Like a domino, he fell. He fell right into a tall skinny protester. The tall skinny protester dropped his sign. The sign, which had read “Justice now,” currently had some else's head poking through the center of “justice”. The someone else's head was attached to a burly well muscled body and wore a very displeased face.

Suddenly Katrina felt very conspicuous, what with being one of the only white girl in the crowd. The multiple fingers pointing at her didn't help, either.

The boy-who-had-appeared also looked fairly guilty, what with his suddenly running away. Not that there was very many places to run, in a crowded square where people were pressed right up against each other.

That same wall of people that trapped Katrina, Slate, and the candlestick boy currently kept Mr. McAngryface several feet away from them, but with his large and intimidating size, those people that were between them wouldn't be willing to stand there for very long.

O.o

Though Katrina’s hand was approximately the same size as his Blackberry, it lacked some of its functionality. It did not have wifi, nor texting; there was no browsing to any sites what-so-ever. It did, however, allow for status updates. As they twined their way through the crowd, her hand cheerfully tugged his along.

As she bumped into the dark-skinned boy with the curious hair cut and accessories, the hand tightened briefly. Surprise, he interpreted, after a glance down at it.

It continued to tighten. Slate blinked, idly wondering what the blood flow rate to his fingers now was. As the initial surprise should be past, he was not entirely certain what had trig—

Ah. Looking up provided clarification. Large, muscular clarification, which was attempting to push itself through cracks in the crowd significantly smaller than its biceps. Unsurprisingly, it was succeeding.

Slate found his own hand squeezing back. It seemed appropriate.

Next to them, the dark-skinned boy had found their side of the crowd a bit less willing to yield. He looked panicked for a moment. Then… somehow smug.

—just a jump, and I’m gone, suckers—

Slate caught, by way of thoughts spoken far too loudly. The boy furtively set his candlestick down as the man continued to push towards them. Slate allowed his grip to relax, and then gave Katrina’s hand a small squeeze.

I believe the candlestick boy is some sort of teleporter, he informed her. I advise us going with him.

The man burst through the crowd. Was it too late to upgrade to ‘strongly advise’? Yes, Slate decided. Instead, he grabbed for the boy’s arm as he made his just a jump. The crowd flickered and disappeared; a moment of darkness; then touch and sight and smell flared up again. Around them, a crowd still held signs and chanted, but any and all men with muscles were not paying attention to them. The other side of the Square? Very convenient.

The boy shot them a dirty look, picked up his candle, and ran off.

“Well,” Slate stated, “that was—”

Pain lanced through his head. It was quite an intriguing phenomenon, actually, as if a hollow had just opened up in his skull. With nothing better to fill it, the pain graciously stepped in.

Were his knees on the ground? How odd. He didn’t remember—

Slate’s hand briefly tightened around Katrina’s; then it slid loose.

Those were cobblestones against his cheek. Very curious.

Teleporter? That would be useful right about...

Katrina felt a brief pull inward, like she was a black hole collapsing in on herself, then suddenly it was gone. The crowd, having faded, came suddenly back into sharp focus with colors that seemed brighter than even possible after the jump.

...now.

The boy with the candlestick ran off into the crowd; the last Katrina saw of him he was disappearing between a pair of well pressed striped trousers and a rather grungy pair of work overalls. Good riddance. If he hadn't teleported right in front of her, for she was becoming increasingly convinced that that was what had happened, none of this would have happened.

It was about then that Slate collapsed, banishing any and all thoughts about the mysterious boy.

“Slate?” She knelt next to him, checking for consciousness, breathing, and pulse. His eyes fluttered open next to the cobblestones. The very rough and uneven cobblestones. “Slate!”

A shadow fell over her, and for a moment Katrina was afraid that it was the burly angry guy from across the square. It wasn't, this man, or boy rather, for he was barely older than herself, was actually quite a bit smaller. And quite a bit less Egyptian.

The boy also looked concerned, rather than angry. “Are you alright?”

Katrina shrugged when Slate didn't answer right away for himself. She really hoped he would be alright. She hadn't figured out a contingency plan in case they needed medical attention while they were on their trip. Stupid, stupid.

“He's probably got heatstroke. It's really hot today, it's not uncommon for people to get dehydrated if they forget to drink water. Let's see if we can get him into some shade.”

She nodded. Maybe that's really all it was. She had to admit, it was rather hot. She hadn't even noticed how humid it was until now.

He could tell the woman was not happy with him. This seemed strange, since the woman did not know him. At least, he did not know her voice.

“—complete strangers, Gavrilo. You let complete strangers into our apartment—”

“No no, not complete strangers—protestors! Young Bosnians, like us! The girl’s friend, he just got a little sick in the sun. He’ll be fine soon.”

“That girl, she’d dressed like a— I won’t even say it. They will be out by tonight?”

“Of course, of course.”

“…I am going to the store. We need groceries for dinner.”

“Buy enough for four, would you? In case they stay for dinner.”

“…You’re impossible. All right: dinner for four.”

“And the girl can borrow one of your dresses?”

“Oh, so you’re asking now? Yes, Gavrilo, she can. But tonight--!”

“They’ll be out, they’ll be out. It’s not like they’re homeless.”

A door shut, in another room close by. Slate’s eyes opened slowly. He seemed to be on a couch, that was slightly smaller in length than he was. On the floor across the room was a handmade sign; Unity for all Yugoslavs. It did not seem particularly catchy, compared to other signs they had seen today.

Slate pushed himself up, slowly. He did not see Katrina in the room. And his head hurt.

“Ah, friend! Good to see you awake. Are you feeling any better?” This would be the owner of the second voice. The one that was not female, and did not dislike him. Slate blinked at the young man.

“I am conscious.”

“Ha! That you are.” The young man seemed to find this statement very funny. He seemed somewhere between Katrina’s age and Slate’s own—the age Slate looked, in any case. He was wearing a fairly nice shirt, and a pair of trousers. It seemed rather dressy, compared to the jeans and T-shirts most protestors seemed to favor. Slate himself was in his usual khaki slacks and button-up shirt, but he was generally not a representative sample of the surrounding population.

Slate rubbed at his temple. “If I may ask, where am I?”

“You may ask, and your answer: my apartment.”

“Are we near Tahrir Square still?” The young man’s puzzled but pleasant smile persisted. “Cairo,” Slate elaborated, as the silence stretched on too long. “…Egypt?”

“Egypt? Ha! You must have had an interesting dream, friend. No; we are still in Serbia. What’s your name?”

“Slate. Slate Swartz.”

The man stuck out his hand. “Well, Slate, Slate Swartz, I am Gavrilo. Gavrilo Princip.”

Slate took the hand, and shook it. Serbia.

Ah.

Maybe it was the complexity of the multilayered suit-dress thing that the angry girl had thrown at her before storming out of the apartment and leaving Katrina to figure out the layers of ruffles on her own.

Maybe it was the combination of really really old cars and horse drawn trucks that clogged the busy street when they stepped outside.

Maybe it was the fact that everyone looked like that had just stepped out of a really old black and white silent movie, except for the fact that they were anything but colorless and soundless.

By the time they reached the bank, Katrina was beginning to suspect that she would not be using the ATM to withdraw the correct type of currency to procure a room for the night.

Gavrilo stood back, politely letting her approach the teller on her own. The woman looked down her long nose at Katrina, peering over her glasses as if she already suspected the girl of some kind of wrong doing. Katrina smoothed her skirt, suddenly afraid she had arranged it incorrectly.

“I'd like to exchange some money, if possible. I have twenty US dollars.”

The woman looked at her bill, then looked silently back to Katrina with an eyebrow raised.

“I also have Egyptian pounds. Could I change some of these, too?” She slid a 100 pound note across the counter.

The woman frowned at the two different notes in her hands.

“So how much are they worth?” The blonde teen had high hopes in her voice.

The woman finally sighed. “They aren't worth anything. You think I don't know what a US dollar looks like? This is play money, worth nothing.”

Katrina's mouth opened, then closed again without actually making a sound.

“Now,” continued the teller, “I suggest you stop playing games and leave this bank at once before I alert the authorities that you are trying to pass off counterfeit money.”

Katrina turned away, marching past Gavrilo without a word, hoping he wouldn't see the tears that were starting to form in her eyes.

Dinner was a slightly rough. Slate picked up on this. It was only later, as he stared up an unfamiliar ceiling with a pounding head and tried to sleep, that a simple fact occurred to him: if dinner was rough, and he had picked up on it, then it must have been catastrophic in Katrina’s eyes.

The woman had not said anything to them. But she’d had a certain way of clicking her knife and fork as she cut that silenced anything that anyone else said. When Gavrilo offered them the use of his couch and floor for the night (he apologized, but they had no spare bed—) she stated that she would be spending the night at her sister’s. She then took the plates, and went to the kitchen to wash them.

Slate had still been eating from his.

He would rather not have attended dinner at all. It was not important. Likewise, he did not think that an early bedtime for himself was at all appropriate. The word ‘wobbly’ may have been applied to his situation, but that was likewise unimportant.

The important thing was finding the teleporter. Before he left. It was inconceivable that he would simply drop them here and leave, of course. In Serbia. In 1913. It was—

They would find him. That was the important thing.

Teleporter, Slate tried, while sitting down. (He was not wobbly. A former Faction Leader, a Colombian drug lord, was never to be classified as wobbly.)

Teleporter, he continued, attempting to sound… loud? Did one increase one’s range by shouting? Why had he not given more practice to this?

Likely because of his Blackberry. It got better reception than he did.

Teleporter.

Get out of my head—!

This should have been reassuring. It was. That last syllable, it had not been oddly shortened, as if cut off. Slate had reached him. That was the important thing.

Teleporter, we require your assistance in returning to—

…Teleporter?

Slate slept on the floor. Katrina, of course, got the couch.

She stood at the center of a circle, divided into three parts by golden lines inlaid between three colors of stone. Pale white cobblestone, uneven red brick, and dark grey cement. The people who filled the circle didn't even seem to notice the divisions, even when they stepped across the metallic border and their faces changed from round Chinese, to pale and angular Serbian, to dark and dramatic Egyptian, and back again. They were too busy waving their protest signs, shouting their disagreement with what their leaders were telling them.

The three leaders stood at their three podiums. One had an eyepatch and tried to convince the his people that what he was doing was morally correct. Another, a blonde woman, used another approach; convincing her followers that they were superior and ought to band together for mutual support. A third, a boy with brown hair and blue eyes seemed at a loss for words, like he had already said everything he needed or wanted to say and it hadn't been enough for the throngs of protesters.

They were walking all over his circle. It was really quite upsetting. The blue-eyed young man stepped down from his own podium, and caught an Eyptian’s arm. “Stay within the lines,” he instructed reasonably. “You are smudging—”

The man crossed a division, and it was no longer either a man or an Egyptian whose arm he grasped: it was a boy, and he held a candlestick. From the podium, the man with the eye patch waved at him to come over, but Slate did not have time. This was important. “If you simply do as I say, everything will be perfect—“

The boy gave him an irate look, and tried to shake him off. Slate kept his grip as they jumped—into the next partition, where it was a Chinese man’s arm he held. He was old, or circumstances had made him so: his somber, trusting eyes were sunken into his face. “I did what you said. Am I perfect now?”

Slate recoiled. Red. This part of the circle was all red. Red bloomed over the man’s heart; he fell to his knees, at Slate’s feet. Now Slate could see behind him, to the podium.

The blonde woman smiled, and beckoned him as the man with the eye patch had. She wore a tank top; she smelled of burning. She stretched her arms out at him: and behind her, he spied another blonde. Shorter, younger.

Sisterfriendsupporterwife—

“Katrina!” He shouted, running to take her hand as above them, the other blonde rose in the air as a crimson dragon, her outstretched arms becoming sulfur wings that smelled of burning and destruction.

死龍

The Death Dragon.

She heard her name, turned toward the speaker in time to see a curtain of flames rise up between them. A hand reached toward her, but was lost behind the hot, flickering wall. The gold and red flames were made of scales and rose up and up into the sky, dragging a serpentine tail behind. Once it was farther away it was easier to see it for what it was: a dragon.

The great beast turned its head toward the crowd below and roared. A hundred chalkboards screamed under a hundred thousand nails, the sound of one single wyrm putting a chorus of demons to shame. It's breath steamed when it hit the air, but no flames cam out of its mouth. All the flames were at the tail, eating their way up, turning the beast black inch by inch, and once it was blackened started to unravel it. Tiny threads fell, spinning on their way down through the air.

When the blackness reached the wings, the dragon stopped rising. Even from far below Katrina thought she could see fear in its eyes and somehow she knew it was going to fall.

Her eyes widened and she glanced back down. The people in the circle kept waving their signs and chanting, completely oblivious to the danger they were in. She tired to move towards them, but the flame wall had been replaced with thick black threads where they piled as they fell from above. She opened her mouth to yell, to warn someone, anyone.

“Slate!”

There in front of her, just out of reach behind the threads.

“They all have to move!”

They all have to move.

But how? Despite the dragon, despite the flames, despite the black threads falling, the protestors marched on. They were too focused to see what was happening all around them.

And they were not listening to him.

“Everyone, you must— It is imperative that you—”

Laughter. He could hear laughter, from—where? He turned his head, but it was gone.

The protestors marched on, their chants drowning him out. Slate pushed his way forward, and grabbed the black thread. Pulled. It came slowly, heavier than death, but it came. Another pair of arms joined his: the Chineseman, still covered in blood. Then another: the Egyptian. The man with the eye patch, and more: they pulled it together, and more joined in, until they were a circle within the circle. They dragged the black thread outwards, and it shoved back any who were in their way.

They all have to move.

And they did, whether they helped him or not. Finally there was nothing left in the old circle but a dragon screeching above, and the blonde girl, below. Slate gathered himself, and leapt inside the black circle.

The gray wolfhound stood in front of her, its paws braced as the dragon came crashing down. It hit the empty space, and shattered into ash and white bone.

“I will always protect you,” the wolfhound said, muzzle tipped up, baby blue eyes looking up into the blonde’s.

The laughter returned.

“Right,” the boy with the candlestick said, sitting on the black thread the others still held. “Past and future. We’ll see how well that works.” He laughed again: then with a hop off the thread, he was gone.

The wolfhound turned its muzzle to the dragon’s skeleton. I can’t heal death, he remembered. And something else. Something important. Something that walked and talked every day, but was no longer there with him. Its snout swung in the darkness, searching for Katrina—

But he did not find her, before he awoke.

It was dark. His head hurt. They were stuck here.

He did not know how to make that better.

The wolfhound jumped to her rescue, pushing her out of the way. As the dragon fell, she fell too. Fell and fell and...

She landed on the couch, or startled so badly that it felt like she landed. She knew she was awake, but part of her still felt like she was in the dream. She brushed at her arms where phantom threads still felt like they tickled... and was alarmed to actually feel them beneath her finger tips.

Darker black in the darkness, the threads still clung to her. She brushed again, then shook her arms quickly and more frantically to get them off. This was real, she was awake, these threads shouldn't be here. Panicking now, her thrashing threatened to disturb anyone laying next to her or possibly hit them if they weren't careful about sitting up.

Slate was not careful about sitting up.

“Oww. Katrina, are you all right?”

It was hard to see in the dark—the only light came in from around a window curtain’s edge, across the room. However, there seemed to be an unusual level of movement coming from her vicinity. As his forehead could attest.

“You are not feeling ill as well, are you?”

His head hurt more now. He could not imagine why.

Slate's voice sounded so real and solid. Katrina reached for it in the darkness, finding his face with gentler hands this time. The threads were heavy on her arms, making it hard to hold them out for long. She slid off the couch onto the floor next to him, dragging them along with her. They pooled beneath her like a horrible spidery dress.

“The black threads,” she whispered, “I had a dream about them and now they won't go away. See?” She held up one of the threads for his inspection.