12.
Desperation Game
"Why are you here?" Illyria asked, presenting an impassive mask, concealing mild surprise. No one else besides security was scheduled to be in the building until the following morning.
Wesley's ashen face was afflicted by a rictus fraught with stricken simpleness indicating that he had expected the same. That did not bode well. Under these circumstances, such reactions typically brought death to his kind. His wan mockery of a smile faded, giving way to meaningless stammering, "Yes, well, I—"
Illyria pressed into the elevator, looking him up and down as he moved aside and holstered his gun inside his jacket. The excuses he was clearly concocting promised to be intriguing. As the elevator doors slid closed, Illyria fixed him with a curious eye. Then she commanded, "Proceed," while casting a sidelong glance at the control panel. The elevator was set to travel to the uppermost floor of the facility.
Wesley stabbed at the panel, selecting the button directly below the one that was already lit. "How'd that happen?" he asked in an effort to sound nonchalant.
The attempted fabrication was so transparent as to be mildly insulting. The twenty-first and twenty-second floors contained the offices and boardrooms of the entertainment industry staff. He had as much business there as a sluk did in the desert. Illyria had expected better from him. Instead of wasting words perpetuating the travesty, she looked from the panel to Wesley and back again, allowing traces of her annoyance to show.
His objective was clear. He intended to visit the half-breed's quarters in order to acquire something. It also seemed obvious that the object Wesley sought would be of value to the children who had orchestrated the abduction. This was a fool's errand. He should know better. Playing such a provocative game with the powers that presided over this place would most surely bring him to an untimely end.
Discomfited by how much that thought perturbed her, Illyria scowled. She'd developed a soft spot for this mortal that wasn't entirely appropriate. She decided it was best to maintain her silence. Analysis of the residual sparks left behind by the shell had provided an informative pattern: the combination of silence and scrutiny were often the most effective tools when dealing with the irrational. Were she to do anything as seemingly sensible as present a direct challenge, she might never understand the flawed rationale behind this madness.
The preferable course of action would be to allow Wesley to decide his own fate. Should he remain determined to maintain this absurd pretense, Illyria would leave him to his doom.
He did not. They had ascended ten floors when Wesley stated, "My apologies. I reacted badly." Taken with sheepishness, he hung his head. When he looked up, his demeanor had changed for the better. He appeared more confident, though he was still afflicted with the apish tendency to clear his throat. "As we are being observed, perhaps you'll forgive me for avoiding a direct answer." The corner of his mouth quirked with amusement. "Well, at least half of us are."
His latter statement was so abstruse Illyria could not discern what he meant. As she studied him, attempting to infer his intentions, he changed tack, "A battle is easily won with such excessive resources." The sweeping flourish of his hand was made to indicate not just their surroundings but the scope of this place. "One need only utilize them wisely."
The elevator came to a halt on the twenty-first floor. The doors retracted, but Wesley did not leave the car. "Hearing that the stronger force has won has never impressed me," he said, impatiently stabbing the button to make the doors close. "However, it is a good deal more interesting when a weaker force overcomes a stronger foe by sheer cunning." He glanced to give Illyria another smile that was meant to be cheering, but only succeeded in making him look ill. "Of course, it doesn't hurt that many of those victories can be attributed to the side of the ongoing conflict with which I'm allied. We seem to perpetually run at a deficit, necessitating questionable maneuvers such as this. It's quite vexing."
Few of the negative effects of the initial shock their encounter had worn off. For several moments after the doors shut and the elevator began to rise, Wesley mindlessly pressed a button whose function had already been fulfilled. At the same time, in the wake of a brief reflective pause, his discourse resumed, "I don't believe that you really want to know what I'm doing here. Your intellect is sufficiently keen to deduce my intentions without assistance. The question I think you want me to answer is what I believe you should do about it."
Illyria wanted nothing of the sort. The statement made her bristle. Being told what to do by such a primitive would demand an immediate, terminal rebuke. She'd delivered such responses innumerable times without a second thought. Yet this time, as she considered it, the discomfort returned.
"Several times keener, I assure you," Illyria replied. She regarded Wesley for a long moment, during which a respectful silence was maintained, even when the elevator doors opened. As Wesley made to depart, she said, "I should strike you down where you stand. That would be the merciful thing to do. Your belief that your actions are noble is imprudent. A man who attempts to deceive the overseers of this place isn't noble, he has a death wish."
"Perhaps," Wesley conceded, his tone restrained. He stepped though the doors, glancing over his shoulder to add, "Perhaps not."
Ripples coursed through the surface of the pool, drawn by an imperceptible breeze. The writhing figures bowed and stretched surreally. Their heads angling in countered accord as they skewed.
Kennedy blinked the distorted weirdness away. This was the first occurrence that betrayed the illusion. It had seemed so real, as if she were peering through a window into another room. She'd almost been able to forget that she was looking down at a reflection of a faraway place cast at her feet.
The heat in her blood had fed the delusion. The nagging pang at the back of her head that coursed tension through her neck and shoulders still blunted her rational mind. The bite of her nails, marring her palms barely registered. The rawness of it all made her tremble. Every question she should've asked had fallen away in the fiery haze.
Why is D'Hoffryn showing me this? What does he think he'll accomplish? Does he just want to piss me off? And for fuck's sake why is this making me—?
Why do I fucking care? So what if Miss Priss is about to dip her shit into a neurotic singularity. I should be happy. She can't really do that without getting some on her. I'm living proof of that.
Bet she'll handle it about as well I did. Should be funny to watch all of her high-minded ideals corrupted by incessant, insane pecking.
Buffy withdrew from the kiss as if obstinately betraying Kennedy's wishes. She rested her forehead against Willow's for a long moment. The sound of their labored breathing filled the air, reminding Kennedy that, despite the unnatural warmth and aridness of this place, she was in a darkened cavern.
"I'm sorry," Buffy said. "I can't." In the acoustics of the chamber her voice resonated with the strength of a stage whisper, belied by her breathlessness. "God, I want to, but I can't." She sagged back on her haunches, distancing herself from Willow while meeting her eyes. "It wouldn't be right."
Willow lay slouched in the chair, her legs spread, her skirt hiked up to mid-thigh. Were Buffy not in the way, the shameless bitch would be flaunting her shit for everyone to see. Only the bottom few buttons of Willow's shirt had gone untouched. Everything else she wore on her upper half except her bra had been bunched between her sides and the chair—clumps of thick, white terrycloth causing her to appear nested there. She said nothing. Her hand came to rest on her inner thigh, just above her knee. Temptation wasn't something Willow coped with well. It was amazing to see that her hand remained almost stationary.
Kennedy choked down the urge to smack the inside of Willow's thigh where she petted it while Pollyanna Perfect flaunted how stupidly naïve she really was by whispering, "You wouldn't think well of me if I did." She didn't know that, unchecked, Willow would fondle the button-like beads that outlined the edges of her vulva. She had no clue that the object of her affection was ravenous, like a child left alone with her spoils on All Hallows' Eve. That without intervention, she'd stroke and knead, stretch and push, until something tore—pain and pleasure muddled by her broken psyche.
Yeah, and this isn't my problem anymore. If Buffy had two brain cells to rub together to keep a thought warm, she'd see the addiction for what it is and cut the stupid bitch off.
Like I should've. I should've locked temptation away, but I didn't have time. I got pushed aside in favor of better things. New toys. New idol-shaped distractions. A knight in shining satin who's stupid enough to try to reason with her like she's somewhere this side of normal.
That should end well.
I'd love to see the look on Pretty Polly's face the first time her savior gets a gander at her goodies. A few tattoos should have nothing on that.
Of course Her Piousness will blame me for that too, because Willow couldn't possibly be too fucked up to function all by her little lonesome. There just had to have been some coercion. I had to have had something to do with it. Something besides just putting down the plastic to finance the entire clusterfuck. If I'd had a clue…
Buffy's tongue smacked as she licked her lips. Reaching out, she said, "This really is beautiful," as she drew her fingertips down, tracing the curve of Willow's tattoo from her collarbone, over her bra, around the outside of her breast to where it disappeared beneath the placket of her blouse. Distraction gave her voice an airy quality that blended with Willow's muffled moan.
As Willow lifted herself up, shrugging and tugging her way out of her robe and nearly, by virtue of enthusiasm, her blouse, Kennedy found the good sense to look away.
D'Hoffryn stood to Kennedy's left, silently taking in the scene. It was hard for her to imagine how or why he appeared so deeply thoughtful. She'd seen enough. Plenty. Too much. Actively bent on ignoring the remainder of the bitter comedy of errors unfolding near her feet, she asked, "Can I go now?" She gave a flourish of her hand to indicate the pool. "I mean, I get that you might think this is high drama, but to me it's just so much 'been there, done that'."
"Soon," D'Hoffryn said, his reply overlapping with another of Buffy's inane comments, this one about not wanting to hurt anyone.
Kennedy was just happy to have missed part of it. She would've been happier to have missed all of it. From the tone of Buffy's voice, she seemed inches away from professing her undying love. The thought curdled the contents of Kennedy's stomach. Considering the contents was fair food—garbage like hotdogs, cotton candy, saltwater taffy and nachos—the reaction promised to be bad in epic new ways.
She was swallowing away the acid that prickled the back of her throat when a distant crump slashed, blunt-edged through the darkness.
Illyria followed. The elevator emptied out into a central lobby that serviced the suites. There were three doors along two solid walls. The remaining walls were made entirely of glass, offering a spangled, nocturnal view of the city. A hallway ran off to the east, perpendicular to the wall containing the elevators doors, further dividing the space.
Wesley went to the lone, visible door on the northern wall. "I believe you misunderstand me," he whispered as he fumbled through his pockets to retrieve a crudely constructed piece of human technology. He paused to plug the gadget into the card reader on the wall beside the door. After pressing several buttons on the device's keypad, he picked up his thought, "I didn't indicate that I intended to answer your question." A series of red lights across the top bezel of the device began to strobe. "I most certainly do not." Wesley split his focus; pressing several more buttons as he spoke, "Believe me. I appreciate that by doing so I would come dangerously close to overstepping my bounds. I'm not one to give orders to beings who are older than the entire history of my race. I intend to live longer than that activity would afford."
The blinking lights slowed, staying on a little longer with each left to right sequence. When they were all lit a uniform, unerring crimson, the door latch clicked. Wesley pushed. The door swung in. Holding its edge, he turned to face Illyria as she followed him into Angelus's suite. Once they were both inside and the door was closed, Wesley picked up his thought, "What I will say is that it would be heartening to see you become involved. Thus far, what I've witnessed would imply that you've pledged fealty to—"
Illyria backhanded Wesley for his insolence. Her intent wasn't to injure, merely to caution, yet her version of delicacy sent the human crumpling to the floor like a marionette with its strings cut. "I pledge fealty to no one," she said in warning tones. "That you dare even suggest such a thing shows how little your miserable existence must mean to you."
A hushed sucking sound followed by a mechanical whir accompanied Wesley's faint gasps and the scrub of his hand massaging the flesh of his face back to some semblance of usefulness. The elevator was descending. That meant they would have company very soon.
Wesley maneuvered himself to sitting. "Yes. Well, it was merely an observation," he said, still rubbing jaw. "Through inaction you have created the impression of an alliance." He rose unsteadily to his feet and dusted himself off. "I can't change the truth of the situation as I perceive it. Only you possess the ability to do that."
Illyria made her way to the room's center, taking position near the back of the couch. The object Wesley sought wasn't here. However there was at least one item of nominal power in the adjoining chamber. Illyria focused on its faintly pulsating hum.
Wesley made his way around the room, rifling through various cubbies and cabinets as he spoke, "Surely you understand that your position here is tenuous at best. You have been sufficiently complacent that I believe it is only a matter of time before the Senior Partners begin passing down directives to you and expecting your cooperation. Whether you follow their orders or not, will of course be entirely up to you."
This was one of the more pointless things Illyria had seen him do. At least he was performing the futile task with efficiency. The warning she'd given him had instilled a sense of urgency that would be necessary if he truly wished to live. He didn't register her departure, a point made apparent by the continuance of his monotonous poking and prattling. His attention barely drifted from his task when the doorknob to the bedchamber clacked, its brittle locking mechanism fracturing with the turn of her hand. She supposed he couldn't help his own blindness.
Illyria ignored him as she strode to the display case on the far wall that housed the object of interest. A glass jar filled with a swirling, luminescent, tawny essence sat behind a thick pane of plastic masquerading as glass. Beyond the mundane barrier, one of potent magic filled the compartment. That was the more palpable aspect of the mystical interference she'd sensed from the other room.
There were other electronic devices set to defend the space. They represented a nominal threat, unless one was worried about gaining access to the vessel without sending out an alert. That was no longer an issue. Soon this area would be swarming with aggressors.
Gaining access to the vessel meant a minor inconvenience to Illyria. The cabinet door fell apart under a blow from her fist. It was the barrier that actually proved a challenge. Her hands stung as she broke its surface. Once she had hold of the jar, it refused to budge. The act of ripping it free made her feeble shell shriek with torment.
The volume of Wesley's voice increased, becoming impossible to ignore when Illyria returned to the sitting room. "…promises to be a magnificent battle." Her attention lit on the private elevator that served the suite. It was at the nineteenth floor and silently ascending. Wesley remained utterly oblivious, not to mention annoyingly chatty, "Should we prevail, our victory will make the deeds of Sir William Wallace appear somewhat less—"
Marching across the room to where he stood, she cut his lecture short by asking, "You wish to restore the half-breed's essence, do you not?" They needed to hurry. The Hamilton creature was nearly upon them.
Wesley returned the painting he was holding to the wall. As he turned to face her, replying, "Yes," Illyria shoved the vessel into his hands.
"We must go," she said. Once the fragile package was cradled between his forearm and side, Illyria took hold of his hand and led him from the room. The other elevator was rising too. They had no choice but to take the stairs. She went to the door just down the hallway that was marked with an 'exit' sign. Wesley resisted when she pushed through and began to climb.
"What are you doing?" he asked as he tried to pull his hand from her grasp.
"Your goal is the release the essence, is it not?" she inquired. When he affirmed her assumption with a nod and a mumble, she went on, "Marcus Hamilton is currently assessing Angelus's suite." Further elaboration wasn't necessary. Wesley began to move sluggishly at the mention of the creature's name. His pace picked up considerably as she explained their situation by way of a question, "Would you prefer to spend the few minutes it will take for him to track us down debating how we should proceed or would you like to accomplish your goal?"
Wesley didn't answer. Instead, he began to run. Moments later, accompanied by the slam of the door below them and the trample of footfalls on the stairs, they burst through a metal, exterior double door into what felt like evenlight. The rooftop was so well lit that she reflexively looked up. The pair of stars she glimpsed through the cloud cover dispelled the illusion.
She snatched the vessel from Wesley's arms, ran to an unobstructed portion of the roof's edge and hurled it into the night.
The door crashed open. She wheeled around as the first gunshot rang out.
Kennedy jerked her head around to peer into nothing. It took her untold moments to understand that the darkness that surrounded them was wrong. Such an explosive sound should've been accompanied by at least a hint of fiery light. Feeling her reaction was a little too little, a lot too late, she felt herself exclaim, "What the—?"
D'Hoffryn cut her off by thumping her upper arm with his elbow. She turned to him, then to the pool where he pointed to discover Willow charging from the room hot on Buffy's heels. It was relief to understand that her distraction hadn't lasted that long. It couldn't have. It wouldn't have taken them that long to react since the explosion had obviously taken place in the Hyperion.
The view from the pool followed them down the long corridor, around the curved staircase, and into the lobby. Willow buttoned her blouse as she ran. Near the center of the lobby floor, next to the round couch, a woman and man lay prone and unmoving, their arms and legs splayed. Their hands remained linked, as if holding on to each other were their last conscious act.
Kennedy didn't recognize the man. Though face-down like he was, that wasn't a huge surprise. With his short, sandy hair and beige summer suit, he could've been anyone.
The woman wasn't so drably attired. In fact, her costume was so distinctive that it rang an entire peal of bells. Was it a costume? It had to be. One Kennedy recognized as belonging to one of the unknown onlookers at Wolfram and Hart. Who in their right mind would run around with blue dye in their hair, wearing a red leather bodysuit?
Kennedy realized that the answer to her question was probably something demonic. Very few of them gave a tinker's damn about human customs or propriety. That would go a long way toward explaining how the two had crashed through the ceiling without disturbing a single fleck of plaster or paint. But if she is a demon, why isn't she moving?
Redness crept into view, spreading beneath the concealing edges of the man's sport coat. The lobby erupted into a chaos of frantic voices and movement, with Giles and Xander pounding onto the scene as Buffy rolled the man over. The blood wicking through his dress shirt held Kennedy's gaze. She barely mustered the presence of mind to glimpse his face before the view changed and she found herself looking at Willow again.
At a glance, she knew this wasn't the same Willow. All of the details were wrong. The forest clearing where she sat cross-legged on the ground was completely unfamiliar. Her hair was longer, and if imaginable, the complexion of her tear-streaked cheeks was even sallower, but that might've been a trick of the light, or the lack thereof. More striking than any of that was the fact that, although it was pouring rain, the only sign of wetness about her person were the tracks of her tears. Droplets of water glistened in the grass surrounding her, yet she remained untouched.
Although instantly intrigued, reflexively Kennedy exclaimed, "Hey!"
"This is important," D'Hoffryn replied, his tone soothing by virtue of its calmness. Several moments passed as they watched this new player fret. "She is dangerous," he murmured.
Kennedy saw nothing of the sort. This Willow, no doubt the paramour of the impostor who caused so much strife in her world, looked more broken than her alternate half. Kennedy fixed D'Hoffryn with her gaze, the annoyance conveyed by her expression, demanding explanation.
He obliged, though for some untold reason the strength had been sapped from his voice. "She represents the danger, not only of desperation as you might guess, but of cunning. She is a wholly more together person than the one you know. Imagine what she might've become with confidence inspired by the righteousness of knowing beyond the shadow of a doubt that her actions were the right ones. Whether they were or not isn't important. She and all of the people around her believed that they were. They had a cause. She had a purpose and all of the fire born of that."
Kennedy directed her attention to the weeping Willow reflected in the pool as he murmured. His words carried no weight or meaning because she was unable to see evidence of their truth in this distraught woman. She tried to imagine the kind of commitment it would take to be so utterly devastated by the weight of loss, but she lacked the experience, though her examination of the evidence from this angle brought some insight.
As if in echo of her thoughts, D'Hoffryn said, "Now she has nothing." The sentiment lingered, obliterating everything that followed. "She's willing to do anything to regain what she's lost. What we must do is sow the seeds of doubt. We need to show her that her faith is flawed." His remaining words rolled off of Kennedy the same way they rolled off his tongue. So when, after a long, assessing pause, he asked, "Do you understand?" she had to admit she didn't with a shake of her bowed head.
"How did you feel earlier when you watched?" he asked. "Did the passion struck between them with a touch bring you comfort, or were you livid that you had not experienced a similar sort of solace in her arms? Did you recount all of the flaws of your affair, or did you mourn for love lost?"
Kennedy didn't answer. She knew she didn't need to. She had worn her dismay plainly on her face.
His hand rested on her back, between her shoulder blades. She felt at first that it was a gesture of sympathy, but as he pushed her forward into the pool, saying, "Show her that and we will have won," she understood. He had recruited her because of this. He had needed her to sway things in his favor. And now he was sending her to do his bidding.
As she sank into the pool, the idea that he was unwilling to do this himself worried her almost as much as the light and smoke that bathed her in place of water.
