Author: Rabid Squirrel
Title: "Murphy's Law"
Disclaimer: If I actually owned BTVS, would I bother to write fanfiction? Seriously, Buffy and co. are owned by Joss Whedon, Kazui Productions, 20th Century Fox, and UPN, sick bastards all of them.
Summary: Bad guys, good guys, Armageddon. Get the picture?
Spoilers: Thru season 6, though my selective memory allows me to edit out or rewrite certain unsavory aspects.
Rating: R, for violence, occasional strong language, limited sexual content, cliché abuse, and character assassination.
Dedication: To all B/Xers, who know that B/S is simply that - BS.
Feedback: Thanks to Lori, Bill, Calen, Jane, Ghostrider, Brandywine421, Zathraas, RobClark, eckles71, and all others for their feedback. To any reviewers I've failed to acknowledge, spasiba!. And to the anonymous spammer who thought this story was simply "yuuuuck" (posted about a million times, much in the fashion of a twelve year old with too much time on his/her hands), the fanfiction Gestapo is on its way, so you can expect a knock on your parent's door shortly. Please, please try to resist arrest. I'm begging you. You'd be doing the gene pool a favor.
Note: Many of you have commented on the B/X confrontation in chapter 9, either in your reviews or via e-mail. The reaction to that part was about evenly split, half favorable, half not, though the majority of you argued that Buffy's position was wholly untenable, given Spike's attempted rape. I would like to make it clear that the BTVS characters I write are an amalgamation of how the characters are explicitly portrayed on the show, and how I perceive them to be in my own little warped universe. Buffy has taken an unapologetic stance on the show vis-à-vis her "relationship" with Spike, ergo she remains unapologetic (and slightly bitchy, though still adorable) in my universe. It doesn't mean that I think she's right, I'm just trying to write her character as realistically and as faithfully as I can. In short, don't kill the messenger…unless he's a Frenchman. Then it's okay.
Now, without further ado….
Chapter 10: Confessions of an Unrepentant Existentialist~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Restfield Cemetery
Monday, September 2nd
0100 hrs
Buffy stumbled backwards, reeling involuntarily from the force of the unexpected blow. She felt as though she were suffocating, her ragged breath coming in short gasps as her hands sought purchase on the smooth granite of the monument at her back, just barely managing to keep herself from falling. She shook her head defiantly, as though denying what had happened would make any real difference, would make the reality of her situation any less absolute. With a single word, the demons she had fought for so long to suppress had been unleashed. In an instant, seven years of doubt and self-loathing came flooding back in a torrent of emotion, the mounting sense of hopelessness threatening to consume her. Buffy opened her mouth, wanting – needing – to say something, if only to convince Xander he was wrong, but she couldn't find the words. Somewhere deep inside, she'd always suspected it, from the moment Merrick had approached her that day in Los Angeles, to the day that Angel finally had left her. And now, now that Xander had utterly and completely rejected her, she knew it was irrevocably true. Whistler had known, had tried to tell her, but she'd ignored him, not recognizing his warning for what it really was. It was all true, she admitted as she turned away from Xander, away from what may be her chance at happiness. She ran; fleeing from the hopelessness, from her loneliness and despair, running as fast as her legs would carry her, desperately clinging to the false hope that she could outrun her past, and maybe, if she ran far enough, her future.
Xander let her go. He had seen the shock and betrayal reflected in her troubled eyes, the tears spilling out as she struggled to understand what had happened, what she had done wrong. Even so, he resisted the urge to reach out to her, to tell her he was sorry, that everything would be ok. It would just be another lie, and there had been enough of those already. Instead, he stood by and watched silently, unable to comfort her as she turned away from him. Xander watched her leave, feeling the pangs of guilt gnaw at him, knowing intuitively how she felt, having once been there himself. He didn't want to push her away, to deny them both the chance at something they had once only dreamed of, but he couldn't help himself. He was an unwitting slave to the whims of his baser emotions, a spectator watching passively from the sidelines as the events of his life unfolded before him. He wanted to be strong, for his own sake and for hers, but his strength had long since been subjugated to his pride. In his heart, he knew why he had done it, knew why he had pushed her away. In the final calculation, the "why" may not really matter, but in the here and now, he knew it was his pride that had betrayed him. And the part of him he despised most would have it no other way.
He watched the Slayer disappear into the darkness, following her receding form as far as his limited night-vision allowed him. When she had disappeared, he turned, and with a heavy heart, made his way back to his truck. In the morning, there would be bridges to mend, explanations to be made, and uncertainties to face. But for now, there was only a cold, empty bed.
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A Desolate Stretch of Desert
100 miles East of Sunnydale
Monday, September 2nd
0550 hrs
The sun-bleached sand extended as far as the eye could see, the magnificent vista broken sporadically by the occasional stand of cacti or incongruous rock outcropping. Here the wind was a constant, its relentless assault forever reshaping the landscape, alternately creating and destroying, much as it had done for thousands of years. There was a certain symmetry to it, the way the desert continually grew and evolved, seemingly independent of the sparse life that nevertheless seemed to thrive in the harsh environment. Most importantly, there were no humans.
The corners of the man's cracked lips curled upward infinitesimally, the contours of his mouth twisting into what might pass as a smile as he took in his surroundings. The dearth of human life here appealed greatly to him, which would come as no great surprise to those who knew him. But then again, that's what it was all about – the humans.
He crouched down low to the ground, the tail of his stark white cloak brushing the cool sand, the garment remaining remarkably unsoiled. He dipped his slender fingers into the drifting dune, scooping a generous amount of sand into his cupped hands, allowing the rough grains to slowly sift through his fingers. He might have intended it as some metaphor for the passage of time, but metaphors were a decidedly human construct, and therefore lost on him. Truth be known, he just liked the feel of the coarse sand grains on his skin.
They amused him, the humans did. They had their odd proclivities, their all-consuming fixation on material wealth, and worst of all, their pointless obsession with their own mortality. It was ironic to an enlightened being such as he, that with a limited amount of time at their disposal, humans could invest so heavily in such trivial pursuits. Rather than embrace the few short years they were afforded, they chose to enslave themselves to a concept they had ordained out of their own sense of self importance, forever searching for a means to extend their meaningless existence beyond its natural lifespan. It was a paradox, really. The thankless little monkeys sought to live for ever, but had never learned to fully exploit the limited time they had. Very soon, of course, they would realize the error of their ways, but by then it would be too late. And that was really just too bad, wasn't it?
He rubbed his hands together slowly, meticulously dusting off the few remaining grains of sand clinging to his pasty white skin. He trained his eyes to the west, scanning the distant horizon expectantly, peering into the lingering vestiges of darkness as the first rays of sunshine broke at his back. He had no inclination to watch the otherwise spectacular desert sunrise; he'd seen millions of them in his lifetime, and they all seemed the same to him. If he had his way, he'd never again see another, and neither would anybody else.
He remained frozen in position, waiting expectantly, his gaze fixated on the horizon as the last shadows of night dissipated from the desert floor. It wouldn't be long now.
As if on cue, a flight of small white birds appeared out of the Northwest, their flight path arcing downward gracefully, descending earthward until at last they alit on the sand immediately behind him. The man smiled knowingly, leaning forward on the balls of his feet, the hair on his neck bristling in anticipation. He tensed momentarily, waiting for the right moment. As he sensed movement behind him, he twisted violently, dropping to his right knee as he pivoted left. He brought his hands up instinctively, moving with blurring speed as he trapped his would-be assailant's striking fist between his extended hands, stopping the potentially fatal blow in mid-strike. Still smiling, he raised his head slowly, until his eyes fell upon the countenance of one he knew well. He rose steadily to his full height, still clasping the other man's hand tightly in his own. The newcomer did not smile; nor did he shrink from the other man's piercing gaze. He appraised his counterpart with a disapproving eye, his own black overcoat billowing behind him in the cool early morning breeze. He addressed the other man, speaking softly, his voice tinged with a wariness borne of a lifetime of experience.
"Hello brother."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`
Waterfront Warehouse
Foreign Trade Zone
Los Angeles, CA
Monday, September 2nd
0600 hrs
As any strategist worth his weight knows, the success of a military operation, whether tactical or strategic in nature, depends heavily on the concept of operational security. In theory, the idea is quite simple: The secrecy of any operation is inversely related to the number of people who know about it. The more people privy to advance knowledge of an operation, the more difficult operational security is to maintain. Not surprisingly, the senior partners at Wolfram & Hart knew a thing or two about operational security. They knew even more about comprising it.
For that reason, the bombing in Los Angeles had come as no great surprise, though the severity and visibility of the operation had been anticipated. And while the firm had sustained over one hundred casualties in the attack, the losses had been largely superficial, more an irritation than anything else. The Senior Partners had not been present when the bomb impacted, and their security apparatus, though bloodied, had survived largely intact, less a dozen or so operatives.
In response to the attack, or possibly in spite of it, a quorum of the Senior Partners had called the meeting, summoning their colleagues to the nondescript warehouse situated near the Port of Los Angeles. The drab metal facility was ostensibly owned by TransAmerica Ltd., a holding company that was itself a subsidiary of Wolfram & Hart LLP, though any law enforcement agency would be hard pressed to uncover that fact, let alone prove it in a court of law.
They had convened the summit in a spacious office situated in the loft of the building, having taken the usual precaution of deploying an advance security team prior to their arrival. Security here was tight: Every man, woman, and demon in attendance had been thoroughly searched, their person violated in a manner that would have made the most ardent airport screener blush. However, modesty was not an issue here; nor was civility. It was, all other appearances to the contrary, business as usual.
From his seat at the head of the table, Albert Wexler surveyed the motley group, making eye contact with each in turn. The major operational departments were all represented: North America, Europe, Russia-Trans Caucasus, Asia-Pacifica, , Meso-America (including South America), Africa-Middle East, and the Near East. The heads of the functional areas were in attendance as well, including the Executive Directors of Internal Security, Trends and Intentions, Technology & Religious Artifacts , Para-Natural Sciences, and Contract Resolution. For practical reasons, there were no Assistant Directors or mid-level executives in attendance, though oddly enough, there were two outsiders among their number. From the look of things, neither was particularly happy to be there.
Quentin Travers was one of those outsiders, though by chance he knew most of the assembled group by sight. The Watcher's Council Intelligence Directorate – referred to by insiders as "Solomon" – had been remarkably accommodating in that regard. Travers did not know the other individual seated at the table, though by the deference the others were showing him, Travers reasonably assumed the man was a major player in the current initiative. He was not far off.
The man in question also recognized the others at the table, including the Executive Director of the Watcher's Council, though, unlike Travers, he needed no intelligence service to tell him who they were. The being's name was Sammael, and he – like Travers – was noticeably uncomfortable being in such company, though his reasons were entirely his own. Despite his apparent unease, he sat patiently, waiting as the man they called Wexler brought the meeting to order.
"As you all know, approximately six hours ago our enemies launched a pre-emptive strike against our Los Angeles facilities," Wexler stated calmly, as though discussing something as mundane as the weather. "The attack, though regrettable, was to be expected. It is inconsequential, an inconvenience to be sure, but nothing more than that. It in no way compromises the integrity of our current operations."
"Who was it," asked the Security Director, looking to the his counterpart in T&I, the man in charge of reading the tea-leaves at Wolfram & Hart. His colleague folded his hands, leaning forward to address the others.
"Our people have not had adequate time to assess that issue," he temporized, not exactly skirting the question. "Though I can tell you that it was an airborne attack, most likely by American naval assets based in San Diego."
"The Navy? Why not the Air Force? Don't they have aircraft here in L.A?" The Central American director had never been known for his astute observations, which was probably why he'd been given the decidedly un-prestigious posting in Sao-Paolo. Nepotism only took one so far, even at Wolfram & Hart.
"Plausible deniability," T&I explained curtly. "Edwards is too visible. They put an aircraft in the air shortly before an explosion, and people might start to ask questions. No, they would have launched the attack from a carrier positioned beyond visual range of the coast. Fewer witnesses that way."
"And you're sure of this?" The question came from the head of Internal Security .
T&I nodded. "It's not how I would have done it, but yes, I'm sure"
"Very well," interjected Wexler, effectively settling the issue. "I think we can all agree on the who and why. The question we must ask ourselves is what now?"
North America took his cue. "Sir, the authorities are calling it a terrorist attack, which means it falls under the jurisdiction of the F.B.I."
"Will they be a problem?" Internal Security didn't think so, but it was best to cover one's ass. He hadn't made it this far in life by taking unnecessary risks.
"Ordinarily I would say no," NA offered. "We have the American federal law enforcement and intelligence agencies thoroughly penetrated, and we effectively call the shots at State. The new administration, however, has proven a bit more problematic.. The wildcard, of course, is POTUS.
"Your predecessor said the same thing about the former administration," Technology reminded him.
"That is true," NA conceded. "Though unlike the current Commander In Chief, Mr. Clinton possessed a certain moral ambivalence that lent itself more readily to our way of thinking."
"Are you saying that this man cannot be co-opted?" asked Paranormal Sciences incredulously.
"I'm saying exactly that."
The security chief snorted derisively. "Then remove him We control Treasury, do we not? Put one of our men on his security detail and give him a proper Texas send-off." The security head fancied himself quite the comedian. He was alone in that regard.
"In case you haven't been watching the news, my friend, our man was recently forced out." T&I reminded him. "His departure was no coincidence."
The Russian- sector Director asked the logical question. "Then the situation in LA……?"
"Does not work in our favor. The FBI will ostensibly have the lead in the investigation, but they will be under enormous pressure to "accept" any and all assistance the military feels compelled to render. In essence, Northern Command will be calling the shots."
"What you're saying then," Europe clarified, "is that marshal law will be effectively declared in the greater Los Angeles area." He didn't need to explain further. Sunnydale wasn't that far away.
"Your suspicions are correct, Jacques. We will be forced to relocate our center of operations. I trust we have made contingency plans for just such an occasion?" Wexler raised an expectant eyebrow to his man in Contract Resolutions.
"It is true – we have anticipated just such an exigency. As a precaution, I took the liberty of dispatching Lilah Fowler to the Hellmouth. The project continues as before, with no significant impact to the timeline."
"And the opposition in Sunnydale?" asked Middle East.
"Our allies assure us that they will not be an issue. Feel free to draw your own conclusions."
"I already have," Wexler informed Contract Resolution. "What I see does not impress me."
"Sir, if I may…"
"You may not," Wexler commanded, slamming an over-sized fist into the oak table. "We have not come this far only to fail by underestimating the opposition. I will not lightly suffer another fiasco like the one we endured with the Hellgod."
"With all due respect, sir, Glorificus was not directly under our purview…"
"Mr. D'onofrio," Wexler explained impatiently to the Director of Contract Resolution, a dangerous edge to his voice, "if I had held you responsible for that, you would have already been removed." He paused a moment, letting his words sink in. "The situation with Glorificus was an abhorrent failure of our policies, one which I have no intention of repeating. I want the Slayer removed from the equation. Permanently. Have I made myself clear, Mister D'onofrio?"
The man averted his gaze, nodding his understanding. "Crystal, sir. The assets are in place as we speak. I will give the order today."
North America wasn't satisfied. "What about her friends…the witch and the Watcher?"
Contracts also fielded that one. "They will be dealt with, though in a more local manner," he assured his colleague, using the preferred euphemism for exsanguination, a common cause of death in Sunnydale. The others nodded their approval.
"And the boy?" Europe prodded, eliciting a collective laugh from the group.
"Please," D'onofrio chuckled loudly. "The gallant construction worker will probably break his neck tripping over his own feet." He caught a warning glare from Wexler. "Though in the interest of thoroughness, he will be eliminated as well."
"That still leaves the Watcher's Council," Asia pointed out.
For the first time that day, Albert Wexler smiled. "Ladies and Gentlemen…and demons," he added graciously, acknowledging the pedigree of the Mideast Director. "Allow me to introduce our guests: Some of you undoubtedly recognize Quentin Travers." He ignored the widespread murmuring that accompanied the introduction. "Mr. Travers has been, shall we say, most accommodating in aiding our efforts. Due in no small part to the information he's provided on Council Operations, we have been able to largely neutralize their offensive capabilities."
The meaning of Wexler's last statement was not lost on Travers. In the eyes of the world, he may be nothing more than a traitor, but underneath it all, he still had a conscience, even if he had never found much use for it. It troubled his soul, knowing that his legacy would be the death of men whom he had once called friend, the orphaning of their children, and the profound grief of their widows. His only consolation was that his guilt would be short-lived. Wolfram & Hart didn't exact the proverbial pound of flesh from its employees; It just claimed their souls. As goes the soul…
As Travers pondered the consequences of his treachery, the animated debate continued around him. "And what of the potential American and European military response," Asia persisted.
D'onofrio glanced furtively at his friend in T&I, seeking reassurance for his position. "At this time, we, uh, lack the necessary intelligence to predict their potential response with any degree of confidence." He paused nervously, consciously aware of a dozen pairs of eyes on him, one of them belonging to a man who quite literally held the director's life in his hands. He summoned his courage, continuing on: "As you are all aware, we have experienced significant difficulty infiltrating the American Defense Department in recent years, rendering our conventional intelligence methods ineffectual. We have had limited success utilizing our "remote-viewing" assets, but on the whole our methods have been largely unsuccessful."
"How can this be?" demanded Russia. "Our resources are second to none. Do we not employ the finest seers in the world?"
"You speak the truth," admitted D'onofrio, "however, it appears our enemies have deployed countermeasures to limit our clairvoyants' efficacy."
"And what experience does the military establishment have with the paranormal sciences?" asked Europe, genuinely surprised.
"Very little of practical use. However, both the American Central Intelligence Agency and former Soviet KGB have invested significant time and resources in developing their respective psychic capabilities. We have also ascertained that the American military has been conducting research into the paranormal at the USAMRIID facility in Maryland, dating as far back as the late 1960's. They've been at least partially successful at reaping the benefits, as evidenced by the outcome of Project 314. These capabilities, coupled with the Coven's known Para-natural resources, present a formidable obstacle to our plans."
"Then how do we intend to counter them?" the Security Director asked, not unreasonably.
Albert Wexler smiled for a record second time that day, his sanguine demeanor inspiring a collective shudder among his subordinates, who had wisely come to dread such overt displays of emotion. "Where are my manners?" he chided himself. "I haven't yet introduced our guest of honor…"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He had the volume turned almost all the way up, making full use of each and every one of the stereo's 400 watts and eight speakers, probably violating the local noise ordinance, if there actually was one. Xander wasn't sure, and he didn't particularly care at the moment.
If he'd learned one overarching truth in his lifetime – other than the fact that women were now and would forever remain a complete and utter mystery to him – it was that it is scientifically possible to drown out your own thoughts. He stumbled across that reality quite by accident, a by-product of years of attempting to drown out the sound of his parent's drunken brawls while barricading himself in his bedroom. It was just a matter of decibels really, which he presently had an abundance of, thanks in no small part to the wonderful people at Bose™.
Xander tapped the plastic toggle on the steering wheel, nudging the volume up yet another notch. For some reason he identified with the song, though for the life of him he couldn't decide what it was about, regardless of what the title might suggest. He reclined back in his leather seat, enjoying the warm night breeze through the open window as he sang along with the music, forgetting his troubles for the time being:
And I said…what
are you looking at?
He hit me across the face with a bat.
I grabbed my .45 and I sad.. let's get out and go
Well, so he opened the door, and said "now, whatcha here for?"
I said I'm wanderin' down the road 44
And I said… I've been walking for about a thousand years.
And my feet are growing tired,
My eyes a little wired,
Don't know what to do unless I retire.
And he just said let's play some crazy poker
And I said Johnny whatcha doing tonight?
He looked at me with a face full of fright,
And I said…how 'bout a revolution?
And he said right.
I said that was the craziest game of poker that I ever
saw
I said that was the craziest game of poker that I ever saw
But I'm not gonna quit and I'm not gonna stop,
I don't give a shit cause I got the drop.
Johnny just got two eyes just like mine
And I'm feeling kind of funky, kinda fine
Cause I drank a bottle of whiskey 'fore I came
Came to the bar to see what's the same
I saw my man named Johnny sitting across the table from me.
And to my left was a man, he had no gin.
He didn't even think about startin' to sin
The man to my right, wasn't feeling very nice;
He looked kinda mad and I felt bad
Because I took his money last night
Now I'm just struggling.
I need a honey bunny
I don't know what to say anymore,
So I'm just going to go out the front door.
As the song faded out, Xander felt the telltale vibration of his cell phone in his pocket. Retrieving it with his right hand, he flipped open the tiny plastic unit, holding it to his ear as he hit the pause button for the CD player.
"Xander Harris."
"Xander, it's Harry…your landlord," revealed the voice on the other end, sounding rather embarrassed, if not slightly apologetic.
"Yeah Harry…what's up?"
"Look man, I hate to bother you at this hour, but I thought you should know that there's someone in your apartment. I was gonna just call the police, but…well, I know how you and your friends sometimes keep strange hours, so…"
"It's alright, Harry. Did you get a look at the person?"
There was a slight pause at the other and. "…well, yeah I did. Didn't recognize 'im though."
Him? That's a new one. "This guy didn't by any chance have bleached-blonde hair and really pale skin, did he?" That was always a possibility, though not a welcome one.
Another pause. "Uh…not sure about the hair. The guy was wearin' a hat, but he did have pale skin. Said he was a friend of yours."
"You talked to him?"
"Yeah, funny thing. I saw him unlocking your door, so I confronted the guy, asked him what his business was. He claimed to be an old friend of yours and said he needed to talk to you 'bout somethin' or other. Had a funny accent…East coast I think, maybe New York or Boston. Anyway, I suggested he call you, but he insisted on waiting, you know, so I gave you a ring. So what do you want me to do? You want me to call the cops? This guy gives me the serious wiggins."
Shit. Xander momentarily considered calling the cops, then thought better of it. "Don't worry about it, Harry. I'll be there in five; I'll deal with him myself. Thanks for the heads up."
"No problem, man. Have a good one."
"You too, Harry. Thanks," He thumbed the end button, wondering if this night could get any worse. He made full use of the Dodge's V-8 as he sped through Sunnydale's back streets, proving his estimated ETE overly pessimistic as he arrived at the apartment complex inside of three minutes.
He locked the vehicle, but not before retrieving his Colt .45 from the holster slung underneath the driver's seat. The Initiative hadn't been all bad, Xander admitted in hindsight. They did leave me with some nice toys. He chambered a round from the clip, carefully tucking the hand-cannon into his waistband so as not to needlessly alarm any of his nocturnally-inclined neighbors. Entering through the side entrance nearest his apartment, he immediately noticed two things: 1) His front door was slightly ajar; and 2) The intruder was sitting in his living room watching SportsCenter, as evidenced by the overbearing voice of Chris Berman bestowing yet another nickname on some unwitting baseball player.
Xander slowly crept to the door, walking close to the wall to prevent the creaky floor from betraying his presence. He drew the Colt, thumbing the safety to the off position as he pointed the firearm in front of him. He quickly reached the door, counted silently to three, then threw the door open, stepping into the darkened apartment.
His eyes were initially drawn to the light from the flickering television, then quickly shifted to the figure seated on the couch. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, Xander reluctantly lowered the gun, cursing whatever God was out there for his misfortune. He closed the door behind him, then reluctantly addressed his late-night visitor.
"Hello Whistler."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
End Chapter 10.
I'll be damned…it only took me two weeks to update this time. A new Rabid Squirrel record! Yay me. Let's hope it doesn't' reflect in the quality of the content. Anyway, as always, please let me know what you think. I recently upgraded my membership and purchased the support services, so I now how many hits this story is getting, and how few reviews result from those hits. So you – yes you – the individual reading currently reading this: Would it really kill you take a few minutes and drop me line. A little constructive criticism? Ideas for the story? Arbitrary ranting and raving? Whatever floats your boat. I just need some feedback. Must. Have. Feedback. OK. That's it…I've shot my load and I'm spent.
Look for a little Spike-inspired mayhem next chapter. Also, more from Giles and some tough times ahead for our resident Slayer. Oh, and a lot more violence.
Till next time,
Rabid Squirrel