Sunday, 1 May 1988, Montreal
Spring in Montreal is short, mild, less than terribly predictable, and welcomed with open arms. 1 May 1988 dawns slightly overcast, but the clouds burn off, and it hits a quite comfortable (by Montreal standards) 12°C.
No one really takes any notice of the three girls who cut across the McGill campus and spend a couple hours rambling around the park on Mont Royal. There's nothing all that remarkable about them . . . except, of course, that one of them is, on some version of Earth or another, being born 1800 miles away today, and one has metal claws in her hands and recovers from injuries almost before she receives them.
They stop for a quick lunch and then ride the Metro down to Old Montreal. They wander down cobblestoned streets and in and out of little shops, past churches and museums and the city hall.
When shadows start getting long and the temperature starts to drop, they turn down a side street.
"I know the best place for dinner," Meg says. "It was in one of those off-the-beaten-path guide books last year, so of course the path beats right to the door now, but I don't think we'll have any trouble getting a table."
There's a small crowd in and around the doorway, but Meg goes past them and waves to a tall man in a white chef's jacket. "Bon soir, Sylvain," she calls.
The man comes over, smiling. "Meg. Bon soir. Trois?"
"Oui, si tu--," Meg starts, but he cuts her off with a wave of his hand.
"Pour toi, bien sûr," he says, and lead them over to a comfortable table in the corner of the restaurant.
"Sylvain, these are my friends, Parker and Laura. They're visiting from the States and I couldn't let them leave without bringing them for the best food in Montréal. Parker, Laura, this Sylvain Gagné."
Sylvain bows slightly. "Bienvenue à Montréal, mesdemoiselles. I hope you will enjoy your visit, and your meal. Alice will be right with you."
"Merci, Sylvain," Meg says, and turns back to Parker and Laura. "Sometimes, it helps to be dating the owner's favorite nephew."
No one really takes any notice of the three girls who cut across the McGill campus and spend a couple hours rambling around the park on Mont Royal. There's nothing all that remarkable about them . . . except, of course, that one of them is, on some version of Earth or another, being born 1800 miles away today, and one has metal claws in her hands and recovers from injuries almost before she receives them.
They stop for a quick lunch and then ride the Metro down to Old Montreal. They wander down cobblestoned streets and in and out of little shops, past churches and museums and the city hall.
When shadows start getting long and the temperature starts to drop, they turn down a side street.
"I know the best place for dinner," Meg says. "It was in one of those off-the-beaten-path guide books last year, so of course the path beats right to the door now, but I don't think we'll have any trouble getting a table."
There's a small crowd in and around the doorway, but Meg goes past them and waves to a tall man in a white chef's jacket. "Bon soir, Sylvain," she calls.
The man comes over, smiling. "Meg. Bon soir. Trois?"
"Oui, si tu--," Meg starts, but he cuts her off with a wave of his hand.
"Pour toi, bien sûr," he says, and lead them over to a comfortable table in the corner of the restaurant.
"Sylvain, these are my friends, Parker and Laura. They're visiting from the States and I couldn't let them leave without bringing them for the best food in Montréal. Parker, Laura, this Sylvain Gagné."
Sylvain bows slightly. "Bienvenue à Montréal, mesdemoiselles. I hope you will enjoy your visit, and your meal. Alice will be right with you."
"Merci, Sylvain," Meg says, and turns back to Parker and Laura. "Sometimes, it helps to be dating the owner's favorite nephew."

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At least, she hopes so.
Not that today hasn't been a blast, but, um . . .
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Parker grins at her friends.
"Don't worry. I wasn't about to suggest that we go all Charlie's Angels."
Even if they would make a good Hollywood-style crime fighting trio.
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X's expression goes blank.
"I do not know what that is."
No one has ever thought to suggest she should watch it.
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"And they would go undercover, um, usually in some guise that required them to wear some sort of scanty outfits, and solve mysteries and such."
Honestly, if you were going to assemble a team of beautiful women to run around solving mysteries, you could probably do a lot worse than the three at this table. Though they'd likely all insist on sensible clothes and shoes while they did so.
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"Brains, charm, and butt-kicking skills. We'd make good Angels."
Hey, there are worse career paths.
Parker, smiling serenely, neatly cuts a bite of her crepe.
"494 could totally be our Bosley."
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"He would want to go on missions, too."
Beat.
"I think he likes when people do not wear many clothes."
And then she, too, starts eating her crepe.
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Because Meg has nothing to contribute on 494's opinions on people who don't wear very many clothes.
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Not that she's giving this actual thought or anything.
"I seem to remember Bosely being more the 'damsel in distress' character. The one the Angels have to rescue. But I'm not sure if I'm remembering that right."
Parker is way more familiar with the movie version than the show.
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"And it is better if people do not stare."
Everything about sex that X knows she has learned from the brothel or the streets of New York.
494 is more confusing.
Not as confusing as Charlie's Angels, though.
"It is important? Whether he was rescued?"
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Meg would probably be mind-boggled that anyone bothered to make a movie.
"Jeans are a must. Oh, and flat shoes.
"One broken ankle is enough, thanks."
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Never underestimate the power of a little PG-Rated cleavage.
"Definitely flat shoes," Parker agrees. "Something you can run in. Boots wouldn't be all bad."
"And of course it's important that he'd be rescued. I mean, we like him. Well, I mean, the Angels like Bosely, but we like 494, too. And if he, say, got kidnapped by terrorists--or a dragon--we'd go save his ass."
It's not like he wouldn't do the same for them.
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"I am not good at that kind of distraction."
Beat.
"But boots are okay. When you are used to them."
X is. It just takes some time. And some breaking in.
And as for rescuing 494 --
"I do not think he would get kidnapped."
Well, not by terrorists, at least.
"But we would still save him. Sometimes he is stupid."
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Meg can . . . plan things.
"And I'm not good at that kind of distraction, either, I don't think."
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Their skills fall in line so neatly, it's almost scary.
"Now all we need is for someone to kidnap him."
She's kidding.
99% certainty.
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Carefully.
After eating a few more bites of her crepe.
"Other people will need rescuing, too. Sometimes."
They could even contract out their services.
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Not that Meg is not all for rescuing people. She is, she totally is.
But, um . . .
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She grins teasingly at Meg.
"But look at it this way. You have more experience at rescuing people than I do. I was the rescuee last time."
"And like the woman says. People need rescuing sometimes."
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And Parker.
"You do not have combat training. It is not safe."
But if they ever do --
Not that it is relevant. Now.
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Or ever.
"Besides, I don't think feathered hair is a good look for me."
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Some terrifying stuff went on in the 80s too, to be fair. Which it would seem Meg has had the good sense to avoid.
"And, yes. I don't really have what you would call combat skills."
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Because she does know. Very well.
"But many people do not. It is okay."
Beat.
"We are still friends."
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"We are.
"And I'm very glad."
And, hey, if they ever had to figure out how to rescue someone, they would.
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Unanimous vote.
"I'd say we all got lucky, meeting each other."
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For her, at least, it has been.
Not that X believes in luck.
Much.
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"So, Parker, do you have plans with Seth for your birthday, too?"
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