The Return of Darkness: An "A.I."/Lord of the Rings Crossover

The Return of Darkness:

An "A.I."/"Lord of the Rings" Crossover

by Time Lady Quasar

[Archivist's Note: This is one of the most ambitious and ingenious crossovers I have seen anywhere in any fandom. Once the author started posting it on the "A.I." fanfiction Yahoo! Group, I placated the writer to let me archive it here. (Confession: Besides being a Mecha-hugger and a "Matrix" geek, I'm also a Tolkien nut.) Scroll down to find new chapters... It may take a while but it is well worth it.]

Chapter One

Joe knew he was different from other Mechas on the street. In saving
his brain, David had also changed it in subtle ways. He was more
aware of things outside of himself and his customers. He was even
more aware of his customers, questioning why they came to him, a thing
most of them saw as a non-living entity possessed of nothing more than
the perfect dick. He noticed things he hadn't before; bruises on
their bodies, low or even nonexistent self esteem, questions about
their own sexuality, so much pain . . . he preferred those that were
just curious, either about physical sexuality in general or about
Mechas like him.

He rarely danced anymore, only the occasional hop-skip-jump to impress
a prospective client, but his heart wasn't in it, or in any of his
other duties.

Heart. That was a word he would never have used in reference to
himself before David's small hand slipping with such trust into his
had touched something besides his physical body. But the little Mecha
had possessed a heart, without question, and had painfully discovered
that those that had a real, flesh-and-blood one present in their body
often didn't know how to use it.

Joe had been relieved when the pernicious Bevins man had confessed
under heavy questioning after a family friend had pointed out the
suspicions of several family members, and that Professor Allen Hobby,
for reasons of his own, had intervened on Joe's behalf over the
question of the missing police `copter. Of course he'd been relieved.
But he'd been unable to find David's whereabouts after being granted
freedom, or at least the Mecha's version of freedom. The boy robot
must still be searching for his blue fairy, in a futile quest for
reality and the love of an Orga.

He should have stayed with Joe.

Joe wandered the streets more frequently now; his client list, while
hardly small, had fallen off. Some of his more perceptive customers
were less than comfortable in his presence, describing him as
"melancholy." He would be replaced, soon, of course, then it would
either be deactivation, dumping, or a flesh fair.

Walking up a less populated side street towards one of the seedier
parts of town, Joe was attracted by a loud "bang" and altered his
course to investigate. Down another street that was lined with
assorted shops, all closed, he encountered a vehicle with steam
billowing from under its hood and a young woman in the driver's seat,
repeatedly hitting her forehead against the steering wheel.

This odd sight piqued his interest enough for him to cross the street
and tap on her window. She squeaked, looking at him with wide eyes,
and opened the window. "If you're going to ask me if I'm looking for
a date . . ." she started suspiciously over the horrible grinding of
the car's wildly vibrating engine.

"Do you require assistance? Are you injured?" Joe asked.

"I know you boys can contact the police, fire department, and
ambulance, but I suppose a mechanic's out of the question?" the woman
asked without much hope, yanking the key out of the ignition, which
stopped the noise and the steam.

"Alas, yes. Roadside assistance was not deemed an emergency service,"
Joe answered.

"Great. The airline lost half my baggage, including my phone and most
of my clothes, my rental's a total lemon, and I'm stranded," the woman
snorted. She eyed Joe with a shrewd kind of speculation he didn't
care for. "What's your rate?" she asked suddenly.

Joe cocked his head curiously at this abrupt change of subject, but
answered obediently. "Fifty an hour, five hundred for a full night,
price not negotiable."

"Little steep isn't it? Well, guess I've heard worse. I can put it
down as a business expense." Smiling tiredly, the woman got out of
her car, pointedly kicked the side panel, and pushed a small button on
the key to open the trunk. Lifting out one huge bag, then another,
she thrust them into Joe's arms. "You must know the area, where's the
closest hotel? I can call the rental agency from there tomorrow."

Inclining his head back the way he had come, Joe hefted the bags
easily. "There are several in that direction, quite close."

"Good." Taking two smaller bags out of the trunk, she slammed it
closed and waved Joe on. "Let's go."

Joe regarded his new companion as she walked beside him. She was
pretty, he decided, in a chubby, short, pink-cheeked way. Her deep
brown, wavy hair fell loose and free to not quite the middle of her
back, longish bangs falling like a pony's forelock to shadow dark
brown eyes that were as deep and soft as crushed velvet. They held a
sparkle of humor too, despite her obvious exhausted annoyance, her
plump lips lifted at the corners in a pleasantly friendly expression.
The top of her head didn't even reach his shoulder; he calculated her
height at 5'1" or close to it, depending on her shoes.

"Been in Haddonfield long?" the girl asked casually, easily keeping up
with his longer stride.

"Two years, six months, seventeen days," Joe supplied with Mecha
accuracy. "I was sent here directly after my trials in Rouge City."

"Rouge City? Wow, I bet you miss it."

"I wasn't there for very long after my initial activation," Joe
answered, eyeing her.

"So you consider this your home then?" the woman asked, profound
wistfulness softening her pleasant voice.

"I have no permanent residence," Joe told her. "I go to the offices
of Electric Nights, the company that purchased my licence, for
necessary maintenance and occasional repairs. Otherwise I go where
customers bid me."

Frowning, his companion glanced away. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to
pry."

"You've done nothing to apologize for." Joe wondered at her line of
questioning. Even the customers he serviced that were simply curious
about Mechas never bothered to ask him what they might term personal
questions.

They reached the better illuminated red-light district and paused.
"The Pleasure Inn is not expensive, and the rooms are clean," Joe
supplied, indicating an eight-story building several blocks down the
street.

"What about that one?" His escort pointed to a smaller but flashier
building in the opposite direction. "It's closer."

"The Shangri-La is quite adequate," Joe answered stiffly, his face
blank.

"Good. Let's . . . hey, are you all right?" the woman asked, gazing
up at him, concerned.

"What do you mean?"

"You seem a little tense."

"I am a Mecha. We do not get tense," Joe said promptly.

"Uh-huh. If you don't want to talk about it, that's fine. I need a
bed ASAP. The Shangri-La will do." She strode with not-so-grim
purpose towards the garish, overdone front of the hotel and Joe had no
choice but to follow.

The edge of his shoe struck something, sending it rolling into the
front of the cement steps leading to the lobby. What ever it was
tinkled when it hit the pavement, chiming like a tiny bell. The woman
stopped and crouched, picking the object off the ground; it was a
ring, a simple gold circlet without embellishment. "Pretty," she
commented, dropping it into the pocket of her denim jacket before
opening the door and holding it for Joe.

The clerk was not Mr. Williamson tonight, but a younger man who wore a
bored, jaded expression as he handed over a door key, not giving any
indication that he recognized Joe. Pursing her lips at the desk
clerk's expression but remaining silent, Joe's companion motioned for
him to follow.

She had been given room 100, straight across the hall from where
Samantha Bevins had died. Her murderer was now in jail awaiting
trial, but Joe couldn't delete the scene from his memory; her flesh,
still warm but somehow too heavy under his hand, the hot, sticky feel
of her blood . . .

His companion opened the door, peeking in at the tacky but clean room
with a groan; whether of relief or disgust Joe couldn't tell. "Well,
it doesn't stink and I don't see any bugs," was her verdict.

"The rooms are soundproofed as well," Joe supplied unasked, entering
at her heels and settling the heavy bags next to the small wardrobe.

The woman eyed him, then smiled. "If you're a frequent resident, I
think I'm glad of that," she chuckled. Dropping her own bags on the
bed, she opened one, rummaged inside it, and pulled out a purse.
"What did you say, fifty an hour?" she asked, pulling out an
assortment of bills and thrusting them in his direction.

"Payment isn't expected until after . . ."

"Wha . . . oh, no! I'm sorry, I thought you understood. I just
needed help getting my stuff here," the woman cried, abashed. "I'm
sorry, I should have made myself more clear. I didn't mean to . . ."

"No, don't apologize," Joe interrupted, registering a strange
sensation of disappointment. "I misunderstood your intentions."

"I'm too tired tonight anyway," Joe's ephemeral customer added,
blushing lightly. "Not that I . . . ugh, never mind. Like it or not,
I'm apologizing. But I really do need to get some sleep, so . . ."
Forcing the money into his hand, she looked into his eyes, frowning.
"I am sorry. You seem like a nice guy, but . . ."

"Nice?" Who ever described him as "a nice guy?" Joe shrugged
elegantly. "I am only built to serve."

"Thanks for the help," the woman said, politely opening the door for
him. "I don't see many people who would stop to help, human or Mecha.
I appreciated it." She smiled, and he could easily pick out evidence
of her exhaustion in the weary lines around her mouth and the dark
shadows under her eyes. Some of his regret faded with the realization
that she very likely would not enjoy his services. The woman grinned
suddenly. "By the way, I never even asked. So much for manners.
What's your name?"

"I'm Joe," Joe answered, already halfway out the door.

"Joe . . . Joe! Wait!" the woman cried, grabbing his arm. "You're
the one I was sent to find!"

Joe glanced at the small hand encircling his wrist with a surprisingly
strong grip. "Pardon?"

"You're the lover Mecha they call Gigolo Joe, right? The one that was
with the kid Mecha? The one who . . ." she stopped mid-sentence, all
the color ebbing from her face so suddenly that Joe stepped nearer to
be in a ready position to catch her if she fell. "The Shangri-La . .
. oh my dear Lord, I am so sorry!" Slumping against the wall, the
woman covered her face with both hands, evidently horrified. "I am
such an idiot!" she cried, the sound muffled. Lowering her fingers
enough to peek out at Joe with wide, white-ringed eyes, she flinched
and withdrew again. "I'm sorry!" she said again.

"Are you all right?" Joe asked carefully, backing a step or two away
when he determined that she was in no immediate danger.

"I'm fine, I'm just the biggest featherbrain the world has ever seen,"
the woman snorted, then sighed and held out her hand. "This isn't how
I planned it, but . . . Hi. I'm Frederika Bashir, please call me
Freddie. I'm a writer for Popular Science and I'm doing a piece on
the child Mechas which will be available to the general public in six
months," the woman, Freddie, intoned as if repeating a memorized
speech. "My editors wanted to get the full story, from both sides,
and when they heard about some of what happened with the David
experiment, they sent me to cover it. I just got in from Manhattan,
where I interviewed a marginally helpful Professor Allen Hobby. I
wanted to talk to you, to get your side of it as well."

Joe stared at her until she shifted in place uncomfortably, but she
held his gaze. "So . . . can I interview you?" she asked, her eyes
shining with fresh energy.

"Interview?" Joe repeated. What would his owners say about a
situation like this? They were already uncomfortable with the infamy
of his name, though for a few weeks it had brought increased business.
"How long would it take?"

Freddie sighed. "I was given fifteen hundred in case I had to rent
your time. Would the normal rate for a full night satisfy your
owners? If you have customers waiting, I could schedule an interview
for a later date. I've got two weeks to finish the assignment."

"I have no customers scheduled for tonight," Joe informed her. "I
believe the normal rate would be satisfactory."

"Excellent." Her smile brightening, Freddie handed over another four
hundred and fifty dollars. "Let's get started."

Chapter Two

They talked for over an hour while Freddie recorded the interview and
took notes. She didn't ask many questions, mostly using them to
direct his story in one direction or another or dig for more details,
especially about the Flesh Fair incident and David's relationship with
Teddy. When he finished telling his story up to his return to his
owners at Allen Hobby's insistence, the woman looked at him, her dark
eyes piercing, and asked Joe what he thought of David.

It was not the sort of general question he was accustomed to answering
but he did what he could, though once or twice he did trip over what
he wanted to say, his words ungainly. He was a Mecha, built to
benefit others, and was not suppose to give opinions to his Orga
creators. However clumsy his answers seemed to his own auditory
centers, they seemed to satisfy his interviewer.

"Do you think the love he felt for Mrs. Swinton was real, then?"
Freddie asked.

Joe nodded without hesitation. "Misplaced, perhaps, but real enough."

Freddie nodded and lay down her pen, reaching over to switch off her
recorder. Hugging her knees, she regarded him thoughtfully from her
perch on the center of her bed. "I don't like it," she finally
murmured. "It's frightening. Forcing a helpless being to love
somebody, without even knowing what they're like . . . did you know
that most distributers aren't even requiring background checks? There
are some really sadistic people out there," she finished with an
emphatic shudder.

"It is our function to serve our masters as they see fit," Joe
answered, his elegant shrug, as most of his movements, as graceful as
any dance.

"You and your compatriots would know that more than most, wouldn't
you?" Freddie whispered, shifting so she sat cross-legged. Slipping a
hand into her pocket, she rubbed the ring she'd hidden there in a
rhythmic, absent motion. Glancing at her watch, she sat up straight
with a small yelp, swinging her legs off the bed. "I've been awake
for over thirty-six hours now," she said with a tiny laugh as she slid
from the high mattress. "I have got to get some sleep." Digging in
her smallest bag, she pulled out an oversized T-shirt with a look of
anticipation more hungry than most of his customers' on his busiest
nights. "At least they didn't lose my underwear bag," she snorted.
"I don't have to sleep in my jeans."

Joe took her preparations as a hint to leave, but she waylaid him
halfway to the door. "You know, Joe, there's still a few hours left
in our contract. If you'd like you could stay here for the rest of
your time." Her eyes twinkling at him with a warmth he rarely
received, she smiled encouragingly. "Come on, you deserve a break and
I bet you don't get the chance very often. I suppose the TV doesn't
show much but pornography, but I brought some books if you like to
read."

"I . . . yes, thank you, I will stay," Joe answered slowly.

Freddie beamed at him and disappeared into the bathroom. She smiled
even brighter when she emerged in her knee-length men's shirt to find
him still in the chair, now perusing her collection of Shakespeare.
"I always bring sources for possible quotes," she explained. Heaving
herself onto the bed, she bounced in place like a small child, the
image enhanced by the bed's overstated stature. "Do you like him? I
could see you acting out a few of his characters," she commented,
crawling under the thick bedclothes. "Petruchio, maybe. Puck,
definitely."

"Puck is a fairy?" Joe asked, very quietly.

Freddie's smile faded by degrees. "I don't know if there are any
fairies anymore, Joe," she told him, her voice low. "I'm sorry."

"David must find his Blue Fairy," Joe told her stoutly, his voice
almost sharp.

"I hope he does," Freddie whispered, studying him intently before
abruptly turning out the light.

Sometime later, after he had put her book back in her suitcase and was
about to leave, Joe heard a low whimper coming from the bed. He
glanced over to see the covers thrashing and Freddie whimpered again,
then cried out louder, sounding terrified and in pain. Striding to
her side, Joe grasped her shoulder through the comforter and shook her
gently, but got no response. She wailed quietly, a long, drawn out
"nooo," and he pressed a hand to her forehead, then jerked back. She
was hot, painfully so, as though with an impossibly high fever.

Leaning over her, Joe gripped both her shoulders and shook harder,
calling her name. She struggled against him for a few seconds, then
gasped, her eyes flying open. She looked around blindly in the dim
lighting from a single outside streetlight, her head whipping from
side to side in a frantic search for anything familiar. Focusing at
last, her brown eyes fastened on Joe, some of the flush fading from
her warm face to leave her looking pale and washed out. Joe brushed
the back of his hand to her cheek; the deadly heat had diminished, but
she was still warm to the touch.

"What happened?" Freddie asked him, befuddled and groggy.

"You cried out in your sleep. You were hard to wake, and you have a
fever. Are you ill? Shall I call an ambulance?" Joe asked quickly.

"No . . . no, I'm all right," the girl answered, gently pushing his
hand away and sitting up, rubbing a sleepy fist over her eyes. "It
was just my nightmare. I've had it since I was little, something
about being inside a volcano with horrible, ugly monsters all around
outside. But . . . I don't remember it ever being this . . . real,"
she finished unsteadily. Shaking her head, she waved Joe away and
looked at the watch she still wore. "I'm all right, don't worry. Go
on, Joe, your time's up. I don't want you to get in trouble."
Freddie looked up at him earnestly, a frown tugging her plump lips
downwards. "Go on, Joe. Thanks."

Joe left slowly, keeping a watchful eye on Freddie, but she had rolled
over so her back was to the door and he couldn't see her face. He
could see that she lay stiff, nowhere near sleep and not likely to
approach it any time soon. Nevertheless, Joe closed the door softly,
keeping his step light. He didn't even look at the empty room across
the hall.

Two days later he found himself at the Shangri-La again. He was
skipping down from the third floor after a session with one of his
most loyal customers when Mr. Williamson stopped him with a knowing
grin. "Hey, Joe, you did it again," he said cheerily. "My new tenant
has been asking after you. She's sitting in the lobby now," he added
with a nod towards the small but surprisingly cozy room just off to
the side of the clerk's desk.

"Tenant?" Joe repeated.

"Yeah, that Bashir bird. Odd, she doesn't look Mid-Eastern or Indian.
She won't say what she wants." Winking, the clerk shook his head.
"Not that I can't guess."

"This one may surprise you," Joe murmured.

"Is there a problem, dear?" his recent customer asked, following him
down the stairs.

"No, Mrs. Robinson," Joe answered. "A woman would simply like to
speak with me."

"Now that I find hard to believe," the woman chuckled, her lips
twitching.

"Yes, Mrs. Robinson," Joe agreed, one side of his own mouth crooking
upwards.

"Why, Joe, dear, I believe you are beginning to develop a sense of
humor," his paramour twittered, wrapping an arm around his elbow.
"Come, let's go speak to this friend of yours."

Freddie looked up from a thin sheaf of papers as Joe entered, her
brows drawing down when she observed his companion. "I told Mr.
Williamson not to bother you!" she gasped. "I said it could wait
until later!"

"Oh, don't worry, Miss Bashir," Mrs. Robinson scoffed, waving one
cultured, faintly royal hand. "Joe and I have been friends for years.
I just came out of curiosity."

Freddie looked Mrs. Robinson over with a quizzical expression she
tried to hide. The tall, slender woman, who looked to be in her
mid-fifties but which Joe knew to be closer to seventy, was dressed
with a formal refinement that was not only out of place, but of time,
strongly hinting at what Joe's attire tried to emulate and modernize.
She was a strong, handsome woman, her tasteful makeup expertly
applied, her silver hair coiffed in an elaborate sculpture of tamed
waves and ringlets.

"I know I don't look like what you'd expect to be hiring an escort,"
Mrs. Robinson said with a laugh and light blush. "But since Charles
died, I've been lonely. And I do so miss dancing." Her coolly blue
eyes softened with a momentary wistfulness, but she quickly eradicated
the vulnerability in her expression. "Please, dear, ask him what you
needed."

Smiling at the older woman, Freddie inclined her head. "I finished
the article, Joe," she said shyly. "I'd like you to read it before I
send it to my editors. To make sure I didn't get anything wrong."
Handing Joe the pages, she stepped back. "Ordinarily this would be
against all rules of journalism, but in this case I really don't care.
Somehow it needs to be done. Do you have time to read it?"

"May I as well?" Mrs. Robinson questioned. "I can always say this was
part of his service."

Freddie nodded. Joe sat in the chair next to her and Mrs. Robinson
slid another chair close enough to read with him. He angled the
papers for her, then the room was silent but for the gently rustle of
each page he turned.

"That was wonderful," Mrs. Robinson whispered a few minutes later,
discreetly dabbing at her overly bright eyes. "Simply wonderful . . .
there was so much feeling put into it, but it was all direct
observation. You remained so objective. I don't think I could have
done it."

"Thank you, Mrs. Robinson. Joe?"

"That was exactly what happened, Miss Bashir . . ."

"Freddie."

"Freddie. That is precisely what David was like."

"Thank you," Freddie smiled, retrieving the pages. "I'll send it as
soon as I get back to my room. Which leaves me another week free
here." She laughed. "I didn't expect to be finished this soon. I
had wanted to get an interview with Lord Johnson-Johnson, but he's
unavailable for comment since he's been arrested for murder."

Joe's eyes widened. Seeing it, Freddie nodded. "Something about
Trenton. They're being very hush-hush about it as yet, but the word
is they're going for second-degree murder and are hoping for negligent
homicide at the least."

"Odious man. I'm hardly surprised," Mrs. Robinson sniffed. "He's
nothing but a beast."

"I agree." Standing, Freddie tucked the article under one arm,
stuffing her hands into her jacket pockets. "May I accompany you
outside? I need to stretch my legs."

Joe bowed theatrically, making both women giggle. Mrs. Robinson
tugged him upright and Freddie walked beside him, rubbing at something
in her pocket. She pulled her hand out, her thumb tracing along a
shiny object in her hand. A car horn beeped raucously nearby just as
they stepped outside and Freddie jumped, dropping the thing she held.

The ring hit the pavement with a resounding knell nothing like the
quiet tinkle it had made when he'd kicked it on the sidewalk. It
rolled down the steps, ringing every time it hit the ground. Freddie
squealed in dismay; Joe bounded after the ring, catching it as it
stopped rolling.

He had trouble getting his fingers around it, and when he picked it
up, the ring felt heavy in his hand, much heavier than it should have.
Turning, her found Freddie's warm eyes cold and glaring. When he
held his hand out to her, she snatched the ring off his palm and leapt
back as though afraid he'd try to take it from her. "It's mine!" she
snapped.

Mrs. Robinson stared at her in horror, and just as suddenly, the
girl's face cleared and she looked ashamed. "I am so sorry. I don't
know what got into me. It's just that it . . . it's so pretty. It's
precious . . ." Pressing a hand to her forehead, she gave both her
companions a pleading look. "Ugh, I think I've just been working to
hard. Thank you for getting it, Joe."

"Well, I think you need to . . ." Mrs. Robinson began coldly, stepping
into the street.

Joe wasn't facing the right direction; he heard Freddie scream a
warning before he saw the motorcycle himself. Reaching out, he tried
to snatch Mrs. Robinson out of the machine's path but he was too late,
though he saved her from a direct hit. Still, the glancing blow was
hard enough and she cried out, collapsing against him clutching at her
leg. As Freddie ran back inside, Joe stared after the familiar
wolf-headed motorcycle and its unfamiliar black-clad occupant.
Lowering Mrs. Robinson to the ground, he supported the hoarsely
gasping woman as best he could, still gazing in consternation at the
corner around which the bike had disappeared.

Mr. Williamson was beside him a few seconds later, kneeling next to
Mrs. Robinson. "I called the police, they have an ambulance on the
way," he explained hastily. "Damn those flesh fairs. These bastards
have been around the last few days. I think they're going after you
and your associates' customers," he growled.

"The ambulance will be here in a couple minutes, Mrs. Robinson,"
Freddie assured the older woman, taking her hand and stroking the
back.

"Thank you, dear," she answered weakly. "Did anyone get the licence?"

"I don't think it had one," Freddie told her darkly.

"They don't," Mr. Williamson agreed. "They come out of nowhere, and
afterwards no one can find them. I hope they get caught and strung up
by their . . ."

Mrs. Robinson cleared her throat significantly and the desk clerk
stumbled to a halt, blushing. "Er . . . by their toes," he finished
lamely.

Sirens announced the almost simultaneous arrival of the police and
ambulance. Police and paramedics herded around them in a sudden,
seemingly disordered swarm that had a moaning Mrs. Robinson strapped
on a stretcher in seconds. As soon as Joe was no longer supporting
the old woman, the police moved close in a crowd of hostile, sometimes
familiar, faces, a few drawing the magnetic weapons used to disable
unruly Mechas.

"Hey, what's the problem?" Freddie squawked. "He didn't do
anything!"

"This is the second time this Mecha has been involved in suspicious .
. ."

"Suspicious nothin'!" Mr. Williamson shot. "I told `em what happened
when I called it in. It was one of those anti-Mecha bast . . ."

"If it hadn't been for dear Joe," Mrs. Robinson interrupted with a
queenly coldness from the stretcher," "I probably would have been
killed."

The cops exchanged what seemed to be an excessive number of glances,
eventually lowering their weapons but making it clear that the action
was against their better judgement. "Take the lady to the hospital,"
one ordered the paramedics who had halted at a curt command from their
patient. "We'll take her statement there."

"You'll certainly get a statement," Mrs. Robinson promised direly,
giving them all a disdainful sniff.

Joe's pager started to flash suddenly; an almost panicked look crossed
his face as he thought what the owner and manager of Electric Nights
would say about his renewed involvement with the police. Freddie's
keen eyes caught the hesitation, and his expression. "You're with me
for tonight," she said quickly.

Joe's brows raised a fraction. The woman shrugged. "What can I say?
You've got a cute butt and I want to keep it out of trouble."

His lips curling in a quirky half-grin, Joe reached up and brushed his
long fingers against his pager. It calmed, and he was able to turn
his full attention to the unfriendly cops. Both he and Freddie gave
statements to separate officers, then Mr. Williamson was questioned
about both the evening's incident and the bikers' recent activities.
All three stories corroborated the others, but the police officers
were still reluctant to release Joe until an angry Freddie wordlessly
grabbed the Mecha's arm and led him back into the Shangri-La.

With no legal reason to keep them, the police had no choice but to let
them go. Joe shot Freddie his overly bright, dazzling smile and he
heard Mr. Williamson chuckle as the man repositioned himself behind
his desk.

Freddie winked at the desk clerk. "Wait here, Joe," she said
cheerfully, waving the now slightly crumpled pages of her article.
"I'll send this in quick and grab my purse. I'm starving and you can
keep my company at dinner. I'll bring your payment right away, too,
so brilliant me doesn't forget later."

Joe and Mr. Williamson both watched her deceptively small shape bounce
up the stairs. "Firebrand, eh, Joe?" the clerk laughed.

"Indeed."

"She didn't make many friends there, though. Cops didn't like it when
she turned her back," the man commented, bending over an assortment of
papers. "If she'd have been a guy, they might have done something
about it."

"Most certainly, had she been Mecha."

Mr. Williamson regarded him closely for a few moments. "Yeah," he
finally agreed quietly.

Freddie appeared a few seconds later. "Ok, Joe. Sorry I took so
long. Had to make up another five hundred in business expenses, you
know," she explained with a grin. "Hey, Mr. Williamson, know anywhere
close that has a decent menu? A place that actually knows what a
vegetable is?"

"You sure that's a good idea?" the front clerk asked doubtfully.
"Those maniacs are still out there."

"Cops are looking for them now, though. And If I'm any judge, Mrs.
Robinson with make sure they look seriously this time. Or at least
her money will."

"True. Yeah, couple blocks down. It's just a little all-night diner,
but they can whip up a pretty good stir-fry or salad."

"Great." Linking her elbow with Joe's, Freddie tugged him out the
door. Letting go once they were down the front steps, she walked a
step or two ahead, glancing at the place where Mrs. Robinson was
struck. "Hope she's okay," she murmured, stuffing her hands in her
pockets.

She wasn't watching her step; her toe caught on a crack in the
sidewalk and she stumbled with a quiet curse . . . and vanished.

Joe blinked. That wasn't at all right. Closing his eyes, he ran a
quick diagnostic of his systems and found them all at one hundred
percent. Odd. Re-opening his eyes, his optical centers cleared and
the girl appeared back where she was suppose to be, staggering.
Catching her arm, Joe steadied her and she leaned against him
gratefully. "Whoa. Sorry. I got dizzy for a minute . . . or
something," she said. After a moment she shook him off; Joe let her
stand, but kept a solicitous hand pressed lightly against her back,
just in case. He felt her shiver once, despite the warm night, but
she didn't say anything until after they left the restaurant, where
she had eaten very little of her meal.

Freddie seemed downcast as they walked slowly back to the motel. Joe
tried to get her to talk, but her answers to his questions were, while
not unfriendly, short and distracted, her right hand working
frantically at the ring in her pocket.

A gleam caught his eye; a bright stone sat incongruously in the middle
of the grimy sidewalk. Nodding towards it, Joe nudged it with his
toe, drawing Freddie's attention to it. Stooping, she picked it up,
holding it out on her flattened palm.

It was a pretty thing, all pinks and browns and whites that sparkled
subtly like a shy jewel, rather like the girl herself. Freddie smiled
a little. "Pretty. I wonder what it is?"

With startling suddenness, the stone sprouted wings, then cocked
bright, beady eyes at them. A bird sat in her hand, unafraid, looking
rather like a pigeon but colored as the stone had been, its soft
feathers glimmering with iridescence. Ruffling its feathers, it rose
up on little pink legs and fluttered its wings, sparkling as it flew
through the harsh circle of a streetlight, then disappearing into the
growing darkness.

Joe watched the bird very carefully, then examined the frozen girl's
hand with even more intimate attention. "How did you do that?" He
finally asked, articulating each syllable with utmost caution.

"I . . . I . . . I . . ." Freddie stuttered, her eyes white-ringed.

"She didn't. I did," said a strong voice from a direction Joe knew
had been empty seconds before.

Chapter Three

Flinching, Freddie spun in place to behold the man who patiently
regarded them from less than six feet away. The street had been empty
but now, impossibly, he watched them with eyes that were crinkled at
the corner by gentle amusement, the only concession to humor in an
otherwise serious mein.

He was old, his face craggy as weatherbeaten cliffs. The beard and
hair that floated nearly to the ground was the purest white Joe had
ever seen, so white that it seemed to glow with a light separate from
that cast by nearby streetlights. He wore a suit of the same hue,
except for his shirt, which was the softest of dove grays, matching
the head of his cane.

All together it was too much for his delicate optics; Joe had to shade
his eyes from the glare and saw Freddie next to him doing the same.

"Forgive me," the figure said in a powerful but not unkind voice. "It
has been a long time . . ."

The glow muted until Joe and Freddie could gaze comfortably on the
man's strange countenance. He smiled, held his cane up in a kind of
salute, and nodded. "Greetings, Frederika Bashir."

Freddie stiffened, drawing closer to Joe. "How did you know my name?"
she demanded.

The old man cocked his head at her, his eyes piercing. "I know much
about you. Probably more than you know about yourself."

"Uh-huh." Backing away, Freddie grasped Joe's arm, tugging him with
her. "Come on, Joe. Let's get out of here. Mr. Williamson was
right, this was a bad idea."

"Wait, please," the old man called after them, holding out an
imploring hand. "Miss Bashir, would you really walk away from your
destiny?"

"Destiny? What are you talking about?" the girl snapped with growing
uneasiness.

Freddie's hair whipped in a sudden wind, Joe's coat flapping like
bat's wings around his legs. The man's face carved itself into grim
lines, shadows moving in an eerie dance over his radiant shape. "I am
talking about the ring you carry with you, and the one who wants it."

"Ring?" Freddie repeated. "How did . . . I don't have a ring."

His smile back, the old man shook his head. "Come now, Miss Bashir.
You know precisely what I mean, and I think you already have an
inkling of how supremely dangerous it is. You wore it, didn't you?"

"I . . . accidentally," Freddie gasped, her eyes flying to Joe's. How
did this man seem to know so much? "I tripped and it slipped on."

"And what happened then?"

Shivering, Freddie leaned unconsciously against Joe. "I don't know."

"You do know. You stepped from this world into a shadow realm. And
he saw you, didn't he? Just for an instant."

"I . . . someone, maybe . . . who was it?"

Putting a comforting arm around the girl, Joe listened to the old
man's answer. A eclipse seemed to fall over his face as he spoke,
leaving only his exceptional eyes out of the darkness. "The ring you
carry was to have been destroyed over ten thousand years ago. Most
thought it was, but its master reached out with the very last of his
power to protect it. At the time, he could do no more and he lost it,
but instead of being destroyed in the fires that created it, it was
shielded by the molten rock around it, cocooned and buried. Where,
even its master didn't know, for his power was spent and he could no
longer keep his connection to this world."

Joe and Freddie exchanged glances. The old one was obviously crazy.
And yet . . . Reaching into her pocket, Freddie slowly drew out the
ring. It lay passive in her palm, but there was a malevolence in the
way it gleamed in the yellow beam of surrounding streetlights.
Freddie gulped, holding it away from herself. "If you're saying you
want your ring back, you can have it," she said hastily. "It's not
that pretty."

The old man considered her for a moment, then reached out as if to
take it. Freddie's hand started to jerk back, but she caught herself,
holding her arm steady though it trembled with the effort.

The man drew away. "Good. It hasn't taken complete hold yet. You
must not let it. You must resist its allure, and above all the
temptation to use it. It calls to Lord Sauron. When it was found and
freed from its prison, he felt it and was able to find his way back to
the world, back to this New Earth. He would have found it if I hadn't
felt it too, and put it in your path."

"My path? Why? Why can't you take it?" Freddie asked desperately,
and Joe could feel it too, now, a pull that drew his eyes towards the
golden circlet.

"I dare not. I would use it. I would use it to try and destroy
Sauron and in trying to save others I would become as evil as he," the
old man explained sadly, his own gaze locked on the tiny object
resting in Freddie's hand. "I would destroy the world as surely as he
will if he gets it in his possession."

Cupping her hand, Freddie cut off the man's view, and Joe's own. Joe
found he could look away now with little difficulty.

"Why my path?" Freddie whispered.

"I did all I could," the old man murmured. "I hid it from Sauron's
awareness long enough to put it within reach of the person most likely
to succeed."

"You mean him?" Freddie asked, looking at Joe.

"No."

"Me?!" the girl shrieked. "Why me?"

Sighing deeply, the man leaned on his cane. "Once there were nine.
Nine companions that set out on a mission to take the Ring of Power to
Mordor and Mount Doom, there to cast it into the fires from whence it
came." Looking at her with tired, narrowed eyes, the old man nodded.
"Now, after ten thousand years of laying quiet and unnoticed, the
ring again beckons to the darkness that created it. And now, after
all the world has forgotten, when no one remembers a time of warring
for the world's very soul, after Mount Doom itself no longer exists,
when all evidence of the old world has been eradicated, now the
bloodlines that produced seven of those companions converge into one."

"Me?" Freddie whispered.

"You." Folding his hands over the head of his cane, the man tipped
his head forward until he looked at her from the shadow of his brow.
"Your name was the only to survive in any form through the eons."

"Bashir?"

"Yes." With a tiny smile, the man chuckled. "When goblins and
griffins still had a foothold, your name would have been `Baggins of
the Shire.' You are a cousin hundreds of times removed of the last
ringbearer."

"Baggins," Freddie repeated. "Baggins." She sounded as though she
was pleased with the sound, tasting it as she spoke. "Yes, it sounds
. . . right," she agreed. "But who are you?"

"I . . . I was one of the nine. My name is Gandalf. Gandalf the
White." Raising his arms, the old man seemed to stand taller. His
hair and beard flowed in a nonexistent breeze, his expensive suit
flapping around him, flowing like his hair into long white robes. His
cane grew, lengthening into a tall staff of carved white wood.
Gasping, Freddie pressed close to Joe, staring. Gandalf stared back,
his face proud but softened by an unnamed emotion. "There is
something of a resemblance to your cousin," he commented quietly,
almost to himself. "And to the others . . . Aragorn, Pippin, Sam . .
." Cutting himself short, Gandalf pointed theatrically to the small
form in front of him. "Frederika Baggins, do you accept the quest?"
the old man thundered, seeming to grow until he filled the street.

Gravely gazing out from the circle of Joe's protective arms, the girl
nodded. "Yes."

Joe dropped his arms and backed away. His electronic brain was
reeling, struggling to accept what it knew couldn't be true. But his
eyes had seen it, his ears had heard it; it had to be real.

Then, unexpectedly, Gandalf's burning eyes fell on him. "And what of
you?" Moving closer, his eyes squinting, the old man tapped Joe's
chest with his staff. "What are you?"

"I . . . am a Mecha," Joe answered blankly.

"Mecha?"

Freddie and Joe exchanged glances again. "He's a machine," the girl
finally explained. "A thinking machine."

"A machine? How wonderful," Gandalf said, taking another step closer,
moving around Joe to inspect him from every angle. "Extraordinary.
And what is your function?"

"I . . ." for some reason, Joe didn't want to answer the man. To so
many, his kind were the lowest form of electronic life, the least
useful and most vile.

"He's a companion," Freddie answered hastily, laying a hand against
his arm and squeezing gently.

"Ah. A companion, eh? Perfect." Staring Joe full in the face in a
way no one ever had before, Gandalf put a hand on his shoulder. "It
will be dangerous. I'm not even certain how the thing may be
accomplished. She will need friends. Will you accompany her?"

"I?" Joe repeated in genuine surprise. "I cannot. My owners would
never allow me . . ."

"Owners?" Gandalf said with a disgusted snort. Using his staff to
pull back the collar of Joe's shirt, the man revealed the luminous
green of a Mecha's operating licence. He considered for a moment,
then tapped it once with the tip of his staff.

At once Joe felt lighter, freer. There was no compulsion telling him
that he must return to his owners once Freddie's time ran out.
Invisible bonds let go in the center of his brain. Looking down, he
saw his licence gone, his chest smooth and unblemished.

"I ask again, will you accompany her?" Gandalf murmured, smiling,
already knowing the answer.

Joe didn't speak. Wrapping the chain of his blank, empty pager around
his fist, Joe wrenched viciously, snapping it, and let the disk fall
to the pavement.

Gandalf's smile spread wider. "The company grows," he said.

Chapter Four

"Gandalf . . ." Freddie began, frowning at the old man. "If this
Mount Doom is gone, how can the ring be destroyed? If that was the
only way and it failed last time, how can I do it now? Do you want me
to drop it in a nuclear reactor or something? If the thing is that
powerful, I wouldn't want to be around to see what happens afterward .
. ."

Joe and Gandalf both glanced at the small hand that clutched the ring.
Seeing the direction of their attention, Freddie carefully withdrew
it, settling it firmly in her pocket.

Gandalf leaned heavily on his staff, gathering his robes closer around
him. "There are stories from long ago, rumor mostly, but the world's
only hope that I can see."

"What might those rumors be?" Joe asked.

Gandalf hesitated, his gaze drawn to something behind Joe's left
shoulder. He tried to look grim, but a broad smile he couldn't hold
back ruined the effect.

"Are you still telling tales?" scoffed the figure that strolled up the
sidewalk towards them. "Dragon's fire indeed. Even if it were true,
Bilbo Baggins helped the men of Laketown destroy the last dragon over
ten millennia ago. If that is our last hope, then we are indeed
lost."

"Legolas," Gandalf greeted, still smiling. "You doubt me?"

Legalas halted beside the old man. He was tall and slender, around
Joe's apparent age but holding himself with the easy surety of one
much older. His skin was fair and perfect, his ripe-wheat hair
falling halfway down his back, tamed only by a pair of tiny braids at
his temples. He wore a pair of grey cotton slacks and a white
long-sleeved T-shirt under a long, loose hooded garment of an
indeterminate color somewhere between green and grey that was more
cloak than coat. His smile was slightly mocking, but it did nothing
to mar the perfection of beauty that would almost have named him Mecha
if it hadn't been for the bow and full quiver of arrows he carried,
and the glint of sharpened steel that flashed at his belt when his
coat moved.

"I don't question you, Gandalf, only the wild imaginings of
desperation." Pushing back his hair, the young man revealed startling
ears that swept gracefully into sharp points.

Freddie gawped, and Joe was as close to the expression as he had ever
come. His powerful Mecha senses could detect differences that his
human companion could not; pulse, respiration, body temperature, none
of it fell within normal human limits.

Gandalf clucked his tongue. "You must forgive an old man's wandering
mind, all of you," he said. "Frederika Bash . . ." catching the
girl's raised brow, he stopped, inclining his head. "Frederika
Baggins, and . . ." he stopped again, and it was his turn to raise an
eyebrow.

"Joe," Freddie supplied, abashed. "This is Joe."

"Frederika Baggins and Joe. This is Legolas of the woodlands.
Legolas is Elvenkind."

"He's an elf?" Freddie repeated dubiously. She glanced once at Joe,
then again, her face lightening with a sudden grin.

"What is it?" Joe asked.

"A hundred and fifty years ago, people would have said you were just
as impossible," the girl replied. "Why not an elf?"

Joe thought a moment and nodded solemnly, which for some reason made
her giggle. The girl was right. As a Mecha, he did not possess the
human talent of denying one's own senses; every one of Joe's told him
that this young man was neither human nor Mecha. Elf was as good a
description as any.

The mocking light vanished from Legolas's expression, leaving it
softened by remembered fondness. "She's very like Frodo when she
smiles," he murmured.

"And like Aragorn when she's serious. And like Sam when she's
worried," Gandalf agreed. "Every light and darkness shows a different
face of our friends; I've a feeling she holds some of Gimli's steel in
her soul, and Merry and Pippin's mischief, possibly even Boromir's
pride. She will do."

Sweeping his coat out of the way, Legolas went down on one knee before
her in a theatrical gesture such as Joe might have used. Reaching to
his neck, he unclasped a delicate chain and held it out to her. She
paused before taking the beautiful thing, holding a hand out
hesitantly. Legolas dropped the chain into her palm, curling both his
hands around hers. "This was made from a few links taken from a coat
of mail belonging to Frodo," he explained. "It is Mithril, a kind of
silver mined and worked by dwarves into the strongest chain mail, able
to turn any sword and deflect any arrow. Use it to keep the ring safe
from those that would try to take it from you." Releasing her, he
rose to his feet and bowed low.

"Thank you," Freddie whispered, staring entranced at the tiny,
delicate strand. She wordlessly handed it to Joe; running it through
his fingers, he could feel the inherent strength of the metal despite
its almost aluminum lightness. "Remarkable," he commented, handing it
back. "I've never felt a stronger metal."

Legolas tossed his head with the shadow of a haughty sneer. "Many,
many old talents have been lost despite the new technologies that
complicate and pollute the world," he answered bitterly.

"When I felt Sauron reawaken, you were the only one who wanted to
accompany me back to the world," Gandalf reminded the elf gently.
"The others wanted to leave this place to its fate, having felt the
changes wrought by Man. They requested that I destroy all evidence of
the old magics a thousand years ago for fear of discovery, and thought
that should be an end to it. You came by your own choice. Don't
punish our friends for a history they couldn't control."

"Not all the others would have stayed behind," Legolas countered, but
in a slightly subdued tone. "There were two who would have come to
your call."

"Two others who have been through enough on my account," Gandalf said
sharply.

"Thank you," Freddie murmured softly, interrupting what sounded like
the beginning of a possible argument. Taking the ring out of her
jacket pocket, she slid it onto the chain and gravely hung it around
her neck, slipping it under her mauve-pink T-shirt. "Now what?"

Gandalf frowned. "Now I have some questions that I didn't have time
to ask before I came here. I can't take you with me; you must take
the ring into hiding, somewhere it will be difficult for you to be
followed. Do you know of such a place?"

Freddie glanced at Joe, who read her answer in the odd smirk that
crooked her mouth. "Rouge City," he said. "Even if they expect us
there or we are followed, it will be difficult to find three in two
million anonymous faces."

Gandalf nodded slowly. "Yes. That sounds as good an idea as any. I
will meet you there three days from now. But don't go there directly,
take unexpected paths, and watch your step. Trust no beasts or birds,
and tell no one of your mission. And do not repeat the name Baggins
anywhere," the old man ordered. Spinning on his heels, he strode
away, his robes once again melting into a neat white suit and carved
cane.

"But how will he find . . ." Freddie started to protest, moving to
follow.

"He will find us," Legolas assured her. "He is the greatest of
wizards, and a wise man, even when he pretends not to be."

"All right then," the girl shrugged. "Let's go back to the Shangri-La
so I can get some clothes and the rest of my money. Then it's off to
Rouge City." She smiled at Legolas. "You're going to LOVE this," she
said with a mischievous sweetness.

They had just come within sight of the Shangri-La when Freddie
murmured low in her throat, crouching beside something that lay on the
edge of the sidewalk. "Joe . . ." she said, picking it up and
cradling it in both hands, her voice trembling with a sudden terror
that made her arms tremble when she held the object out to him.

It was a small, pigeon-like bird, its wings spread over her palms and
its head lolling. Its iridescent feathers still sparkled brightly,
but its jeweled eyes were already fogged over. Joe took the bird,
examining it with gentle, nimble fingers. There were no visible
wounds, and no indications that it had been struck by a passing car.
The creature was still warm, but its heart was still, stalled in
mid-flight.

Legolas came near, frowning at the lifeless form. "What is it? Its
only a bird. Sad, yes, but all too common a sight."

Freddie shook her head, taking the pink and brown bundle from Joe and
laying it on a small patch of grass, the only green visible on the
block. She folded its wings and stroked its tiny back for a moment.
"You don't understand," she said, glancing around uneasily as she
stood and brushed off the knees of her jeans. "It was Gandalf's
bird."

The elf's eyes widened, more white showing around the blue. He began
to exhibit signs of Freddie's horror. "Gandalf's? We'd best get
inside quickly," he suggested.

No one argued. Mr. Williamson looked up at their entrance, both
eyebrows raising when he saw the companion Joe and Freddie had brought
with them. "Hey, Joe," he said with a mischievous gleam, obviously
misidentifying Legolas.

"Hello, Mr. Williamson," Joe answered quickly. He saw the man's eyes
fall on the blank space where his licence used to be, flick up an inch
or two to search for his missing pager, and his brows flew further
skyward.

"I'll only be a couple minutes," Freddie told the men hastily. "I'm
paid up until the end of the week. I may be gone for a few days, is
it all right if I leave some of my stuff here?" she asked the clerk.

"Room's paid for, none of my business what you do with it," the man
answered, still staring at Joe. "Joe, what did you . . ."

Freddie disappeared up the stairs. Joe didn't know how to answer, and
Legolas was completely ignoring the man. "Keep watch, Joe," the elf
told him. "Something isn't right."

A distant roar made them both tense. It quickly got louder, coming
closer, closer . . . much too close. Lights slashed across the small
room, making the clerk squint against the glare. Joe looked through
the glass door to see a single burning headlight barreling up the
front steps; behind it, where he should have seen the rider's face,
there was only a blank patch of shadow much deeper than the darkness
surrounding it.

"Get down!" Joe cried, leaping over the desk and dragging Mr.
Williamson to the ground, shoving him into a hollow space beneath the
desk. The crash of splintering glass and tinkling shower that
sprinkled them with sharp, biting glitters and sparkles was followed
by the echoing growls of an engine in a room too small to contain it.
Another followed, then a third, until the room was full to the brim
with noise and exhaust, cloying chemicals that Joe couldn't scent but
could sense and measure in other ways.

Mr. Williamson choked next to him, covering his mouth and nose, his
watering eyes wide with fear and outrage. "My motel!" he cried in a
muffled voice. He tried to rise, but Joe pushed him down. Legolas
was on the other side, an arrow ready on his bow. Glancing at Joe, he
drew back the string and nodded. They rose at the same time, Legolas
to battle and Joe to protect to the limits of programming that would
not allow him to harm a human, no matter what the circumstances.

The three motorcycles didn't have room to maneuver around one another.
Their black-cloaked riders screeched in high-pitched wails, sniffing
the air audibly, like beasts. Legolas's bow twanged next to his ear,
the thick wooden shaft burrowing into the tattered voluminous cloak of
the nearest rider.

The rider paid no heed; it seemed as though the shaft passed straight
through the center of its cloak without touching flesh. Which was
impossible.

"You shall not have it!" Legolas bellowed, reaching to his belt and
drawing a pair of short swords, standing straddle-legged with a blade
clutched expertly in each fist. The riders turned as one, their
faceless hoods towards the elf as each one drew a long sword in
perfect unison. Hefting their blades, the figures glided towards
Legolas, not even seeming to touch the ground.

Joe stood for one helpless moment, certain he was about to watch the
young man slaughtered, then his senses buzzed with a new insight.

Whatever these creatures were, they weren't alive. They moved, and
showed awareness, and spoke to one another if their squeals were
speech, but they were not alive.

He could not hurt something that did not live.

Leaping to Legolas's side, he pried a blade from the elf's grasp.
Faster then the elf could move, he was between Legolas and the
black-cloaked bikers. The first swung at Joe, but it could not beat
his Mecha reflexes. Though he had never held or even seen a weapon,
he grasped his blade in both hands and deflected the jab as neatly as
though this was what he was programmed to do, followed through with
his own swing, and brought the blade back in a vicious backwards slash
before the biker had a chance to adjust the hold on its own blade.

Joe's sword sliced through the rider's neck with less resistance than
there should have been. He staggered, his balance thrown by the
strength of his swing, and jumped back defensively to regain his
equilibrium and be ready for the next attack.

The lead rider's sword clattered noisily when it hit the floor, but
nowhere near as noisily as the wails rising from the other two. Their
leader's hood fluttered to the ground, empty. The headless body
flailed for a few seconds, then it fell, the cloak deflating until it
pooled on the floor, as empty as the hood.

The other two riders retreated one step, then another, then they fled
through the twisted metal supports and broken shards of glass that was
all that remained of the door. Joe stood very, very still as he
watched them leave, the sword still held ready to swing. Slowly, he
lowered it until it hung loose from his hand and turned to find
Legolas gaping at him and Mr. Williamson peering white-faced, peeking
over the edge of the front desk. Freddie cowered halfway down the
stairs, a mostly empty bag clutched to her chest.

"What kind of trouble are you in now, Joe?" Mr. Williamson gasped
hoarsely, easing out from behind the barrier to stare at the empty
cloak spread across his floor. It looked much less imposing when not
filled, a collection of dusty, torn rags held haphazardly together.

"Very bad, I think, Mr. Williamson," Joe answered, his voice not as
calm and unflappable as a Mecha's should have been.

"What were those things?" Freddie asked shakily, coming slowly down
the stairs as other residents of the motel began to peek out uneasily.

"Nasgûl," Legolas answered, his dark blue eyes narrowed as he regarded
Joe. "Also known as ringwraiths. They were once men, but Sauron made
other rings, rings the main Ring of Power could control. He must have
had enough power to enslave more wraiths. We must act quickly if he
is growing so strong this fast. Their hunger is insatiable. The One
Ring calls to them endlessly. We must go now, while they need to
regroup."

"Ring of Power, ringwraiths . . . I don't know what's going on Joe, or
what you've gotten yourself into, but . . ."

"Please, Mr. Williamson, it's not Joe, it's me," Freddie hastily tried
to sooth the shaken desk clerk. "They're after me, not him. They
want something of mine. They . . ." she paused, then her eyes
brightened. "They're terrorists," she finished.

"Yes. We must leave now, Mr. Williamson, before they come back," Joe
supported the girl. "As you can see, they don't care who they hurt."

The clerk hesitated, glaring at each one in turn, then his gaze
dropped again to the cloak. "Sounds like something out of James Bond
to me. All right, if you need to leave, you'd better go now. I'm
sure someone has already called the cops." He kicked the black rags.
"Got this for evidence now, maybe they can help this time. Here . .
." bending, he wrestled one of the abandoned bikes upright. "You'll
go faster on this. Looks like it has a full tank."

Legolas looked uncertain, but Joe and Freddie thanked the man and
grasped the handlebars, holding the motorcycle up between them.
Sirens were audible in the distance now; Freddie looked imploringly at
the man. "Got a back way out?"

"There's a service entrance behind my office," Mr. Williamson
supplied, pointing. "Down that hallway, leads to the alley. Go now,
or they'll catch you."

"Good thing I ran into you, Mr. Williamson," Joe said with a slight
smile. "Thank you."

The clerk blinked at him, then waved them on. "Don't know why I
believe you, but I do. Good luck. I have a feeling that you're
really going to need it."

"More than you realize," Legolas commented with a dark wryness. "My
thanks," he called back as the little group rolled the motorcycle into
the alley.

They stayed still, hidden in the shadows behind a dumpster while red
and blue lights flashed across the alley. When the harsh police
voices had disappeared inside, they crept the opposite way, rolling
the bike silently until they came to the other side of the alley.
There, Joe started the engine, and Legolas sat gingerly behind him.
Freddie squeezed on last, slipping on the backpack she carried, then
clutching Legolas's waist. "Rouge City, here we come," she said.

Chapter Five

The wolf-headed motorcycle roared underneath them, carrying them at
high speed out of town and onto the highway. Legolas held himself
stiff, his face a little pale as he watched the scenery whip by. "Is
this a common form of transportation?" he called over the engine and
screaming wind.

"Yeah," Freddie yelled back. "Cars are the most common, but a lot of
people ride motorcycles for fun."

"It seems a bit . . . excessive to me," Legolas commented a little
greenly. Freddie gave him a sympathetic grin, but the elf didn't
smile back.

Freddie temporarily lost all ability and desire to smile when the bike
shuddered, sputtered, and rolled to a suddenly quiet stop. Joe,
frowning lightly, tried turning the key and gunning the motor, with no
results. Sighing, Freddie clambered off the bike.

Legolas slid off gratefully the instant Freddie's grip on him was
gone. Joe remained straddling the bike, carefully examining every
gauge. "There's no oil," he finally decided. "There must be a crack
somewhere." Easing off the motorcycle, he rolled it into the ditch
and left it lay in the long grass.

"Brilliant," Freddie snorted. "We're lucky it didn't start on fire."

"We could ask for a ride," Joe suggested, nodding towards a passing
car.

Legolas frowned. His brilliantly blue eyes swept across the highway,
measuring the river of cement and gauging the amount of traffic that
passed. "Is this one of your main roads?" he asked.

"Of course. We need to follow it to get to Rouge City," Freddie
answered.

"Then we should get off it. They'll be looking this way. We need to
keep hidden. The Dark Lord could be using anything as his spies. We
have no way to know who or what might be his servants."

"Dark Lord?" Freddie snorted. "Now that's going too far. Doesn't
think much of himself, does he?" Glancing at her android companion,
she shrugged. "What do you think, Joe? He could be right. Gandalf
said something similar."

Joe looked at Legolas and nodded slowly. "We don't know what guise
the riders in black might take next," he agreed. "Perhaps we do need
to show more caution."

Legolas gazed around, pointing into the thick forest that bordered the
highway. "Can we go through that way?"

Freddie gazed with badly-hidden trepidation. "The last time I went
camping, I was about four years old. Joe? Can we cut through here?"

"We can keep to the trees for nearly half the way, but no longer," Joe
supplied. "If we continue to avoid both roads and cities from there,
the way will be mostly flatlands."

"Imperfect, but still unexpected," Legolas said. "There are ways to
hide your passage on any kind of landscape."

"If they figure out where we're going, they'll get there first,"
Freddie countered. "Wouldn't it be better to try to find a ride and
take the back roads? Gandalf wanted us there in three days."

"We could make the trip in three days," Joe remarked, drawing a mild
glare from Freddie. "If indeed these creatures are following us and
they track us to this point, there are at least four cities we could
be traveling towards. If we avoid encountering any of their number,
it may take them some time to guess our destination."

"Fine. We'll go your way," Freddie grumped. "Walking to Rouge City.
I don't believe I'm doing this." She hefted her backpack, settling
it more firmly on her shoulders, and started into the trees. "I
didn't exactly plan on this. We don't have any food."

"I can provide what food we need," Legolas promised. The words could
have been boastful, but he spoke quietly, simply stating a fact.

Freddie, however, seemed less than appreciative. "I don't know if I
could eat anything that I knew had just been alive," she commented
doubtfully.

"Chickens are alive, and you ate the muscle tissue from a chicken not
long ago," Joe reminded her.

"Thank you Joe. Thank you so much. You make it sound so fabulously
appetizing!" Freddie exclaimed. Catching the small smile that passed
between her companions, she stuck out her tongue. "Men," she snorted.
"Even cross-species, they're all the same." Raising her nose in the
air, she stalked ahead in a mock huff.

Joe increased his pace to catch up. Taking her arm, he gently stopped
her in her tracks, relieving her of her burden. "I can carry your
pack," he stated firmly when she tried to protest. "It will make no
difference to me."

She could not refute his logic and simply acquiesced with a murmur of
thanks.

Hours later, nearly three in the morning, Freddie was too tired to do
much but agree with anything. She stomped glaze-eyed in Joe's wake,
followed by Legolas. The elf showed none of her physical discomfort,
seeming as wide-awake and fresh as he had before they'd taken their
first step.

Freddie jerked to full awareness when a snapping branch and soft growl
announced immediate company. Without thinking, the three of them
stood back-to-back-to-back, Legolas slipping Joe one of his twin
blades while he arranged the second close to hand while notching an
arrow onto his bow. Freddie grabbed a nearby dead branch that was
shorter than Legolas's blades but sturdy.

Red eyes gleamed through the trees like hostile Christmas lights, more
and more blinking to life around them until a dozen or so large, burly
dogs emerged into the moonlight. It was too dark to tell their color,
but none of them was purebred anything, their shaggy coats patched and
mangy, their twisted muzzles showing crowded batteries of yellow
teeth. "Ugly things," Freddie muttered.

"Servants of Sauron," Legolas whispered, pulling back his bow and
letting his first arrow fly.

He almost missed, the dogs' attack was so sudden and swift. One fell
as it leapt, an arrow entering the front of its chest on one side and
emerging from behind its massive shoulder on the opposite side.
Legolas managed one more shot before the dogs were too close and he
had to draw his remaining sword.

The pack swarmed over them, ignoring their fallen mates. They were
clumsy but fast and strong, feral but unafraid as real wild animals
never were. They circled the trio, snapping and biting as Joe and
Legolas sliced at them and Freddie swung her makeshift club like a
bat, not doing as much lethal damage but making them feel every
strike. A few growls turned to yelps; Legolas slit the throat of one,
sending blood spurting over the pack where it glistened in their fur.
Freddie swung and got in a lucky hit that cracked the skull of
another. Joe dispatched a third by stabbing it in the chest as it
hurdled towards him, but his blade got momentarily stuck, giving
another the opportunity to seize his hand between its heavy jaws and
rip away large chunks of his epidermis.

Fortunately Legolas saw and decapitated the creature before it got its
teeth deep enough to do damage to any of his joints, but metal gleamed
through his silicone skin, his inner workings exposed to the elements.
Worse, his pain receptors didn't stop firing once the damage ceased,
making his hand more difficult to control with any kind of precision.

The battle was over relatively quickly. None of the dogs escaped,
most brought down with their throats or vital organs slashed, a couple
with their head or ribcage battered in. Blood splashed across fur,
flowed across grass, and splattered the three protagonists, but Joe's
was the only injury.

Freddie dropped her blood- and fur-smeared club with a twisted
expression of disgust, turning her back on the carnage to take Joe's
hand in hers, examining his tattered skin and gleaming metal skeleton.
"How bad is it?" she asked seriously.

"My hand is eighty-nine percent functional," Joe told her. "The
joints, hydraulics, and lubrication systems were not damaged."

Legolas stared wide-eyed at the gaping, bloodless wounds. "What are
you?"

"I am a robot, a Mecha. A machine that can make decisions and act on
its own," Joe explained patiently. "My shape is humanoid for the
comfort and convenience of my human makers."

"Strange," Legolas muttered.

"So speaks a sword-wielding elf," Freddie snorted shakily. Joe
instinctively pulled her closer into the embrace of his undamaged arm
and she cuddled against him for just a moment before pulling away and
walking over to one of the dead dogs. "Why did they attack us? Can
Sauron really control their minds?"

Legolas had already crouched to examine one of the more intact
animals, carful to avoid a nearby pool of blood and innards. "I
believe they have Warg blood. If descendants of Sauron's creatures
are still living, we must be doubly careful. He will have an inherent
connection to such things."

Frederika's friendly face was thunderstorm clouded as she trudged nest
to Joe. She huddled deep into her jacket as if cold, yet bright
droplets of sweat stood out on her face. Joe didn't say anything, but
he noticed their elf companion looking increasingly grim whenever his
glance happened to fall on the girl. Black memories oozed behind
Legolas's expression, his aristocratic lips twisted in worry.

Joe wondered if he too could see the dark energy beginning to seep
from the ring onto Freddie. It was a slow process, but the thin
fingers reaching to encircle her had grown since the beginning of
their trek.

The Mecha's concerned inner reflections, another gift from his time
with David, were interrupted by a soft brush of extreme cold on the
side of his face. A second later, another icy feather touched his
cheek, then another kissed his forehead.

Freddie halted in her tracks, looking up. Joe followed her eyes to
find the sky suddenly filled with tiny flecks of sparkling white. A
quick analysis showed them to be nothing more than frozen water that
had crystalized, sometimes around tiny impurities. Freddie watched
for a few moments, then turned to him, her face pure befuddlement, and
Joe knew he shared a t least a measure of the expression.

Not noticing their uneasiness at first, Legolas glanced up once
impassively as he passed them. He stopped when he realized that they
weren't following and turned back with both brows raised.

"What is it?" Freddie whispered, holding out a hand to catch a few
specks of the unfamiliar substance. The white fluff glittered like
diamond dust before melting into plain drops of water.

"I have never seen such a thing," Joe murmured in return, his generous
lips pulled into a slight, puzzled frown.

"What? It's snow," Legolas said incredulously. "You have never seen
snow?"

"Snow," Freddie repeated slowly, rolling the word on her tongue.
"Snow . . . yes, of course, I've read of it, and studied it in school,
for science classes. No, Legolas, it hasn't snowed anywhere on Earth
for nearly four generations."

The elf stared, his face both incredulous and grief-stricken. "So
many changes," he whispered to himself. "The world doesn't belong to
itself anymore. It has become a slave."

Freddie looked away in shame, and even Joe had difficulty meeting the
elf's eyes. It was true; man had only truly paid attention to the
world around him when the environment was damaged beyond repair. It
was the very reason Mechas had been built, the necessity for help that
wouldn't consume scarce resources.

Freddie shivered suddenly, hard, wrapping both arms around herself.
It broke the mood, and Joe resumed the lead, marking a sharp drop in
temperature. It very soon became clear that Freddie would need
shelter from the weather. Legolas, too, though more hardy than the
girl, was not going to withstand the cold for much longer. In a short
time even Joe began having difficulties, unused to such a slippery,
unpredictable surface. Worse, the lubricating fluids in his joints
were threatening to freeze. None of them were equipped for
temperatures that hadn't been experienced for over a hundred years.

Things only got more desperate when the wind began to pick up. Joe
and Legolas kept Freddie between them, as protected from the bite as
possible, but she was shuddering constantly now, her teeth chattering
and her lips an unhealthy shade of blue. "We must find a way out of
this!" Legolas called. "Is there any shelter nearby?"

"Not unless a Flesh Fair has set up nearby," Joe answered. The irony
of hoping to run into such a show if only for his charges' sakes was
not lost on him.

In the middle of breaking a path through a drift, Joe stopped,
knee-deep in snow while he cocked his head curiously. "Music?" he
murmured.

"What? I hear noth . . . wait, yes. What is it? It almost sounds
elvish."

"How about we stop wondering and go find it?" Freddie snapped.

"Yes, of course," Joe said, quickly forging a path in the direction of
the music.

The singing grew quickly louder, and soon a light was visible through
the trees. Legolas stopped, his eyes narrowed. "Wait . . ."

His warning came too late. Joe and Freddie stepped into a clearing,
from snowy, frozen ground