Suggested listening:
"Cheap and Evil Girl" by Bree Sharp
"Occam's Razor" by Adam Again
"Hopeless, Etc." by Adam Again
Tore Down House
By
Michael Walker
The clock radio's digital display flashed from 6:59 to 7:00 am. The radio came alive; the opening chords of the Who's 'Baba O'Riley' rattled its small speaker. The twisted mass of bedclothes heaved; an arm snaked out from underneath the pile and groped for the snooze button. It took three tries, but finally a random swing connected with the button. The music cut off abruptly.
Xander poked his head out of the covers and tried to focus his bleary gaze on the clock. He racked his brain, trying to understand why he was so exhausted. He rolled over on his back. Okay, priorities changed. Why he was so tired slipped to number two. Number one was trying to figure out why he was sleeping naked.
That's when the fragments of memory began to bob to the surface of the thick stew sloshing around in his head. At first, it was random sense memories-- the feel of a long leg against his thigh, the dancing tickle of a dark curtain of hair dragged across his chest, the feel of warm lips on his-
"Oh man," he gasped, and struggled to a sitting position. He reached down and groped on the floor, trying to find some pants, a pair of boxers, anything. His fingers closed around a garment. He picked it up, raising it to eye level. Dangling from his fingers was a small black thong.
"Oh boy," he groaned. "I'm in trouble."
***
Buffy groaned and tried to force her eyes open when the alarm sounded, but fatigue proved a more indomitable foe than vampires or demons. She slumped back on the bed, hand flailing in a listless attempt to push her hair out of her face.
More sleep... that was the answer. She had to start getting to bed at a decent hour. Maybe the vamps and demons could bump their schedules up a few hours. The Slayer groaned and rolled off the bed, landing on her floor with a thud.
"Honey, are you all right?" Joyce asked from the doorway.
"Hmm? Uh, yeah Mom, yeah, be fine." Buffy rolled over on all fours and groped for her robe. "Up late last night fighting evil."
"I really wish you wouldn't joke about it like that," Joyce said. "Oatmeal okay for breakfast?"
"Yeah." Buffy staggered to her feet. "Just soak it in coffee first."
***
Xander tried to tamp down a rising tide of interior panic. School was two blocks away. Xander Harris had faced the undead, the demonic, the bizarre, the enchanted, and the uncanny. He was certain that he had never been in as much peril as he was today.
He winced as he shifted his backpack. Something was wrong with his ribs-pulled muscle or torn cartilage or some souvenir of last night. He was surprised it was his only injury, if his memory was reliable. A flush crept into his cheeks. Part of him was mortified because, after all, he was dating Cordelia and there was the whole concept of fidelity but on the other hand... there were lots of other, less-memorable ways to injure a rib.
The foot traffic was thicker as he approached Sunnydale High. Just before he reached the steps he spied Buffy weaving through the crowd. He waited for her to reach him. She wore a pink sweater and big round sunglasses.
"Hey, Buff, what's the word?" Was his voice a little too high-pitched? A little too fast? He had to cover. "Love the shades. Very Robert Evans."
Buffy tipped the glasses down and looked at him over the tops of the lenses. Her reason for the eyewear was apparent; her eyes matched her sweater. She squinted in the harsh light. "Why are you so chipper this morning?"
"What? Me?" He shrugged and shook his head at the same time. "I'm no different than... I usually am. I'm the same guy. Same ol' Xander, that's me." He stretched out an open hand. "What about you? Those don't look like the eyes of an early to bed and early to rise Buffy to me."
"I was out late," she said then, noticing his look, continued, "Gathering information."
"Oh, good," he said. "Important information?"
Buffy pushed her shades back into position. "Maybe. I'll share later. When my brain's working."
***
Othniel Hampton perched on a catwalk high above the floor of the deserted factory. His left hand grasped his right wrist; his forearms rested on his knees. His eyes stared at something a thousand miles away.
"You called for me?"
Hampton slowly turned his head to look at Coyne. The trusted lieutenant stood on the catwalk, his hands gripping the rails until the knuckles were even whiter than usual. He kept glancing down through the steel mesh toward the stained concrete some twenty feet below.
"Sit." The metal rang as Hampton tapped it with one hard, ridged nail. Coyne lowered himself gingerly into a sitting position. Hampton looked out over the cavernous space. His face was blank and somehow oddly serene. Coyne shifted his weight in an attempt to flex an ankle. Hampton sighed and turned.
"You were right," the Reverend said. "I allowed my zeal to overwhelm me. In my eagerness to punish the transgressor I endangered those in my own care. I owe you my thanks."
Coyne managed an awkward shrug. "I didn't mean to question your authority."
"No, I'm sure you didn't." Something in Hampton's voice sent a shiver racing along Coyne's spine. "But you opened my eyes to my own folly. He would never respond-he is a coward who would sacrifice his every follower and never leave his fortress. He has no honor. He will never fight like a true warrior."
Coyne kept his moth shut. He didn't think this was the best time to offer his opinion of Mr. Trick-namely that the Armani-wearing vampire was one tough sonofabitch who wasn't going to get dragged into a pissing contest. He was ensconced in a relatively impregnable position and had thus far suffered acceptable losses, at least from Hampton's crew. The Slayer was another matter. Coyne had heard, from sources he considered trustworthy, that the second Slayer, the one whose Watcher had been killed, had wreaked hell on Trick's retinue. Somehow, Coyne believed that Trick had not expected that outcome. During the brief period when their forces had worked together Coyne had seen a lot of agitation in Trick's camp.
But then came the business at Christmas. Coyne hadn't been privy to the whole story, but then no one was taken into Hampton's full confidence. Coyne was kind of glad of that. He wasn't sure he wanted to actually know what went through the deranged Reverend's mind. Still, he knew bits and pieces. Hampton had been agitated at the approaching holiday, but that wasn't unusual. His life's occupation weighed heavily upon him as December 25th drew near. This had been different. Something had driven him into a fury. Through rumor and observation Coyne had developed a sketchy picture of what went down. It involved one of the Others and Trick's apparent lack of respect toward her.
"He will never fight like a true warrior." Hampton was in his weird place-focused but halfway to Pluto at the same time. It was a look that one of his old parishioner's might have recognized, a state that the Reverend would enter in the middle of a sermon, when the ecstatic flow of his own rhetoric would lift him up and transport him away even as he spoke to them. "But that does not mean that he cannot be touched. We will waste no more time in trying to draw him into honorable battle." The Reverend turned to his loyal minion and his smile was grim. "We will take the thing he values most."
***
Xander looked around nervously as he made his way down the hall. Third period already and so far he'd avoided Cordelia. That was good, wasn't it?
"Good God, did you see what's Laura Black's wearing?"
He jumped and almost dropped his books. A few seconds of quick juggling kept them from hitting the floor but left him clutching them to his chest like a frightened seventh-grader on the first day of school.
Cordelia stared at him for a moment. "Are you just, like, completely mental today?" Her eyebrows arched, then his spastic behavior was forgotten. "I mean, honestly, was there a giant Square Pegs reunion and I missed it?"
"What? Oh, uh, Square Pegs, yeah. Great show. Whatever happened to that girl with the braces? You know, I heard she had to wear a fat suit." Xander clamped his jaws shut before his babbling reached critical mass.
Cordelia paused, lipstick in hand halfway to her mouth. "I don't know. What's your flakeage?"
"Me? I'm fine." Xander laughed maniacally. "So, how did the studying go last night?"
Cordelia finished applying her lipstick. "What? Oh, it was calculus. Doesn't that say it all?" She rolled her eyes. "Wait a minute. I know what's going on."
"You do?" Xander's voice climbed an octave on the last word.
"Yes. It's as obvious as the nose on Harmony's face. Reyna wants the spring formal to have a Big '80's theme. That's why Laura's dressed like a refugee from Legwarmers'r'Us." She shook her head. "Some people."
"Yeah," Xander said. "Some people."
"Cheap and Evil Girl" by Bree Sharp
"Occam's Razor" by Adam Again
"Hopeless, Etc." by Adam Again
Tore Down House
By
Michael Walker
The clock radio's digital display flashed from 6:59 to 7:00 am. The radio came alive; the opening chords of the Who's 'Baba O'Riley' rattled its small speaker. The twisted mass of bedclothes heaved; an arm snaked out from underneath the pile and groped for the snooze button. It took three tries, but finally a random swing connected with the button. The music cut off abruptly.
Xander poked his head out of the covers and tried to focus his bleary gaze on the clock. He racked his brain, trying to understand why he was so exhausted. He rolled over on his back. Okay, priorities changed. Why he was so tired slipped to number two. Number one was trying to figure out why he was sleeping naked.
That's when the fragments of memory began to bob to the surface of the thick stew sloshing around in his head. At first, it was random sense memories-- the feel of a long leg against his thigh, the dancing tickle of a dark curtain of hair dragged across his chest, the feel of warm lips on his-
"Oh man," he gasped, and struggled to a sitting position. He reached down and groped on the floor, trying to find some pants, a pair of boxers, anything. His fingers closed around a garment. He picked it up, raising it to eye level. Dangling from his fingers was a small black thong.
"Oh boy," he groaned. "I'm in trouble."
***
Buffy groaned and tried to force her eyes open when the alarm sounded, but fatigue proved a more indomitable foe than vampires or demons. She slumped back on the bed, hand flailing in a listless attempt to push her hair out of her face.
More sleep... that was the answer. She had to start getting to bed at a decent hour. Maybe the vamps and demons could bump their schedules up a few hours. The Slayer groaned and rolled off the bed, landing on her floor with a thud.
"Honey, are you all right?" Joyce asked from the doorway.
"Hmm? Uh, yeah Mom, yeah, be fine." Buffy rolled over on all fours and groped for her robe. "Up late last night fighting evil."
"I really wish you wouldn't joke about it like that," Joyce said. "Oatmeal okay for breakfast?"
"Yeah." Buffy staggered to her feet. "Just soak it in coffee first."
***
Xander tried to tamp down a rising tide of interior panic. School was two blocks away. Xander Harris had faced the undead, the demonic, the bizarre, the enchanted, and the uncanny. He was certain that he had never been in as much peril as he was today.
He winced as he shifted his backpack. Something was wrong with his ribs-pulled muscle or torn cartilage or some souvenir of last night. He was surprised it was his only injury, if his memory was reliable. A flush crept into his cheeks. Part of him was mortified because, after all, he was dating Cordelia and there was the whole concept of fidelity but on the other hand... there were lots of other, less-memorable ways to injure a rib.
The foot traffic was thicker as he approached Sunnydale High. Just before he reached the steps he spied Buffy weaving through the crowd. He waited for her to reach him. She wore a pink sweater and big round sunglasses.
"Hey, Buff, what's the word?" Was his voice a little too high-pitched? A little too fast? He had to cover. "Love the shades. Very Robert Evans."
Buffy tipped the glasses down and looked at him over the tops of the lenses. Her reason for the eyewear was apparent; her eyes matched her sweater. She squinted in the harsh light. "Why are you so chipper this morning?"
"What? Me?" He shrugged and shook his head at the same time. "I'm no different than... I usually am. I'm the same guy. Same ol' Xander, that's me." He stretched out an open hand. "What about you? Those don't look like the eyes of an early to bed and early to rise Buffy to me."
"I was out late," she said then, noticing his look, continued, "Gathering information."
"Oh, good," he said. "Important information?"
Buffy pushed her shades back into position. "Maybe. I'll share later. When my brain's working."
***
Othniel Hampton perched on a catwalk high above the floor of the deserted factory. His left hand grasped his right wrist; his forearms rested on his knees. His eyes stared at something a thousand miles away.
"You called for me?"
Hampton slowly turned his head to look at Coyne. The trusted lieutenant stood on the catwalk, his hands gripping the rails until the knuckles were even whiter than usual. He kept glancing down through the steel mesh toward the stained concrete some twenty feet below.
"Sit." The metal rang as Hampton tapped it with one hard, ridged nail. Coyne lowered himself gingerly into a sitting position. Hampton looked out over the cavernous space. His face was blank and somehow oddly serene. Coyne shifted his weight in an attempt to flex an ankle. Hampton sighed and turned.
"You were right," the Reverend said. "I allowed my zeal to overwhelm me. In my eagerness to punish the transgressor I endangered those in my own care. I owe you my thanks."
Coyne managed an awkward shrug. "I didn't mean to question your authority."
"No, I'm sure you didn't." Something in Hampton's voice sent a shiver racing along Coyne's spine. "But you opened my eyes to my own folly. He would never respond-he is a coward who would sacrifice his every follower and never leave his fortress. He has no honor. He will never fight like a true warrior."
Coyne kept his moth shut. He didn't think this was the best time to offer his opinion of Mr. Trick-namely that the Armani-wearing vampire was one tough sonofabitch who wasn't going to get dragged into a pissing contest. He was ensconced in a relatively impregnable position and had thus far suffered acceptable losses, at least from Hampton's crew. The Slayer was another matter. Coyne had heard, from sources he considered trustworthy, that the second Slayer, the one whose Watcher had been killed, had wreaked hell on Trick's retinue. Somehow, Coyne believed that Trick had not expected that outcome. During the brief period when their forces had worked together Coyne had seen a lot of agitation in Trick's camp.
But then came the business at Christmas. Coyne hadn't been privy to the whole story, but then no one was taken into Hampton's full confidence. Coyne was kind of glad of that. He wasn't sure he wanted to actually know what went through the deranged Reverend's mind. Still, he knew bits and pieces. Hampton had been agitated at the approaching holiday, but that wasn't unusual. His life's occupation weighed heavily upon him as December 25th drew near. This had been different. Something had driven him into a fury. Through rumor and observation Coyne had developed a sketchy picture of what went down. It involved one of the Others and Trick's apparent lack of respect toward her.
"He will never fight like a true warrior." Hampton was in his weird place-focused but halfway to Pluto at the same time. It was a look that one of his old parishioner's might have recognized, a state that the Reverend would enter in the middle of a sermon, when the ecstatic flow of his own rhetoric would lift him up and transport him away even as he spoke to them. "But that does not mean that he cannot be touched. We will waste no more time in trying to draw him into honorable battle." The Reverend turned to his loyal minion and his smile was grim. "We will take the thing he values most."
***
Xander looked around nervously as he made his way down the hall. Third period already and so far he'd avoided Cordelia. That was good, wasn't it?
"Good God, did you see what's Laura Black's wearing?"
He jumped and almost dropped his books. A few seconds of quick juggling kept them from hitting the floor but left him clutching them to his chest like a frightened seventh-grader on the first day of school.
Cordelia stared at him for a moment. "Are you just, like, completely mental today?" Her eyebrows arched, then his spastic behavior was forgotten. "I mean, honestly, was there a giant Square Pegs reunion and I missed it?"
"What? Oh, uh, Square Pegs, yeah. Great show. Whatever happened to that girl with the braces? You know, I heard she had to wear a fat suit." Xander clamped his jaws shut before his babbling reached critical mass.
Cordelia paused, lipstick in hand halfway to her mouth. "I don't know. What's your flakeage?"
"Me? I'm fine." Xander laughed maniacally. "So, how did the studying go last night?"
Cordelia finished applying her lipstick. "What? Oh, it was calculus. Doesn't that say it all?" She rolled her eyes. "Wait a minute. I know what's going on."
"You do?" Xander's voice climbed an octave on the last word.
"Yes. It's as obvious as the nose on Harmony's face. Reyna wants the spring formal to have a Big '80's theme. That's why Laura's dressed like a refugee from Legwarmers'r'Us." She shook her head. "Some people."
"Yeah," Xander said. "Some people."