July, 1997. 0945 hours. Arizona (USA) within proximity of Arches National Park.


Balfour Spectre, 22 years old and greener than moss behind his ears, was in pain. A torturous groan escaped him as he lay on his back with a mind still drenched in the impossibility of dreamful slumber. He forced his eyes open to a bare and foreign ceiling. Teal.

The air was arid: it smelt like burnt popcorn, stale sweat, and... eucalyptus, possibly. The wizard grunted and propped himself up by his elbows- with some effort as they kept sinking back into the thin, springy bed. That was when he realized he wasn't on a bed but a badly stained fold out couch in the middle of somebody's sparse living room.

Paint peeled off walls, a cracked television was positioned precariously on a stool, posters drooped lifelessly with images of muggle bands he couldn't recognize. A ceiling fan was slumping in slow and surprisingly silent circles. Sunlight blared brilliantly through thin curtains.

What happened last night? Gods. Balfour rubbed the sand out of his eyes like a child.

"Y'breathing, beanpole?" a croaking voice close to his head surprised him and he turned in dishevelled disbelief. A large man - tall as him but much fitter - was propped up against several pillows. All spiky blonde hair, stubble. He had hogged the blankets and was sleepily kicking them off now. "Lungs working, liver ain't."

The bloke had a point. His head was throbbing something awful and the rest of him wasn't being especially forgiving.

"Ah, I suppose not-" Balfour scratched the back of his head and pushed himself up to seating position. "- the old cerebrum isn't holding up either. Who are you exactly?" he looked around, this time noting his blazer on a ragged armchair.

The rest of the suit fortunately remained on his being. "And where am I?"

---

Dietrich Eisenberg dreamed about a stripped desert road, shimmering with heat from the oppressive afternoon sun.

A thin, lanky man stood in the centre with hands in his pockets. There was a confident slant to those long legs and how they supported the straight, sanguine shoulders of a learned mind. Bizarrely- he wore a suit. In a languid turn of the head, the man was looking at him. He moved to lower his dark green shades and a bright pair of eyes stared over them cockily.

Right then, Dietrich thought: upscale bastard.

Then he woke up to a groan that sounded the way he felt. The bastard was awake. They were both worst for wear with unshaven jaws, bruised arms. Hell's bells. It was his own damned fault for egging the fella on at the bar, probably got so wrecked that Marlene made 'em crash here.

"You forgot?" Dietrich was already getting out, though he looked over his shoulder with a drowsy glare. 'Course. Figures, it weren't like this shanty was worth remembering. "Dirk, Dietrich. Whatever's yer fancy. We're at mine-" he winced, standing. "- kinda."

The artist hunted around the ratty chairs until he found a t-shirt underneath Spectre's jacket, and pulled it on in spite of the sweltering heat. 'Cause, y'know, the guy was wearing a full-on dress shirt and reeked of cologne.

He patted his pockets for some cigs.

"Right." Balfour broke the silence brusquely. "Die spinne." The nom de plum rolled off that British accent with more class than most could account for in a year, but it weren't so bad now because at least he remembered. Not a complete bastard. Dietrich turned around with a pack of Marlboro's discovered.

The other wizard had swung around to sit on the reverse side of the bed, and sat on the edge with his back to him. Fuck, how did a beanpole like that tackle dragons? Or anything at all?

"Hey," he shook out a coupla sticks. "Smokes?"

Balfour turned around just in time to catch the tossed joint. It looked delicate in his long fingers. The two men lit up their cigarettes in comfortable silence, without so much as sharing a look.