Title: Backlash I: Game start (1/2)
Author: MCG
Summary: The death of someone has profound effects on Lindsey. With revenge now in mind, will his schemes go as planned or will they backfire? Lindsey and Angel angst.
Note: A big thank you going out to Aurorarose; my beta reader (Who could practically be called the co-author with the amount of work she had correcting my first version). Without whom, the fic wouldn't be grammatically correct or plausible. You should have seen my wording before the corrections she made; it sucked-truly it did. Aurorarose, thank you for your help; I owe you big time.
Chapter 1: Game start part 1
Los Angeles
Wednesday 18th April, 12:48 AM.
Wolfram and Hart headquarters office building
Lindsey slammed his fist down onto the desk with such force that the wood split. Usually, this would have concerned him-he was not the strongest of men, and to break the furniture in this manor could mean shoddy workmanship-but the thought never crossed his mind.
A pain shot through his fist and up his arm from the force of the blow. Anyone else would have flinched or shouted out in pain, but Lindsey was past caring anymore, almost ignoring the physical pain that had assaulted his body. A large piece of wood protruded from the wound, smaller splinters of wood surrounding it. The only acknowledgment of the fact that blood was split was a sharp intake of air as he extracted the larger of the problems, leaving the smaller fragments still embedded in his wrist. Next to the mental anguish of the past three hours, it seemed like nothing.
Now all he wanted was revenge.
He wanted to return to Angel what the vampire had given him, only he knew Angel was probably going through the same torture as he was, if not more. After all it had been Angel that had dealt the blow-not unprovoked obviously-but he had still been the one to bring about the end of this particular battle, a battle that had been very significant, perhaps even going as far to say a turning point in the war with Wolfram and Hart.
Now, with the battle finally over, Lindsey was left with a feeling of emptiness-an emptiness that he knew had been coming for a long time; an emptiness that had been building each and every time the voice in his head told him to stop but he didn't; each and every time he let go of one of his morals in favour of his own agenda. And now it was complete, he had no more morals to let go of. He had nothing else for which to stop.
He slumped forward in his seat so his body was now lying down, his chest pressed against the desk.
The moonlight that glittered through the window of his office was now void of any emotions they once might have inspired.
As Lindsey sat in silence, the same state he had been for the past three hours, he did something uncharacteristic to him: he cried. Granted, it was only one stray tear, which he let glide down his face, without wiping away this obvious display of emotion.
Emotion he pondered. Perhaps he hadn't lost it all yet after all. If he could still cry, still hurt as he was at that moment, then perhaps there was... had been hope.
Before tonight, that is.
Before the call he had received at exactly 9:45, there remained neither a time nor call he would ever be able to forget even if he wanted to, and he did want to.
Now, he knew there was only one way to go. He had no other choices now. The only route he had left would end it, one way or another.
As the tear ran a course down his face to end its journey on his lips, he traced its tracks, the irony that this tear, which before might have signified the beginning of his course in life, but now signified the beginning of the end of his course was not lost on him. As the lone drop fell to the desk onto a sheet of paper, he once again returned to the fit of rage he had been in when he first found out.
Lashing out, throwing the pile of papers to the floor, he stood up so fast the chair was flung in the opposite direction, hitting the window with a thud before coming to rest. Individual sheets of the thrown paper floated chaotically through the air each on its own course which would eventually end in only one outcome, as would his. The sheets finally ended up strewn across the floor, brining disorder to the usually pristine room.
Lindsey set about making the preparations to bring this game to an end, picking up the phone he speed dialed a number and waited for a tone. "Hello, Jen, sorry to wake you." He paused, waiting for his secretary to respond even if the response would be groggy. "Would you please cancel my tomorrows two o'clock and arrange a meeting a Mr. G. Allister. His details should be on file. Thank you, Jen...
"Oh and Jen, would you be so kind as to arrange for some flowers to be sent to Angel... Actually, scratch that, send just the stalks, a dozen thorny stalks." Lindsey paused as Jen asked him a question, taking a minute to think about it, he smiled, answering in simplicity, "Soon." He would never know the irony this would hold in the long run, and if he did, he still wouldn't have cared; nothing mattered any more.
As he placed the phone back on the catch, he began picking up the scattered around the floor. After all, it would not do for the senior partners to see the recent circumstances having affected him in any adverse ways.
At least not yet.
Over the next few days, he would finish it.
Two more days at the most.
Just two.
~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~
Angel Investigations
9:30 PM
"What do you think he's doing?" Cordelia asked anxiously of Wesley while he paced back and forth, as he had been doing on and off since sundown.
The two had been waiting in a state of worry since Angel had taken off in a questionable state earlier that evening, just after sun down. He had seemed, if Cordelia thought it was even possible, in an even worse state then he had been at the start of it all. The look in his eyes was dark, perhaps with glints of insanity not far off. When Cordelia had looked into them after the phone call, they had scared her; not since Angel had become Angelus had she been so frightened of the look he held.
Whatever news the phone call held, it couldn't have been good.
"I don't know," Wesley lied in answer to her question.
They both knew where he was going. He was going to do what they had suggested from day one, a path the two of them now knew he couldn't have taken then.
They both knew whom these circumstances involved.
They had both seen the look in his eyes.
They both knew it would be over that night.
They both wanted to deny it.
When Angel accomplished his task nothing would be the same again. He would be different; only by changing could he have ever accomplished this-a change for the worse.
"You don't think he's..." Cordelia trailed off, knowing full well that Angel had. Wesley couldn't answer, nor could he meet her eyes, not wanting to spoil her self induced state of denial. "Shouldn't we be... I dunno... doing something?" she continued, not a trace of sarcasm in her voice. "Helping him... anything?"
"There's nothing we can do yet. All we can do is be here for him when he's let us be."
"Huh?"
Wesley smiled, not sure if Cordelia had zoned out and hadn't heard him, or, as he preferred to think, had simply not understood the way he had worded the sentence... as usual. "Just be there for him to lean on... emotionally. He's going to need friends, if he's ever going to... you know... get through this."
"I can do that... I can be supportive," Cordelia replied. "I was supportive of Xander when he was having that... problem with Anya... I didn't even make one joke ... oops."
"Problem?" Wesley asked now slightly more interested. He didn't really know Xander that well, and his personal problems, whatever they were, didn't really concern him. They would, however, concern Angel... at least after a period of grieving, when Angel had gotten back to usual. There was never any love lost between those two.
"It has nothing to do with you. What he told me involved just him, little-Xander, and Anya's sex drive only."
Wesley was about to interrogate her further, but Cordelia's face told him it was off bounds. The beautiful young lady spun round in Angel's chair, glancing at her watch as it had stopped, earning an irritated sound from Wesley. Cordelia realised that what she was doing must have annoyed him, especially after she had done it for the millionth time. So she'd done it again.
"Would you stop spinning round on that chair... You're making me dizzy."
"I think it's your pacing that's making you dizzy."
Wesley realised for the first time that he had been pacing relentlessly, taking a good ten years off the lifetime of Angel's carpet and no doubt irritating Cordelia as much as she had been irritating him "Touché." Then he sat down in order to stop his pacing and began to fidget with his watch instead. "Where do you think he is right now?" he questioned.
"Probably walking into a trap as we speak," was Cordelia's perfectly blunt, yet perhaps truthful answer.
**********
**********
Angel had been wandering the streets for some time now, in a daze of both confusion and sadness. A depression settled in during the events of the past few months. He had been wandering aimlessly for some time now.
Looking down, the blood was still on his clothes, now drying onto the coat. Angel felt another wave of guilt pass over him, and he would have thrown away the coat, getting as far away from it as possible, if it wasn't for the fact that it was the only thing he had left, along with the memories. His hand covered up the major bloodstain to stop his traitorous eyes from staring. Angel thought a situation like this would be a lot happier-it had been in his dreams; it had been a joyous occasion with everyone there to celebrate. Only it wasn't in reality, for there was nothing to celebrate.
He wasn't even aware of the time, how long had he been walking? He didn't know.
What he did know was that when he had started, the properties had been top of the range, fetching ridiculous prices of one to maybe two million dollars for a one bedroom apartment. They were the cream of the city, the inhabitants living in their bottom down world carefree from the true nature of the city. Now, however, he walked past run-down factories and apartment buildings with boarded up windows. Across the street, a group of homeless people crowded round a fire, their dirty, drab and torn clothes offering little protection from the cold of a winter night. Angel could smell them from where he was. Dirty and unwashed as they were, it was a smell that was all too familiar to him. He had once been one of them-outcasts, living rough on the streets with no one else in the world.
As he crossed the road, the homeless men off in the background, a car broke to a halt, stopped just short of hitting him head on. Then horn blared as the driver impatiently swerved around Angel before he'd even had a chance to move, the car speeding off not wanting to stay in this place any more then Angel did. The only difference between the driver and Angel was that the driver had a way out. He would soon be leaving the run down side of LA in favour of a whole new world in the better parts of town. Only a few blocks, yet a world apart. Angel, on the other hand, had no way out.
Angel checked his watch; it was late. Very late. Dialing a number into his cell phone, he waited as he waved down a passing taxi. This had been his only bit of luck over the past few months: a taxi had been out at this time of the night and in these parts.
Luck.
He began to laugh, lightly at first, that any luck would come his way, and then a wave of anger came over him, his laughter becoming slightly maniacal. The taxicab now pulled up to the curb as Angel continued laughing.
Luck he thought again.
Luck indeed!
Angel half expected to scare the driver off. After all, to find someone laughing crazily in this area-a Hellmouth of crime, a place that drew the scum of the city, murderers, rapists and the evil of humanity-would be enough to scare most people. The taxi driver, though, appeared unfazed, not giving so much as a look at Angel.
"Where to?" the man queried in an almost programmed mechanical tone: no sense of cheer or hope in his voice. His eyes lacked any sign of life, the bags under them apparent and pronounced and his clothes appearing wrinkled and disheveled. His demeanor was of someone with a severe case of insomnia. This man was yet another soul trapped in the pitfalls of this god-forsaken city. There was no way he would be working at this time of night especially and in this area otherwise.
"Angel Investigations, North street."
Without replying the man nodded, waiting for Angel to close the door before pulling off from the side of the road and driving a few meters away before turning the car fully 180o toward North St.
Angel pressed the send button, sitting back in the chair as the taxi made good progress along the empty roadways, the only sign of life the lights on in the houses. As the phone dialed, Angel gazed out the window in an almost hypnotic state, watching for nothing in particular, only the world passing by in a blur.
**********
Wesley woke to the phone ringing, and it took him a few minutes to get his bearings. Wiping the sleep from his eyes and ignoring the aching neck he had received courtesy of sleeping in a chair, he glanced over at the counter where the source of the annoyance seemed to be coming. Next to the phone, Cordelia stirred, her body slumped against the counter in what seemed to be an as uncomfortable position as Wesley's.
He then realised that they had both fallen asleep whilst waiting for Angel and dove for the phone.
"Angel?"
**********
"Wesley," Angel replied.
"Angel... is it... over?" Wesley asked, trying to tread lightly round the subject.
Angel nodded, and though he knew Wesley wouldn't see, it was more for himself. Only now was it finally getting through: what had happened. He felt he had to nod to convince himself. "It's over," he replied in an desolate tone.
Wesley could hear the sadness in Angel's voice, his pain, and he could only imagine what Angel was going through. "Are you..."
Angel didn't let him finish, responding with an abrupt, "I'm fine."
There was an awkward silence before Wesley got the courage to delve more into the circumstances, hoping Angel wouldn't clam up. "Drusilla... Is she?"
"Drusilla's alive. I let her go."
Wesley took a breath of air in surprise. Angel had let Dru go. How could he let her go after everything? She was partly responsible for this. "You let Drusilla go?"
"Killing her wouldn't have served any purpose," Angel argued.
"HOW ABOUT…" Wesley responded, raising his voice in a moral outrage, before seeing Cordelia stir as his voice rose; she was still sleeping. Lowering to a whisper, he finished, "How about good old fashioned justice? I know how you must be feeling right now, but I think you..."
"Should have killed Drusilla and risked having Spike hell bent on revenge and out for blood?" Angel answered a little angry, his rage, however, was swamped out by the other emotions that were overwhelming his body.
"What about Lindsey? Won't he take this as hard as Spike would have for Dru?"
"Lindsey won't be a problem; he's just a puppet."
"Angel," Wesley began, "when you're ready to talk, we're all here for you."
**********
Angel ended the call, content to know that he would always have friends like he did. Even though he was hurting, he knew there was light at the end of the tunnel. All he had to do was make it through this desolate tunnel, so that when he was ready, there would be people to help him through this mess, people to help him move on and adjust.
As he placed the cell phone back in his pocket, the taxi came to an abrupt halt, almost like a stop required for an emergency break in a driving exam. The screeching of tires filled the air, and Angel hit the screen separating the driver from the passenger compartment with force. His inertia, coupled with the fact that he was wearing no seatbelt, resulted with his face scrunched up against the glass, almost knocking him unconscious. There was an almost unknown sensation that hit him: pain.
Angel was not new to the concept of emotional pain, nor was he knew to the concept of physical pain, but the pain caused by something so trivial as hitting a bit of reinforced glass was terrifying to Angel, at the least. It emphasised his newly found weakness, his now inability to ignore what he had been able to before. And for everything he had lost in accomplishing his dream, he had to ask whether it was worth it. And at the moment Angel knew the answer. It was a definite NO.
For this he had lost one love.
For this he had lost another.
For this he had come so close to hurting those that loved him.
No. No it was not worth it; it would never be worth what he had lost.
But he had to make the most of it. All he could do now was wait for the next one to come and help in any way he could and rebuild the bridges he had torn down with his friends. In time.
All in time.
The person that had been crossing the road when the taxi struck was sent flying back, no time to scream at the pain; the impact killed her instantly.
Bang. Dead.
Instantaneous.
The dent in the front of the taxi bared witness to the force with which it had hit the woman. The driver himself was unconscious or dead, his face bloodied, bruised and pressed against the steering wheel, the sound of the horn echoing through the air.
As he got to his feet, blood trickling from his broken nose, he tried to open the door, panic overtaking him as he realised it wouldn't open. Angel's attempts to escape the confines of the taxi, to get to the woman and the driver were useless. His arm pulled back, and he threw it forward with as much strength as he could muster, swinging his hips into the blow as well as he could in the confines of the back seat. The glass gave way with a smash, the shards of glass scattering out on the road, completing the destruction of the scene. Small gashes in his knuckles, again a new source of pain for such menial physical acts.
Pulling himself out the window space, Angel fell to the ground. As he got up and made his way to the fallen woman, the sound of the horn still filling the air, he walked with a slight limp, the extents of his injuries even more so then he had thought.
As he approached her body, the sickly smell of blood almost got to him. He felt his chest contract and his stomach turn, growing tight. He felt waves of contraction travel from his stomach up, even though he had eaten nothing. He coughed, which brought up bile onto the road, and he kneeled down as the urge to vomit up his stomach contents intensified. Eventually his state subsided, so there were no longer there any tears in his eyes. The nauseous feeling of sickness still threatened to engulf his body whenever another waft of blood floated past his nostrils, but now he could keep it down.
Treading over the combination of stomach acids, bile salts and blood cells, he leaned over the woman to feel her pulse, already knowing the answer but not ready for it.
A fresh feeling of queasiness overtook him when he felt nothing inside her-no pulse-the darker side of his mind disgusted at his body's reaction to the death, but he couldn't help it; his body couldn't help it. Even though it wasn't a demon or vampire or any other such evil that had killed her, the other side of his mind, the side that was learning of this world, was amazed at how easily she had fallen.
At how easily he could fall.
As he turned round, he was hit from behind. The woman towering above him had a face darker then before. Ridges traveled down from her forehead and her eyes burned a yellow golden colour of a vampire.
Angel saw for the first time the fear these things inspired, hovering above him like a devil in human form, knowing he was pretty much the underdog and would most probably die. It filled him with nervousness like he had only felt at times of great evil, and then only when it concerned loved ones, gripping tightly at the stake he had like it was a lifeline-mainly because it was. He waited for the demon to attack. As she picked him up by the neck with such speed that he didn't stand a chance of dodging or counter attacking. Gasping and choking while bringing one hand up to his neck to try and stop from being suffocated, Angel thrust the stake to her heart, his hand stopping dead as the vampire used her free hand to catch his fist.
The demon threw him back, and Angel landed in the dent of the taxi, breathing heavily, and bringing his hands up to his soon to be bruised neck.
While he struggled to regain footing, the vampire said, "My mother told me you were bad now. She said you should be punished. She said she will punish you." She then glanced down at the stake she now held and growled at it. "Bad, bad tree. Mother doesn't like trees." The vampire took two steps towards Angel before she seemed to be sidetracked by her thoughts.
"When I bring you to mother Drusilla, she will be very happy. She will give me one of her dollies. She told me every good little girl deserves a dolly. I'm a good girl. She told me I was like her once upon a time. Once upon a time it was a fairy tale, when your father Angelus, and grand-grand-mother Darla and her Spike were a happy family long, long ago."
The women, a young brunette was dressed with a corset and a dress, almost like an old fashioned doll, with what Dru would have described as a "pretty little bow hat" to finish the look. She had a chilling aura to her that was rivaled only by the evil dolls of horror movies. Dru had made her, no doubt, to be a living doll, inspiring terror that would make Chucky seem like a Barbie doll. Dolls themselves could only provide so much companionship, and Dru had obviously craved a doll companion, so she had made this fledgling in her own image, including the insanity. Angel knew he couldn't fight this vampire, not in his current condition.
What a strange use of words… Condition. Said as if it were a bad thing, not what he'd been craving for a long time.
"I told Dru to get out of town," Angel said as if he actually believed she would go. "She'll be gone soon; she'll leave you alone," he continued, hoping to confuse and sidetrack her. Anything that would preserve his lifeline.
"Mother wouldn't do that. I'm a good girl. I'm going to get a dolly," the vampire replied. "Mother would never leave me. She didn't leave me. She just went away for a while. She wouldn't leave me. NEVER!" Suddenly, in a twist of temper, the volatile spirit of this new vampire showing, in a fit of rage she ripped the hat off, tearing it in half, before ripping her clothes.
"I'm not a dolly, mommy!" she screamed. "I'm not like you! Not!" The vampire began to throw her self about in a fit, foam forming at her mouth as she continued to throw what could only be described as a darker version of a 'temper tantrum,' stamping her feet in anger. "I'm not a vampire. NOT, NOT, NOOOOOTTTT!" Her fit ended, and she stood perfectly still, Angel's eyes focusing first on the stake which dropped during her tantrum then back at the insane vampire. Her face was hidden by shadow but was focused on the ground at something only she could see. She was whispering something, but Angel couldn't hear what; it was only loud enough to hear and recognise as whispering, seemingly emanating from all around, and the sound turned his stomach.
Another of his body's reactions: fear. His mind, the part that knew of the evils, told him he shouldn't be scared even though this would have inspired fear in even his former self. But his body wouldn't listen, and he was physically shaking despite the fact it was eighty degrees outside.
Then a cruel smile slowly formed on the vampire's face as she looked up, her eyes darker than Angel had remembered seeing. "The shadows say the bad feelings will go away if I kill you. The soul agrees."
Then, without warning, she charged at Angel, diving on top of him with her vampire game face on. She screamed in pain and jumped back clutching at the cross-shaped burn on her chest.
Angel used the diversion to dive forward to where she had thrown his stake, holding the cross out to keep space between them.
The vampire stepped forward warily, not wanting to get to close to the stake. "He burns me," she stated sadly. "Mother said he doesn't like me; I didn't want to believe. Why would he not like a good girl like me?" She seemed saddened by this fact, but then changed her mind. "Then I don't like him either."
She swung her hand, hitting the cross from Angel's hand so it fell into a gutter at the side of the road. She giggled. Angel used this chance to thrust the stake at her, but was knocked onto his back as she backhanded him. He landed with a grunt and before he could get up he was held down by this vampire as she gripped his throat. Then she leaned down and prepared to feed. Angel closed his eyes as he waited for death to come, sweat beads forming on his forehead as he held his breath.
Angel stayed in that position for what seemed like forever, then when he got the courage, he opened his eyes, still holding his breath. His lungs felt like they were going to explode.
Nothing.
Angel got up slowly and wearily, picking both the stake and the cross up, and dusting himself down, somewhat more humbled by his first meeting with a vampire in his current state, though he didn't feel it during the fight. Well, fight was the wrong word; it was more of a slaughter.
He was defiantly feeling the pain now, as the adrenaline in his system wore off. Angel could feel himself aching all over, and he was covered in numerous cuts and bruises, though worst of all were his ribs. Injured during the crash, they felt as if they had crumbled to ash, pain flooding his body like a Trojan horse of warriors intent on causing as much misery in his body every time he took a breath.
Now, Angel had a lot more respect for everyone he had met in the past that fought these beings of darkness as normal humans. Willow, Giles and Xander. Angel was only now finally realising what true heroism was: those three who had stood by Buffy no matter what, no matter how much pain or danger involved, without any super natural powers. They had battled on the Hellmouth for years, Giles with just his Watchers training, Willow with mostly her intelligence but, of late, magic powers, and Xander with simply his loyalty and his desire to protect his friends. And Angel admitted to himself Xander's feelings for Buffy didn't exactly go against why he fought. He had begrudgingly conceded that he had a hell of a lot more respect for Xander now, perhaps even more so than the other two, that he was in a similar situation.
He may have become a zeppo; the only thing he had going for him now was his knowledge of the underworld and evil. Angel would have to take a leaf out of Xander's book. Xander's and Willow's and Giles' books. He would have to fight smart from now on. And he would. If they could do it, then he would learn, too.
Dolly watched from behind the nearby dumpster, partially hidden by the cover of shadow of both the night and the cover from human light by the alleyway. Sighing contently, she whispered, "Thank you, beautiful shadows. Thank you." She squealed in delight as Angel ran off into the dark, a walking pace at first, wandering in shock before realising the severity of the situation, then he picked up his pace. "It's going to be so much fun when mother and father Spike come home to make Angel father Angelus again; it'll be a fairy tale. We'll be a family."
The vampire seemed to be talking to someone, focused on something to her side. She nodded, before turning slightly angrier. Her features screwed up and her throat issued a growl as her gaze focused on something high above the buildings. "That bad man in the shadows better not try and take him."
**********
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Coming up in Backlash I: Game start part 2
Lindsey's plans begin to unravel. But will they go according to plan?
