Prologue: There were these two vampires in a tavern…

By Claudius

It was a clear sky that night of 1915. On a block at Central City, two uniformed figures ran through its dark and empty streets. Both shared the action of retreating. Only one thought about escape. None realized they were being watched.

And what a fascinating watch for this watcher, a figure hidden in the shadows! Their movements were very intriguing; he detected the desperation and fear marking the steps of one of them, the man. The other, a female, lacked those valuable parts of weak humanity. She was hiding something, waiting to show it to her partner. Such deception! It brought a grin to the watcher's lips. He always liked the hunt.

The bartender had placed the third glass of liquor to the customer. So far, there was no payment given, or demanded. The barkeeper said nothing, and he hoped that silence granted him safety. Never did he fear a response from anyone than he did with this customer. There was an inhuman way about him (the fact that he cast no reflection on the window was somehow least in his suspicions). Fear of a wrathful response kept him from notifying anyone.

Perhaps the keeper might feel better if he knew the customer's present thoughts were nothing predatory (well, for the moment). He was too enveloped by the liquor. He loved being drunk. He would drink when he was happy, when he was killing people, when he was refreshing his girl. And when he was sad.

And he was sad now. Sad, sad, bloody sad. He couldn't help ranting that word a lot. That could mean he was really out of it. But the influence didn't help this time. The amount of alcohol that filled his mouth, stomach, and brain did not make the pain go away. He was without his beloved. Such loss quickly turned to hatred. It was that bitch's fault. No, it was the bitch's sire's fault. His brain affected by the booze, the drinker nevertheless could still register thought. It all started with jealousy, back home. Not this weird place, but where he really came from.

Anyway, it was in that bloody colonial nation-wannabe called America. The year was 1919. He was so tired of his beloved's sudden interest in her bullocksy sire. The bitch was now always talking about him, every time he killed someone with her, every time he got her presents both living and not, and when they made love. Feh! His brain blanked out from these nags, submitting to his maddened heart. That heart demanded action.

What could he do? Kill the sire? Very fun, but the last thing he wanted was to hear her add another series of comparisons of the martyr. Feck that one out. He then got his epiphany: Get his girl back by sending the strutting bastard somewhere he couldn't come back. So he got some sorcerer to do the job. Kidnapping the sire was easy (the sod appeared to be a shadow of his former self). He thought the ritual would be elementary as well. Sure enough, things not only ended up uneasy, it went to bloody hell. He made the mistake of personally seeing the wanker off in entry. Got pulled through the dimensional portal with him. Next thing he knew, both of them were somewhere they couldn't come back from.

One nasty fight later, he and the bastard went their separate ways. What a painful situation he was in! He had his ideas to fill the pain, climaxing with a tavern for some beer. Which brought him here. Didn't work. Maybe he should kill the barkeeper (or the barkeepers, if his intoxicated eyes were being true).

The door opened. "Hello!' said the voice of a very, very smug bullock.

"Oh feck off!" The drinker flung the mug at his target.

The visitor grabbed the projectile with ease. "Can't do that," he made his refusal. His voice sounded like cruel madness hiding under the façade of calm kindness. This visitor leapt to the seat next to him.

The irritated customer turned reluctantly to his new bar mate. "What's with the grin, Angelus?"

"I've already done it." Angelus chuckled. He glared at the inhabitants of this tavern, his eyes gleamed impatience; he couldn't wait to see the carnage he would do to this place. "I was walking around the street, looking for someone worthy of my attention. I found two people…running for dear life." His lips snickered wickedly. "At least one of them was. Crossing some rooftops, I followed them to their destination, a booth."

"How original," the drunk customer raised his glass in mock celebration.

"I'm not finished yet, William," snapped Angelus. He loathed interruptions.

"Spike," corrected the drunkard.

Angelus ignored the correction with his continued story. "Suddenly, the guy slashed his female companion's throat. Expecting some fun out of this moment, I was disappointed to find the bitch wasn't dead." Disappointment was an understatement by the rage seeping from his gentleman mask. "Why? The woman was some shape-shifting demon. The human fool tried to fight back, but then the demon turned into another woman with a gun. The fool paused. Bang!" He cheered the sound word.

"Nice reenactment," Spike moaned. "So what does this all hafta do with you??"

Again Angelus' smile fell. "I said…wait!" he growled at this second guess. He swung back to his smug face. "After the demon left, I came to the victim. I saw a picture on the ground. A colored photograph. It showed his family; him, slutty wife and little shit-brat all smiling like idiots. Boy, what that demon did, taking the form of the corpse-to-be's wife." A brow of envy joined in Angelus' respect for the killer. "That's when I got an idea."

Spike drank some more. Angelus was ever the perfectionist. Couldn't he just kill and enjoy without acting like some fecking artist? No, the prancing git wanted to pretend he was something above a demon.

"I was hospitable to the poor man, allowing him to live a little longer." Angelus' mouth remained an arch of delight. Hospitality, in his words, meant that the victim's final minutes were probably the most painful. Death would be delayed for the sake of agony. Angelus had skill…prolonging the life of the dying. "Sure, this demon's way of killing a guy by taking the form of his beloved wife is great, but it lacked something. Comeuppance." His compassionate words lacked conviction. "The evil wife had to pay for this betrayal of their love."

Then Angelus exposed his wrist. It had a fresh wound.

A feeling of ice covered Spike's insides. It excited him. "You didn't…"

"Drusilla is getting a brother." Angelus' mouth opened with laughter. "I can imagine what's going to happen: after rising from the grave, father will come home to the family that missed him. They'll be so happy…" Angelus did not continue; his expression was enough to reveal the aftermath of this prediction. All the devils portrayed in medieval paintings couldn't surpass the cruel, gleeful features of this devil's face.

Showoff, Spike thought. "So 'granddad', what's the name o' my new favorite 'uncle?'"

"Hughes something…He'll get a better name."

"How about Oedipus?"

Angelus laughed at the touché from his companion. He'll hurt Spike later for stealing his thunder. "So, William," he patronized, "what contribution to this new world have you done? Wait, let me guess: sired a drunk bum in an alley."

"Course not!" Spike denied, though the wavering tone of his voice was the real truth.

Angelus laughed. He loved to flaunt his superiority over his fellow vampires, especially this laughable mutt Drusilla found. He was free again. Life, or unlife was pretty fine.

The barkeeper went out of the room. His disappearance struck a chord to his new customers. Now was the perfect time to pay him! It would be a better amusement than killing these drunks. Angelus and Spike arose from their seats. Suddenly, a light enshrouded the both of them. Transforming the surroundings inside and out. There was a gate. It opened; they went through it. It was quick and fast, especially for Angelus.

Two vampires now stood in an environment they had been before. There was a woman before them. "Noicey, noicey t' see y'all bawk." Smiled the witness. In her hand clutched the dead wizard's head, having severed it as soon as the rescue was fulfilled. "Thank you, kuind sir." She kissed the head's cold forehead. She looked to the returned. "Spoik…"

Even in his intoxicated state, Spike could register this beautiful, insane vampire that sired him. That face, those eyes, that body. All his earlier problems were wiped away. He understood now. Drusilla's pining for Angelus was all part of a plan, a quest for him to prove the depth of his love for her. He had won. Spike gave Drusilla a passionate exchange racier than those tame 'moo-vys' with Theda Bara or Francis X. Bushman. They were happy.

Not Angel. Thoughts that were beautiful became layered with revulsion. And the actions…

His legs failed him. In a shaken awareness, Angel grabbed for his pockets. It couldn't be there, his thoughts raced for a possible truth of relief. It all had to be a nightmare. He couldn't have done it again.

He touched the picture. He looked at it. The Hughes Family. The doubt was gone. The defense from true pain shattered. The deluge began.

"What's 'is problem?" Drusilla asked, finding her sire's stricken behavior rather engaging.

"Forget the sod," Spike walked away, pulling his girl to himself. "I know of a beautiful necklace I can give you…and the girl wearing it." A smile changed Drusilla's confused look. She followed her love and his promise. They left the scene, she singing a pretty song in contrast to her creepy step.

Angel was alone now. His thoughts were his companion and torturer. What have I done? It was not the first time he realized that questioning thought. But for the first time, he fought it with denial. His hands desperately attacked the photograph. The picture of the family was squeezed and crushed, its fabric ripped into pieces, until it was nothing. It had to be nothing. It is nothing. Nothing…

To be continued

I do not own the copyright of Full Metal Alchemist (by Hiromu Arakawa), nor do I own the copyright to characters from Buffy the Vampire Slayer (by Joss Whedon).

I don't know if I'll continue this. The last time I combined an anime with a WB show I barely got passed the first chapter. We'll see (if I do, expect Cordy!). But the least I can do is give a title of what LGH stands for: The Late General Hughes.