Sitting in her room, Illyria was wondering whether she had selected the proper course of action.

She sat upon the bed within the rose-painted room, which had been the shell's, which she had claimed as her own. Other than her breathing, she was motionless, and had an observer come along they might have thought she had fallen asleep sitting up. But the impression was deceptive; though outwardly she was sedate, at peace, within her mind roiled like a angry sea.

Despite her demonic nature, Illyria despised chaos. She had been called the Essence of Rule, and the foremost component of rule was order. Her order, her law, imposed upon all things, and the peace of the grave for those that resisted. Chaos could only be a means to an end, a distasteful tool, a weapon wielded against those who resisted your order. She had been the greatest of the Old Ones, and her law had dominated the world. Her mastery extended over time itself, defying even entropy.

Yet now chaos dogged her at every turn. Like a pack of wolves, it sensed her weakness, her pain, snapped at her heels as she fled and waited for her to trip so that it might pounce and consume her.

And she was going to lose – she had begun to realize this. The will of the universe was indomitable. If it could not have her all at once, it would take her a piece at a time. One by one it had taken them: her kingdom, her followers, her power, her guide, her comrades, her pride.

Her sanity.

The entropy of the universe is constantly increasing. All things tend toward chaos.

Odd, how well the shell had understood this. Did this make Winifred Burkle wiser than Illyria?

One aspect suggested that she go downstairs and speak to Lorne and Connor. They were worried for her; their concern was obvious, and neither male was a particularly skilled liar. It should have made no difference to her, but for some reason she was reluctant to expose herself to them.

After imitating Winifred Burkle, she'd seen the anger and disappointment on Lorne's face, the shock on Connor's. She should have just told them about the girl, but she did not. They would have considered it a deception; or worse, a delusion. She could not endure more of their pity.

There was a knock on the door to her room, causing her to open her eyes. At least she was permitted that much dignity. "You may enter."

The door swung open to reveal Lorne. He did not enter, but instead remained at the threshold to the room. "Uh... could you come downstairs for a few minutes? We've got something we'd like you to lay your eyes on."

"Very well."

She followed him in silence to the lobby, where Marc and Connor waited at the reception desk. Both looked up as she descended the stairs, and she immediately made note of their serious expressions. The air was heavy with the subtle perfume of human fright.

There was an array of papers scattered on the desk, and the god-king was curious despite herself. "You sought my presence."

Marc looked nervous; Connor merely handed her one of the sheets. "What do you make of this?"

All the aspects of her self halted their tasks and stood, frozen in shock, as her eyes took in the contents of the page. The lines and gentle curves drawn upon the paper were beautiful and familiar to her, even when reproduced so obscenely upon a product of human industry.

Illyria looked up sharply. "Where did you find this?" she demanded.

"A classmate gave it to me," Marc replied, her attention snapping to him.

"This is an awakening ritual, written in the tongue of my people."

"Gah," he moaned. "I was hoping you'd tell us it was poetry or a shopping list or something."

"It is poetry, but a form used for awakening a being dedicated to an extended mystical sleep."

Connor presented another page. "A being like this?"

In an unconsciously human gesture, her eyebrows rose as she regarded the illustration. "Or'saa."

"You know it?"

"Yes. I knew of him before I was consigned to the Deeper Well." Her analytical mind made an extrapolation, and she fixed a narrow glare upon Angel's son. "You have not said so, but I presume his revival is an imminent threat."

"Some friends of Marc have the statue and the ritual, and are planning on waking him up."

"Hey, not exactly friends of mine-"

"That would be extremely unwise," she commented, voice tight.

"Is he dangerous?" Connor asked.

"In my time, no. He was not especially strong, and particularly unintelligent. He was subject to much mockery. I am impressed that he was able to gather the resources to arrange this kind of life-extension." She cocked her head as she considered. "He probably had help. Some felt pity for him, or perhaps it was merely done for their amusement."

"Great," Lorne commented from the side. "An ancient demon with self-esteem issues from being picked on as a kid."

"It this as much of a problem as I thought it was, then?" Marc asked. "I mean, if this guy is weak..."

Lorne raised a sculpted steel-grey eyebrow. "She means weak and stupid compared to other Ancients, kiddo."

"I could not defeat him in my current state," Illyria confirmed.

"Oh." Marc blinked. "That's bad."

"It is. When he awakes, and realizes he is no longer the weakest, but perhaps one of the strongest, he will undoubtedly begin his own war of conquest."

"Aidan said that the ritual included some kind of restraint, a means of putting him back to sleep if he acted up..."

"It does. But it will not work."

"Then why include it in the ritual in the first place?"

"Because it encourages fools such as your classmate!" she exploded. "Tiny insects, awed by their webs of silk!"

She looked down at the picture, abruptly subdued. "It will not be enough to hold back this beast."

"Okay, so what do we do about it?" Lorne asked.

Her face twisted in contempt. "He will be strong, but I do not think he will last long against the human armies. It may be best to let these cretins execute their plan, and reap their deserved harvest."

"Illyria-" Connor began.

"Spare me your sermon!" she growled. She turned her head, not looking at them. "It was merely a suggestion."

There was a long silence, during which Illyria considered the problem from multiple angles. All her aspects agreed on one thing. "The most advisable course of action is to prevent the awakening ritual from being completed," she said. "The most expedient means is to kill the group leader, however," she spoke over Connor and Marc opening their mouths to protest, "this does not prevent others from doing so. Thus we must either destroy the ritual tome or Or'saa's statue."

"He's already made copies of the ritual," Marc pointed out.

"Then the statue must be our target."

"Did he show it to you?" Connor questioned his friend.

"No, just the ritual papers. He said he knew where the statue was, though, and that the university had had it for a while now."

"We must determine its location," Illyria said unnecessarily.

"Maybe I can get him to show it to me," Marc said, though his expression was doubtful.

"Hopefully," said Connor. "But we shouldn't count on it. I'll talk to Aidan's profs, see if they remember where it is. We can visit the campus and check the galleries."

"My green is too sexy for the world at the moment... I'll work the telephone, see if I can find out anything," Lorne put in.

Illyria observed the group with interest. "I will also assist."

It was interesting, how much more Connor looked like Angel when his face lost all colour. She observed the change with mild curiosity.

"I don't think that's such a good idea," he said.

"Why not?" she questioned, annoyed. "Marc will be required to remain near Aidan. Unless he is forthcoming with the location, a search will be necessary, and your time will be partially consumed by your employment."

"Who do you plan to kill or torture?" Marc asked. He wilted under her return glare.

"I am familiar with the layout of the UCLA campus, in particular the history department." She avoided elaborating on how she possessed this knowledge. "I am as capable of interacting with the humans there as any of you. I will take the task of questioning Aidan's professors."

There was a long pause, the three men regarding her carefully. She could nearly see Lorne's worry, the chill of his doubts drifting off him toward the floor. Marc had no real investment in the decision, and would not defy her to her face in any event. She met and held Connor's gaze, the young man's thoughts hidden behind a speculative mask. He reminded her so much of his father.

"No offence, Leery, but I don't think-"

"Okay... if you think you can handle it." Connor overrode the green demon.

Both Lorne and Marc looked at the other man in surprise. "Connor, are you sure?" Lorne asked.

"She says she can handle it, so I think she can," he replied, never taking her eyes from her. His lips turned up into a slight smile, and the demoness felt oddly pleased by this show of support. "We should show a little faith in her."

"Alright," Lorne sighed. "Hopefully the university will still be standing by this time tomorrow."

--------

As anticipated, Aidan was not willing to show Marc the statue, no matter how much the young man attempted to charm his fellow student. He let it slip that he had a key to a storehouse that he should not have, but didn't reveal the location of the storage area. And, unfortunately, a university as large as UCLA had many places to keep such things, on the campus and without.

So, as expected, Marc was keeping close to Aidan, Connor was stuck at work, and Lorne, posing as a researcher from another institution, was making calls to the university to locate a "rare, old statue". Illyria was visiting the professors personally, carrying a sheet of paper with nothing but an enlargement of the drawing of the statue from Marc's ritual papers.

She found the entire exercise foolish; given five minutes with Aidan, the demoness would know where the idol was located – along with anything else she cared to ask. Yet the three mortals quailed at such a suggestion, bound as they were by morality. It was irritating.

But, she would assist, because she had nothing better to do. She was patient; perhaps she would eventually begin to have some positive influence on Connor.

Clad in her Burkle appearance, Illyria navigated the buildings and hallways of the UCLA campus without issue. Her armour had dutifully reshaped itself into the image of jeans and a red long-sleeve shirt; with her brown hair tied back, the Ancient drew no more notice than any graduate student, beyond the appreciative stares of the human males roaming the grounds. She navigated the campus easily, the memories of the shell – summoned voluntarily this time – letting her know everything she needed of the layout.

She'd already visited the main office of the History department. There, a middle-aged human of decidedly indeterminable gender had sorely tested Illyria's restraint, while being most unhelpful. Persistence had won out, though, and the demoness now had a printed list of the professors in the faculty who might have some knowledge of ancient relics gained by the university soon after its inception.

And the receptionist had been permitted to keep her life. She may not know that she had been granted such a boon, but it made it no less a gift in Illyria's eyes.

The first professor had been aged, but friendly to her in a way perhaps more suitable for one of his students. He had known nothing about the statue, and she had walked away without even the courtesy of a thank-you. The second academic had been more business-like, briefly looking at her illustration and declaring that he didn't recognize it with a terseness that she appreciated.

The third person on her list had an office in a different building. The shortest path there was a short-cut through one of the physics buildings, her memories told her. With unhurried efficiency, she walked up the steps of the stone building which held part of the physics department, passing through the wide glass doors of the entrance.

The building was like many of the others, built during the early seventies, and no one had seen fit to update the decor since then. Simple orange tile produced little sound beneath her simulated running shoes, and the hallway walls were painted a smooth, yellowish tint. The halls were illuminated brightly by many florescent lights embedded in the ceiling, making the colours stand out almost garishly. She passed numerous wooden doors with frosted glass windows, many of which contained occupied labs.

She met few others in the hallways of the building; most were involved in the labs, and the building seemed to hum with a restless industry. Illyria found herself slowing her pace. Her sharp hearing could detect numerous subdued conversations, and the rumble of machinery several floors below her. Normally such an edifice would offend the Ancient, with its unnatural colours and scents and materials. But, like the library, Illyria found this place possessed a solemnity, a subtle undercurrent of intelligence and thought that appealed to her.

She came to a halt as she passed in front of one door, the glass darkened, indicating the room on the other side was unoccupied. Though she would never admit to following a 'lark', she had no real reason for opening the unlocked door and stepping inside, other than she simply wished to. The door opened with a click and a whisper.

It was a lab, like the others; large, solid tables were arranged in a grid in the space, facing the wider table which occupied the front near the chalkboard. The black tops of all the tables bore the scars of decades of experimentation, of fire and chemicals and scraping instrumentation. Wooden cupboards lined the walls, and on top rested equipment of every type, which Illyria found she could identify with little effort – calorimeters, sonometers, potentiometers, and more; alien, human apparatus which the Ancient knew she could describe and use, had she any reason to do so.

Indirect sunlight poured into the room from the windows along the far wall, casting long lines of shadow within the lab and tinting everything in a slight shade of blue. The air was clean and clear, with only the slightest taint of propane and human sweat detectable to her fine senses, and the familiar scent of the aged books which lined the shelves above the cabinets.

She should have been alarmed by the strange flavour of her own thoughts; unlike the labs at Wolfram and Hart, this room had a pleasant, welcoming feel. Though it was inferior in every way to the resources available at the demonic law firm, it lent her a feeling of familiarity, of safety, with a faint undertone of eagerness. She was possessed with the strangest urge to grab some chalk and start scribbling on the board.

This should have been mine.

Not an entirely unusual thought for the former paragon of conquest. But Illyria found she wasn't sure of her own meaning, as the words passed through her consciousness. Did she mean the lab itself, or all of it in the general sense?

She shook her head in an oddly ordinary gesture, even though there were no humans here to be fooled. She deliberately allowed her attention to be drawn toward a large metal tank located near the front of the lab, on a large bench near the chalkboard. It was large, constructed of shining stainless steel, with a thick glass porthole placed in the front.

It was a laser chamber, she realized, though she had no reason to know this. Her fingers ran over the smooth metal exterior, and for a moment she was fascinated by the chamber, that this seemingly frail human construct could contain energies that rivalled the sun.

Of course, it probably wasn't all that powerful a laser, she mused; perhaps a small-scale pumped carbon dioxide medium, though not more than a few watts to be found in an undergraduate lab. Formulae leaped to mind unbidden; excited CO2 will produce a lambda of ten-point-six micrometres...

"It's neat, ain't it?" came a high-pitched voice from beside her.

The majority of Illyria couldn't believe her good fortune, even as the rest reacted instantly. One entire thread of her consciousness had been waiting for this, devoted entirely to anticipating when the girl would next appear. With the speed and grace of a striking snake, she snatched the child by the shoulder. The other hand grabbed a fistful of shirt, and the slender body was lifted and slammed against the nearby wall, the child releasing a satisfying yelp of fright.

Finally, she had her! The Ancient could not repress an feral grin of satisfaction. "Now you pay for your arrogance," the taller woman hissed, her face close to the child's own. "I will have answers!"

She had not shifted back to her blue form, and so brown eyes met brown. The girl looked little different from their previous encounters; the same blue jeans, sneakers, and powder blue shirt. Instead of a braid, her brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail that resembled Illyria's own. She struggled futilely against the demon's hold; although her face held fear, it was not the kind of terror Illyria expected or desired. And though she squeezed the girl's shoulder with enough force to grind human bone to powder, the flesh did not yield, and she did not appear overly distressed.

"Leggo!"

"Cease this act! I know you have been influencing me!" the Ancient snarled. She spat her questions, rapid-fire, as if the girl might disappear at any moment. "What magics do you assail me with? Do you think to capitalize upon the lessening of my power by the humans?"

"Ow!"

"Are you of the Wolf, Ram, and Hart? Seeking somehow to subjugate she who was their better?"

"Hey!"

"Do you serve another? Answer me, vermin!"

"Let me go!"

She slammed the girl against the wall once more, her ire mounting, her voice becoming furious and desperate. "What have you done to me?!"

Abruptly, the child ceased her struggles and her protests. She looked up at Illyria, and all fear melted away, to be replaced with profound sadness and disappointment.

Drained or not, Illyria was still one of the more powerful beings on this plane of existence. Apparently the little girl didn't know this, however, or perhaps she just didn't care; one sneakered foot came up to rest against the demoness' stomach, and shoved, sending the former god stumbling backwards to land on her rump in a very un-deity-like manner.

The girl, released from her grip, fell to the floor in a similar position. "Why do you have to be so mean? I didn't do anything to you!"

"You will not enslave me!" Spittle flew from Illyria's lips as she levered herself to her feet. She was so angry her vision began to blur; thoughts of interrogation fled, and all she wanted was to tear the girl apart.

"You miss him, don't ya?" A complete non-sequitur, but effective. Illyria froze, the child's words piercing the red veil of her rage. "He's gone, and you can't bring him back. You're not used to giving anything up. Now you're stuck... you can't go forward, an' you can't go back. A normal person would've started to let go by now, started to feel better... but you hold on, even when it's hurtin' you."

The words were far too perceptive and wise to believably come from one seemingly so young. A feeling of helplessness washed over the demon woman, and as she watched the girl, she saw no anger, no contempt. The small being looked back from her position on the floor, her dark eyes containing sadness and sympathy. Not even pity, which would have angered Illyria further, but a deep understanding and empathy which belied the child's apparent age.

"Fightin' me won't bring him back. It won't make you feel better, neither."

The Ancient's arms felt leaden; her very body weighed down with a bottomless fatigue. Her eyes burned, and her belly felt hollow – all the hate and rage she could generate drained into its depths. She could only guess that her opponent was responsible somehow.

"Why do you do this to me?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

The child had no problems hearing her. She answered in an intimate tone, her high voice sounding very similar to the comforting but deceived assurances from Trish Burkle. "I'm not hurtin' you. You're hurtin' yourself."

There was more, Illyria could tell; there were hidden depths to those words. The girl spoke in riddles, but she spoke, and the demoness had a desperate urge to know everything she would tell her.

Just then, the door to the lab opened, and a pudgy, bald-headed man walked in. At the sight of the woman, he scowled from behind his glasses. "Hey, this room is reserved. I've got a class coming in here in ten minutes."

Reflexively, Illyria glanced at the man... and then realized her mistake. When she looked forward, the girl had disappeared once again. Her anger returned, in spades; the demoness' sound of frustration was something between a whine and a snarl.

"Uh... I'll come back later," the man hurriedly stated, backing out of the room.

A moment after he closed the door, a fire extinguisher – which moments before had been hanging on the wall near Illyria – burst through the drywall near his head, spraying him with white dust and bits of yellowish paint. The startled scientist stared at the red cylinder jutting from the wall for a moment, before fleeing as fast as his legs could carry him.

Alone once again in the lab, Illyria quivered with rage. She had the unshakable feeling that she'd been close to something; whether the girl was going to reveal her master or her motivations, she didn't know. But now she was denied.

She had no desire to speak to any more humans today. She no longer cared about Marc's idiotic classmates and their desire to awaken a creature that would undoubtedly kill them. Turning, she left the lab, nearly parting the doorknob from the door, and returned the way she had came. Heads poked out from the other rooms at the sound of the disturbance, but she ignored them.

Her mood barely abated during the long walk back to the Hyperion; meek Burkle appearance or not, the Old One radiated fury, and the other humans parted widely around her on the sidewalk in instinctive self-preservation. As soon as she walked in the doors she threw off her human appearance like a cloak; she stalked over to the settee and, defying her normal habits, sat upon it rather than standing rigidly at attention.

Half an hour after her arrival, Lorne ventured out of the office, surprised to see her. He made some small attempts at conversation, which she ignored; eventually, he just shrugged his shoulders and returned to the office.

She replayed the encounter over and over in her mind, searching for some detail, some nuance she had missed. Illyria was sure that she was unknowingly involved in some larger scheme, a piece in some game played by shadowed figures. The demoness was certain the girl had a master, someone certainly powerful, to be opposing her in this way.

Eventually Marc arrived at the hotel, having not been able to justifiably follow Aidan home. He merely nodded at the blue woman, walking briskly by to join Lorne.

It had worried her, that the girl would be so easily able to read her emotional state. How private, then, was her mind? Her thoughts? No... the girl had not anticipated Illyria's attack, therefore the demoness was free to plan and plot within herself. And was it not easy to predict a reaction when one was influencing the outcome?

She was still musing over these thoughts when Connor arrived an hour later. The young man nodded his head at her, tossing his knapsack onto the couch beside her, looking as dishevelled as ever in his un-tucked red t-shirt and jeans. One aspect, apparently lacking anything better to do, wondered how his attire was tolerated at his workplace. Fortunately, the demon queen easily repressed the urge to critique a young human male on his unprofessional fashion sense.

At the sound of Connor's arrival, Marc and Lorne emerged into the lobby. "Any luck?" questioned the vampire's son.

Marc shook his head. "Aidan didn't reveal anything, and I don't think he will until the last minute. He's playing this off as some kind of game."

"Lorne?"

"Big zippo, I'm afraid. I called around the university and their galleries and museums, none had any clue what I was talking about. I think I'd have an easier time tracking down an urn of Osiris. At least then there'd be eBay."

He turned to the blue woman, who seemed distracted. "Illy-"

"I learned nothing!" she snarled. "It was within my grasp, and then was lost!"

There was a general raising of brows around the room. "Uh... sure."

Connor sighed. "Okay, this thing's been forgotten too long. If Aidan isn't willing to show anybody where he's keeping it until the last minute, then I don't see many other ways of getting to it." He looked meaningfully at the other young man.

"Oh, no," muttered Marc.

--------

"Hey, hey! Hey, Aidan!"

"Oh, hey. 'Sup?"

"We still on for Friday night?"

"So far. Are you?"

"Yeah... I... uh... finished up some other stuff early."

"So you're in?"

"Of course. A chance to talk to an Old One? How could I pass that up?"