AN: I KNOW I SHOULD REALLY BE UPDATING MY OTHER STORIES, BUT I REALLY WANTED TO WRITE THIS ONE AND IT WAS STARTING TO BUG ME, AS MY MUSE WOULDN'T LET ME THINK ABOUT ANYTHING ELSE PLOTWISE, SO, HOPEFULLY, WITH THIS OUT, I SHOULD BE ABLE TO START UPDATING OTHERS.
RATING: PG-13, FOR CONNOR'S MOUTH AND DESCRIPTIONS OF BLOODSHED.
A Greater Destiny
Chapter One- The Difference Between Warriors And Champions
When one is the ruler of the, arguably, greatest and most powerful nation on the face of the planet, the least one could expect is decent security, especially in one's private places. And one would definitely not expect to walk into one's own office and find three people in there, especially not three such as these.
For a man who somebody is always trying to assassinate and has supposedly the best security forces on the planet at his disposal, seeing these three in his office was not a pleasant surprise. But, then, seeing these three in your office wouldn't be a pleasant surprise for anyone. Nobody ever likes seeing three heavily armed people in their home, particularly not these three, but you'd have thought that they wouldn't be able to get into the White House, of all the well guarded places in the world.
So when the President of the United States of America walked into the Oval Office one evening to see these three people with swords in his office, it is both safe and fair to say he was justified for turning rather white.
Saying that there were three people with swords leaves out a great deal of entertaining detail, so a greater description of the characters involved will be given. President Hayes entered his office one balmy September evening and there were two men and one woman waiting for him, all armed with swords, as has been mentioned before.
From their appearance, the President judged that none of them could be over thirty. Of the two men, well, one man and one teenage really, the older could be no more than twenty-seven and the younger appeared around eighteen or nineteen at most. The woman appeared to be of an age somewhere in the middle, about twenty-two years old at the most.
The man was dressed in black leather; black leather trousers, a dark crimson velvet shirt and a long black leather duster. He had spiky dark hair and dark eyes set in a serious face that belied his appearance of youth. There was a broadsword strapped to his back and at least two knives showed over the tops of his black leather boots.
Although the boy was much more slender, almost to the degree of being feminine in appearance, he carried such a familial resemblance to the man that he had to be a brother or cousin. The boy's hair hung in brown curtains around an equally dark and serious face. The boy dressed very differently though, in worn blue jeans and a green turtleneck sweater that had the distinct appearance of having seen much better days. His black leather boots, though of a similar style to the man's were scuffed and dirty. He had a broadsword strapped to his right hip, deliberately on the other side than the man carried his, and the President could see two knives sheathed in strapped holsters on his arms.
The two men, despite the obvious family connection, were standing as far away from each other as the limited confines of the Oval Office allowed, the boy skulking in the shadows and the man staring out of the tall windows onto the moon-flooded lawn.
Lounging on one of the leather sofas, seemingly oblivious to the obvious tension, was the woman. If the other two looked dangerous, this woman was nothing short of deadly. If he had seen her from behind, President Hayes would have thought her to be a typical Californian blonde; one look at her face dispelled that illusion quickly enough. The woman was dressed to kill, quite literally. She wore tight black leather pants, a black leather duster that matched the one the man wore, a black leather corset and black, leather, stiletto-heeled boots. Her silvery-blonde hair was piled on top of her head, adding an inch to her diminutive height of maybe five foot three inches. The woman's hazel eyes were filled with such pain that the President had to look away, not wanting to contemplate what had made this young woman so old. The woman had, of all things, a scythe strapped to her back, a Japanese katana at each hip and was filing her nails with a rather deadly looking knife.
The President would have followed both protocol and his common sense if it weren't for the fact that he had seen the woman's picture before. When he had been inaugurated as President a few months ago, briefings on highly classified projects had followed soon afterwards. As well as the fiasco of the Stargate Command, another controversial project he had been told about was the Initiative. As well as reading countless files talking to certain black ops agents, the President had also viewed the video footage of the bloody and brutal massacre that had taken place at the Initiative base, before a certain group of civilians had come in and extricated the remaining operatives, also somehow defeating the monster created by Professor Walsh.
After having watched this footage, the President's first move had been to contact Agent Finn to discuss this group, in particular the blond woman leading them. It had been a most elucidating discussion. Agent Finn had been most accommodating, answering his questions frankly and honestly, a pleasant change from the bureaucracy of Washington. However, when the discussion had turned to the possibility of Miss Summers's future co-operation with the military, he had been told 'well, the next time Buffy helps the military's going to be sometime the other side of never, sir'. Disappointed, he had nonetheless decided not to contact Miss Summers, but had also granted her and the list of her known associates with top level clearance and full diplomatic immunity. Having been advised about one of Miss Summers's associate's computer skills, he had left it at that, leaving them to open further channels, of communication, channels than had remained closed, until now.
When the President entered the room, the woman looked up and smiled, revealing a set of perfectly white teeth, but making him feel uncomfortably like what the President felt was the feeling when a hungry lioness cornered one. The woman rose gracefully and sheathed her knife… somewhere. She approached Hayes with a fluid, lithe grace he had only seen in gymnasts and assassins. She then extended one perfectly manicured hand and spoke in a low voice,
"Mr President, I'm Buffy Summers, the vampire Slayer, these are my associates, Angel and his son, Connor. We're here as representatives from the New International Council of Watchers and Slayers, on very important business."
The President stared at the woman, then realised he was looking straight down her top and quickly concentrated on a point just above her left ear. Then he realised that this might offend a potentially very valuable and powerful ally and looked back down at her, constantly reminding himself that he was happily married and old enough to be this woman's father.
The boy, Connor, snorted and the President felt himself flush. He went and sat down at his desk, hoping to regain his equilibrium, as well as some semblance of sanity. The boy snorted again, and the man, his father, growled,
"Connor."
The boy then stopped sniggering and turned to the man with an insolent scowl on his face,
"What?"
The boy's voice was low, as deadly as his appearance. His father scowled at him in disapproval.
"You'll keep a civil tongue in your head."
The boy's glare was now full of poisonous malice,
"Or what? You'll rip it out?"
President Hayes felt somewhat sick as the man growled his response to his son's angry question,
"No. There are far more creative methods of inducing silence."
The boy smirked, seemingly unperturbed by the fact that it was his father making these threats,
"You should know, having probably invented most of them."
The woman growled under her breath. This little discussion had obviously gone too far, ventured into topics that were not open for discussion, particularly with an audience in attendance. When she spoke, her voice was so obviously icy that the President shivered.
"Connor, Angel, that is quite enough. In fact, that was more than enough, both of you. I am perfectly aware that you have your issues, but now is neither the time nor the place for the airing of them."
Both man and teenager scowled, an expression so similar as to be almost comical, but they stopped glaring daggers at each other, and throwing barbed comments. The woman sighed and sauntered over to the President's desk. She then flopped into a chair and opened a briefcase that had been lying unseen on the floor.
As Buffy searched through her case, Connor and the man called Angel came to stand behind her like silent sentinels. She could not seem to find whatever it was that she was looking for and looked up, scowling in displeasure.
"Angel, where's my file on The Powers That Be?"
Connor cleared his throat and Buffy and Angel turned towards him,
"You mean that big black file you left in the lobby of the Hyperion?"
Buffy nodded absently as she searched through her briefcase once again, the words not fully registering with her,
"Yes, that one. Damnit!"
Buffy snapped the case closed and dropped it on the floor, where it landed with a decided thud. Then she leant forward and cupped her chin in her hands, placing her elbows on the edge of the desk with deliberate care. When she spoke, her voice was very soft, almost placating,
"Mr President, my associates and I need to go to Stargate Command."
The President's jaw hit the desktop with a mighty thud. Buffy smiled at this and continued, keeping her voice light, almost conversational,
"I received a communiqué, in the form of a vision, from my bosses, telling us that we're needed at Stargate Command to fight the Goa-uld."
"Your bosses?"
"Yeah, The Powers That Be, we work for them."
"Who exactly are these Powers?"
"We don't exactly know. As far as we can tell, they're the divine people in charge, and, up to a point, on the side of good."
The President decided it would be far better if he did not think too much about this comment and therefore merely asked another question,
"I was under the impression that you slayer vampires, not Goa'uld?"
Buffy smiled at him benevolently,
"I did, but then Wills activated all the Potentials with her mojo, so the Powers decided to use their three champions on a new job, doing something different. Besides, I'm cool with it. The whole demons thing was getting a bit old. I mean, there's only so many apocalypses that you can avert before they start getting a bit repetitive."
The President once again decided not to think too hard about what he had just heard and therefore found himself asking another question,
"Champions?"
Buffy smirked slightly, this clearly being a subject that she enjoyed,
"Champions are kinda' like warriors, but far more powerful."
Hayes frowned, not understanding the qualification,
"There's a difference?"
Buffy smirked again, this time the smirk being echoed by Connor, from where he stood behind her,
"Yeah, there's a big difference. Warriors fight for a cause, sometimes for a specific person, champions are much rarer and therefore more powerful. The other Slayers, the ones that have chosen to fight anyway, they're warriors, well, they could be, but me, Angel and Connor, we're champions. We don't fight in just one battle, the three of us, we've been chosen to fight evil, wherever we have to, and we don't get peace until it's gone, permanently."
The President was unsure what to make of this, what kind of answer was expected, so her merely said,
"I'll call General O'Neill and tell him to expect you."
Buffy smiled, apparently grateful that he was not asking any more questions about what was obviously a sensitive topic.
"Thanks."
With a flash of light, the three champions disappeared from the room, leaving behind no evidence of their presence other than a very harassed looking politician. Harry Hayes picked up a phone from his desk and snapped into the receiver,
"Lydia, I want a strong scotch and two aspirin, oh, and get me a line to Cheyenne mountain will you, it's urgent."
TBC.
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