"A Questionable Night"
by Dianne la Mercenaire, with Chris Kamnikar

The Mercs were already in Toronto.

Not all of them, of course. Expecting the entire Guild to do _anything_ in
concert was eerily reminiscent of saddling up a horse, twirling a lariat
over your head, and yelling "Git alon', little kitties!" Dianne was quite
aware of this. This was how she'd managed to keep her current level of
insanity at least reasonably stable so far. 

But, nonetheless, as commonly seemed to happen, the Mercs had already
begun to gather in Toronto. This in itself, was generally one of the first
warning signs of an impending War. 

That, and RDM (The Merc's own "Rich, Dark, and Mysterious"  candy shop, as
you'll recall...) was open for business again. 

No one could ever determine how or why, but a War was coming, and somehow,
the Mercs always knew. Some claimed it was the chocolate fumes or the
fluctuations in the world gold markets as the earliest preparations were
made. Some whispered of secret War-tracking paraphernalia that could
detect the impending stampede from up to half a world away. Some thought
the Mercs were just weird that way. 

Dianne, lifetime Merc and Grand High Poohbah for the second time-- a nice
little record in itself-- tended to chalk it up to simple affiliation. The
same way the Knighties always swarmed to Nick's loft, the Ravenettes
always knew where Janette hid the Raven's key, the Cousins inexplicably
survived LaCroix's wrath War after War, the FoDs could communicate even
beyond the grave, the NatPack could always make Nat 'vanish' for her own
good, and the DieHards always had the best damn security anyone had ever
seen, so the Mercs-- the affiliation that followed not a character, but
the Wars themselves-- had a special...  almost mystical... relationship
with them. 

Well, it was either that or the chocolate thing.

But whatever the reason, it was thus that on a fateful Friday the
Thirteenth, much of the Guild was already in Toronto taking part in
Guild-sponsored training seminars. 

Currently in-progress was "MERC 76A: 'Barroom Brawling Styles, and How to
Avoid Personal Injury'," according to the boldly scrawled sign on the door
Dianne was at that moment elbowing open. 

"...Learn how to duck, people." Chris was announcing loudly, "There is
very little money in ending up in the hospital. Personal injury suits
against the bar owners, the Hell's Angels, and the Toronto PD aside, it's
just not cost effective---" 

"Wrap it up, Kiki," the GHP paused at a deathly glare from her
second-in-command and offered an insincere smile-and-bow instead. "I beg
your pardon, Most Esteemed Mercenary Mommy General, but your time is up." 
The tall redhead dumped a large, dubious-looking box on the table,
scattering Chris' notes far and wide. "Move it, Chaos! Merc 306: 
'Weaseling For Fun and Profit' is about to begin."

"But I've got another fifteen minutes," Chris protested, pointedly
checking her watch and ignoring LuckyLiz and Sonja high-fiving each other
in the back row. 

"Forget it, Chaos. It was 7:45 when I headed upstairs, so it's got to be 8
by now ." Dianne frowned at her watch. "Wait!" 

"See?" Chris responded smugly, shoving the box out of the way.

"Damn! My watch died," Dianne mumbled, looking peeved. "The sweep hand's
stopped and everything." 

"Bummer, Dee," Chris offered insincerely.

"Mine too," Tami offered. Murmurs of concurrence were heard all around the
room. Sara, the House Mother, spoke up from the doorway, "The clocks have
stopped all over Merc Central." 

"Those *&^%$ NatPackers!" Dianne mumbled, venturing into unknown languages
in her never-ending search for fresh vulgarities and surreptitiously
scooting the box once more into the center of the table. 

"Not everything that annoys you is the _NatPack's_ fault," Chris chided,
elbowing the box aside again. 

"Yeah, well tell that to them," Dianne grumbled, thrusting it back. 

"You're obsessed," Chris reminded her, slapping it away once more. 

Virginia looked at the dubious box in a highly dubious manner. "Is it just
me, or is it _moving_?" she whispered to a fellow classmate. 

"Of course it's moving !"

"No, I mean _by itself_ ."

By now Chris had noticed it as well. "What do you have _in_ there,
Dianne?" She demanded, trying (and failing) to peek over the raised box
flaps. 

Dianne blinked, Vachon-like for a moment, then rolled her eyes in disgust
and announced, "Weasels!" in her best "*duh!*" manner. 

At that John the Ratpacker finally looked up from his nest-like spot in
the corner, "Ya mean them rat-like weaselies?" 

"Oh, BROTHER," Lizbet groaned.  "Tell me you didn't import them from the
Highlander universe!" 

Chris managed to suppress a very un-Mercish *eep!* and gallantly yielded
the floor. "Fine, whatever. You weasel to your little heart's content.
I'll go see if I can get an emergency shipment of watch batteries
delivered ASAP and try to keep an eye out for Laurie. Don't run over,
though," she warned her Poohbah. "I'll be back for MERC 412 by nine
sharp." 

Dianne frowned, "Is 412 'High Speed Chase Protocol' or 'Wiretapping
Without a Warrant'?" 

"It's 'Lawyers, Vampires, and other Bloodsuckers: Who Should You *Really*
Call From Your Jail Cell?' " 

"Ah! Right. Got it ," the redhead responded, reaching into the wriggling
box as Chris made good her escape. 

The other Mercs turned to stare at their Fearless Leader's idea of
'show-and-tell'." 

"I need a MaiTai," Tami announced.