No, I'm not dead. I've had a lot going lately, but not nearly enough to keep me as silent as I've been. It should be another three weeks or so before I get anything new up, but there will be fic in the future. :)

A/N: I changed Mr. Swann’s name because no one, I mean no one, in Western Oklahoma is named “Weatherby.” Also, I know it’s crap. But I have to set the scene before it gets good, ya know.

Prologue – Ten Years Prior

“That was Deana Carter with ‘We Danced Anyway’ and you’re listening to 97.3 ‘the Coyote’ Country…continuing with 43 minutes of commercial-free music, got some Reba…Here’s ‘Fancy’ on the Coyote.”

The heavy, haunting echo of the bass resonator floated out of the crackling speakers and into Liz’s ears as the car continued down the roadway. Dad’s Lincoln didn’t really drive; it flew, with the tires seldom seeming to touch the ground on its way from point A to point B. Even then, with the rain-soaked gravel grinding beneath the wheels, the ride was smoother than the unbroken surface of a pond.

Still, ten miles out of town in a storm was never a good place to be. It was May; the official start of the season in Tornado Alley. Dad and Jim – Officer Norrington to her – were wordless in the front seat, and Joe Gibbs, the local jack-of-all trades, sat beside her, running his tongue over his teeth behind his upper lip. Well, “sat” was a misnomer; he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, as close to standing up as he could be in the car.

“What’s with all the chick music?” he asked.

“Quiet, Gibbs.” It was her Dad’s voice, and it startled her. He only called people by their surnames when he was very, very tense.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to drive?” Jim asked, “I’ve got all kinds of training for…”

“I’m fine,” he shifted in his seat a bit and leaned forward over the steering wheel.

Five minutes passed in silence. Liz counted them on the digital clock next to the cassette player.

Jim leaned to one side, his keen eyes narrowing. “Stop, Keith.”

“What is…oh, my God.”

Liz climbed her arms up the window and craned her neck. Through the specks of water on the glass she could make out the vague outline of something big and grey and rectangular blocking the entire road. It was a semi trailer.

The car came to an abrupt halt and the doors flew open; only Jim’s bounced closed again as the men ran to the wrecked truck. Dad ran back all of two minutes later, laying an unconscious boy down in the back seat with her.

“Watch him,” he ordered, leaning over the front seat to his car phone.

The boy, her own age, was laid out with his head in her lap. He was soaked to the bone and covered in scratches, and his arm looked bent out of shape. He must have been in the bed, she thought as she moved a chunk of wet hair out of its place, plastered to his cheek and lip. As her hands moved down absently to adjust his bunched-up T-shirt, she caught sight of something around his neck. It was a coyote tooth, set in pewter and on a matching chain.

Immediately it came back to her, the time when she was five when it had seemed bright as a twisted daylight in the dead of night. Someone had set fire to the Treadaway’s wheat field, and it and part of their feed pasture were in flames. She remembered Dad pacing back and forth on the phone with Jim, talking about some gang who wore coyote teeth. As quickly as she could, she unhooked the clasp and curled the fang, chain and all, into her palm.

Outside the car, Gibbs was draping a sheet over something that looked too much like a body, and Jim was trying to get a signal on his radio. Liz looked out the open door to the far left of her and saw in the distance the top few feet of a black semi, hauling tarp-covered equipment as fast as possible toward the east.

By the end of the weekend, I hope to have, in addition to another Javert chappy, the first chapter of a POTC Alternate Universe. (yes, there's BarbossaBeth) And when I say AU, I don't just mean changing it around a bit. I mean, completely different setting. It's half camp, of course, it is POTC. But I'm taking some of it seriously, it's sort of a tribute to the lifestyles many of my family and family friends embrace.

It's early May on the plains of Oklahoma, a time of high wind, higher heat, and volatile thunderstorms. Farmers have been praying all winter for rain to keep the wheat alive, now they pray for dry weather so that it can be harvested. On all sides of the town of Millicent, a sea of golden grain stretches up to the horizon as far as the eye can see, punctuated by far-off water towers.

Liz Swann, only daughter of a former Representative and the current Mayor, looks forward to the harvest season because it brings out-of-towners from as far as Canada to cut wheat. Will Turner, labor at the only tire shop in town, looks forward to the business it brings. Jim Norrington, head of the county's Highway Patrol, looks forward mostly to getting drunken truck drivers off the roads for good.

So when a slightly intoxicated man known only as Jack rolls into town driving a semi without a trailer, in need of fuel, interest is piqued. However, none of them have any idea that it will herald the arrival of...DUNDUNDUN...

A strange out-of-state crew, with license plates that constantly change and never match. They run a black combine and take their pay only in cash. And their manager always wears a designer suit, albiet one that has seen better days. What is this strange caravan that has the entire town on edge? When Liz sneaks off to find out, things get interesting.

What do we think? Am I crazy or what?

As Cosette lay in bed that night, it occurred to her that she had left one single, solitary day of freedom.

She wondered if it was at all possible that she could convince Mme. Jules to let her go out, just once, to see her old home. It was highly unlikely, given the state of things. She would have to sneak out.

Gentleness was not a quality that came naturally to Javert. Strength and fortitude, he could command. Determination? Most definitely. And he was an expert in devotion to duty. But the closest he had come to tenderness since taking Cosette beneath his wing had been two cases of financial leniency in the form of pastries. (Which was no small thing, to him, considering how tidy he normally kept his budget.) However, he thought he had done well the night before.

I want to make a radical life change.

I want adventure.

I want to go somewhere far away from where I am now. I want to scrap everything and start over somewhere fresh, somewhere with promise. I don't want to have to compromise my dream of becoming a psychiatrist eventually, but if I have to put it on hold for the sake of this adventure I want to have, I will.

It is my intent to have a tangible plan in the next three years. I don't just want to move town, I want to change countries.

So...who am I shacking up with? *Kidding*

“Shall we have coffee again?” Cosette asked as dinner drew to a close.

“I’m afraid I have paperwork,” he set his fork down, “This business with the rebellion has created a necessity for properly filed reports, and a good deal of my inferiors are incompetent as to that particular skill.”

“Oh,” she looked down, not entirely certain why she was disappointed.

“I can work in the parlor, if you prefer,” he offered, going to the hallway and retrieving his document case.

“I think I would like that.”

A song I wrote yesterday

A/N: Short, I know. More once I've had a decent night's sleep. 

“You are upset,” he said as they retired for coffee after dinner.

“No doubt your emotions are directed at me,” he continued, “I am, after all, quite easy to blame.”

“Inspector, I…”