Prologue

   It had been a very long day.  Casey closed the door to his apartment behind him and lent on it, resting his eyes for a moment.  His faithful, and he was sorry to say now quite battered, camera was hanging heavily around his neck; he lent forward and pulled it off, throwing it in the direction of his couch.  The fridge beckoned him with it’s alluring humming from the corner of his small kitchen, adjacent to the living room.  He dropped his slightly damp coat of the floor where he stood, aiming to pick it up later along with the other various items of clothing littered about the place.  As he walked wearily over to the brightly lit kitchen, Casey stooped to first switch on the TV, then his computer; the thought of checking his e-mails lifting his mood slightly.  There was news playing quietly on the TV, something about forest fires.  Casey picked the remote off the counter and switched to WB to see if he could catch an old re-run of Buffy or Enterprise before yanking on the handle of the fridge.  Nothing.  A carton of milk, some left-over chicken chow-mien, and tomato ketchup.  That was it.  Casey sighed and grabbed the box of chow-mien, a red dragon emblazoned on the sides, and fished in his cupboards for some chopsticks, snagging a bag of cheesy Lays as he went. 

   Casey was careful to move his camera out of the way before falling into the depths of the couch; it was his whole life after all.  He’d pull it apart and look at the day’s work later, but right now? T’Pol was on screen, and that was all he needed. 

   The rain was really pelting onto his windows now, Casey frowned, annoyed that the weather seemed to be against him as well, and turned the volume up on Captain Archer.  It bothered Casey that people seemed to take him for granted; not everyone, mind you, he did get a fairly good stream of decent work, but there were those few, the ones who treated him like some freak to be laughed at, or worse, who hired him not for his work, but because they thought he was some sort of saviour or hero.  Casey punched the interactive buttons on the remote dejectedly; whatever they thought, it had happened a long time ago and he was keen to forget it.  Though he was rarely allowed to.  Today had been a prize example; some over-excited thirty-something with way, seriously too much time and money on his hands had called him up wanting shots of ‘crop-circles’ which had turned out to be nothing more than a poor attempt to get his ass sued off by M. Night. Shyamalan.  Amateurs. 

   Enterprise finished; Casey hadn’t really been paying attention.  He started flicking aimlessly up and down the channels, not really looking for anything in particular, thinking if there was any Ben and Jerry’s lurking in the bottom of his freezer that might tempt him.  Just as he was making is way through all seventeen MTV channels (did any of them actually play music any more? he wondered as he carefully picked up another chip with his purple chopsticks) he realised the message button on his phone was flashing.  For a second or two he was tempted to just leave it; the day he’d had it would just be his mother telling him he was over-due a visit to her or some other wacko looking for confirmation from the horse’s mouth or an autograph or some other such crap.  But then he reasoned it could also very well be a serious, paying client; and paying equalled more food than the present total of, well, nothing. 

   Sighing once again, he left the screen with Linkin Park pulsing happily away and made his way over to the machine, bottle of Bud in hand.  He pressed the button. 

   “You have three messages,” said the stilted, artificial female voice.  Casey rolled his eyes, lent against the table on which the phone was sitting, and waited. 

   There was a shrill beep.  “Hi, Casey sweetheart,” rang his mother’s voice, “I haven’t spoken to you in simply ages - I was wondering if you wanted to come see us some time next week - I mean, you’re only an hour or so’s train journey away - so what do you think?”  Casey gave half a laugh.  Yeah; like that would happen. 

   Another shrill beep.  “Hey - looking for Mr Connor - this is Jim - from the electric company? Anyway - give us a call, and y’know - pay us some time before the new year - and we wont cut you off for the winter.  Thanks.”   Oh joy, more people who want money off me, thought Casey morosely. 

   The third beep sounded jarringly through the apartment.  Casey raised his eyebrows and looked at the machine expectantly.  C’mon, he thought, bring it on. 

   “Casey Connor?  Is…this the right number - I-I don’t know if I have the right number?”  Casey frowned.  He was listening to the voice of a young girl; certainly no one he recognised.   “I found your contact stuff in the old files - I mean, I looked you up…you’re in all the old papers, a few years back, I mean…” Casey tilted his head, looking at the tape playing in the phone, winding round and round.  Linkin Park had faded away; there was something wrong with this girl, the hairs on the back of his neck began to prick.  “I-I mean, God Casey, I didn’t know who else to turn too, I don’t…I think…

   “Oh, God, Casey - I think it’s happening again.”