AN: This is the third story in my little AUville. I would highly recommend reading the other two, Choices and The Four, which are available here, for two reasons. First, they are amazing stories, if I do say so myself. Second, you will be completely lost and this story will make no sense whatsoever if you don't read the first ones. Go. Read. Now.
For those of you who like to live dangerously I will try to recap the story so far. It breaks off from canon mid season 5 around the episode "Checkpoint". In my version they manage to defeat Glory without any self sacrifice, though they do take a beating. After Glory, they live happily ever after, until a demon kidnaps Buffy in an attempt to end the world. The Scoobies manage to get her back and stop the demon, but not before Buffy disappears. And fade to black.
Hmmm... Two stories, twenty-nine chapters, and over ninety-five thousand words and it's summarized in four lines. But seriously, go read the first two.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Everything is owned by the very talented Joss Whedon. I'm just taking his toys out and playing with them. I promise to put them back, relatively unscathed. Also I don't consider this a crossover, but I do think Angel and his group, and Buffy and her group would help each other out whenever they were needed. Enough talking. I hope you enjoy reading.
Warnings: This is a very dark story, the darkest I have ever written. It deals with the very troubling and unfortunately still very real world of human trafficking, slavery, and forced prostitution. There is nothing graphic, but plenty is implied. It also deals with the physical and psychological recovery of victims being subjected to this world against their will. If this subject is too traumatic for you, I urge you to stop now.
Also, I have no medical training of any kind. I am not a doctor, nurse, psychologist, therapist, or any other medical profession. The extent of my first-aid training is a band-aid, and that makes me queasy. Any medical procedures I reference are completely made up. I did research the various medical stuff on the internet, which as you know means it has to be true to be on the internet, but I still needed to tweak some things in order for the story to work. Don't take any of my medical ramblings as fact.
AN: This story is complete. It is by far the longest story I have written to date. Over two hundred pages and over one hundred thousand words. Since it is so long I'm going to change my posting policy somewhat. I usually will post one chapter a day until it's finished, but since this is so long I've decided to post one to two chapters every three or four days. That will give you time to read it and will not cause me to bang my head against a wall as I try to edit and post so quickly. Enough of my ramblings. I hope you enjoy.
Joyce sighed as she hung up her phone. Dawn was a little too eager for this trip to finally come, though she suspected it had more to do with getting her mother out of the house than her interest in the art Joyce was up here buying. It was her first buying trip to New York. Not knowing how long it would take, Joyce gave herself two weeks in the city. The artists, though, were much more cooperative then she thought they would be and she found all the pieces she wanted within a week. She called home, asking Dawn if she needed her to come home only to get the teenager rant about being an adult and being fine on her own for a short time. In the end Dawn had not so subtly told her to enjoy her surprising vacation in the Big City, as long as she didn't cut Dawn's vacation at home short.
Joyce knew exactly why her daughter was acting like this. It had been four years since they had lost Buffy, her oldest daughter. All the Scoobies worked even harder to make sure that nothing happened to the youngest Summers, much to Dawn's constant distaste. Dawn was constantly complaining that they were smothering her, which they all freely admitted too. It had gotten better as the years passed, but this was the first time that Dawn was truly on her own for an extended period since Giles was away in England at the same time. Of course Willow and Tara were never far away, neither were Xander and Anya.
"What's the verdict?" Tim, the bartender, asked as he brought over her celebratory drink. She smiled at him. His son was one of the artist she was trying to buy from, much too both their surprise. He passed on good things about her, helping smooth the way for many of the artists she was meeting with.
"I think I was officially banned from coming home early," she said, taking a long slow sip. He laughed.
"Kids. Once they get that first taste of freedom all those years you spent with them is gone. Don't worry, though, it all comes back once they have that first load of laundry that needs washing."
"I remember," she told him, her thoughts drifting to her eldest. Happy thoughts, not the sad thoughts that were so common since her death. No. Not death. Death would involve finding a body and burying it. Death would mean closure. They never found anything. It was as if Buffy just disappeared. She shook her head to clear her morose thoughts. "Dawn in my second," she explained. Tim nodded his head in understanding, leaving momentarily to serve another drink.
"You okay?" he asked when he returned a few minutes later. She nodded her head.
"Memories," she told him. "Mostly good." He nodded in understanding.
"If you need anything," he offered. She shook her head.
"Go. Serve your patrons. I'll be fine." He looked at her a minute more, ignoring the rapidly filling bar, before nodding. The bar was attached to the hotel Joyce was staying at, but she found out a lot of the day traders liked to meet up here once the market closed. She watched him interact with his customers for a moment, before turning her attention to the TV screen behind the bar. Someone had requested the local news and Tim had readily accommodated. She had caught glimpses of the big story here and there throughout her stay in New York, but was never able to sit down and watch the whole thing. The story was the start of the trials of several prominent men in New York City who were caught in one of the largest slavery and prostitution rings ever discovered.
The actual bust happened almost six months ago. It was large enough news to actually reach across the country and she remembered hearing about it in Sunnydale. The media hype was on once more as the day finally came for the big players to start their trials. "Disgusting," Tim told her, noticing what had her attention. "Don't think all New Yorkers are like that. Most of us are kind, good natured human beings. Not the monsters who would do something like this." She nodded as she focused on what the reporter was saying. After rehashing the current situation, this news channel decided to do a human interest story focusing on the victims and how they were recovering. Most of the young girls and boys were from overseas, leaving them little support here in the states. Many chose to return to their own countries and their families, while those that chose to stay were coping in a variety of ways. Joyce took the final sip of her drink when a face showed on the screen for mere seconds. She froze, her drink glass falling from limp fingers. "Joyce?" Tim asked, turning toward her at the sound of the glass dropping. "Are you okay?" he asked, concerned at her shocked appearance.
"Fine," she said, forcing herself passed her shock. "I just need to go." He nodded and she slipped off the stool and slowly made her way to the elevator. It couldn't have been, she tried to reason with herself. She was thinking about Buffy. That's why she thought she saw her face flash across the screen. She couldn't be a victim in one of the most horrific cases she had ever heard of. Could she?
Once she reached her room the shock had worn off enough that she was able to form an actual plan. She opened up her laptop computer, grateful that Willow convinced her to get it and shown her how to use it, and connected to the internet. A quick search through headlines found the story she was looking for. She was able to follow it back until the first time the story broke, and after endless searching she was able to pull up the face she had never thought she would see again. "Oh God," she muttered out loud over and over, her fingers reaching out to caress the face on her screen, as she thought about what to do. She looked at her watch. It wasn't that late, just after six. The police detectives should still be there. Having made her decision, she went back downstairs and called for a taxi.
She wasn't quite sure how she managed to get to the police precinct, or if she was even at the right one, but a few minutes after arriving at the police station she was joined by a detective. He was an older man in a cheap suit who looked like he could use several more hours of sleep. "Excuse me," he said politely, causing Joyce to jump. She immediately stood, only sitting back down at his motioning. He took the seat next to her, turning so he faced her completely. "I'm detective Kestrel. I was told you wanted to talk to someone about The Ring?"
"Yes," she said automatically before her brain could catch up. He sighed.
"I'm sorry ma'am," he began in a tone that said this wasn't the first conversation he had been forced to have like this, "but we can't give out information on an ongoing case."
"No, no," she interrupted him. "It's not like that. I don't want any information. I'm here about one of the victims." He sighed again and she realized he must have heard that several times as well. "Wait," she held up a hand, taking a deep breath before facing his tired eyes straight on. "I'm not explaining myself very well. Let me try again." He nodded. She took another deep breath. "I think one of the victims is my daughter."
"I see," he said, throwing her another look, this time filled with hope. There were still several victims, girls and boys, who had yet to be properly identified. "You understand we must investigate your claim. Unfortunately, in cases such as these, there are some people who try to claim a victim to garnish sympathy from the public."
"I understand," Joyce said, pulling open her purse and shuffling through trying to find her pocketbook which held a picture of her family. Taking the photo with shaking hands, she stared at it for a minute before handing it to the detective. "These are my daughters. Buffy and Dawn." He glanced at the picture before immediately schooling his face, revealing nothing that he was thinking.
"Mrs…." He trailed off.
"Summers," Joyce filled in for him. "Ms. Summers."
"Ms. Summers," he continued. "Why are you coming to us now?"
"I own an art gallery in California," she explained, surprised when he took out his notebook and started taking notes.
"Please continue," he said when she stopped talking.
"In Sunnydale," she said after clearing her throat. "I was up here on a business trip, buying some pieces for The Gallery. I was at the bar having a celebratory drink when the news came on. They covered the trial of course, but also did a segment on the victims. I saw my daughter's face."
"When was the last time you saw your daughter?" he asked.
"Four years ago," Joyce answered. She paused, wondering how to word what happened when she last saw Buffy. How do you tell a police detective her daughter went out to kill a demon who was trying to destroy the world and never came back? She sighed. "She was going on a business trip out of town," she told him as simply as she could, "and never came back."
"Where?" the detective asked, his eyes boring into her as he sensed something off about her story.
"I'm not sure. She didn't know exactly where." He frowned slightly.
"Did you search for her?" he asked carefully.
"Yes. When she didn't come home by the time she thought she would we filed a missing person claim with the Sunnydale Police Department. We also looked ourselves, even hired a private detective, but there was never any trace of her. Until now." He made a few more notes in his book before looking at her.
"I'm sure you understand we need to verify your story before we go any further." She nodded her head. "Is there a number where we can reach you?" She quickly gave him the name and number of the hotel she was staying at along with her room number. He quickly jotted down the information. "How long are you staying with us?" he asked.
"My flight leaves at the end of next week," she said automatically, "but that can easily be rearranged." The detective nodded. He stood, offering her a hand, and casually escorted her to the doors.
"We'll call you," he promised, before handing her one of his business cards. "If there's anything I can help you with please call." He hesitated, debating with himself for a minute. "Is there anyone you can call?" he finally asked. "You might need some support over the next few days."
"Are you saying…?" He shook his head, cutting her off.
"I need to verify several things before I can make any sort of statement like that. But regardless of how this goes, you might need the support of someone you can count on." She nodded and left the building, hailing a cab to take her back to her hotel. As soon as she got in the room she picked up the phone and dialed an unfamiliar number.
"Hello?" a tired voice answered after just a few rings.
"Rupert," she said softly. "I need you." She then burst into tears as she tried to tell him what happened. She moved to the bed where she eventually cried herself to sleep, the phone still tucked up under an ear.