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People often guessed at Alex's age but were never close, guessing either on the low side -- fourteen -- or on the high side -- eighteen; his real age was just a few weeks past his sixteenth birthday. His clothing was not typical of a modern teenager's excessively baggy clothing; he was dressed simply, in a regular pair of proper-fitting black Levi's jeans and a plain grey t-shirt.

It was Saturday and Alex had already been in London a week. He'd been to every imaginable tourist site. He'd been to Piccadilly Circus, Buckingham Palace, the Tower of London, Tower Bridge, the British Museum, the London Eye, Madame Tussaud's, and every other tourist attraction worth visiting, even the much maligned Millennium Dome of which he was rather fond. He'd also been to quite a few tourist attractions that weren't worth visiting. He'd done very little shopping, other than visiting the many world-class bookstores on Charing Cross Road. He loved to read: science-fiction and science-fantasy were his mainstays, though he often liked works by authors in other genres, especially if they were humorous.

• • • • • • • •

This so-called vacation was a gift from his parents. No, 'gift' wasn't the right word. It was suggested to his parents by his psychiatrist, hopefully to help get Alex back fully into reality instead of the fantasy dream-worlds that he often appeared to inhabit. It was these trips to his fantasy worlds coupled with unhealthy thoughts of superiority and arrogance towards those around him that caused his parents to send him to the psychiatrist to begin with. It was these same thoughts that prevented Alex from letting people get close to him. Alex learned the hard way to hide these feelings because they made people dislike him even more. As a result, Alex was very secretive and private, having spent years building up walls nobody could climb in. Within these walls, he lived a life constructed from parts of the fantasy worlds he always read about. In school he was known as shy, introverted, and unapproachable. Because of that aloofness, people often assumed he was extremely intelligent. In this case, they were correct. Alex was a genius.

Alex didn't even want to go to the damned shrink, but his parents had forced him after repeated complaints by teachers of 'attention lapses' in school. After a year's worth of weekly visits, he probably hadn't said much more than ten minutes worth of anything substantial to the psychiatrist. When pressed for information by the doctor, he'd talk about sports, computers, books, or films, but never about people. Alex slowly learned what answers his doctor expected to hear. Fourteen months later he was pronounced 'cured' and this trip was suggested.

When his parents presented him with the opportunity to spend a week alone anywhere he wanted, he jumped at the chance. While he loved the Bay Area where he lived -- it offered him the ability to sit and read in the BART tunnels -- he took the opportunity to go some place far away, some place he didn't know anyone; some place where he could hide from everything that troubled him. He felt the essence of many of these troubles but was unable to admit to himself what most of them were. He knew that he was being eaten up inside. He could feel it. But, there was nobody that he could talk to; nobody who would listen; nobody who would really care.

All of his life there was nothing that he felt to be more relaxing than sitting in a dark tunnel on a train, or in the anonymity of an airplane on a long flight. He could get lost in a book, or just be alone with his thoughts. This trip was just what he wanted. It only took him one day to inform his parents of his decision: London.

In hindsight, his reasons weren't all that great. Simply put, he wanted to go somewhere that was the same, but at the same time different. It was a cliche in a way, but it was still true. He wanted a city that was large, vibrant, and all the things he liked. He quickly narrowed the list down, London being the only one where English was widely spoken.

His parents weren't thrilled with his decision at first. They never considered he'd want to leave the country. After much arguing between them and efforts to get Alex to reconsider, they begrudgingly decided to trust their son. A few weeks later, he was on a British Airways flight to London. Alex went on the trip with all of his friends: in other words, he went alone.

This was not his first plane trip, for his parents loved to travel with him all over the United States and Canada. He loved travelling by plane, though he wasn't overly fond of the interminable waiting in overcrowded airport terminals. He arrived in London tired and exhausted. Rather than spend his limited budget on a cab to the hotel his parents had picked on Baker Street, he took the Piccadilly tube line. Although it was an easy ride, requiring one quick train change to the Jubilee line at the Green Park station, the difficulty getting his luggage up and down stairs made him realize it was a mistake. While he changed trains, the haunting flute playing of a busker filtered through the station. He didn't stop and listen more closely, as he was in a hurry to get to his hotel.

The remainder of his journey was uneventful, as was his check-in at the hotel. Baker Street had sounded so cool -- the fictional home of Sherlock Holmes -- but in reality it was nothing but office buildings and shops. The hokey museum that stood in its stead was a terrible let-down. Alex was sorely disappointed in his lodgings, expecting something quaint and steeped in antiquity. What he got was a sterile, modern hotel. Still, it was a relatively cheap place to stay, at least by London standards. On his limited budget, it would have to do. He promptly went to bed, ignoring his parents' advice as to how to best avoid jet-lag. Alex awoke the next morning, at what he thought was an unspeakably early hour, and began his days as a tourist. This pattern repeated itself for the next few days.

••••••••

As Alex sat on the train, the sounds of a talented busker filtered through the window as the train rumbled along the Bakerloo Line into the Embankment station where he'd change trains for the Circle Line. The busking got louder as he exited the train into the station. He really didn't like most buskers because they intruded on his thoughts, but this one sounded quite good and he took notice. Alex stopped for a moment to look around for the source. The music made him feel jealous; he'd always wanted to play a musical instrument, but he had absolutely no talent for it. Again, he felt the familiar gnawing inside his stomach as negative emotions filled him. He continued walking, trying unsuccessfully to distract himself.

In the corner of the corridor was a young man who appeared to be no older than Alex. He looked at the young musician in awe. Alex was amazed not only by the young man's flute playing, but by his looks. He'd never really noticed another guy before, but he had to stop and stare: the busker was very tall and looked almost like an elf out of a fantasy novel complete with delicate features and bright blond hair. The only difference was the busker's hair was decidedly unkempt and short, but not in a sloppy sort of way. It was more disorganized than anything else.

Apparently Alex had stared too long, for the young busker's eyes came to meet his own. As their gazes locked, the music stopped. Alex shook his head side-to-side as if to say "you're mistaken if you thought I was looking at you" and walked rapidly down the tunnel, inexplicably ashamed. As he did, the music resumed, shakily at first.

Finally, he came to the Circle Line platform and boarded the next train. As the train pulled from the station, an old man began panhandling from the passengers. This made him a bit uncomfortable, even a bit afraid, for he'd never become used to panhandlers even though they were commonplace back home as well. When the man finally came to him, he knew he'd have to say something or the panhandler would linger before leaving. So, he just looked down and said, "I've got no money. Sorry." He used to hate lying and he still hated it in others, but he'd become so good at it over the years, that it was second nature.

Finally the train pulled into Westminster station. The sounds of construction on the Jubilee Line extension brought him out of his dark thoughts, albeit briefly. He was fascinated by the construction work and the grandeur of it all. He found the way out, and came up into the street, looked about briefly and strolled towards Westminster Abbey, his destination that morning. There was almost no queue as it was still early. He paid for his ticket and began to roam about, looking at the stones marking the last burial places of the greatest people in English history. It dismayed him at how many stones were worn away, past reading, the identity of the interred remains lost to the sands of time.

Alex's thoughts started to wander as he came to the area where most of the Kings and Queens of England were laid to rest. Alex began to drift into his internal fantasy world. He always wondered what that kind of power would feel like, would taste like. He knew that power was said to conquer those who would wield it. He knew he'd be different. He wanted power. He knew deep down that he wanted to rule the world. He laughed aloud at the thought of such a tired cliche, but it was true. More importantly, that's what he wanted; he knew this beyond any doubt. For no apparent reason, the image of the busker on the tube came unbidden to the front of his thoughts, and he dismissed it angrily, only to have it reappear seconds later.

Alex considered what his life would be like if he were the busker. Then he realized that he knew nothing about the busker, and it was no use comparing himself to the busker like that, but he couldn't help it. Alex knew people resented him because of how he came across. He had no friends to speak of, well none except for Delos. He'd known Delos on and off his whole life; they'd practically grown up together so he wasn't even sure if that counted considering they never really talked much. His feelings were certainly mixed when it came to her. Alex wanted friends; he craved them, but he had never met the person who could be the kind of friend he needed and could accept the kind of friendship he had to offer. Perhaps that person didn't exist. He was so alone and he felt every ounce of that loneliness.

After leaving Westminster Abbey and touring the surrounding areas on foot, he got back on the tube, reversing his route. He changed trains again at Embankment to return to the Bakerloo Line. He heard the same flute music from earlier that day, but coming from a different place in the station. As he came to the platform for his train, the same young busker was there. The young busker looked right at Alex and locked his gaze, causing Alex to freeze in place. The busker smiled, nodded his head once in acknowledgement, and resumed his playing. Alex boarded his train.

Alex became angry with himself as his thoughts returned to the busker. Why couldn't he get this guy out of his head? He didn't like it. He didn't want anyone to have a hold on his thoughts, yet here it was -- and a guy no less. It probably didn't mean anything, although, technically speaking, he never had a real girlfriend. Sure, he dated once or twice mostly to shut his parents up; but he never really liked dating, and never really knew what to do while on a date -- he felt awkward. Maybe his heart just wasn't in it. He was too busy with his own thoughts to let someone else inside. It wasn't that Alex disliked girls, he just firmly believed that romance was a waste of time and energy.

He came to his stop, got off the train, and climbed the stairs to the street above. He returned to his hotel and went to bed. He wanted to get an early start tomorrow, for Sunday was to be his last day in London. His return flight left mid-day on Monday.

••••••••

For his last day, he headed out to go see the famed Speaker's Corner. He hopped on the tube, and exited some fifteen minutes later into Hyde Park from the Marble Arch station. He listened to each speaker in turn, most of them unable to hold his interest for more than a few moments. Most speakers were spouting off about religion and held no interest at all for Alex, but, some speakers were interesting, some were a bit odd, and some were quite clearly out of their minds. Invariably, the latter were the most popular.

As he came towards the last of the speakers, he noticed a rather large crowd about one. The man was talking incessantly about how the world was being taken over by elves. Alex immediately thought of Tolkien and it made him laugh. The man was clearly a lunatic, but he was very entertaining, so Alex continued to listen to him. As the day wore on, the crowds thinned out. Alex began to contemplate a departure and, perhaps, a walk through the park itself.

Alex was startled by a voice that spoke to him from behind, "Right entertaining, isn't he?" He quickly turned around and was confronted by a familiar face: the young busker from the tube. Alex just kept on staring at the busker in disbelief.

After a noticeable pause, the busker spoke, "I've got something on my face, then? Cor, you've not said a thing and you just keep staring at me! Is there a bug on my face? Can you talk?" The busker was smiling, clearly trying to be friendly.

Alex snapped out of his trance. He still didn't know what to say, he never did. Alex didn't want this chance encounter to end either. "Yeah. Sorry. You startled me."

"What then? You don't usually have complete strangers walking up to you on the street and start a conversation?" asked the busker with a warm smile.

Alex didn't smile. He almost never smiled. "Not usually, no. Hardly anyone bothers with me." It was said without a trace of bitterness, though deep inside it hurt Alex to admit it to someone. He wasn't quite sure why he said it out loud, especially to a perfect stranger.

"My name's Nicholas, but nobody calls me that but my father. You can call me Nicky. You must be Alex, and you're from America."

Alex was stunned. "How did you know?" He was more than stunned. Now he was wary, and nervous. A slight chill worked its way up from the base of his spine.

"Well, your accent clearly marks you as an American, and the name tag on your backpack tells me your name and the rest. Might as well have a big neon sign on your arse. With that, it doesn't take much bloody work to figure out you're Alexander Maitland from San Bruno, California."

"Yeah, I guess that explains it," replied Alex, relaxing a bit. He never was good at small talk, but he was determined to try, though he didn't know why. He decided a change of subject was in order. "Anyway, your music was pretty cool. I wish I could play an instrument, but I'm just not able to do it. Maybe I'm tone deaf or something."

"I guess some people are just born with the talent. Are you finished listening to this bloke?" inquired Nicky, waving his thumb at the speaker. "If you are, we could go sit down and have something to drink."

Alex agreed hesitantly; this was too odd, too far out of his experience. Nobody ever wanted to be his friend or even went out of their way to communicate with him; he was a virtual outcast. Nobody ever even gave him the time of day and yet here was a stranger clearly making an unusual and extraordinary effort. His mind went crazy trying to find possibilities to explain the situation, but he couldn't find any answer. So he went with Nicky, despite his initial misgivings and reservations. They walked side by side in silence. Nicky directed them into a nearby pub where they sat down.

Nicky asked Alex, "What's your pleasure?" with a slightly wicked twinkle in his eye.

Alex was briefly taken aback at the salacious tone in Nicky's voice, but then chalked it up to imagination. "Um, well, I don't really drink; I'm not old enough. I've never been in a bar before."

"Well if you want a pint, you only have to be sixteen as long as you've got food with it. They have soda, too."

"A soda, then. Anything that isn't diet." Alex was terribly uncomfortable, though it never occurred to him to just leave. He was torn between his desire to run out the door and his desire to stay and talk.

Nicky came back with Alex's soda and some fish-and-chips and a beer and sat down at the table. He slid the soda to Alex, and began working on his pint. Alex offered to pay but Nicky declined. "It's on me. Consider it a welcome to England gift." Alex felt a twinge of disapproval at Nicky's drinking but said nothing.

Alex sipped his soda, "This is good. What is it? I've never tasted anything like it before."

"Schweppes Lemonade. Don't they have that back where you come from?"

"No. Not at all. It's really good though. Your chocolates are better too. I'll probably bring back a bunch with me."

"I'm not much into chocolates," said Nicky, "but a good, warm pudding is always nice."

Despite the bright, cool day outside, the pub was dark, warm, and smoke-filled. They sat in almost complete silence while the patrons in the pub moved about noisily. Alex wanted to talk, but his head was filled with millions of thoughts. Sometimes, he knew, he thought too much. This whole thing was so out of the ordinary. It was out of character for him to be here, and the whole experience was beyond him. He felt like he was starting to sink.

Nicky sat there, waiting for Alex to talk. The drinks were long gone. For what seemed like an hour they sat in silence, neither making an effort to leave nor start a conversation. They passed the time, mostly in silence, but with occasional small talk.

"Bloody Hell. Well then," said Nicky after over an hour had passed, "it looks like it's all up to me."

"What do you mean?" inquired Alex, stupidly.

"I want to have a conversation. I'm pretty sure you want to have a conversation. It seems that you aren't ready or able to start it. I want to have one in spite of this stalemate, so I guess it has to be me. I'm just not sure what to say, or more accurately, where to start. I don't have many friends, you know," said Nicky before quickly changing the subject by asking a question. "Alex, do you believe in fate?"

"I dunno. I never really thought about it," commented Alex while wondering if Nicky was like him because he didn't have friends either.

"Well, let me ask you this. You don't find it odd that in two days' time you've run into me three times? Cor, I'd find it odd."

"Yeah, actually I find it very odd," admitted Alex sheepishly. "But, coincidences do happen."

"There are no such things as coincidences. Don't forget that," said Nicky in all seriousness. "Well, you only ran into me by accident twice. At the park, you didn't run into me. I followed you there."

Now Alex was suddenly very nervous. "Followed me? Why? You're not trying to hurt me, are you?" Alex realized it was a stupid question. It wasn't as if someone would admit they wanted to harm you. Besides, Nicky would have taken him somewhere far less public if that's what he had in mind.

Nicky got a pained look. "No, I think not. Look into my eyes and tell me what you see." Nicky knew why he was here, but he wasn't telling. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

"That's too weird. I don't even know you. I can't do it."

"Are you afraid?"

Alex knew that he was. He was terrified, but he didn't want to let on. "No, I just think it's weird." Nicky just sat there looking hurt, as if his request was perfectly normal.

Alex started to feel guilty. Part of him really wanted to humour Nicky, but part of him kept warning him that this was dangerous. He argued with himself: He's just another kid like me. Maybe he's going to hypnotize me. Maybe he's a pervert. It's an oddly intimate thing to do with a stranger. I just don't know. The whole argument in his head took maybe ten seconds, but it seemed like hours.

"Ok. I'll do it," he said somewhat reluctantly. He looked right into Nicky's eyes, locked his gaze in place, and stared as hard as he could. Suddenly, he felt something. He couldn't describe it or understand it, but when it was over he believed deep down inside he wasn't going to be hurt. As he came back to reality, he wondered if it was a trick to lull him into a false sense of security. Alex didn't realize that a full ten minutes had passed while locked in Nicky's gaze.

"Listen, Alex, we still haven't talked. I know you want to, or you'd have left already. I hope this isn't too forward, but why don't you come to my place?" Nicky felt apprehensive asking this. But, he recognized this feeling -- he had it once before. He needed to take a chance.

"I'm not sure I should," replied Alex, not sure if he was receiving a friendly invitation to a potential new friend's house, or if it was something a bit more unusual.

"I can tell you want to. I can see it in your eyes, but I won't force you to go. Here's what you do if you change your mind. Take the Bakerloo Line north and exit at Lord's. That's the first stop after Baker Street. I'll be busking there." Nicky was taking a chance, walking away and trusting the outcome to fate. He had to: there was no other way.

"Ok, I'll probably come in a bit," said Alex, deciding he'd tell another lie and then go somewhere else. This was too weird for him. All the childhood warnings about not going places with strangers came back to him.

"Oh, and another thing. Take the third car of the third train. That's very important. I'll see you later," and with that, Nicky raced out the door, and odd expression on his face. Alex would almost swear Nicky was ready to cry.

Alex walked out the door and into the nearest tube stop. He found himself in the Piccadilly Circus station. He figured he'd take the Bakerloo line straight home. He heard a train enter the station as he unfolded his tube map. While consulting the map, he noticed there was no Lord's station. The stop after Baker Street was Finchley Road. Though he had decided not to go see Nicky, he silently cursed himself for failing to remember the correct name. Part of him couldn't forget the busker; Nicky was etched in his mind. He didn't like it, but there it was. He had to think this through and deal with it. There was no better place to do that than back at his hotel room with a hot shower and a good book. While studying the fascinating map, he missed the first train. He cursed himself again.

Alex realized that he was getting hungry and decided he'd get a candy bar from the vending machine while he waited. A second train pulled in the station as he made his purchase. He clumsily dropped his change which rolled under a bench. He crouched down, and began picking it up, scrounging deeply under the bench for the last coin. With a curse he realized that he would miss the second train which was already closing its doors.

He went over to the platform's edge to wait, and spotted a tube worker. He went up to the man, who was clearly near retirement. He was seventy if he was a day. "Pardon me, sir, but might you tell me which line the Lord's station is on?"

"I'm sorry, young sir, but you must have the wrong name. That station was closed in 1939. You might try the station master upstairs -- he'll probably figure out which station you really mean." The worker's tone was one of slight irritation at having yet another daft tourist interfering with his regular work.

"Sorry. Thanks anyway," said Alex, as the next train rolled into the station. He boarded it, not consciously noticing he was boarding the third car. He sat down as the train rolled on and in to the next two stations, once again pulling out his map of the tube which held immense fascination for him. As he studied it, he felt a tingling go up his spine and his hairs stand on end. As was customary, the tube car had a map over the door. On Alex's map, Lord's station now appeared as did Marlborough Road right after it, though he was certain neither appeared earlier. Further study showed what appeared to be a number of stops he hadn't noticed before. They only appeared on his map, and not the ones on the tube car.

He was so immersed in the map, he didn't notice as the train stopped at Baker Street and the last few passengers in his car disembarked. A few moments later, the train pulled away from Baker Street and after a few minutes' journey, into Lord's station. Alex had to see what this was about, so he got off the train and watched it pull away. He noticed the station, though almost deserted, looked like it was in use and serviceable. Obviously, he was imagining things. He heard the sound of a flute playing.

He looked for the Way Out signs and saw them down at the far end of the platform. As Alex headed towards the end of the platform, he noticed trains passing through without stopping. As he reached the end, he heard a voice happily exclaim, "Alex, I knew you'd come! I just knew it!"

"Oh, hi," said Alex with a sinking feeling. He suddenly wondered why he had come here.

"Don't look so glum. You're going to love this. I want to show you my world."

"Why?" asked Alex with a bit of alarm, as Nicky led him to a lift, on the opposite side of the platform from the Way Out signs. Alex did not resist Nicky's lead.

Then, everything went dark as the doors to the lift shut. A pair of arms wrapped around him and held him tightly as the lift began a rapid, downward motion.