i promise, your name will be changed. i won't show my hand. they'll call me a liar, and i am

   "It's not actually possible to be drunk enough."
   The thick British accent was close beside Blair's right shoulder, close enough that Blair turned to see who it belonged to. He found a man perched on the barstool next to him, shoulders curved inward as he hunched over a glass of some kind of alcohol. It seemed his comment hadn't been directed at anyone, but Blair had spent a long day defending his undergrad work to some very hostile ex-professors, and he was in the mood to talk to someone, anyone else.
   "Excuse me?" he said. The man next to him opened his eyes, just a crack, and swung his head around for a glance at Blair.
   "Nothing. Didn't quite realize that was out loud. Sorry."
   "Hey, no problem. Are you ... uh ... all right?"
   "Yeah." He looked at his glass, then turned his eyes back to Blair. "Yeah, fine. I just hate to fly. But I suppose it's the most practical way of getting to Tokyo from here, so I'm stuck with it."
   Blair nodded.
   "I'm just going to Cascade. Two hour flight, three hour layover. But it's not enough time to do anything."
   "'cept get drunk," the man agreed. There was a spark to his light brown eyes that drew a smile from Blair.
   "But not drunk enough," Blair finished for him.
   "You don't seem drunk," the man said peevishly.
   "I don't want to miss my flight. Believe me, when I get home, I will not hesitate to get into the state you're in right now." He shifted in his chair to get a good look at his new drinking companion. About Jim's age, but closer to Blair's height and build. Attractive in some way Blair couldn't quite define. He had a sulky and likable face.
   "Fortunately, " he was saying, "there's someone by the boarding gate all set to come in here and poke me when I need to move. So I'm free to get excessively drunk in the meantime." He stared at Blair's face, long enough that Blair started to get uncomfortable. "You've got sort of funny ears," he said at last. "But don't worry about it. I often see people with pointy ears when I've been drinking."
   Blair placed his hands on the bar and gave serious thought to ordering another drink. To hell with his flight.
   "It's weird, you saying that," he said. "When I was a kid, one of my mom's boyfriends used to joke about me having Vulcan ears. You know, like on Star Trek?"
   "Did he drink?"
   Blair grinned.
   "The boyfriend, or Mr. Spock?"
   His companion began to smile, then caught himself.
   "The boyfriend."
   "No," Blair said. "My mom went out with some real characters, but none of them ... alcohol wasn't the drug of choice. This guy, though, I think he was just ... strange." He shrugged. "I could never hold that against someone."
   "You know, you look familiar."
   Blair sighed. He should have known better than to think he could be anonymous, so soon after the application of shit to fan.
   "I've been on the news a lot. I'm the guy who faked his dissertation."
   The man beside him snorted a laugh and set down his drink.
   "I'm sorry, you're *the* guy who faked his dissertation? You've not done anything original, have you? Just joined a bloody long queue." He frowned. "How'd that land you on the news?"
   "I wrote that paper about Sentinels. You know, those ancient tribal protectors with heightened senses?"
   His drinking companion still looked lost. Blair rubbed his eyes.
   "I read about Sentinels in some old papers and I wanted to do my doctoral thesis on them, so I claimed I'd found one. An actual modern day tribal protector. But really," he said, his stomach tightening, "I made that part up."
   The man next to Blair took another swallow of whatever he was drinking.
   "Hardly worth being on television for, though, is it?"
   "Oh, this was a special case. Somebody got hold of my thesis and leaked it to the press, they made a big deal of it, and by the time I managed to tell the truth, it was a national news story. Hell, international. I can't believe you didn't place me right away. I'm a symbol of disgrace."
   "Oh, right, now I can see it," Blair's new friend said, not meaning it. "You look disgraceful. I don't think that's where I know you from. Why did you do it?"
   Blair looked at him, right into his eyes. Something about this guy made him want to talk. Maybe he was just overdue for some confession.
   "I'll tell you," he said, "just as soon as I get another drink."

i don't know what you're ashamed of -- if i were you, the world would know my name

   "I think I just found the whole idea ... compelling. You know? You walk around cities these days and it's *worse* than the jungle. I mean, I know what I'm talking about. I can compare. But the worst thing about the city is this feeling nobody cares. I liked the thought of a tribal protector who was hardwired to care. Somebody you could really count on to be looking for people. And with his senses being so powerful, he'd really know where he was needed. If you called out for help, he'd hear you." Blair swallowed rye and set his glass back on the bar. "I guess I wanted it so badly, I decided it was real."
   "Sounds religious."
   It wasn't meant to be funny, and Blair didn't find it funny, so he smiled.
   "This whole Sentinel thing, it has a strong spiritual aspect. And I guess that when I was ..." Blair shut his mouth before it got him in trouble. "I think sometimes about what it must be like to feel part of something -- or even close to something -- larger than myself. I think it would change me."
   "Mate," his friend said, clapping him on the shoulder, "As you wander about this airport, you may want to stay clear of people in robes."
   Blair laughed and took another drink.

so what if your gift makes you strange? you don't understand -- at least you're gifted. strange is all i am

   "The other thing," he confided, leaning in close to the man beside him, "is what you said. About my ears."
   "I told you not to mind me," he said. "You're about the hundredth one I've seen. Not ever the first this week. Forget it."
   "No, see, I can't. Because whatever you saw, whatever my mom's boyfriend saw, it's really there. Lots of people see it. I'm not normal. I'm a freak." He looked down at his clothes, at the talisman around his neck. "At some point I realized I wasn't ever going to fit in. So I decided to go with it. Become the observer, take on a little something from every tribe I watched. But I'm not anything in particular, you know? I'm just ... weird." He reached for his drink and was surprised to find it empty. He pushed it toward the bartender. "There are times," he added, "I think I'd give anything to be like him."

i've been lying for you, saving your face ... keeping the world a charmless place where we don't belong

   "Except that he's not real," the Brit pointed out. "This Sentinel."
   Blair looked at him, struck by a strange tone in his voice. He looked right back, his face giving nothing away. Blair let it go and put his hands around his new drink.
   "No. Not real. But it would be something if he were. It would like ... magic was real. Like anything could happen. Like being a freak could ... you could be proud of it. You could point to the Sentinel and say, `yeah, I'm a freak, just like him. And he's the best thing in this city. He is the best thing anywhere'." He stared at his hands. They didn't look the way he remembered. The fingers were too long, too thin. "But, since there is no Sentinel, I guess none of that is true. And a freak is just a freak. So here's to freaks."
   They drank to freaks, a few times. It was strange that Blair hadn't noticed earlier, but this guy wasn't really in any position to throw stones about pointed ears. In fact, those ears were the least peculiar thing about him. Blair was starting to think the guy's skin had a glow to it. And his eyes weren't so much brown as gold.
   "I think that's your flight they're calling," he said. Blair blinked, trying to clear his vision.
   "What?"
   "Your flight? To Cascade? They're calling it."
   "Oh. Right. Thanks."
   Blair got to his feet, a little shakily, and slung his backpack over his shoulder.
   "Nice meeting you," he said. The man smiled, and his gold eyes gleamed.
   "You don't need him to prove anything, you know. You're ..." he stopped, looked confused. "I dunno. A Vulcan or something." He raised his glass. "Cheers."
   Blair nodded.
   "You take care."
   "That's what my mate's for," he said. Blair nodded.
   "I hear that."
   He went home.

--all lyrics from Stigma by Gayleen Froese