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"Not Quite Right" James McEntire, Moria McEntire-McKenna, Sarah Braddock, James V. Jameson They were so close. The wormhole that the shuttle had created, that had pulled both it and Banshee through space and time, had dumped them back into the proper time, the right year, but it was still the wrong reality. There’d been a lot of talk since then about finding temporal signatures, but the device that created the wormhole had been damaged. Which was the reason she was with her brother combing this realities DSVP station looking for free market parts in civilian clothes. “It doesn’t look much different then our DSVP.” Moria said as she walked at James’ side. “I wonder how different this place really is to home.” "So far I've not seen anything to tell me it's not almost exactly like home," James sighed. "What if... what if we can only find somewhere that's almost like home? How bad would it be?" “I can’t settle for anything less then home, James.” The redhead said softly as her thumb ran over her wedding ring before pointing out a cluster of store fronts and shops. “Almost home isn’t where my children are our where Mummy and Dad are.” "You first, Mo," James said with a wink. "Age before beauty." She gave her brother a dirty look and huffed. “I’m only three and half minutes older then you. You practically pushed me out of the womb.” As they headed for the shops, one of which had to have what James needed to fix the wormhole device, Moria’s attention was grabbed by the soft lilting melody of violin music. The melody was oddly familiar, but she chalked it up to homesickness. As they passed the large open space where the music was coming from, she stopped dead in her tracks. She’d differently remember something like this on their DSVP. The lights inside were bright, yet soft, almost natural in a way. The walls were a soft cream color which wouldn’t take away from the paintings hanging on them. “It’s an art gallery.” James peered in, taking in all of the paintings and also the music. There was something familiar about the style of both music and artistry but he couldn't put his finger on either. "They're good." Moria nodded her agreement. “The style is simple but practiced.” She couldn’t help herself, she went inside and walked up to one of the first paintings near the doorway. It was a landscape that made her chuckle. “It’s Sydney Harbor. I use to sketch it all the time from the roof of my building back in college.” "It kinda looks like something you'd paint," James observed. It was just then that something hit him: a fudge in the music, a missed note. Years of practicing the same piece and still he always missed that note. Sure enough, as the music played through, the note was fudged but the musician played on. Now that he’d said it, it did look like something she’d do. She scanned the room, taking in each of the pieces around her. They all had the same brush strokes, the same use of color and shading, the same style as her own. Moving over to a painting of what looked like Tuscany, she let darkening gray eyes trail to the bottom left corner. There was a swirled M.J. where the artist’s signature should be and she actually sighed in relief. “I need a vacation. I was starting to think these were mine.” James's eyes had lifted to the ceiling as he concentrated on each note, waiting for the next fudge he knew was coming but as it approached, the sequence flew by without so much as a flaw. "Perfection," he breathed. "I thought this was mine too but it's not." Moria actually laughed as she walked back over to where her brother was standing. “Could you imagine? Either of us displaying our art or music? The only paintings of mine hung on walls are in Mummy’s office and Vix’s cabin.” "And only Vix and Mum have recordings of me playing," James sniffed in amusement. He wandered over to peer at a picture of a war memorial and smiled. "Whoever it is, they're good." “I’m sure you sister would appreciate the complement, Mr. Jameson.” Came a softly accented English voice. The young woman, who couldn’t be more then sixteen if that, smiled warmly her deep purple eyes sparkling as she approached James. “She wasn’t expecting you until this evening.” Moria blinked when the girl called James by their mother’s maiden name and then on pure instinct ducked out of sight. James didn't even blink as he turned his most charming smile on the girl. "I got away early," he said smoothly. "Is she here?" “She’s in her cabin.” The girl replied. “She tends to get a bit of nerves before an opening. Is Mrs. Jameson and Susan with you? I’m sure Ms. Jameson would be thrilled to have dinner with you all this evening before the party.” Mrs Jameson? And Susan? James put his hands behind his back so he could bunch them into fists without being noticed. This reality's James had a wife and it sounded like a daughter too. It was a miracle his voice was steady as he said, "I'll see if we're free... I have to go now. My regards to my sister..." “Hey Sarah! Sarah! Mum needs you too…” The young man was tall, slender but broad shouldered. His complexion was as clearly valcaniod as his pointed ears, but the slight facial difference marked him a being at least part Romulan rather then Vulcan. What made him stand out most however was his red hair and stormy gray eyes. “You made it Uncle!” The girl smiled shyly at the young man. “Ms. Jameson needs what Jamie?” Moria’s heart stopped in her chest as she watched from behind a center wall with a painting of a wolf, hawk and sparrow on it. James's eyes widened and he knew his face had paled. His blood ran cold as he stared at the boy, not one of Mo's children but he knew who he was. "Jamie..." Mo, you named him James... "Um... yeah... I'll be back... don't open without me," he said with a weak wink before almost bolting out the door to lean against a promenade wall. The young man shrugged and then laughed. “Well, you can’t ever say my family’s anything but odd.” Moria watched, unblinking, very nearly not even breathing as the young man and girl talked and flirted. She waited until they’d left the gallery together before numbly walking out herself. She shook a little, her legs suddenly feeling like jello and yet to heavy to lift. He had her eyes, her mother’s smile, but Sam’s handsome face. “My son.” She whispered suddenly feeling very dizzy. One shaking hand landed on Mo's shoulder and James pulled her into a rough hug. He was shivering, not only did Mo have a son that should be dead but he himself had a wife and a daughter. "Let's go," he whispered as he held her. “You saw him too?” Moria asked as they walked. “I wasn’t just seeing things, you saw him, you know who that was?” "It was Sam's kid," James nodded. "He looked so right, so like you and him." She wasn’t sure how she should feel about this. A part of her was alive and thrilled knowing that somewhere her son had survived, that he’d been born and grown into a handsome young man. But there was a part of her that knew it wasn’t right, that her sons were still small, still just boys and very much fully human. “My son’s alive, and you’ve a wife and child. We’re artists, and happy, and… What was so different here, James? What changed it all?” "I don't know," he whispered. "We'd have to ask someone and I doubt they'd understand. 'Hi, I'm James McEntire, not quite Jameson. Tell, why're you so different from me?'" “I don’t think the Captain would approve of that.” Moria replied as she tried to shake it off and gear her mind back towards their assignment. “She’s still touchy about me calling that other realities Anna McEntire.” "Exactly, so let's get our stuff and get out of here before someone else sees us," James said with a nod at the nearest shop. Moria nodded. Parts, they were there for parts and at least some idea of where they were. They needed a temporal reading of this reality in order to local their own, so she turned on the tri-corder hidden in her pocket while James got his bits and bobbles. What harm would it do if she linked with the station’s public access terminal and downloaded some unclassified information? At least she’d be getting what they needed right? --
A.D.A Alex Cabot: He's as bad as his client hoping the victim is to traumatized to testify! He’s lucky I didn’t knock his teeth down his throat! Capt. Don Cragen: I’d pay real money to see that. |
