Title: Cheese: An Experiment in Fate
Author: Lyle Brown (Lyle MHD)
Summary: Cheese. It's life. One is the loneliest slice that you'll ever eat; (if you dig cheese) two can be as bad as one; it's the loneliest slice since… what number was I on? Anyway, sit through this as twenty lives will change forever, if they survive. See, that's called a hook. It's supposed to pull you in. Hope it works.
Time Period: Consider this an alternate universe for Buffy. I believe they call it Doppel-Buffy, but I'm usually wrong at these sorts of things. Don't mind me, I'll just sit by the punch bowl and try not to get it on the tux.
Disclaimer: Hey Man, don't scuff the suede. I'm merely a small part (an addition really) of and to the large mouse that's biting off Joss's cheese. So, in essence, thanks for the cheddar Joss, I doubt my bite marks will be as noticeable as most…
Rating: Censor, what censor? Hey, what's that on my shoe? Oh, an "R" I suppose. I'm prone to adding as much violence and vulgarity as possible, but as this is my first straightforward drama, don't expect much of that. Rated "Restricted" for adult situations such as drug use, harsh language, sexual innuendo and murder. Not to mention a large consumption of cow pus. By the way, Word's telling me that was a fragment sentence. I have a lot of those. Please don't tell me about them, it's how I dance. Let me dance.
Feedback- I love it. If you want to give me a happy, just write to me. Flame me if you like, it gets kind of lonely here. Hell, correct my spelling and grammar if it tickles your yurt. Just don't tell me about my fragment sentences.
Final note: Footnotes can be found at the end of this document. Whenever you see this (*#), that means a footnote was written about or pertaining to the sentence you've just read.
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Here we go again…
People say that there are many coincidences in life. I know differently. Cheese proves this. Made from one thing to another, it is consumed and becomes something else completely different. Cheese, like life, follows a chain. A destined set of occurrences, which coincide with other chains holding their own sets of occurrences. It is when these chains coincide, (interacting, linking if you will) that AKA: "coincidences" begin and end. Most confuse fate with these so-called coincidences. Is it coincidence that two dominatrix lovers captured and nearly killed a man? A man who was hired to kill someone by that body's own former love. And was it coincidence that this friend was involved in the murder of her roommate? Or what about the fact that the one who helped that friend kill her roommate was running away with a man who was the entire reason that the dominatrix couple were at that certain place and time to capture that hitman? Some would call this a coincidence, but not me. None with half a brain would ever accuse me of being blind to the obvious. I wear the cheese; it does not wear me. The story I am about to relate to you is fate, pure and simple. There is no running from it, there is no changing the outcome and there is no stopping time. The cheese cannot protect you, for your decisions have already been decided, your steps have already been mapped, and your life is on strings that are cut at a pre-determined destination. This… this is the true power of
Cheese
(The absence of coincidence, the truth of fate)
Behold The Power
JUNE 17th
Buffy let out a sigh of relief. A small, thin smile traced along her mouth until it was an all-out giddies grin. It was over, it was all over, and her duties as the slayer were finished. She stood atop the hill and her hair blew through and along with the wind as it howled around her, but to Buffy it simply sounded like birdsong. The Hellmouth was closed for all eternity. Demons would still inhabit the earth, but they would either learn to be peaceful like others of their kind, or they would kill constantly, canceling each other. Considering this, Buffy lightly ran her finger over the newly acquired scar, which graced her forehead. She was painfully aware of another that ran along the length of her back, but they would both eventually go away, leaving her skin once again cream-colored and unblemished. The hilt of the blood-smeared battleaxe left the support of her small, graceful fingers and fell to the earth below. She no longer needed such an ugly thing, nor wanted one. Her life started today. Her life would start today, as soon as she left this god-forsaken hilltop. Buffy laughed and (liking the sound of it) began skipping down the east side of the hill towards Sunnydale, and Giles. And cheese. She was hungry.
* * * * *
"Okay Betty yesyesyes?!?!?, -what's C'mon baby, one more one friggin' more!!! -our next and final number?"
A white ball popped through the chute down to Betty's pearly white nails. It was a 15.
"YEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!"
Xander fell to his knees, tears streaming down his face from joy, the absolute joy of it all. In his hand he held a crumpled white piece of paper, idly forgotten for the past six days until he decided to give it a chance.
"All right, so in total that would be 26…5…16…16…15. This is our multi-million dollar jackpot you could be winning here, so you'd better be watching carefully folks. We've been going at this for ten weeks straight with no winner; the jackpot's at sixty-five million, and frankly I- uh, I've been getting a little antsy every time I walk pass the safe, cause, (light chuckling from Bob and tittering from Betty) ya' know, the damn thing's open so often. (Now turns into whole-hearted laughing from both) So once again, it's the 26, 5, 16, 16, and 15. That's The 26-5-16-16-15. Good luck and good night folks, this is Bob Boroughs with the lovely Betty Brendan telling you that if you have the winning number, (and check that slip hard to make sure you do) the buttons to push are 1-800-732-9265. That's 1-800-TH~"
With a frizzle and a loud, distinctive pop, the power went out.
Xander knew what he had to do, and that he had to do it now. He had to get to the payphone outside and to call the number without injuring himself from pure over-exhilaration. It was no small feat, but never let it be said that he wasn't up for a challenge.
* * * * *
Beads of sweat were forming on and dripping from Giles' face by the second. It was really just the sauna, but he felt nervous enough that had he been in normal temperatures, he still would have smelled like a pig. Which, being of a highly sophisticated British nature, did not suit the man. He sat with his back against the wall, his glasses off and set in the adjoining room (what good would they have been in a sauna?) and a white towel tied lightly to his waist. He was slightly overweight though he liked to think he kept in suitable shape, and his hair was streaked with a growing amount of white-gray. With this appearance, had anyone else been in the hot room with them, they would have been jarred at the differences in looks between the Brit. and his largely obese companion. Marco was a man so large that when he'd arrived he had to squeeze through frame of the door just to get inside. His bulbous head stood out from the rest of his body; bald and layered in a cigar-colored tanned.
Giles smiled politely and nodded as the gargantuan explained and laid out to him exactly what was to go down four days from this night. Not that he didn't already know. Not that he hadn't already been told thirty different times in thirty different dialects by thirty different overbearing druggies of varying degrees of authority. Well, they were thorough in their operations; he had to give them that. And while being bored and slightly whelmed by their tedious routines, Giles was downright giddy at the moment. He had finally worked up from the secretaries of stoolies to the big cheese himself, Marco Delphious (no relation to the infamous criminal mastermind Delphious Leonard). Giles considered it a serious achievement.
Marco was jabbering his big, puckered fish-lips about the safety and security protocol Giles would have to go through once he arrived at the hotel. At the very mention of it small butterflies coursed through his stomach. It all felt so dangerous and… grand. Once inside the hotel he would have to go through several checkpoints and use a complex selection of security cards to get to his room, twenty-five stories up. And best of all, it would take place in the dead of night in the heart of Chicago. He would spend three hours there and wait for further instructions. That was as far as anyone would tell him. But from the sounds of it, Marco and his goons went to every extent to make their customers and providers satisfied. When he was asked in each of the conversations he'd had with the underworld's occupants, Giles had sometimes gently (but more often forcefully) declined any female entertainment. He had his own plans for that. If everything went along with his wishes, the nubile princess of his fantasies and dreams would be accompanying him. If only…
"Oki Meester Geele's, we expe'ct to see you theere. My eccosiates end I sincerely hope yeou weel be jeening us on Freeday. End with yeou sheould be eh few se-se-cough so-lid, end uh, well-crefted brefcases. Yea?"
Giles nodded and smiled, putting his hand forth. The big man rumbled deeply in laughter and shook it as he stood, his wide girth seeming to vibrate from the action.
"Ged, ged, I'm gled teh heer da-cough that, so eef yeh'll excuse me, I heve eh p-plane teh cetch."
Giles nodded and waved goodbye to Marco as he slowly shifted his weight towards the door and, after several attempts, disappeared beyond his line of vision, out of the warmth of the main sauna. Giles took his handkerchief from off the bench next to him and dabbed at his forehead. He smiled. This was it; this was the beginning of the end of Rupert Giles, the jobless former-librarian. He rested against the wall; contentment easily read on his face, and thought about the future.
* * * * *
Ring…ring…ring…C'mon goddess, pick upring…/click/
"H-hello?"
"Hi, is this Darien? Darien Broody?"
"Uh, oh yes, yes it is!"
"Gosh, you sound so familiar to me! Is Dari- you know I hate to ask this, but is Darien your, um, "original" name?"
"Ha-ha, yes, Darien is my real name. Always has been really."
"Well, I mean, y-you sound kind of polite to, you know be a, uh, whispering contract killer."
Laughter emanates from the other line.
"Yes, and you sound kind of polite to be placing a contract on someone. That is what you're looking for, right?"
She sighed and continued whispering.
"Yes, yeah that's exactly what I'm looking for."
"Really, there's no need to talk in such hushed tones, my line is protected."
"Yes, but is mine?"
"…………whispering right, yes well you can never be too safe, can you?"
She shook her head in agreement, then grimaced at doing so.
"So um, Darien, how many times have you, you know, performed?"
"Oh numerous, yes many… a deep sigh actually, you'll be my first. In fact, I was surprised you got my number so fast."
"Well, I-I have friends in, heh, very high places."
"That's good, that's, that's just peachy. So, getting down to brass umm, and needles, uh, my fee is fifty thousand in, uh cash."
"I have that much, I can pay that. I can get you half now and half when, um- oh shit!"
She started to break into tears at the realization of what she was doing.
"Are you there, are you still there?"
"Yes… yes I'm here."
"Do you… do you still want me to do this? It can weigh on a person heavily."
"No! No I need you to do this, if this doesn't happen I don't think I can ever live securely and happily again."
"Okay, okay… well something I should have asked at the beginning of this conversation, what's your name?"
Think think think
"Mandy. Moor…is. Mandy Morris."
"Ah good, good. And who is the subject?"
"…Daniel Osborne."
A pause from the other side of the phone.
"Okay, let's get down to it…"
* * * * *
Angel took the sealer off the counter and strung up the last cardboard box. Well, that'd be that. He sighed, stood up and arched in pain from kneeling for so long. Pain…
It felt great. Blood was making it way through his veins, his feet were warm and his heart was pumping. Fast.
Brown cardboard boxes of varying sizes and degrees were strewn throughout the small oft-repaired office building. He still hadn't told Cordelia, who was off in San Francisco at the moment, and he desperately hoped she got the job. He didn't want to leave her with nothing. He didn't want to fire her, but how was he to know this would happen. Her cell phone had broken before she left and she hadn't called him from her hotel yet.
The second she did though, he'd have the pleasure and pain of telling her they didn't have to do this anymore. That he had fulfilled his duties and that LA was no longer infested with demons that were looking only to kill and cause pain. Taking the cup of mocha from the table, he sipped and laughed as it burned his tongue. His duties as a savior were through, and as Wesley had said at the airport terminal, it was due time the three of them moved on.
Which was exactly what he was planning on doing. His destination was Sunnydale, and Buffy. He would sweep her off her feet and take her away from the rest of the world; with every realization of his selfishness he would keep her for his own. And as Angel went down to get the trolley, he was planning every step.
* * * * *
The bars in front of her were thick and numerous, and while she had no inclination to do so, she ran her fingers down the cold steel. Stroking it lovingly, she luxuriated and basked in the light of no responsibility. No one to look after or care for, nothing to protect, no rights to uphold. Shots rang out and sirens wailed as another bit the fruit of the chance for escape. He'd probably make it too. Over ten had successfully done so in the past three months. If Faith had felt like it she knew she could plan her own and pull it off, free once again to reign terror upon the evil and the good of the world. Though she usually felt that they were one and the same.
A loud explosion rocked the foundations of the infirmary not twenty feet from her, and she grinned lazily from her position on the floor as several of her fellow inmates ran past, guns in their hands, heading for the door. A guard ran by shortly after and began firing bullets down the long hall towards the fleeing escapees, missing every time. She laughed at him and curled up pleasantly, closing her eyes. Maybe she'd count the stones lining the walls of her cell again, or again try and not succeed at counting all the stars beyond that of her barred window. It didn't matter. Life was good. Perhaps one day soon she'd be looking for a change, but for now, Faith was happy with where she was.
* * * * *
Anya sighed as the power once again went out in the house. After his parents had moved out Xander had been handed the house, and every responsibility that came with it. Unfortunately, he had failed to keep up with even one. Rats were eating more of their food then they were, water for the bathtub was a precious rarity and the electricity was constantly turning on and off from unpaid debts and bills, just like now. But tonight Xander had finally come through for her. He'd won the sixty-five million, allowing her the chance she'd been waiting for. Him to somehow get rich.
"So when will this happen?" She inquired.
The voice on the other end of the line filled her in on the details. It told her that it would still need something from her to tell her how she wanted it done, just so everything went smoothly and without a snag.
"No problem, I'll meet you at noon tomorrow. He'll be out receiving the first portion of the money then. You know where."
She punched out the cell phone then and left for the kitchen. She seemed to remember a bit of cheese left in the fridge that the rats hadn't gotten to.
* * * * *
"Okay, Mr. Finn. Everything seems to be in order here, you can start in two days."
The walls of the office Riley sat in were covered in the usual papers and warrant slips found in a chief's office. Riley had gone through three different secretaries to get to this guy and was happy to finally be rewarded with the job of his dreams.
"Really? Man that's great, thank you sir!"
Law enforcement. The main job requiring talents of upholding and enforcing the laws of society. It wasn't the military in that you there weren't as many rules against your own person and not being a civilian in that you have more rights, and you can speed.
"No problem, Finn."
Not that Riley would speed without there being a serious need to… not often anyway.
"And Riley?"
He had been at the door; his back turned to the big man behind the desk, his mind set on going down to the main office and picking up the accessories he'd be needing. Almost a year of rigorous patrol training had taught him to always walk slower than normal when leaving a superior's room, just in case they wanted to add something.
"Yes, sir?"
Almost there, almost.
"Call me Chief or call me Williams, but don't use the words mister or sir when referring to me. Kay?"
Riley grinned. "You got it, chief."
* * * * *
"Okay Parker. Everything seems to be in order here, you can start in two days."
"So… I'll just get a call from someone and…"
"Yes, you'll be called to the scene of an accident to help out. Violence in Sunnydale is at an all-time high, and with the loss of so many workers we're glad to get any help we can. I personally would like to thank you for volunteering at a time like this, what with all the hysteria going around."
"It's all right, I uh… I just want to do my part. Ya' know, help out other… people." He grinned at her.
She smiled at him nervously. He knew she wasn't quite sure what he was getting at, but there was no way he was just going to give it away. He gave his regards and stalked out of the small musty office, the door slamming behind him with more force than he had intended and the blinds continuously bopping back and forth from the shock. He reached out a hand and pressed it against them to stop the racket.
He hated it when things didn't go exactly as planned. Yet he hated when everything was so easy for him to grasp. Parker wanted danger, he wanted action, and he knew where to go and who to see to find what he wanted.
* * * * *
Tears filled her eyes as she gasped and sobbed in sorrow. Her breaths came in short intervals and were shuddered away just as quickly as they came. Had the picture beneath her not been framed in glass and plated in gold edges, Joyce was certain it would have wrinkled and cracked long ago, as she had cried over it countless times since Buffy had left. Buffy…
Her only child (*1), she loved Buffy more than anything else in the world. When she had learned of her daughter's destiny in life, she had found religion. She'd prayed every morning and every night for her daughter's protection, and almost broke into tears of joy every time she came home to her alive.
But now her baby was gone. The light in her life had faded in the distance, leaving her cold and alone. With only the gallery as a point of interest in her life, Joyce had quickly fallen into despair. Money had rolled in, and she was well secured in her future. But what was the future worth when there was no one to share it with? She didn't know how to answer that, or perhaps she didn't want to.
She'd begun to realize that there was no point to her existence. No fire in her life. Not even a spark of recognition came from anyone at work. She had no friends, no companions and no love. Joyce had summed it up to having nothing.
She needed to get out of Sunnydale, she needed to escape, but she worried that a change of place wouldn't help, that her loneliness would follow her no matter where she went.
That night, as with almost every other, Joyce cried herself to sleep.
* * * * *
Thunder struck, winds howled, and the trees surrounding the lake billowed back and forth as the storm raged. Darkness enveloped the land, and blood rained, soiling the dirt. From above a light had halloed down upon a circle in to grass. A certain point in the geography of the land where a factory had once stood.
From the earth beneath the spot, there came a deep rumbling. Something forceful was rising, though what could not be discerned until the ground cracked and the surface broke up, revealing the small, naked body of a child. A pale boy of about six, black hair cropped over his forehead and shiny, sharp fangs protruding from his mouth.
The dark priest threw his cane to the ground and neared the sleeping monstrosity, pulling forth a blade six inches in length and caked in dried blood. The rain soaked over him, washing the blood off his weapon as he grew closer and closer to the boy. He smiled down as it breathed, it's stomach rising and falling, it's near-albino flesh goose-bumped from the severe chill of the wind.
"I know not why I was to bring you about, but it was obvious the job was not done right before, Anointed One." The man in white spit the name out as though it was a curse just to say.
"I can fix that." And with that, he lowered himself to the child; not quite expecting what came next.
* * * * *
"Noooooohhhh……"
The being of dark shook it's head in agony, in eternal pain, suffering for the sins it committed while adorning the flesh.
It had (at one point in the elongated length of it's life) been called Darla. (*2) Sire to many, death to more; Darla had reaped a hell upon the earth that was equaled by few. With a charming smile and a sensuous body, Darla had led men and women to the dark abyss, for there had been no pity in her body. Every ounce of her being was made up of a need for cruelty, lust and, most of all blood. The thing that had sustained her monstrous vitality all of those years.
Now she was nothing but a demon of pain. She knew and felt and lived only of the worst pain. There was no skin or blood to her, for all that was needed from a being in hell was it's essence. It's soul.
But it is said that pain is the most liberating of all the feelings one may receive. It can destroy the weak, down the mighty and it can make those with courage weep. But it can also make them stronger. It can free the soul of any retribution that it may have gained; that it may have been weighed down with over the years of existence.
And Darla knew pain. She had grown strong on it, and had eventually begun to feed off it. She now knew remorse; she now knew humility, and she now knew that the key to life was the strength to not give in when pain is a current resident.
For no pain is eternal. Not even that of a God's…
* * * * *
Sleep. Sleep perchance to dream. Perchance to escape the bloody pain the only a hangover may induce.
Spike groaned and tried to roll over, but the tight confines of the sleek wooden coffin wouldn't allow it. He had been very happy when he had found the item when grave robbing, and had even paid Xander to help him get the beauty out of it's pit. While it was a bit of an annoyance for someone who slept so fitfully, it was many times better than the cold stone slab he had been forced to use. He'd always roll off the damn thing and end up either waking himself or regain consciousness the next night to find that cockroaches had decided to use him as a home base for a rest after scurrying around the floor.
Unfortunately, the coffin had turned out to be pretty much soundproof. Most nights he couldn't hear anything beyond loud rapping on the wooden finish. Then there were other nights when he'd gotten so bleeding drunk that nothing, not even a gun shot in the same room could wake him up. Which was unfortunate, as that was exactly what was happening.
The two grave robbers had been staking the place out (*3) when they had met up with a rival gang. An argument had resulted, then one of the men had pulled a gun and the shit went down. Bullets went this way, bodies flew that way and nothing was safe from the wrath of the men as they blew each other to pieces. When the last man was left standing, mortally wounded and dying fast, he had put his hand and then his body on the coffin for support.
Not wanting to die of another man's bullet, he was raising the python to his temple when his shaky trigger finger had forced the gun to go off. Unprepared, the man screamed as the bullet hit one of the coffin slab's supports, blowing about an inch in length away. At it's now unstable position, the man's dead weight on the slab tipped it over, bringing the robber with. Body, slab and coffin fell to the ground, the man breaking his neck and dying instantly as Spike was rocked around inside his sleeping wood.
Yet he still slept, if uncomfortably. But the sudden and abrupt shock that the hard hit brought was too much for the electronic chip inside his head, (which over the years had been growing weaker and weaker due to all the damage Spike had put his head through) and it snapped clean in half accordingly.
* * * * *
"Well Cordelia, I must say, you're audition held a lot of power. A lot of oomph. There was nothing even remotely 'cheesy' about the way you pulled off Cherry's death scene."
Cordelia giggled slightly, a wide grin on her face. "Thank you, thank you. I'm uh, I'm glad to know my performance was… cheese free."
The two women laughed cordially and Bethany looked over her copy of Cordelia's resume once more before putting it back in the briefcase and snapping it shut.
"Okay, you've got the part."
Cordelia laughed, completely shocked. She put her hand to her mouth for a moment, then dropped it to her lap.
"Really, are you serious?"
"Mm-hmm, the part's yours. You start on Monday."
"Oh wow… god, thank you so much!"
Cordelia stood to shake the blonde's hand, but a frown crossed her face and she pulled back.
"Wait, Monday?"
"Yes… Cordelia, is there a problem?"
"I, I thought we worked every weekend."
"No-no, that's just for the workmen and extras. Our leads work every weeknight. Seven to eleven. Ha-ha, we call it the seven eleven shift."
She was crushed. She knew there would be something she would miss. She knew that one way or another she wouldn't be able to have this part.
"But I… I can't do that."
"Cordelia, sweetheart it's four hours every weeknight. We're not asking you to do this all day long. You can still work or, whatever it is you-"
"I can't do it. I must have read the wrong form. I though I'd be doing this on the weekends. My-my job is too important."
"Are you sure? We're linked with three of the largest acting agencies in the world, Cordelia this could be a very big opportunity for you."
She couldn't stay much longer. She didn't want Bethany to see her weakness.
"I, I'm sorry. I just can't."
Bethany pursed her lips and nodded, her blonde ponytail bobbing along behind her.
"All right, it isn't a problem. It's been a pleasure seeing you at work Cordelia, and I'm sure you'll make it far in life."
She took Cordelia's hand and shook it, but wouldn't let go. Their eyes locked.
"That is, I'm sure you'll make it far if you figure out your priorities. To be frank, you've wasted my time. But you're good enough that I can forgive that. I don't know what it is you do for a living Cordy as your resume is less than informal on that situation, but it doesn't look like it's what you want to do with the rest of your life. You've got true talent, I just hope you know where your going with it."
Cordelia nodded and Bethany let her go.
As she walked out from the office, tears were filling her eyes. She doubted she'd ever figure out where she was going, but at least she knew it was worth it.
* * * * *
VVVVVVvvvvvvvrrrrrrrrooooooooooommmmmmmmmmmm…………………
All that Wesley Wyndam-Pryce could hear were the landing of the large planes not twenty-five yards from him, screeching down on the pavement in an irritating howl.
He walked along the side of the large gray building that held all the soon-to-be passengers, hopeful to leave India, as well as all the businessman and their like, no doubt glad to be back in such a surprisingly thriving country. Though Wesley was not very fond of Hydera'ba'd National Airport. To his left Wesley watched as the Boeing making the most noise finally left the ground, wheels slowly raising into the compartments above. The new glasses he had purchased were plain spiffy when it came to pinpointing the smallest details.
A sudden noise in front of him made the Brit leap behind a large stack of cardboard boxes on a forklift. After hearing footsteps shuffling off and not coming in his general direction, Wesley peeked around the side to see an old man, most likely in his seventies, garbed up in a blue workman's suit. In his left hand a set of keys jingled. He seemed to be walking west, towards the other half of the airport.
"What the hell are you doin'?"
Wesley gasped and looked up, shocked to see a black man (wearing a business suit) at the forklift's control board. Wesley stuttered, his mind grasping for anything that might explain his being out in a restricted area to civilians.
The black man laughed heartily and jumped down, slapping the other man on the shoulder congenially. On his look the bigger man noticed the old workman walking towards the other terminals. Then he looked back at Wesley, a big smile on his face.
"Relax, man. That guy's too far away to hear anything. As for you bein' out here, you obviously are not a mover. In fact, I doubt you have any reason within the law for being down here in the first place, right?"
By his good-natured tone, Wesley took a chance.
"I'm afraid not, you're right."
"Ha-ha, put it there."
A hand shot forward, but Wesley was surprised at the gentleness of the handshake. Off-putting, he guessed. Must make people think he wasn't as dangerous as he was.
"Darien Broody. Your masquerade. You must be Wesley."
"Ah, Darien. Glad to meet you, and, uh thanks for the backing. Good to see there are some set foundations to this business."
"You got it man. Listen, we shouldn't even be in these close quarters, but I just wanted to meet you in person before you got all famous."
"Oh, you really think that's possible?"
"Absolutely, man. I've seen you're test results. It's a good thing you went to Brohiemer to begin with. You've got some real talent man, I hope to work with you once you, ya' know, home in on the practice."
Wesley smiled, wondering what exactly he had done to get Brohiemer to say such good things about him.
"Okay man, well I got to get the hell outta here before somebody lays a scope on my ass, but I left you a real nice present in a trash bin by terminal eighteen. Just what Santa would never give you, brother."
Wesley nodded, and the two men shook hands once more before parting. Over his shoulder Darien called out his name. He turned.
"One more thing, Wes. Keep your eyes on the watch for the NSA, man. This place is crawling with them, what with Delphious hiding out here and all."
Wesley nodded again.
"Yes, I heard from about the from Morrison. Unfair disadvantage, wouldn't you say?"
Darien laughed. "You got that right. I got three meetings I had to cancel just today. Have a good one Wes, I'll call you after you get the first."
Wesley laughed and nodded, feeling like an idiot for doing that so much. He might as well be one of those ornaments on the rear-view mirrors of cars, his head bobbing up and down constantly.
Once Darien had disappeared into the building (using the airstrip boarding room Wesley had) he started heading towards the northern quarter of the airport where terminal eighteen was located. He couldn't help but consider himself lucky to be getting such a great chance at beginning a career he had only dreamed of.
He'd been walking for about thirty seconds before realizing that the ringing in his ear wasn't just from being near an airstrip for so long, but that his cell phone was ringing from within his gray Armani. With a flick of his wrist it was out.
"H-hello?"
* * * * *
The roses were in full bloom in Sunnydale. As much as she enjoyed the darker things in life, Olivia loved flowers. They were so gentle and fragile, and yet they held such exuberance and beauty, such an aura about them that could be matched by nothing else. They were in essence, the perfect pictures of innocence.
Olivia had a hard time finding innocent things in her life, or a want for innocence. That's probably why she had grown so close to Rupert Giles since she'd met him. He held a power of darkness over her that surprised her. He was so nice, and so kind to her, but she knew that inside of him there raged a beast that ached to once again swipe it's claws and howl at the moon.
Though the only time this creature ever showed itself was in bed. That's when Rupert was such a force to be reckoned with. Every time he took her, any sense of delicacy ceased and there arrived the demon of his soul, raging and pounding against her. And the true problem (or not) was that she not only enjoyed it, but that she couldn't get enough of it.
Until recently. Rupert had always been like a stevedore, he'd always been rough on her, but for the past two nights he'd been… different. Not quite the monster she'd grown accustomed to, and frankly, she was wanting it more, wanting it harder, and wanting it to hurt, not the other way around. And Giles wasn't performing up to par.
Was he growing tired of the same old positions, or was he getting bored of the setting? Olivia didn't know, but that's what she'd narrowed it down to in the past forty-eight hours.
"Do you like these?"
"Yes Rupert, they're quite beautiful actually. Much nicer than the daisies."
And now, to top it off, Rupert had brought her here. A park.
Olivia was confused, and was beginning to get more than a little uncomfortable. Giles was looking for something to change, and she wasn't sure what it was yet. But she'd be damned if she didn't find out soon. She loved flowers and always would, but at the end of the day and the beginning of the night it wasn't the petals of a rose she'd be paying attention to. She'd be much more interested in the pain of which the thorns gave to her. Flowers she could love, but it was the thorns she needed.
* * * * *
"Are you crazy man?!?"
"Hey, watch out!"
"Get off the road you idiot!"
"You're on the wrong-"
Ethan laughed at all the responses of the other drivers in the cars right of him, yelling at him to get back in the right lane of the road. Meanwhile, cars in his own lane drove towards him honking their horns in rage to this aberration of normality.
God how he loved America! A place where committing murder and getting away with it was as easy as making a pastry, or painting a picture. All it took was some careful planting and near-flawless consummation. Ethan didn't always enjoy killing, but he was good at it. And whenever in Sunnydale Ethan was oh so tempted to take out someone just to shake off the vibes he collected over time. All the pent-up anger he had, all the cowardice he felt, all of the shit he put up with from having to act like a decent human being, all of that went away when he just popped someone. At least for a while.
Sirens began to wail behind him, breaking his concentration. He laughed again, realizing that this was his chance. He could get rid of the days angst right here and now.
He waited patiently for his pursuer in black and white to get up close enough. Then waited until he had positioned himself directly into the path of an oncoming vehicle and began to speed up. He could her the cop's voice over the P.A. system telling him to pull over immediately, but they both knew he'd do no such thing.
50…55…60!
He swerved to the right now, barreling into the course of another car, hoping the cop behind him hadn't caught on and would flatten himself against the first on-comer. No such luck, the guy was good. He'd have to go for something else.
As he pressed against the gas pedal and entered the median he considered if he'd be able to pull off what he was planning on doing while in the horror that was Sunnydale, California. Would Giles really go for it? He had to be upbeat about it; he had to be sure of himself. Once he got the roller pig off his tail he'd pop Anthony Robbins back into the cassette player.
Now in his own lane, Ethan checked the rear-view mirror to see that sure enough, he was still being followed. It was beginning to annoy him. As long as Buffy Summers didn't get in his way (or he in hers for that matter) he should be all right in the matters of safety.
He banked around two more cars that were going about thirty miles westward and waited another five seconds before tightening his seatbelt and slamming onto the breaks. He hit the patrol car with enough force that it's rear wheels lifted up in the air and a loud explosion erupted from within it's hood.
Once they both rolled to a halt Ethan quickly if cautiously unhooked himself from the seatbelt and got out of the Buick. Checking the windshield of the other car, he couldn't tell if they were dead or not. Reaching back into his car he opened the glove box and pulled out his magnum. Making sure it was loaded, he snapped it back in, cocked it, and walked slowly towards the opposing party's vehicle.
Unconscious. Still breathing, not dead. Either of them. Blood covered the shotgun cops forehead, but it was only a light scratch. He relieved them of their guns and went back to his own car. Opening the glove box again, Ethan pulled out the Anthony Robbins box set and stood by the side of the road, waiting for a car that suited him passed.
He finally decided to stand in front of the Porsche 911, raising the gun and smiling as he did. They weren't lying when the makers said it went for sixty to zero in three seconds flat. After the two passengers were hustled out of the vehicle, Ethan transferred his possessions from one car to the other and shut the door, driving off. Destination: Sunnydale. He had a few friends to meet. Some were expecting him, while others… weren't. And to be truthful, knowing Sunnydale, Ethan Rayne didn't know what to expect himself.
* * * * *
"Would you like a pillow?"
"No, but thanks."
Pause.
"Well how about a blanket, we have an extra amount of those."
He smirks. Red mink, spinning the jack.
"That's alright. I'm sorry not to take from the surplus of comforters, but… I'm okay."
She smiles down at him.
"Okay. Enjoy the flight then, Mr.…?"
"Thanks, I will Mrs."
Beat.
"Oh no, I'm just a miss. No ring on my finger."
Gentle laughter from the girl at her remark.
"Mm."
Master of disinterest he always is. Actually quite intrigued, but never seemingly so.
She nods her head and slowly walks away. Lonely, and that's the way she'd stay. At least for now. And she won't find comfort in him. No one will, until he allows an opening to arise in his closed book of a personality. Though that's not to say he doesn't make an interesting cover…
"Alright ladies and gentleman, we're flying at an altitude of about thirty-eight thousand feet, and we'll be landing in Madras in approximately half an hour. We here at Brenstan International hope that you enjoy the remainder of your flight. Thank you."
The voice clicks back off, and he is once again alone with his thoughts.
* * * * *
"I w-want to thank you for coming, Ethan. You really d-don't know how much it means to me."
"It's alright, really. How are you feeling, Terry?"
She smiled. He always called her that.
"I'm good… h-how has the ride west been so far? Not to troublesome, I hope."
"Ah, I'm alive. But let's not get tied up in me. What did you want to talk about?"
Terra sighed. There was so much she wanted to relate to him in so little time. All that had occurred since they had last spoken in January became a jumble to her, muddling up her thoughts. She hadn't and wouldn't tell him about Willow, though, since he already had told Terra of his previous run-ins with her that were… less than hospitable. She knew Ethan wasn't the best of men, but she loved him like a father nonetheless.
She decided to cut to the chase. "Ethan, I need two million."
"Terry, really. I can wire you forty thousand if you absolutely need it, but two million. That's more than excessive."
"I'll do anything Ethan… please…"
"Look, I can't talk right now, I just got to the hotel and I'm very tired. How about I meet you on the nineteenth, at Willy's."
"Umm, Willy's g-g-gone c-clean, that's n-no good. J-just pick me up th-there and we can eat out."
"Alright, that sounds good. I'll see you then."
"Okay, b-bye Ethan."
"And Terry? Gargle some of those boiling pebbles, your stutter's acting up again."
She giggled at that.
"O-okay. Love you, bye." She hung up then, lightly biting her lip. She needed the money, she knew Ethan had it and she had a plan as to how she'd get it. She just hoped Willow would hold out that long…
* * * * *
Lawrence (*4) sat in the dim gray light that was Purgatory, wondering. His essence soared from left to right in a constant state of thought. Despair and remorse were the two things he felt most, but he also felt love for the world, and every so often he felt forgiveness, which lead to peace, which then lead accordingly to the promise of the eventual eternity of such. Though that long farewell was a far cry from close, or even soon. Unless of course, he were for some reason, to be released. Then he promised himself he would only be for and teach with the light, instead of the darkness. He hoped for one or the other, release or eternal peace, and felt a certain tug that one or the other would eventually reach him, though when and which he did not know. He had no idea that release would come so soon.
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Well, that's all for now. Hope you enjoyed it, I know I enjoyed writing it. It's a strange one, not quite like any of the others I'm currently working on, but I like it nonetheless. Now, for the footnotes.
(*1)- For our immediate purposes, Dawn does not exist.
(*2)- As I said previously, this is an alternate universe. Darla was never risen by Lindsey.
(*3)- Can't remember why I made this. Wait… nope; don't remember. Spike lives in the crypt, a bunch of grave robbers had a big shoot out. That's that.
(*4)- Lawrence was A.D.A.M.
Author: Lyle Brown (Lyle MHD)
Summary: Cheese. It's life. One is the loneliest slice that you'll ever eat; (if you dig cheese) two can be as bad as one; it's the loneliest slice since… what number was I on? Anyway, sit through this as twenty lives will change forever, if they survive. See, that's called a hook. It's supposed to pull you in. Hope it works.
Time Period: Consider this an alternate universe for Buffy. I believe they call it Doppel-Buffy, but I'm usually wrong at these sorts of things. Don't mind me, I'll just sit by the punch bowl and try not to get it on the tux.
Disclaimer: Hey Man, don't scuff the suede. I'm merely a small part (an addition really) of and to the large mouse that's biting off Joss's cheese. So, in essence, thanks for the cheddar Joss, I doubt my bite marks will be as noticeable as most…
Rating: Censor, what censor? Hey, what's that on my shoe? Oh, an "R" I suppose. I'm prone to adding as much violence and vulgarity as possible, but as this is my first straightforward drama, don't expect much of that. Rated "Restricted" for adult situations such as drug use, harsh language, sexual innuendo and murder. Not to mention a large consumption of cow pus. By the way, Word's telling me that was a fragment sentence. I have a lot of those. Please don't tell me about them, it's how I dance. Let me dance.
Feedback- I love it. If you want to give me a happy, just write to me. Flame me if you like, it gets kind of lonely here. Hell, correct my spelling and grammar if it tickles your yurt. Just don't tell me about my fragment sentences.
Final note: Footnotes can be found at the end of this document. Whenever you see this (*#), that means a footnote was written about or pertaining to the sentence you've just read.
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Here we go again…
People say that there are many coincidences in life. I know differently. Cheese proves this. Made from one thing to another, it is consumed and becomes something else completely different. Cheese, like life, follows a chain. A destined set of occurrences, which coincide with other chains holding their own sets of occurrences. It is when these chains coincide, (interacting, linking if you will) that AKA: "coincidences" begin and end. Most confuse fate with these so-called coincidences. Is it coincidence that two dominatrix lovers captured and nearly killed a man? A man who was hired to kill someone by that body's own former love. And was it coincidence that this friend was involved in the murder of her roommate? Or what about the fact that the one who helped that friend kill her roommate was running away with a man who was the entire reason that the dominatrix couple were at that certain place and time to capture that hitman? Some would call this a coincidence, but not me. None with half a brain would ever accuse me of being blind to the obvious. I wear the cheese; it does not wear me. The story I am about to relate to you is fate, pure and simple. There is no running from it, there is no changing the outcome and there is no stopping time. The cheese cannot protect you, for your decisions have already been decided, your steps have already been mapped, and your life is on strings that are cut at a pre-determined destination. This… this is the true power of
Cheese
(The absence of coincidence, the truth of fate)
Behold The Power
JUNE 17th
Buffy let out a sigh of relief. A small, thin smile traced along her mouth until it was an all-out giddies grin. It was over, it was all over, and her duties as the slayer were finished. She stood atop the hill and her hair blew through and along with the wind as it howled around her, but to Buffy it simply sounded like birdsong. The Hellmouth was closed for all eternity. Demons would still inhabit the earth, but they would either learn to be peaceful like others of their kind, or they would kill constantly, canceling each other. Considering this, Buffy lightly ran her finger over the newly acquired scar, which graced her forehead. She was painfully aware of another that ran along the length of her back, but they would both eventually go away, leaving her skin once again cream-colored and unblemished. The hilt of the blood-smeared battleaxe left the support of her small, graceful fingers and fell to the earth below. She no longer needed such an ugly thing, nor wanted one. Her life started today. Her life would start today, as soon as she left this god-forsaken hilltop. Buffy laughed and (liking the sound of it) began skipping down the east side of the hill towards Sunnydale, and Giles. And cheese. She was hungry.
* * * * *
"Okay Betty yesyesyes?!?!?, -what's C'mon baby, one more one friggin' more!!! -our next and final number?"
A white ball popped through the chute down to Betty's pearly white nails. It was a 15.
"YEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!"
Xander fell to his knees, tears streaming down his face from joy, the absolute joy of it all. In his hand he held a crumpled white piece of paper, idly forgotten for the past six days until he decided to give it a chance.
"All right, so in total that would be 26…5…16…16…15. This is our multi-million dollar jackpot you could be winning here, so you'd better be watching carefully folks. We've been going at this for ten weeks straight with no winner; the jackpot's at sixty-five million, and frankly I- uh, I've been getting a little antsy every time I walk pass the safe, cause, (light chuckling from Bob and tittering from Betty) ya' know, the damn thing's open so often. (Now turns into whole-hearted laughing from both) So once again, it's the 26, 5, 16, 16, and 15. That's The 26-5-16-16-15. Good luck and good night folks, this is Bob Boroughs with the lovely Betty Brendan telling you that if you have the winning number, (and check that slip hard to make sure you do) the buttons to push are 1-800-732-9265. That's 1-800-TH~"
With a frizzle and a loud, distinctive pop, the power went out.
Xander knew what he had to do, and that he had to do it now. He had to get to the payphone outside and to call the number without injuring himself from pure over-exhilaration. It was no small feat, but never let it be said that he wasn't up for a challenge.
* * * * *
Beads of sweat were forming on and dripping from Giles' face by the second. It was really just the sauna, but he felt nervous enough that had he been in normal temperatures, he still would have smelled like a pig. Which, being of a highly sophisticated British nature, did not suit the man. He sat with his back against the wall, his glasses off and set in the adjoining room (what good would they have been in a sauna?) and a white towel tied lightly to his waist. He was slightly overweight though he liked to think he kept in suitable shape, and his hair was streaked with a growing amount of white-gray. With this appearance, had anyone else been in the hot room with them, they would have been jarred at the differences in looks between the Brit. and his largely obese companion. Marco was a man so large that when he'd arrived he had to squeeze through frame of the door just to get inside. His bulbous head stood out from the rest of his body; bald and layered in a cigar-colored tanned.
Giles smiled politely and nodded as the gargantuan explained and laid out to him exactly what was to go down four days from this night. Not that he didn't already know. Not that he hadn't already been told thirty different times in thirty different dialects by thirty different overbearing druggies of varying degrees of authority. Well, they were thorough in their operations; he had to give them that. And while being bored and slightly whelmed by their tedious routines, Giles was downright giddy at the moment. He had finally worked up from the secretaries of stoolies to the big cheese himself, Marco Delphious (no relation to the infamous criminal mastermind Delphious Leonard). Giles considered it a serious achievement.
Marco was jabbering his big, puckered fish-lips about the safety and security protocol Giles would have to go through once he arrived at the hotel. At the very mention of it small butterflies coursed through his stomach. It all felt so dangerous and… grand. Once inside the hotel he would have to go through several checkpoints and use a complex selection of security cards to get to his room, twenty-five stories up. And best of all, it would take place in the dead of night in the heart of Chicago. He would spend three hours there and wait for further instructions. That was as far as anyone would tell him. But from the sounds of it, Marco and his goons went to every extent to make their customers and providers satisfied. When he was asked in each of the conversations he'd had with the underworld's occupants, Giles had sometimes gently (but more often forcefully) declined any female entertainment. He had his own plans for that. If everything went along with his wishes, the nubile princess of his fantasies and dreams would be accompanying him. If only…
"Oki Meester Geele's, we expe'ct to see you theere. My eccosiates end I sincerely hope yeou weel be jeening us on Freeday. End with yeou sheould be eh few se-se-cough so-lid, end uh, well-crefted brefcases. Yea?"
Giles nodded and smiled, putting his hand forth. The big man rumbled deeply in laughter and shook it as he stood, his wide girth seeming to vibrate from the action.
"Ged, ged, I'm gled teh heer da-cough that, so eef yeh'll excuse me, I heve eh p-plane teh cetch."
Giles nodded and waved goodbye to Marco as he slowly shifted his weight towards the door and, after several attempts, disappeared beyond his line of vision, out of the warmth of the main sauna. Giles took his handkerchief from off the bench next to him and dabbed at his forehead. He smiled. This was it; this was the beginning of the end of Rupert Giles, the jobless former-librarian. He rested against the wall; contentment easily read on his face, and thought about the future.
* * * * *
Ring…ring…ring…C'mon goddess, pick upring…/click/
"H-hello?"
"Hi, is this Darien? Darien Broody?"
"Uh, oh yes, yes it is!"
"Gosh, you sound so familiar to me! Is Dari- you know I hate to ask this, but is Darien your, um, "original" name?"
"Ha-ha, yes, Darien is my real name. Always has been really."
"Well, I mean, y-you sound kind of polite to, you know be a, uh, whispering contract killer."
Laughter emanates from the other line.
"Yes, and you sound kind of polite to be placing a contract on someone. That is what you're looking for, right?"
She sighed and continued whispering.
"Yes, yeah that's exactly what I'm looking for."
"Really, there's no need to talk in such hushed tones, my line is protected."
"Yes, but is mine?"
"…………whispering right, yes well you can never be too safe, can you?"
She shook her head in agreement, then grimaced at doing so.
"So um, Darien, how many times have you, you know, performed?"
"Oh numerous, yes many… a deep sigh actually, you'll be my first. In fact, I was surprised you got my number so fast."
"Well, I-I have friends in, heh, very high places."
"That's good, that's, that's just peachy. So, getting down to brass umm, and needles, uh, my fee is fifty thousand in, uh cash."
"I have that much, I can pay that. I can get you half now and half when, um- oh shit!"
She started to break into tears at the realization of what she was doing.
"Are you there, are you still there?"
"Yes… yes I'm here."
"Do you… do you still want me to do this? It can weigh on a person heavily."
"No! No I need you to do this, if this doesn't happen I don't think I can ever live securely and happily again."
"Okay, okay… well something I should have asked at the beginning of this conversation, what's your name?"
Think think think
"Mandy. Moor…is. Mandy Morris."
"Ah good, good. And who is the subject?"
"…Daniel Osborne."
A pause from the other side of the phone.
"Okay, let's get down to it…"
* * * * *
Angel took the sealer off the counter and strung up the last cardboard box. Well, that'd be that. He sighed, stood up and arched in pain from kneeling for so long. Pain…
It felt great. Blood was making it way through his veins, his feet were warm and his heart was pumping. Fast.
Brown cardboard boxes of varying sizes and degrees were strewn throughout the small oft-repaired office building. He still hadn't told Cordelia, who was off in San Francisco at the moment, and he desperately hoped she got the job. He didn't want to leave her with nothing. He didn't want to fire her, but how was he to know this would happen. Her cell phone had broken before she left and she hadn't called him from her hotel yet.
The second she did though, he'd have the pleasure and pain of telling her they didn't have to do this anymore. That he had fulfilled his duties and that LA was no longer infested with demons that were looking only to kill and cause pain. Taking the cup of mocha from the table, he sipped and laughed as it burned his tongue. His duties as a savior were through, and as Wesley had said at the airport terminal, it was due time the three of them moved on.
Which was exactly what he was planning on doing. His destination was Sunnydale, and Buffy. He would sweep her off her feet and take her away from the rest of the world; with every realization of his selfishness he would keep her for his own. And as Angel went down to get the trolley, he was planning every step.
* * * * *
The bars in front of her were thick and numerous, and while she had no inclination to do so, she ran her fingers down the cold steel. Stroking it lovingly, she luxuriated and basked in the light of no responsibility. No one to look after or care for, nothing to protect, no rights to uphold. Shots rang out and sirens wailed as another bit the fruit of the chance for escape. He'd probably make it too. Over ten had successfully done so in the past three months. If Faith had felt like it she knew she could plan her own and pull it off, free once again to reign terror upon the evil and the good of the world. Though she usually felt that they were one and the same.
A loud explosion rocked the foundations of the infirmary not twenty feet from her, and she grinned lazily from her position on the floor as several of her fellow inmates ran past, guns in their hands, heading for the door. A guard ran by shortly after and began firing bullets down the long hall towards the fleeing escapees, missing every time. She laughed at him and curled up pleasantly, closing her eyes. Maybe she'd count the stones lining the walls of her cell again, or again try and not succeed at counting all the stars beyond that of her barred window. It didn't matter. Life was good. Perhaps one day soon she'd be looking for a change, but for now, Faith was happy with where she was.
* * * * *
Anya sighed as the power once again went out in the house. After his parents had moved out Xander had been handed the house, and every responsibility that came with it. Unfortunately, he had failed to keep up with even one. Rats were eating more of their food then they were, water for the bathtub was a precious rarity and the electricity was constantly turning on and off from unpaid debts and bills, just like now. But tonight Xander had finally come through for her. He'd won the sixty-five million, allowing her the chance she'd been waiting for. Him to somehow get rich.
"So when will this happen?" She inquired.
The voice on the other end of the line filled her in on the details. It told her that it would still need something from her to tell her how she wanted it done, just so everything went smoothly and without a snag.
"No problem, I'll meet you at noon tomorrow. He'll be out receiving the first portion of the money then. You know where."
She punched out the cell phone then and left for the kitchen. She seemed to remember a bit of cheese left in the fridge that the rats hadn't gotten to.
* * * * *
"Okay, Mr. Finn. Everything seems to be in order here, you can start in two days."
The walls of the office Riley sat in were covered in the usual papers and warrant slips found in a chief's office. Riley had gone through three different secretaries to get to this guy and was happy to finally be rewarded with the job of his dreams.
"Really? Man that's great, thank you sir!"
Law enforcement. The main job requiring talents of upholding and enforcing the laws of society. It wasn't the military in that you there weren't as many rules against your own person and not being a civilian in that you have more rights, and you can speed.
"No problem, Finn."
Not that Riley would speed without there being a serious need to… not often anyway.
"And Riley?"
He had been at the door; his back turned to the big man behind the desk, his mind set on going down to the main office and picking up the accessories he'd be needing. Almost a year of rigorous patrol training had taught him to always walk slower than normal when leaving a superior's room, just in case they wanted to add something.
"Yes, sir?"
Almost there, almost.
"Call me Chief or call me Williams, but don't use the words mister or sir when referring to me. Kay?"
Riley grinned. "You got it, chief."
* * * * *
"Okay Parker. Everything seems to be in order here, you can start in two days."
"So… I'll just get a call from someone and…"
"Yes, you'll be called to the scene of an accident to help out. Violence in Sunnydale is at an all-time high, and with the loss of so many workers we're glad to get any help we can. I personally would like to thank you for volunteering at a time like this, what with all the hysteria going around."
"It's all right, I uh… I just want to do my part. Ya' know, help out other… people." He grinned at her.
She smiled at him nervously. He knew she wasn't quite sure what he was getting at, but there was no way he was just going to give it away. He gave his regards and stalked out of the small musty office, the door slamming behind him with more force than he had intended and the blinds continuously bopping back and forth from the shock. He reached out a hand and pressed it against them to stop the racket.
He hated it when things didn't go exactly as planned. Yet he hated when everything was so easy for him to grasp. Parker wanted danger, he wanted action, and he knew where to go and who to see to find what he wanted.
* * * * *
Tears filled her eyes as she gasped and sobbed in sorrow. Her breaths came in short intervals and were shuddered away just as quickly as they came. Had the picture beneath her not been framed in glass and plated in gold edges, Joyce was certain it would have wrinkled and cracked long ago, as she had cried over it countless times since Buffy had left. Buffy…
Her only child (*1), she loved Buffy more than anything else in the world. When she had learned of her daughter's destiny in life, she had found religion. She'd prayed every morning and every night for her daughter's protection, and almost broke into tears of joy every time she came home to her alive.
But now her baby was gone. The light in her life had faded in the distance, leaving her cold and alone. With only the gallery as a point of interest in her life, Joyce had quickly fallen into despair. Money had rolled in, and she was well secured in her future. But what was the future worth when there was no one to share it with? She didn't know how to answer that, or perhaps she didn't want to.
She'd begun to realize that there was no point to her existence. No fire in her life. Not even a spark of recognition came from anyone at work. She had no friends, no companions and no love. Joyce had summed it up to having nothing.
She needed to get out of Sunnydale, she needed to escape, but she worried that a change of place wouldn't help, that her loneliness would follow her no matter where she went.
That night, as with almost every other, Joyce cried herself to sleep.
* * * * *
Thunder struck, winds howled, and the trees surrounding the lake billowed back and forth as the storm raged. Darkness enveloped the land, and blood rained, soiling the dirt. From above a light had halloed down upon a circle in to grass. A certain point in the geography of the land where a factory had once stood.
From the earth beneath the spot, there came a deep rumbling. Something forceful was rising, though what could not be discerned until the ground cracked and the surface broke up, revealing the small, naked body of a child. A pale boy of about six, black hair cropped over his forehead and shiny, sharp fangs protruding from his mouth.
The dark priest threw his cane to the ground and neared the sleeping monstrosity, pulling forth a blade six inches in length and caked in dried blood. The rain soaked over him, washing the blood off his weapon as he grew closer and closer to the boy. He smiled down as it breathed, it's stomach rising and falling, it's near-albino flesh goose-bumped from the severe chill of the wind.
"I know not why I was to bring you about, but it was obvious the job was not done right before, Anointed One." The man in white spit the name out as though it was a curse just to say.
"I can fix that." And with that, he lowered himself to the child; not quite expecting what came next.
* * * * *
"Noooooohhhh……"
The being of dark shook it's head in agony, in eternal pain, suffering for the sins it committed while adorning the flesh.
It had (at one point in the elongated length of it's life) been called Darla. (*2) Sire to many, death to more; Darla had reaped a hell upon the earth that was equaled by few. With a charming smile and a sensuous body, Darla had led men and women to the dark abyss, for there had been no pity in her body. Every ounce of her being was made up of a need for cruelty, lust and, most of all blood. The thing that had sustained her monstrous vitality all of those years.
Now she was nothing but a demon of pain. She knew and felt and lived only of the worst pain. There was no skin or blood to her, for all that was needed from a being in hell was it's essence. It's soul.
But it is said that pain is the most liberating of all the feelings one may receive. It can destroy the weak, down the mighty and it can make those with courage weep. But it can also make them stronger. It can free the soul of any retribution that it may have gained; that it may have been weighed down with over the years of existence.
And Darla knew pain. She had grown strong on it, and had eventually begun to feed off it. She now knew remorse; she now knew humility, and she now knew that the key to life was the strength to not give in when pain is a current resident.
For no pain is eternal. Not even that of a God's…
* * * * *
Sleep. Sleep perchance to dream. Perchance to escape the bloody pain the only a hangover may induce.
Spike groaned and tried to roll over, but the tight confines of the sleek wooden coffin wouldn't allow it. He had been very happy when he had found the item when grave robbing, and had even paid Xander to help him get the beauty out of it's pit. While it was a bit of an annoyance for someone who slept so fitfully, it was many times better than the cold stone slab he had been forced to use. He'd always roll off the damn thing and end up either waking himself or regain consciousness the next night to find that cockroaches had decided to use him as a home base for a rest after scurrying around the floor.
Unfortunately, the coffin had turned out to be pretty much soundproof. Most nights he couldn't hear anything beyond loud rapping on the wooden finish. Then there were other nights when he'd gotten so bleeding drunk that nothing, not even a gun shot in the same room could wake him up. Which was unfortunate, as that was exactly what was happening.
The two grave robbers had been staking the place out (*3) when they had met up with a rival gang. An argument had resulted, then one of the men had pulled a gun and the shit went down. Bullets went this way, bodies flew that way and nothing was safe from the wrath of the men as they blew each other to pieces. When the last man was left standing, mortally wounded and dying fast, he had put his hand and then his body on the coffin for support.
Not wanting to die of another man's bullet, he was raising the python to his temple when his shaky trigger finger had forced the gun to go off. Unprepared, the man screamed as the bullet hit one of the coffin slab's supports, blowing about an inch in length away. At it's now unstable position, the man's dead weight on the slab tipped it over, bringing the robber with. Body, slab and coffin fell to the ground, the man breaking his neck and dying instantly as Spike was rocked around inside his sleeping wood.
Yet he still slept, if uncomfortably. But the sudden and abrupt shock that the hard hit brought was too much for the electronic chip inside his head, (which over the years had been growing weaker and weaker due to all the damage Spike had put his head through) and it snapped clean in half accordingly.
* * * * *
"Well Cordelia, I must say, you're audition held a lot of power. A lot of oomph. There was nothing even remotely 'cheesy' about the way you pulled off Cherry's death scene."
Cordelia giggled slightly, a wide grin on her face. "Thank you, thank you. I'm uh, I'm glad to know my performance was… cheese free."
The two women laughed cordially and Bethany looked over her copy of Cordelia's resume once more before putting it back in the briefcase and snapping it shut.
"Okay, you've got the part."
Cordelia laughed, completely shocked. She put her hand to her mouth for a moment, then dropped it to her lap.
"Really, are you serious?"
"Mm-hmm, the part's yours. You start on Monday."
"Oh wow… god, thank you so much!"
Cordelia stood to shake the blonde's hand, but a frown crossed her face and she pulled back.
"Wait, Monday?"
"Yes… Cordelia, is there a problem?"
"I, I thought we worked every weekend."
"No-no, that's just for the workmen and extras. Our leads work every weeknight. Seven to eleven. Ha-ha, we call it the seven eleven shift."
She was crushed. She knew there would be something she would miss. She knew that one way or another she wouldn't be able to have this part.
"But I… I can't do that."
"Cordelia, sweetheart it's four hours every weeknight. We're not asking you to do this all day long. You can still work or, whatever it is you-"
"I can't do it. I must have read the wrong form. I though I'd be doing this on the weekends. My-my job is too important."
"Are you sure? We're linked with three of the largest acting agencies in the world, Cordelia this could be a very big opportunity for you."
She couldn't stay much longer. She didn't want Bethany to see her weakness.
"I, I'm sorry. I just can't."
Bethany pursed her lips and nodded, her blonde ponytail bobbing along behind her.
"All right, it isn't a problem. It's been a pleasure seeing you at work Cordelia, and I'm sure you'll make it far in life."
She took Cordelia's hand and shook it, but wouldn't let go. Their eyes locked.
"That is, I'm sure you'll make it far if you figure out your priorities. To be frank, you've wasted my time. But you're good enough that I can forgive that. I don't know what it is you do for a living Cordy as your resume is less than informal on that situation, but it doesn't look like it's what you want to do with the rest of your life. You've got true talent, I just hope you know where your going with it."
Cordelia nodded and Bethany let her go.
As she walked out from the office, tears were filling her eyes. She doubted she'd ever figure out where she was going, but at least she knew it was worth it.
* * * * *
VVVVVVvvvvvvvrrrrrrrrooooooooooommmmmmmmmmmm…………………
All that Wesley Wyndam-Pryce could hear were the landing of the large planes not twenty-five yards from him, screeching down on the pavement in an irritating howl.
He walked along the side of the large gray building that held all the soon-to-be passengers, hopeful to leave India, as well as all the businessman and their like, no doubt glad to be back in such a surprisingly thriving country. Though Wesley was not very fond of Hydera'ba'd National Airport. To his left Wesley watched as the Boeing making the most noise finally left the ground, wheels slowly raising into the compartments above. The new glasses he had purchased were plain spiffy when it came to pinpointing the smallest details.
A sudden noise in front of him made the Brit leap behind a large stack of cardboard boxes on a forklift. After hearing footsteps shuffling off and not coming in his general direction, Wesley peeked around the side to see an old man, most likely in his seventies, garbed up in a blue workman's suit. In his left hand a set of keys jingled. He seemed to be walking west, towards the other half of the airport.
"What the hell are you doin'?"
Wesley gasped and looked up, shocked to see a black man (wearing a business suit) at the forklift's control board. Wesley stuttered, his mind grasping for anything that might explain his being out in a restricted area to civilians.
The black man laughed heartily and jumped down, slapping the other man on the shoulder congenially. On his look the bigger man noticed the old workman walking towards the other terminals. Then he looked back at Wesley, a big smile on his face.
"Relax, man. That guy's too far away to hear anything. As for you bein' out here, you obviously are not a mover. In fact, I doubt you have any reason within the law for being down here in the first place, right?"
By his good-natured tone, Wesley took a chance.
"I'm afraid not, you're right."
"Ha-ha, put it there."
A hand shot forward, but Wesley was surprised at the gentleness of the handshake. Off-putting, he guessed. Must make people think he wasn't as dangerous as he was.
"Darien Broody. Your masquerade. You must be Wesley."
"Ah, Darien. Glad to meet you, and, uh thanks for the backing. Good to see there are some set foundations to this business."
"You got it man. Listen, we shouldn't even be in these close quarters, but I just wanted to meet you in person before you got all famous."
"Oh, you really think that's possible?"
"Absolutely, man. I've seen you're test results. It's a good thing you went to Brohiemer to begin with. You've got some real talent man, I hope to work with you once you, ya' know, home in on the practice."
Wesley smiled, wondering what exactly he had done to get Brohiemer to say such good things about him.
"Okay man, well I got to get the hell outta here before somebody lays a scope on my ass, but I left you a real nice present in a trash bin by terminal eighteen. Just what Santa would never give you, brother."
Wesley nodded, and the two men shook hands once more before parting. Over his shoulder Darien called out his name. He turned.
"One more thing, Wes. Keep your eyes on the watch for the NSA, man. This place is crawling with them, what with Delphious hiding out here and all."
Wesley nodded again.
"Yes, I heard from about the from Morrison. Unfair disadvantage, wouldn't you say?"
Darien laughed. "You got that right. I got three meetings I had to cancel just today. Have a good one Wes, I'll call you after you get the first."
Wesley laughed and nodded, feeling like an idiot for doing that so much. He might as well be one of those ornaments on the rear-view mirrors of cars, his head bobbing up and down constantly.
Once Darien had disappeared into the building (using the airstrip boarding room Wesley had) he started heading towards the northern quarter of the airport where terminal eighteen was located. He couldn't help but consider himself lucky to be getting such a great chance at beginning a career he had only dreamed of.
He'd been walking for about thirty seconds before realizing that the ringing in his ear wasn't just from being near an airstrip for so long, but that his cell phone was ringing from within his gray Armani. With a flick of his wrist it was out.
"H-hello?"
* * * * *
The roses were in full bloom in Sunnydale. As much as she enjoyed the darker things in life, Olivia loved flowers. They were so gentle and fragile, and yet they held such exuberance and beauty, such an aura about them that could be matched by nothing else. They were in essence, the perfect pictures of innocence.
Olivia had a hard time finding innocent things in her life, or a want for innocence. That's probably why she had grown so close to Rupert Giles since she'd met him. He held a power of darkness over her that surprised her. He was so nice, and so kind to her, but she knew that inside of him there raged a beast that ached to once again swipe it's claws and howl at the moon.
Though the only time this creature ever showed itself was in bed. That's when Rupert was such a force to be reckoned with. Every time he took her, any sense of delicacy ceased and there arrived the demon of his soul, raging and pounding against her. And the true problem (or not) was that she not only enjoyed it, but that she couldn't get enough of it.
Until recently. Rupert had always been like a stevedore, he'd always been rough on her, but for the past two nights he'd been… different. Not quite the monster she'd grown accustomed to, and frankly, she was wanting it more, wanting it harder, and wanting it to hurt, not the other way around. And Giles wasn't performing up to par.
Was he growing tired of the same old positions, or was he getting bored of the setting? Olivia didn't know, but that's what she'd narrowed it down to in the past forty-eight hours.
"Do you like these?"
"Yes Rupert, they're quite beautiful actually. Much nicer than the daisies."
And now, to top it off, Rupert had brought her here. A park.
Olivia was confused, and was beginning to get more than a little uncomfortable. Giles was looking for something to change, and she wasn't sure what it was yet. But she'd be damned if she didn't find out soon. She loved flowers and always would, but at the end of the day and the beginning of the night it wasn't the petals of a rose she'd be paying attention to. She'd be much more interested in the pain of which the thorns gave to her. Flowers she could love, but it was the thorns she needed.
* * * * *
"Are you crazy man?!?"
"Hey, watch out!"
"Get off the road you idiot!"
"You're on the wrong-"
Ethan laughed at all the responses of the other drivers in the cars right of him, yelling at him to get back in the right lane of the road. Meanwhile, cars in his own lane drove towards him honking their horns in rage to this aberration of normality.
God how he loved America! A place where committing murder and getting away with it was as easy as making a pastry, or painting a picture. All it took was some careful planting and near-flawless consummation. Ethan didn't always enjoy killing, but he was good at it. And whenever in Sunnydale Ethan was oh so tempted to take out someone just to shake off the vibes he collected over time. All the pent-up anger he had, all the cowardice he felt, all of the shit he put up with from having to act like a decent human being, all of that went away when he just popped someone. At least for a while.
Sirens began to wail behind him, breaking his concentration. He laughed again, realizing that this was his chance. He could get rid of the days angst right here and now.
He waited patiently for his pursuer in black and white to get up close enough. Then waited until he had positioned himself directly into the path of an oncoming vehicle and began to speed up. He could her the cop's voice over the P.A. system telling him to pull over immediately, but they both knew he'd do no such thing.
50…55…60!
He swerved to the right now, barreling into the course of another car, hoping the cop behind him hadn't caught on and would flatten himself against the first on-comer. No such luck, the guy was good. He'd have to go for something else.
As he pressed against the gas pedal and entered the median he considered if he'd be able to pull off what he was planning on doing while in the horror that was Sunnydale, California. Would Giles really go for it? He had to be upbeat about it; he had to be sure of himself. Once he got the roller pig off his tail he'd pop Anthony Robbins back into the cassette player.
Now in his own lane, Ethan checked the rear-view mirror to see that sure enough, he was still being followed. It was beginning to annoy him. As long as Buffy Summers didn't get in his way (or he in hers for that matter) he should be all right in the matters of safety.
He banked around two more cars that were going about thirty miles westward and waited another five seconds before tightening his seatbelt and slamming onto the breaks. He hit the patrol car with enough force that it's rear wheels lifted up in the air and a loud explosion erupted from within it's hood.
Once they both rolled to a halt Ethan quickly if cautiously unhooked himself from the seatbelt and got out of the Buick. Checking the windshield of the other car, he couldn't tell if they were dead or not. Reaching back into his car he opened the glove box and pulled out his magnum. Making sure it was loaded, he snapped it back in, cocked it, and walked slowly towards the opposing party's vehicle.
Unconscious. Still breathing, not dead. Either of them. Blood covered the shotgun cops forehead, but it was only a light scratch. He relieved them of their guns and went back to his own car. Opening the glove box again, Ethan pulled out the Anthony Robbins box set and stood by the side of the road, waiting for a car that suited him passed.
He finally decided to stand in front of the Porsche 911, raising the gun and smiling as he did. They weren't lying when the makers said it went for sixty to zero in three seconds flat. After the two passengers were hustled out of the vehicle, Ethan transferred his possessions from one car to the other and shut the door, driving off. Destination: Sunnydale. He had a few friends to meet. Some were expecting him, while others… weren't. And to be truthful, knowing Sunnydale, Ethan Rayne didn't know what to expect himself.
* * * * *
"Would you like a pillow?"
"No, but thanks."
Pause.
"Well how about a blanket, we have an extra amount of those."
He smirks. Red mink, spinning the jack.
"That's alright. I'm sorry not to take from the surplus of comforters, but… I'm okay."
She smiles down at him.
"Okay. Enjoy the flight then, Mr.…?"
"Thanks, I will Mrs."
Beat.
"Oh no, I'm just a miss. No ring on my finger."
Gentle laughter from the girl at her remark.
"Mm."
Master of disinterest he always is. Actually quite intrigued, but never seemingly so.
She nods her head and slowly walks away. Lonely, and that's the way she'd stay. At least for now. And she won't find comfort in him. No one will, until he allows an opening to arise in his closed book of a personality. Though that's not to say he doesn't make an interesting cover…
"Alright ladies and gentleman, we're flying at an altitude of about thirty-eight thousand feet, and we'll be landing in Madras in approximately half an hour. We here at Brenstan International hope that you enjoy the remainder of your flight. Thank you."
The voice clicks back off, and he is once again alone with his thoughts.
* * * * *
"I w-want to thank you for coming, Ethan. You really d-don't know how much it means to me."
"It's alright, really. How are you feeling, Terry?"
She smiled. He always called her that.
"I'm good… h-how has the ride west been so far? Not to troublesome, I hope."
"Ah, I'm alive. But let's not get tied up in me. What did you want to talk about?"
Terra sighed. There was so much she wanted to relate to him in so little time. All that had occurred since they had last spoken in January became a jumble to her, muddling up her thoughts. She hadn't and wouldn't tell him about Willow, though, since he already had told Terra of his previous run-ins with her that were… less than hospitable. She knew Ethan wasn't the best of men, but she loved him like a father nonetheless.
She decided to cut to the chase. "Ethan, I need two million."
"Terry, really. I can wire you forty thousand if you absolutely need it, but two million. That's more than excessive."
"I'll do anything Ethan… please…"
"Look, I can't talk right now, I just got to the hotel and I'm very tired. How about I meet you on the nineteenth, at Willy's."
"Umm, Willy's g-g-gone c-clean, that's n-no good. J-just pick me up th-there and we can eat out."
"Alright, that sounds good. I'll see you then."
"Okay, b-bye Ethan."
"And Terry? Gargle some of those boiling pebbles, your stutter's acting up again."
She giggled at that.
"O-okay. Love you, bye." She hung up then, lightly biting her lip. She needed the money, she knew Ethan had it and she had a plan as to how she'd get it. She just hoped Willow would hold out that long…
* * * * *
Lawrence (*4) sat in the dim gray light that was Purgatory, wondering. His essence soared from left to right in a constant state of thought. Despair and remorse were the two things he felt most, but he also felt love for the world, and every so often he felt forgiveness, which lead to peace, which then lead accordingly to the promise of the eventual eternity of such. Though that long farewell was a far cry from close, or even soon. Unless of course, he were for some reason, to be released. Then he promised himself he would only be for and teach with the light, instead of the darkness. He hoped for one or the other, release or eternal peace, and felt a certain tug that one or the other would eventually reach him, though when and which he did not know. He had no idea that release would come so soon.
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Well, that's all for now. Hope you enjoyed it, I know I enjoyed writing it. It's a strange one, not quite like any of the others I'm currently working on, but I like it nonetheless. Now, for the footnotes.
(*1)- For our immediate purposes, Dawn does not exist.
(*2)- As I said previously, this is an alternate universe. Darla was never risen by Lindsey.
(*3)- Can't remember why I made this. Wait… nope; don't remember. Spike lives in the crypt, a bunch of grave robbers had a big shoot out. That's that.
(*4)- Lawrence was A.D.A.M.
