Disclaimer: All characters belong to the creator and writers of 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer' no copyright infringement intended. This story was created for entertainment purposes only.
Chapter 1
The dragon arced down ungracefully, a rush of wing driven wind pulsing down towards the tiny creatures beneath it. Much more like a B52 bomber than a swallow. Its huge wing muscles throbbing like twin turbo engines keeping it from falling like a stone to earth. The smell of living beings causing lines of saliva to drip from its maw. Ages had past since this beast had been born and lived in this world. Millennia's of scouring desolate hellish wastelands in other dimensions with only the memory of human flesh to sustain it. Talons extended in anticipation of latching onto its prey. Far below Spike looked up at the descending mammoth and then across at the advancing horde. An irresistible urge to smirk came over him, which earned him a curious look from Angel.
"All out fight in a mob, back against the wall, nothing but fists and fangs? Don't you ever get tired of fights you know you're going to win? Looks like I get my wish."
Spike said as he prepared to face certain death, recalling a conversation in Yorkshire mineshaft well over a century ago.
"You are an idiot Spike. A complete and total one. You're …"
Angel's words were cut off by the dragon slamming down upon them. A Talon ripped through Angel's Shoulder as he tried to dodge the gigantean creature. Spike rolled dispatching an overly keen demon racing ahead of the rest of the horde. Like a wave the army of demons rolled over them. The scene situation more like a mosh pit at a rock concert than a fight, the outnumbered Angel crew driven this way and that by the innate tide of the demon army. Spike battled on, their disorganisation helping him temporarily take them out. But soon their sheer weight of numbers hitting him from all sides took its toll. Another jab into his already broken ribs had him doubling over in pain. Through the fog of pain he swiped out at his attackers but his prone position gave a huge gnarled green demon's fist the opportunity for a clean strike at his temple. Spike slumped into unconsciousness, his body continuing to be savaged by the demon mob. Soon though they trampled over his inert form seeking more lively prey.
The dragon was playing now. Vampires were no fun to eat, all sour to the taste buds. Instead it was playing with the creature like a cat plays with a mouse, all thought of eating gone from its mind temporarily. It flicked up the creature and tossed him against the wall, then let it get up and allowed it to get a little closer this time before sending it crashing away again.
Angel felt he was doing quite well. In a minute he was sure he'd be up near enough the dragon to try and attack it somewhere on its scaly hide. Weren't they supposed to have a vulnerable spot somewhere? All he could see was scales though. Every time he was getting closer but he was also getting increasing battered. His right shoulder was stiffening up badly and he felt like a badly bruised piece of fruit might feel. He charged once more only to be catapulted through the wall and into unconsciousness this time. The dragon stretched, deciding it was well in truly time to get some food and rose into the sky. It briefly thought about finishing off the vampire but found a mental warning from Wolfram & Hart telling him to leave the vampire to them and even a dragon wouldn't take on Wolfram & Hart alone. Its huge wings spread wide as it glided, its infrared gaze spotting a gang of youths loitering by a park bench. Doom swooped upon the spotty teens. As they died in horrified agony their dropped cigarette warning that smoking kills, proving to be rather understated.
Charles Gunn's breathing had become ragged and short. The axe in his sweaty palm seemed tough to keep hoisted in the air. His mind seemed to play tricks on him, losing him what precious little time he had left. One minute the horde were advancing and the next thing he remembered was the last of the horde trampling over him. He'd lost his axe somewhere along the line along with the remainder of strength. He'd dreamed about a heroic death, standing next to his friends till the end. He hadn't dreamed of being ignored by the evil demons because they thought he was already dead. He hadn't thought he'd be lying in a smelly alley with fear and loneliness battling for dominance within him. People didn't remember people who died like this. A well of bitterness swept over him as the battle raged. He felt the dizziness coming and welcomed it as a respite from the despair of the moment. Consciousness faded. He was panicking now, as death appeared to be laying his bony hand on his shoulder. Was this the final frontier or would he awake in a minute to catch the swansong of Angel and co? Fear overwhelmed him and he screamed out for help, for someone to save him. Tears slid down his cheek as his befuddled mind drifted towards death.
There were ten big green demons standing in a row and then suddenly one green demon fell and there were nine green demons standing in a row. The fallen demon's head rolled away from its body where Illyria had sliced bone and flesh cleanly in one stroke. Illyria picked them off one at a time but in the meantime the larger horde were circling around her baying like a tribe of wolves at the moonlight sky. They moved as one leaping upon her tiny frame. As she dislodged one another two grappled at her. She wondered distantly if she'd ever understood pain before because at this moment it seemed a very terrible and noteworthy feeling. The final combatant fell in the largely irrelevant battle of the Alley. Demons feasted on ancient demon meat, each trying to get their own share of the powerful flesh before the pack devoured the carcass. Wolfram and Hart spell faded and dragons and demons were sucked back to their home realm. A black plate less van pulled into the alley chucking two inert forms into the back with little delicateness. The scream of police sirens could be heard, a gang related string of murders being blamed for the sudden rise in corpses. People repressed the incident, refusing to believe in the supernatural. A watcher dropped by logging a confused report. Witches probed and a blonde slayer prowled LA's streets briefly forlornly. Only in the depths of Siberia did a monk take a call on an old black telephone and scribbled a description of the battle in the tome in front of him. Around him thousands of similar tombs lined the walls. The monk turned the page and awaited the next call and history forgot the battle.