Author's note: Before you begin this story, know this: you won't find many canon characters in this story. Nearly all the characters in this story are my own creation. This is a journey that began back when I started writing Dee's Story, and concluded with its sequel Rising to the Challenge. I realized recently that a number of the characters I wrote about in those two stories had their own stories to tell, so in a prequel of the Episode I variety, I decided to address the history of the main villain in those stories.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of this. Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy do. I'm not making any money off of this, and it's purely a creative exercise.
Chapter 1:
Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata drifted gently through the darkened rooms of the house; its haunting notes echoing only faintly against the walls as Anne's fingers danced lightly over the white piano keys.
She closed her eyes, trying to keep her breathing as shallow as she could, as her head bobbed slightly in time with the music, as if she were afraid that she could distract herself, bringing the beautiful, flowing tune to a halt.
A hand gently snaked around her neck, and she felt herself pulled tightly into his body.
The music stopped as she self-consciously pulled her robe more tightly around herself, looking up into the man's eyes with a slight one-sided grin coming to her face.
"Sorry, didn't mean to wake you," she whispered, gripping the front of his robe, pulling his lips down to meet hers; and meeting with minimal resistance.
"Yeah, I can see why you would think that pounding out a tune on the piano would help me sleep," Oz replied, sliding in next to her.
"Well, you do sleep like the dead."
"I didn't know you played," he said, nodding at the piano.
"I haven't since I was in college," the redhead replied, "I guess my time got filled with other things," she glanced over at him, smiling.
"You played in college?"
Anne shrugged, "sure, why not?"
"Well, for one thing, you never took a music course in the whole time you were at McGill," Oz replied. "For another, your degree was in mathematics."
"Math… music." She shrugged. "It's just two different ways of looking at the same thing, really."
"Okay, you're going to have to explain that one."
"Half notes, quarter notes, eighth notes: fractions. All the notes in an octave are just a different way of representing the harmonics of a wavefront." She told him, "all expressible mathematically."
"I never thought of it that way."
"Some of the best code breakers the US ever had were piano players," she told him, matter-of-factly.
"And were do you get that particular useless bit of trivia?"
"Years and years of watching Jeopardy," she replied.
"I'm starting to understand where you got that strategic mind of yours."
"Strategy the art of recognizing and understanding your opponent's patterns. Music is a pattern of sound and silences organized in time. Math, by definition, is the symbolic expression of an established pattern." She looked over to meet his gaze briefly before her eyes turned back to the piano, "the shape of a crystal, the arc of a thrown projectile, pieces on a chessboard, musical notes, or a Vampire's attack. Patterns. Move and countermove; point and counterpoint. God's a mathematician, and nobody realizes that they're always speaking His language." Her hands started moving over the keys again, "This might be a little more your speed."
"Marc Cohn?" Oz' eyebrows arched as he recognized the opening notes of Walking in Memphis.
"Yeah. One of my favorite songs of all time. Almost makes me wish that I could sing." She paused for a moment, "actually, I'm almost as surprised by the fact that you own a piano as I am by the fact that it's in tune." Her hands moved over the piano keys of their own accord as her emerald eyes rose to meet his.
"Well, some things you just can't play on a guitar. Especially if you only know three different chords."
"So you thought that the piano would be, what, easier?"
"I didn't say that the logic made any sense."
"And you wonder why I keep beating you in our chess matches."
"So, you want to talk about it yet?" Oz gently brushed Anne's tangled hair away from her eyes.
"Talk about what?" Anne noticeably stiffened.
"Whatever it is that's kept you from sleeping through a full night in over a month."
The melody which had until moments before been flowing effortlessly from the piano became forced. The notes almost seemed to be stumbling free of the confines of the wooden box that housed the dozens of wires and hammers which moved synchronously through the tune. Finally, the song collapsed, its final, horribly dissonant chords ringing out as Anne finally jerked her hands free of the keyboard.
"So what's the mathematical explanation for that, a faulty calculator?" Oz gently rested his hand on her shoulder, feeling it relax under his touch.
Anne ignored him and started to raise her hands to the piano keys again.
Oz laid a hand across hers before she could begin playing again. "Anne, talk to me. You go out every night, you come back bleeding and covered in dust, then you barely sleep a couple of hours. And that's just on the nights that you come here after patrolling. I'm scared to ask what happens to you on the nights that you decide to go home."
"You wouldn't understand."
"Try me."
"It's not important." She shook her head, looking away from him.
"You're almost as bad a liar as I am; and that's saying something."
She sat for a long moment, her hands resting in her lap, before she abruptly stood, "I should get home," she said.
"Anne." As she continued walking away as if she hadn't heard him, Oz stood and grabbed her by the shoulder.
He felt her pivot under his grip, smoothly flipping him over her hip to deposit him unceremoniously on his back as her bare foot pressed up under his Adam's apple, pinning him to the ground. She stood over his prone form, her face cold and emotionless.
"I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say that there's something bothering you."
Her expression softened as she let a long breath out, lifting her foot away from his throat and offering him a hand to get up, "sorry, Oz. I guess I'm a little on edge lately."
"I'd never have guessed." Oz took her hand as she pulled him to his feet.
Anne walked toward the bedroom, "I really need to go," she told him.
"Anne, c'mon." He walked into the bedroom to find her dressing, and abruptly turned away, modestly.
"What do you want, Oz?" Her voice sounded annoyed as she pulled her shirt over her head, tugging the hem down around her waist.
"Are you decent?"
"Yeah, turn around."
"What's wrong, Anne?" She was sitting on the corner of the bed, lacing up her boots, a denim jacket lay on the bed next to her.
"It doesn't matter." She pushed past him.
He caught her elbow, "it matters."
She let out a long breath, her shoulders slumping as if a huge weight had been placed on them. "We're all gonna die," she told him, her expression blank.
Oz was stunned to silence, and released her arm in shock.
"I'll see you tomorrow morning." She pulled her jacket on and walked towards the front door.
"Anne, wait."
Anne stopped, her hand resting on the front doorknob.
"Gimme some details here. If I'm going to die soon, I think it's fair for me to ask how it's going to happen."
Anne shook her head. "The details don't matter. Something's coming, it's gonna kill us all, and there's nothing we can do to stop that. The details aren't important." She pulled the door opened, angrily.
"God's in the details, Anne," Oz whispered.
Anne didn't turn around, "your God, maybe. Mine's in the process."
She slammed the door behind her.