Disclaimer: The ideas and locations contained within belong to various other people. They have money, I don't. The Customs Official belongs to me, while Giles
belongs to some of the aforementioned other people.

Authors Notes: Just one of those ideas that hit me when it's late and I've got essays to write. Bashed out in ten minutes, and posted without revision. Review or
Feedback, if only to encourage me. The Beanie Muses are Watching.

Oh yeah, and if for some reason you want to archive this piece – just send me an E-Mail.
 
 

Variations on a Theme
 
 

He feels the touch at Heathrow airport, and Giles instantly worries because he's still waiting for his bags to come through. He looks around hastily, and sees the
small, slim man in the uniform of a Customs Official watching him, and wonders how often he's caught people coming through here, blades in their baggage but
otherwise unarmed.

He's talking to his colleagues, and Giles just knows that he's going to get stopped, have his baggage examined, and be disarmed.

He doesn't let it worry him.

The sword in the luggage of Rupert Giles is a nineteenth-century Heavy Cavalry sabre, single edged and brutal, and definitely a tall man's weapon. In Giles'
hands it is utterly lethal, and now it is taken from him, the smug little Customs Officer smiling into his eyes. Giles knows that there will be no escaping that man,
and he simply signs the forms and writes down his address, gives references when asked and accepts the rest of his bags.

When he walks out the officer follows him.

Giles heads down, rapidly descending through the various levels of the world's busiest airport, hoping his pursuer won't work out where he's going and why.
The other man follows easily. He's patient, and his uniform means that there is nowhere Giles can hide from him.

So Giles runs.

He runs at a walking pace along crowded corridors and past check-in desks for a hundred different airlines. He runs at a standstill on the escalators, his pursuer
matching his pace. He runs at an innocent stroll past armed policemen on duty (Armed police in Britain, he thinks, and wishes for a more peaceful age), and
finally he runs in a purposeful stride into the lowest of the public levels, makes turns and twists, counting, reading numbers, letting the officer think he is trying to
hide.

Finally, he stops.

When the small man in the Customs and Excise uniform rounds the corner, he's holding an Italian cinquedea in his right hand. He drops his jacket and tie as he
sees Rupert Giles, reaching in to an open locker. As he advances, confident and smug, he speaks.

'I am Michael Prior, trained by Etienne Valmont, born in the year 1746.'

Giles draws his broadsword from within the left luggage locker where it has waited these past six years, and turns to face his opponent.

'I am Riparius, called Giles, trained by Methos, born in the year 207 BC.'