17:48, THURSDAY AUGUST 26, LIMA (01:48/27-08-99 ZULU)
ROSENBERG RESIDENCE
"Are you sure you're okay with this?" Willow asked, accepting the hair-clips Buffy offered to her. "I mean, with what we found out earlier -"
The Slayer cut her off with a level look. "Will, if that tattoo bunch are after me, being away from me makes you two safe. And if they're after all of us, well, they're not gonna come after you two in the middle of a mall."
"I'm just getting started on my research -" the hacker began.
"And it'll still be there tomorrow," Buffy countered. "Besides, I can barely get my head around what you've already come up with. Do I even want to know how you got some of that stuff?"
Willow quashed a smile and shook her head. She'd taken the fingerprints from the autopsy records she'd discovered and cross-referenced them against the NCIC, Interpol, FBI, and a half a dozen other databases without leaving even a whisper of a trail. She'd pulled up files on all six of the 'tattoo bunch' that she'd been able to pin down, and that reading had been both baffling and frightening. They came from all over the planet, and had a bewilderingly wide range of specialities; all they seemed to have in common were those tattoos, a propensity for violence, and (if their rap sheets were anything to go by) a complete lack of scruples or moral qualms about exercising that propensity... or selling it to anybody who could put enough zeroes behind a number. "But, Buffy, if these guys are in town -"
"I seem to remember some people throwing me a birthday party in the middle of a crisis because we all needed to relax," the blonde noted with a smile. "Okay, things didn't turn out so well, but you tried, and I owe you the same consideration now."
About to keep arguing, Willow fell silent as the Slayer's face started to harden; she sighed and nodded. "Okay, okay.... Maybe Nemo's right: maybe I do have 'an overdeveloped sense of responsibility'."
Buffy nodded, grinning crookedly at the choice of words. "He said exactly that? I may end up liking him after all." Shaking off the semi-random thought, she held up a set of earrings for Willow's scrutiny; the redhead nodded in approval, and Buffy handed them over with a tiny smirk. Who da Slayer? At least I can still get some things right. And so can Xander, she added privately, taking in Willow's outfit (courtesy of said Xander): leather pumps, cranberry jeans that were just snug enough to draw attention to her legs and curves, a white blouse open at the throat, and a form-hugging pale purple sweater, along with the sapphire necklace and the silver hair-clips. Well, it's not 'dressed to kill'... but she's sure not going to go out with a bag over her head, either! "Just how dressy is this thing, anyway?"
"I'm not really sure," the hacker shrugged, donning the earrings. "Nemo and Shooter don't go for formal places too much, but I don't know where we'll be going after dinner. They were going to play things by ear - they do that a lot."
"No. Really?" the Slayer mugged outrageously. "I'd've never guessed."
"Okay, you've been taking too many sarcasm lessons from Xander," Willow smiled.
"Like the fitness lessons you've been taking from him?"
"Don't remind me," she groused, remembering the humiliating showing their 'jog' had been. Despite Xander setting a very gentle pace, she'd been sucking wind when they finished the two-and-a-half miles he'd insisted on, while he hadn't even been sweating, damn him! "I hope he's not going to make a regular thing out of that. I like being able to breathe!"
"He does have a point about the whole 'ability to run away' thing, Will."
A high-performance engine Dopplered closer, then downshifted and pulled up out front, idling like a roll of distant thunder for a moment before shutting off. *Beep be-be-beep beep - beep beep!*
Willow shook her head, laughing inwardly. That man's sense of humour....
"What the heck kind'a car is that, anyway - Corvette?" Buffy wondered, trailing her friend towards the front door.
When they got outside, the two new arrivals were lounging against their vehicle (Nemo half-sitting on the driver's side of the hood, Shooter leaning on the passenger door) and Xander was on the sidewalk a couple of metres from either of them, talking with the duo, albeit quietly; if gestures and body-language was anything to go by, Xander was exceedingly tense about something, and Nemo was doing his best to mollify the younger man. Shooter spotted the two women emerging from Willow's house (Willow turning to lock the door and set the alarm) and said something that silenced both men instantly; Xander gave Nemo a last glare and turned to face his friends, suddenly radiating 'cool'. And what're they talking about? Willow wondered to herself, her main attention on what she was doing.
Buffy got a good look at Xander and froze in her tracks. "Oh. My. God!" Her voice was part breathless prayer, part plea.
"No, Buffy, it's an emerald-green XJ6 Jaguar. Shooter's quite taken with -" The sentence died as she turned and saw what the Slayer had - and whimpered a little. Have mercy....
Xander had gone for Drop Dead Gorgeous 101 when he dressed for this occasion - and he'd nailed it.
Truth be told, his clothes were nothing really out of the ordinary: black workman's shoes, like-new black jeans, a grey T-shirt, and a black denim jacket to match Shooter's (only with a shield-shaped Cross of St. George at the right shoulder). But more than the clothes, it was the way he wore them: with an almost cocky ease, that same 'I'm so cool I don't need to prove it' attitude he'd had at the gallery. And it worked.
Buffy was right: oh, my God indeed, the hacker thought distantly. That outfit was just snug enough to outline a killer body; suddenly it was far too long since she'd explored it, and her hands itched to discover the improvements since - No! I can not be standing here lusting after Xander!
Even as the Slayer and hacker were coming to a sudden halt on the path, Nemo looked past Xander, blinked, and frankly stared at Willow. Xander turned to follow his gaze, and his mouth dropped open a fraction. Shooter took in their reactions, rolled her eyes behind her glasses, and half-launched herself from lounging against the Jag to standing on the footpath, grinning like a maniac and moving with catfooted surety even in black cowboy boots. She wore her black denim jacket tonight, and though meticulously clean, her jeans and blue-on-red flannel shirt had seen better days. "Hey, Willow!"
"Oh wow," Xander breathed, his bemused gaze locked on his childhood friend.
"You ain't just whistlin' 'Dixie'," Nemo agreed fervently. Barring his jacket and eyepatch, he was dressed all in pure white, even his sneakers; he almost looked like 'Andrew' out of 'Touched by an Angel'.
"Hello, Buffy," Shooter added, without much warmth, then looked back to the hacker, appraised her for a long moment, and jerked her head back at the two men. "I think I know what they're trying to say."
"What's that?" Willow wondered, stifling a smile.
The older woman let out a long, lingering wolf-whistle.
"Really? Thanks. No-one's ever given me one of those before."
"An oversight I'd be happy to correct," Nemo leered comically.
Xander leaned over and casually clipped the older man over the ear, almost dislodging his eyepatch. "Behave, boyo: you're a married man."
"Ah, who asked ya?" Nemo jeered, hurriedly putting his face back to rights. "Y'ready, kiddo?"
Willow hefted her handbag; small though it was, it was still large enough for her purse, an emergency stake, and a couple of other items. "Yeah. That Cantonese place at the mall, right?"
"That's the one," Shooter nodded, frowning a little. "You're not riding with us?"
"No, I, uh, kind'a invited Xander along, he'll drive me. That okay?"
"Shouldn't be a problem," Nemo shrugged.
"You guys go ahead," Xander suggested. "We'll drop Buffy back at her place and meet you there."
"Right-o." Nemo sketched a jaunty little salute Willow's way - not quite ignoring Buffy - and wasted little time about climbing into the Jaguar.
- * - * - * - * - * - * - * -
17:58, AUGUST 26, LIMA (01:58/27-08-99 ZULU)
SUNNYDALE MALL
"Who the hell designed this place, anyway?" Shooter groused. "The only access to the ground level from the mezzanine is at the other end of the building from the parking structure? Don't they teach common sense at architecture school any more?"
"You presume they ever did," Nemo murmured dryly. "Which reminds me - you remember the time we went fishing with the Pom?"
Judging by the way she started sniggering, she did, and Nemo grinned himself as he turned to the two Slayerettes as they walked. "This was, oh, almost four years ago now. We used to live in a port city, and every man and his dog had a recreational fishing boat, right? Anyway, this English joker in our trade comes out to visit us, and we took him out on the bay one day when we all needed some down-time. There's the two of us, the Pom, and the boat's owner, and we've been out there about three hours when gorgeous here hooks this eleven-foot thresher shark. The boat's owner gaffs the thing aboard and drops it right in the middle of the deck, *bam*.
"Well, the Pom, he takes one look at this thing writhing about on the deck, all black eyes and grey skin and a mouth full of teeth - BOOM, he piles straight over the side. The three of us look each other askance, then she" Nemo tipped his head at his wife with a smirk, "goes over and leans her elbows on the gunwale. 'What're you doing in there?' she asks.
"'I'm not getting back on board until that thing gets off!' says the Pom."
He even mimicked the man's public-school accent perfectly, and it sounded vaguely familiar. Willow was listening attentively, her eyes dancing and almost choking on her giggles as she imagined the man's expression; Xander was stifling a grin as he imagined the torment he could inflict with this story.
"Being the sick bitch she is," Nemo continued, grinning ever more widely, "she turns back to the two of us, gives us this evil grin, then leans down to him and points out, 'You do realise that all his mates are in there with you, right?'
The face that Nemo made, mimicking the Englishman's expression, was enough to send Willow into another burst of giggles. "'Oh!' he says, in that plummy accent of his. 'I never thought of that!' He takes one quick look around, sees how much Pacific he's swimming in, imagines how many other things are swimming in it - and he comes out of that water like a Polaris missile!" the eye-patched youth cackled, so hysterical at the memory that he couldn't speak for a few moments. "It was just as well he'd brought some dry clothes, but we didn't let him live it -" His voice died, suddenly and instantly. Shooter followed his gaze, and she likewise went still.
Xander keyed off the pair's suddenly screamingly tense body-language and followed their eyes - and he, too, went rigid. A pair of the mall's security guards were approaching... and both he and Willow recognised the taller one.
Moreover, they both wore the ochre-trimmed beige jumpsuits of Stormhawk Security officers.
"Well, well, well," smirked the larger Stormer, a blocky, square-faced blond fellow with a complexion that had known too much sun and a midsection that had known too much beer. "I should've figured you'd sink to your natural level sooner or later."
Xander smiled thinly. Had that comment come at him before his trip, his voice in reply would have been defensive and fearful; now, it was cool and controlled. "Funny: I was about to say the same thing to you."
The blond blinked. For as long as he could remember, this little mistake had been his whipping-boy, meekly, mutely taking all the invective and belittlement he'd cared to heap on him. Back-chat was completely unprecedented - especially back-chat in so calm a tone. "Jealous that you'll never have a real job?"
Oh, am I gonna enjoy this! Xander smiled inwardly. For as long as he could remember, this had been the terror of his life - not vampires or demons, but a man who'd heaped scorn and ridicule on a child he'd never wanted, who'd tried to make himself feel bigger by making his own wife and child feel worthless. Nothing had ever been good enough: every effort, successful or not, had met with derision and scorn; every quality, every flaw, was twisted into grist for the mill whenever this bastard needed to feel a little better about his life. And now, after living as his own man for a goodly while, he knew he could hack it on his own, that he could do it right - and now, looking this... individual through the eyes of that new man, rather than those of a frightened child, he saw that not only was the man physically smaller than he'd once thought.... He took a fine, fiery, passionate woman and battered her, emotionally and physically, until the only time she can stand up to him is when she's half-trolleyed; he damn' near had me convinced I was worthless - Jeez, talk about your Size-7 body and Size-8 ego in a Size-4 soul!
... which means he should feel right at home in that uniform, too. "Stormhawk, a real job? Oh, puh-leese! If it were anybody else, I'd suggest you find something more respectable - like cleaning sewers with your tongue, perhaps?" (Willow choked and went pale, staring at Xander with wide eyes.) "But then again, that would require some actual competence, wouldn't it? And that's something you've never possessed. No, working as hired muscle for drug-dealers and slave-traders, that's more your métier."
"Who the fuck -!" started the shorter Stormer, in a pronounced German accent.
"Choke it, Stasi boy, this isn't your concern," Nemo inserted coldly. He'd spotted the blond's name-tape.
"And what the hell would you know about uniformed service, you little shit!" Blondie snarled. "When I was in the Navy -"
"When you were in the Navy, you were a Petty Officer, Third Class - and 'third class' was about right, too." The contempt on Xander's voice was bitingly cold. "I did some checking while I was away, Ryan, and I found out you were BCD'd for selling tyres on the black market. You had access to the base's entire logistical system. You could've stolen fuel, spare parts, weapons, vehicles... but you didn't have the imagination or drive to do any better than tyres for a deuce-and-a-half. You couldn't even do a proper job of fucking up!"
"Says a boy who barely scraped together eight hundred SAT points," 'Ryan' jeered, shifting his stance a little as he remembered how to really aggravate this boy and psyched himself for what would follow. Nemo's eye narrowed suspiciously as the man's hand dropped to the nightstick sheathed at his hip.
Xander caught that too. Go ahead and pull it, asshole; it might just even the odds... but I doubt it. "I can and will retake my SATs; you'll never have the chance to redeem your failures."
"Including you." Ryan's sneer turned on Willow as he played his trump card. "I should've figured you'd shack up with her sooner or later. Little Christ-killer always did go down faster than a hooker on a hundred-dollar tip."
All four youths went still. Willow was pale with shock, Xander with restrained fury. Shooter and Nemo were both watching the blond with expressions that were ominously blank.
"Do yourself a favour: don't go there," Xander breathed, far readier for action than the Stormers knew.
"Oh, come on," Ryan smirked, misjudging the boy's stillness. "Why else would you be around her? You never learned anything from her, you never got any status from being around her - the little kike slut must've -"
Xander MOVED.
Ryan was half-expecting the boy to attack, but not so fast - nor so well. He'd barely started pulling the nightstick when the heel of Xander's right hand smashed his nose flat, sending him reeling. His left fist hammered into Ryan's belly, though the blow was blunted by the Stormer's Kevlar vest. Xander's right hand chopped down like an axe-blade, snapping the man's collarbone; the blow flowed into an elbow-smash that mashed Ryan's lips and broke three teeth at the gumline. A knee drove into his groin like a battering ram, doubling him over with an agonised croak.
Even as Xander reached the older man, the German was grabbing for his pistol. Willow reacted instantly, going stock-still as she focussed all her will and magical power onto one tiny task: keeping the holster's retaining-strap closed. The German tugged at the 9mm once. Blinked as it didn't move. Tugged again. Looked down -
- And Nemo was there, seizing the man's wrist and twisting it into a vicious hammerlock in one deft move. "I said 'leave it alone', boyo; this is a family matter," he purred into the man's ear, and his smile was not a pleasant thing to see.
Xander stripped the nightstick, pistol, and handcuffs from Ryan's belt in swift, precise moves, tossing the nightstick into a nearby trash bin. Ejecting the magazine from the P99, he worked the slide to clear the chamber and tossed the ammo to Shooter, who caught it with casual ease. That done, he hauled Ryan back upright with a strength that widened Willow's eyes, whip-snapped the man's own handcuffs onto his wrists, ratchetted them tight enough to draw blood (and another croak of agony), and laid a forearm like an iron bar across the older man's throat, bending him so far back over the railing that he could see the food-court - and the thirty-foot drop thereto - out the side of his eye.
"A fall from this height might not kill you outright," Xander said in a soft, casual voice - with oddly British intonations. "Might not even break your neck or back, if you don't land on a table or something like that. Hell, that Kevlar vest you're wearing might even save you punctured lungs." His voice was all the more dreadful for its softness. "Might. But understand this: you do not own me anymore - I own you. From this moment on, you are nothing to me. If you have any shred of wisdom in your soul, you will keep it that way. Because if I am forced to notice you again - say, if you ever, EVER say anything about my friends, much less Willow Rosenberg - I will rip your lungs out through your arse and your balls out through your nostrils. I give you my word as a Sicilian."
And for perhaps the first time ever, Ryan Harris really saw his son... and was afraid.
On the heels of that last hissed promise, Xander shoved himself back from the blond man and let him collapse against the inside of the railing, watching as he almost blubbered in terror. A tiny part of him was ashamed of how much he'd enjoyed that. Another part knew that it had needed doing for a long time.
Shooter casually lobbed the P99 mag and loose round into a nearby planter-box and looked at Xander with a crooked smile. "Sicilian?" she asked idly.
"My mother was born outside Messina," Xander smiled crookedly, field-stripping the Walther in a few sure moves and dropping the pieces into the trash bin. "Hell, the name on my birth certificate is 'Alessandro'."
"Feel better?" Nemo asked, just as off-handly as his wife, releasing the German. Wild-eyed, he half-scrambled away from the youth with the eyepatch and went to assist his partner.
"It's closure," the Scooby shrugged, looking to Willow, instantly back to the dapper, slightly daffy young man he'd been a couple of minutes ago. "You okay?"
She nodded, massaging one temple - working magic was always a strain, and trebly so from a cold start - even as she regarded him with amazed eyes. "Where did you - when did you -"
"I'll tell you when we have some privacy, okay?" Xander suggested gently. "Sorry about that, folks. Shall we move on?"
Nemo considered the suddenly diminished blond for a moment, cleared his throat - then spat full in his eye and turned back to his companions. "Absolutely. There's nothing here worth our time."
"What happened to that second joker?" Shooter wondered as they moved away. "It was like he couldn't get his holster open."
"Maybe he fumbled it," Nemo shrugged.
Xander glanced at Willow, saw her pained expression, and knew better. "You?" he breathed sidelong, knowing the other pair were safely a pace or two ahead.
The redhead nodded a little, rubbing her temple again. "It was all I could think of."
"Hey: even the little things count, especially at times like that. You always were switched on," he smiled, squeezing her shoulder. "You did great!"
And despite her sudden fatigue, Willow smiled.
- * - * - * - * - * - * - * -
"Well, that was certainly interesting," Emerald muttered. She and Topaz were sitting in the food-court below, looking like a couple of dateless yuppies; despite the bad angle they'd seen, if not heard, a fair deal of Xander's part of the incident.
"Christ, that boy's too dangerous to trifle with," the brunette decided. "If he gets even a fraction out of line, we'll have to sanction him right on the spot or this could all blow up in our face. Why the hell don't we have tranqs for this, since Opal's so dead-set on the 'firebug' plan?"
"Ask Onyx; he was the one who requisitioned our gear." Emerald turned her attention back to her steak sandwich and fries. "But once you do, stand aside so I can kick his ass?"
Her companion snorted eloquently. "What's that phrase you North Americans use - 'take a number'?"
- * - * - * - * - * - * - * -
A smiling waiter led the quartet to their reserved corner table, and Willow noted, almost absently, that Shooter and Nemo took the two seats that faced the front door. What's that about?
The waiter hovered for a moment, and even as he settled himself into his seat, Nemo was speaking to the man in Cantonese, going on for almost half a minute solid before dismissing him.
Xander had listened to the monologue intently, and smiled crookedly as the waiter disappeared into the kitchen. "All of that, huh?"
The scarred man arched the brow above his eyepatch. "Well, there's four of us, and we want to be sure everybody feeds well, right?"
"What'd I miss?" Willow wondered.
"Polyphemus here just ordered some appetisers-slash-side-dishes."
"??" eeped Willow - a linguistic feat that impressed all present, even Nemo.
"What's wrong?" Shooter wondered, mystified by the redhead's reaction.
"Polyphemus was the Cyclops Ulysses blinded in the Odyssey." Willow was still looking at Xander strangely. "Classical literature, Xander? And since when can you speak Cantonese?"
"You'd be surprised," Nemo said smoothly. "That Pom I mentioned earlier? Joker was a four-eyed geek, and his idea of a fun hobby was milking snakes for anti-venin. The reason that truth is stranger than fiction, Willow, is that there is no requirement for it to be consistent."
"Samuel Clemens, AKA Mark Twain," Xander declared.
"Ding! Fifty points to Harris!" Nemo grinned in a Game-Show Host voice.
Shooter rolled her eyes indulgently, but had no time to comment before the waiter returned with a tray. Smiling at everybody, he laid several bamboo baskets on the turntable at the centre of the table, handed out menus, and disappeared again. He reappeared again an instant later, setting a steaming pot of green tea at the centre of the table. Xander tapped his middle finger on the table; the waiter noted it and shot a slightly puzzled look at Willow, but Xander repeated the gesture. The waiter shrugged and vanished yet again.
"What's that with the finger?" Willow wondered, before surveying the rest of the newly-arrived items. "And what the heck -?"
"The finger-tapping is a standard gesture in Hong Kong and Cantonese food etiquette, thanking the waiter for delivering the tea. Middle finger only if you're single, middle and index if you're with a date," Xander smiled, demonstrating. "A dim sum meal isn't really complete without tea."
"And you know this how?"
"Something I picked up in my travels," he said easily. "And these" (he waved a hand at the bamboo baskets) "are the appetisers. Dim sum - the ish, the real deal, not that ersatz stuff you get in cardboard cartons or a self-serve smorgasbord. So, what'cha get?" he asked Nemo, eyeing the baskets. "My Cantonese is a little patchy, so I didn't quite catch all that."
Nemo chuckled and started lifting the lids on the baskets, pushing back them towards the centre of the table as he identified each. "Four servings to a basket, people, so don't be shy about grabbing what you like. That first one's gàisi cháumin, fried crispy noodles with shredded chicken, really nice stuff. Over here we have hà gáu, shrimp dumplings; this one is... chà sìu bàu, barbecued pork buns, I guess that one's optional for you, Willow... ho yip fan, which is rice wrapped in lotus leaf; and this last one is cheung fan, steamed rice flour rolls with, uh, shrimp filling by looks of it."
"Go ahead and tuck in," Shooter urged.
Having received his hosts' permission, Xander obeyed eagerly, grabbing chicken for himself and dumplings for Willow. "We can decide on our 'mains' while we snack," he suggested to Willow, handling his chopsticks confidently. "Communal dishes, or individual?" he asked Nemo.
"Either," the smaller man shrugged, then explained to Willow: "In Chinese culture, meals are social occasions, and ordering a dish for yourself is considered selfish unless you're among close and dear friends; usually, everybody orders at least one dish, and anybody can have a whack at it."
Willow nodded, impressed at (and filing away) his knowledge of another culture as she tried to read the menu, absently spearing a dumpling with her fork. (A moment's thanks for the restaurant's thoughtful - and tactfully subtle - provision of both chopsticks and forks for their patrons.) "Am I crazy, or are they actually offering pigeon on the menu?" she blinked.
"You say that like one would preclude the other," Nemo murmured playfully, then flinched as Willow gave him a good-natured kick under the table.
Shooter noted the by-play with a smirk, but her main attention was on the menu-item Willow had commented on. "Outstanding," she said with relish. "Don't knock it 'til you try it, Willow; you'd be how surprised how tasty roast pigeon with lemon sauce actually is. Tell you what, I'll get some and you can try it if you like, 'kay?"
"Okay," the hacker nodded, not convinced.
"Hey, they're cheating!" Nemo said lightly. "They market this place as 'authentic Cantonese', but at least three of these dishes are from Chaozhou!"
"Will you please suspend your thorough-going attention to detail for five minutes?" Shooter wailed, though less plaintively than she might have; both Scoobies stifled laughter.
"You were singing a different tune last night," her husband murmured, a wicked glint in his eye.
"No, I was moaning a different tune last night!" she countered shamelessly. Both Nemo and Willow went a little pink; Xander tried to snicker and almost choked on a piece of chicken. "Of all people, my beloved, you should know that I sing about as well as a troll tap-dances."
Xander finally cleared his windpipe and cocked an eyebrow at the Russian. "Wouldn't that rather depend on the troll?" he asked thoughtfully.
There he goes again! Willow noted with a tiny frown. She'd first noticed it at the hospital that first time and thought she'd imagined it, but as she'd kept listening over the last few days, she grew more certain. When Xander was worked up or he wasn't paying full attention, his voice took on *British* intonations. It's almost like he's spent a long time living with a group of Gileses, but he's only been gone six weeks! What the heck is going on with him?
"Remind me to introduce you to Detritus some time, Xander," Nemo drawled.
"'Detritus'?" Willow blinked.
"He's a character out of Terry Pratchett's Discworld novels. Before he became a cop, a pub called the Mended Drum used to employ him as a splatter." Off Willow's perplexed stare, he clarified in a deadpan voice, "A splatter is like a bouncer - only trolls use more force."
- * - * - * - * - * - * - * -
Turquoise cocked an eyebrow at the quartet's general snigger. "They're certainly comfortable enough," he murmured into the microphone in his cuff, masking it as a yawn. The one-time CIA man was sitting alone three tables over, dressed in battered jeans and a flannel shirt, playing the part of a blue-collar joe.
{"Is there any reason they shouldn't be?"} Topaz asked from outside.
- * - * - * - * - * - * - * -
19:24, AUGUST 26, LIMA (03:24/27-08-99 ZULU)
STARSCAPE, SUNNYDALE MALL
It didn't take too much effort to locate the Slayerettes and their companions. All you had to do was look at the knot of appalled spectators at the bank of interlinked 'Daytona' racing-game machines... and listen for the voices.
"MOVE OVER, BLONDIE!" Shooter snarled sidelong, doing her level best to put Willow's car into - and through - the guard-rail.
"IN YOUR DREAMS, GREASE-MONKEY!" the Wiccan returned in a like tone, her hair flying about her face as she shot a quick, sidelong glare at the older woman.
"Who knew Willow was this ferocious?" Nemo wondered in a distinctly bemused voice, peering over the back of the redhead's seat as she controlled her skid, stood on the gas, and rear-ended Shooter's car at almost 160 MPH.
"I guess you've never seen her really mad," pointed out a wild-eyed Xander, watching Shooter's car do a back-flip before landing upright and continuing the race. "I seem to remember an incident with a baseball bat in our sophomore year...." Each of the women seemed more focused on trying to put the other out of the race than on actually winning it. But then, Nemo could have predicted that anyway: his wife was one of those people who gave 150% to everything she did, and her enthusiasm was a contagious thing. It looked like Willow had caught a massive dose and simply decided to go with it.
"Aw, Christ!" yelped the other racer in the match, a thirty-ish, tow-headed guy in a very loud Metallica shirt, as he inadvertantly drove between the two women and got sandwiched for his trouble. Shooter got out of it okay; the guy went headlong into the barriers, and Willow spun four times before she brought her vehicle back under control and hoofed it after Shooter.
Seven laps later, both cars looked like fodder for a junkyard, the student had dropped four places to stay well clear of the dogfight, and Shooter crossed the finish line - sideways - half a car-length ahead of the hacker, raising both fists into the air and letting out a deafening rebel yell.
Xander looked over at Nemo dazedly. "Are you completely aware that your wife's an absolute nutter?" he asked faintly.
"Why d'you think I married her?" the other man grinned, patting Willow's shoulder consolingly. "Good on you, kiddo."
"I just lost," she growled, the firm lines of her mouth worrying Xander for a few seconds; that was the incipient stages of Resolve Face.
"No - you came second, against a woman who has far more experience at this, giving her all the trouble she could handle in the process. You gave it your dead best shot, Willow, and that's all that can be asked of anyone."
Willow pondered that for a moment, then shrugged and conceded the point, a little mollified. "I guess." Both she and Shooter climbed out of their seats, and the redhead cast about the arcade with flashing eyes, her blood up. "What's next? I wanna get even!"
Shooter laughed, enjoying the show of spirit. "Okay, Scrappy Doo: you ever played 'NFL Blitz '99'?" she posed, tipping her head at where the gridiron sim stood.
"Nope, but it's got instructions, right?"
"Hey: Heckle, Jeckle," the Russian said, looking over her shoulder at Nemo and Xander. "It's a four-person game; you guys in?"
"How 'bout you let Willow play a quarter or two by herself, so she can figure out how everything works - then you can try to kick her ass head-to-head. We'll just stand there and kibbitz," Xander suggested. And here's hoping all this 'we don't have a clue' stuff puts our tattooed friends into the lackadasical mood we need them in for this to work....
"Fair enough."
Thirty minutes later, Willow had triumphed in her first two games against the computer, but Shooter had challenged her during the third and it wasn't going so well for her. In fact, in the dying stages of the fourth quarter, Shooter held a twenty-point lead, and possession of the football.
Observing the duel from a table a few feet away, Nemo cocked an eyebrow at Willow's stubborn body-language. "Not one to give up easily, is she?"
"She's been putting up with me since we were five," Xander shrugged.
"'Nuff said," the amber-eyed youth murmured blandly. A harried-looking mother went past them, carrying a baby that apparently needed changing; a four-year-old trailing in her wake lost sight of her in the forest of legs, stopped next to Nemo, and started snuffling and tearing up. Exchanging an amused look with his dark-haired compatriot, Nemo slipped out of his chair and knelt before the toddler as Xander went to recall her mother. Fascinated by his eyepatch and the strange colour of his other eye, the child went quiet and stared at him. "Hey, what'cha grizzling for?" he asked gently, his voice wryly amused as ever but devoid of the sing-song tones people usually use on young children. "All your meals are laid on for you; you're chauffeured everywhere you go; no bills, no homework, no-one out to get you - make the most of the soft life while you can, kiddo, 'cause it only gets worse from there on out," he drawled feelingly.
Her mother reappeared through the crowd and retrieved her wayward offspring, taking her by the hand and flashing a smile at Nemo. "Thank you. How'd you do that?"
"I've always had a way with kids, ma'am," he said politely, sketching a salute.
As the family departed, back at the 'Blitz' console Shooter was on defence again after blowing a long-yardage fourth-down play; Willow tried to make a miracle happen as the game-clock hit zero, but Shooter read the pattern with negligent ease, mugged the receiver and swatted the ball down before the play ever really began. With the console announcing her victory, she gave Willow a little grin of triumph.
That alone was enough to burn Willow's toast, but the Russian's cocky wink back at the guys was just the last straw. "Right!" the Wiccan growled, absolutely fed up. "Xander, get over here and help me kick her ass!"
The two men exchanged looks of private amusement and obeyed. For three frenetic quarters of play, the balance wavered back and forth. Shooter and Nemo were the first to score, playing with savage aggression and ruthlessness, using only a few of the in-game tricks but employing them masterfully - and they had the added advantage of being able to discuss strategy in a language their opponents couldn't understand. Xander and Willow were only learning the game controls, but a few lucky breaks, some foolhardy play-calls by the foreigners, and sheer my-heart's-still-beatin'-so-I-ain't-done tenacity let them claw back to near-equal footing every time the others edged ahead. A fair-sized crowd gathered as the game progressed, attracted by the noise and word-of-mouth, and their cheers only added to passions running extremely high as the fourth quarter began; all four players were jostling and yelling at each other, the banter of friends mixed with do-or-die insults and jeers. Feeling quite warm, Willow had cast aside her sweater, and puzzled over why her sweating companions didn't do likewise.
Finally, it came down to the last twenty seconds of the fourth quarter; the two foreigners led 43-38, and the Slayerettes had possession. Willow took the snap, faded right - and Shooter got to her, smashing her player into the turf amid a cacophony of synthesised groans and impacts. {"And he makes him eat the ball! Oh, that can't taste very good,"} observed the console, before flashing the message that the ball had been turned over on downs.
"Damn!" Xander hissed, swiping the sweat from his forehead with his jacket-cuff.
"Kiss it goodbye, Blondie," Shooter smirked, murmuring something to her husband in Russian as she chose their offensive play.
"It's not over yet," Willow said grimly as the field of play reappeared.
Shooter set up to receive the snap - but instead of using zone-defences like she had for most of the last eleven quarters, Willow threw in a zone blitz, and the sudden shift caught both foreigners off guard. Xander's linebacker slipped through the offensive line and laid out the quarterback like a cheap tablecloth; the Russian lost six yards on the play, and Xander's linebacker gloated, {"I'm gonna send you back to your mother in a BOX!"}
"You sneaky little minx," the denim-clad woman breathed. "You've been setting me up! Okay, let's see how you like this one...."
Only 'this one' fell prey to a corner blitz, and this time it was Willow who got to the QB. She got up - and immediately dropped an elbow on the Russian's player, just to underscore the point.
{"Was that absolutely necessary?"} the commentator wondered.
"Actually, ummm: YES!" Willow nodded fiercely, and Xander had to choke back a laugh.
{"Third and forty."} Nemo went in motion; Shooter took the snap on one, dropped back, looked for the open man - but Willow had chosen an all-out suicide blitz, high-risk but also high-gain. Shooter threw under pressure -
- but Willow was there first, intercepted the pass, took off running. Shooter and Nemo quickly switched players to try to stop her; only Shooter was close enough to have a chance, but Xander threw a perfect block and Willow danced across the goal-line with the game clock flashing {0:00}.
{"Touchdown, Raiders!"} cried the console. {"Raiders win!"}
The crowd went nuts, not a few paying off bets, many cheering, others gutted. They weren't the only ones.
"YEEEAAAHHH-HA-HA!!!" Willow howled, jumping up and down, wired on adrenaline and victory. "WEWONWEWONWEWON!!! TAKE THAT, YOU SMUG COMMIE ROUGHNECK!"
"'SCOOBY 3:16' SAYS WE JUST WHUPPED YOUR ASS!!!" Xander gloated, breaking into a triumphant Snoopy Dance.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Nemo rolled his eye indulgently.
Taking no notice, the Slayerettes continued their celebration. Both were completely caught up in the moment, feeling nothing but exultation.
And that's when the perfect night started to go pear-shaped.
Xander caught sight of Willow's face, flushed and a little sweaty, laughing and cheering to the heavens, her eyes bright and flashing with energy and joy - and his baser impulses, restrained for so many months, did all the rest.
Willow had only a split-second to blink as Xander's hands cupped her face - then there was nothing in the world but him and he was kissing her like there was no tomorrow and she was kissing back and God it had been forever since they'd last kissed and he tasted even better than she remembered and her hands were on his shoulders and ohhhh that sweet thing his teeth did to the tip of her tongue and Oz had never kissed her like th-
Oz.
Oh God - Oz.
It was like being doused in a glacial stream. Willow pushed herself away from Xander like he was radioactive. "I... I.... I can't do this. I can't...."
And she fled as fast as her legs would carry her.
- * - * - * - * - * - * - * -
{"Rosenberg's on the move."} Emerald's voice came through Turquoise's earpiece as clear as a bell. {"Looks like she's heading for the parking structure."}
"Excellent," he breathed into his mike, abandoning his place in the movie foyer. "We can pick 'em off individually. Get there, fast!"
- * - * - * - * - * - * - * -
"Aw, shit." Xander sagged, looking and feeling far too old for his years. How the hell did I let that happen! Especially now, for Christ's sake! He'd intended to give her time, he really had, but seeing her like that....
"Well, that went swimmingly," Nemo observed sardonically. "Nice going, Bullwinkle."
"We'd better go after her," Shooter pointed out, her voice heavy with resignation.
"No; I'd better go after her." Nemo gave them both a level look. "I don't think she'd react well to you right now, Xander - and as for you, cariad, your devotion to the 'one-rip-and-it's-off' school of sticking-plaster removal has its place, but this... isn't it. I'm about the only safe choice going."
Xander stifled the impulse to argue. "I suppose you're the expert."
Nemo snatched Willow's discarded sweater off their table and took off at a pace just under a run. Shooter gave her husband half a minute to get out of sight, then jogged Xander's elbow. "C'mon - we'd better make sure those two don't get into trouble. This is Sunnydale, remember?"
"I grew up here, remember?" he countered acidly, leading off.
Half a step behind him, Shooter raised her cuff to her lips and breathed, "[Headed your way.]"
{"[Copy,]"} said the man on the other end. {"[Ready out here.]"}
- * - * - * - * - * - * - * -
20:27, AUGUST 26, LIMA (04:27/27-08-99 ZULU)
PARKING STRUCTURE, SUNNYDALE MALL
When her panic receded a little, Willow found herself huddled against a pillar, her mind awhirl, her hands shaking.
Oh, Goddess, how did I let that happen? Oz only broke up with me two days ago, and here I am kissing Xander again! What kind of slut am I?
Someone cleared their throat behind her, and she whipped around, dashing the confused tears from her eyes with one hand, the other flashing to her purse to grasp her stake.
Nemo spread his hands - Easy, kiddo, it's just me! - and hefted the sweater she'd left behind. "You forgot your jersey."
The redhead relaxed a shade. "Thanks. You startled me!"
"Sorry." He lowered his hands again and gave her a concerned look. "You... want me to take you home?"
Willow drew breath to say 'yes' - then simply let it out in a sigh, shaking her head helplessly; her voice was unsteady. "I don't know what I want."
"I know the feeling." His smile and tone were rueful, but gently sympathetic. Glancing about, he nodded at the Jaguar. "Shall we sit down? Might make it easier to talk."
Feeling not a little drained after the emotional high - and turmoil - she'd just been through, the Wiccan slowly crossed to where he was perched on the hood of the Jaguar and hopped up next to him. They sat there for a few minutes in a companionable silence that Nemo did nothing to break, letting her pull herself together.
- * - * - * - * - * - * - * -
Xander was in the lead as they came around a column, and Shooter ran straight into his back as he saw the others sitting on the Jag and came to a screeching halt. She muttered something about his parentage and half-dragged him back under cover before they could be spotted; after all, the point was for those two to talk alone, right?
"Look comfortable, don't they?" she breathed.
"He's comfortable; she's...." Xander's voice failed him for a moment. "God, it's like she's made of spun glass right now, like she'll shatter at the slightest touch."
"My hubby has a light hand," she shrugged, her tone soothing. "Incidentally, was that a gun I felt under your jacket?"
"What if it was?"
"Well, what would you say if I told you that Doctor Joyce Brothers has publicly declared that men who own and carry firearms are trying to compensate for sexual inadequacies?"
"Given that her husband Milton straps on a nine-millimetre every time he leaves the house, I'd have to say she's full of shit."
"Just checking," she grinned.
Their conversation was cut short by a quiet yet carrying sound, a dry *shik-klik*... like a pistol being hand-cycled into battery.
- * - * - * - * - * - * - * -
Finally, Willow simply buried her face in her hands. "What am I gonna do?"
"Beats me; clairvoyance isn't among my talents."
She shot him a sour look.
"Force of habit. Sorry." He shrugged, speaking softly and looking straight ahead. "I don't know what to say, Willow; my only knowledge of the emotional dynamics of break-ups and rebounds is, at best, second-hand."
"It's Xander," the Wiccan said helplessly, feeling like she'd fallen under an emotional avalanche. "For twelve years, it was Xander, and he didn't know, then it was me pining for Xander and Xander pining for Buffy, then Xander and Cordelia were fighting and kissing and I had Oz with his taciturn coolness and his being my-boyfriend-in-a-band, then there was Homecoming and it was me and Xander behind everybody's backs and I didn't want to hurt Oz or betray him but I couldn't help it, I've always wanted Xander -"
Somewhere off to their far right, a horn tooted; Nemo's ears pricked up.
Willow was too wound up to notice. "- But then Oz gave me that second chance and everything was uneasy but we were okay then there was Graduation -"
"Willow!" he interjected, with just enough exasperation to break through her babble.
"Huh?"
"Slow down, huh? Parse things. As endearing as I find your tendency to babble, it'd be easier for me to listen and give advice if I could actually follow what you're saying," he teased gently.
Again with the dirty look. "I... I -"
smack!
A slap? "What the hey?" she wondered, turning towards the noise, almost glad for the distraction. Two people were coming from the direction of the mall doors. In the lead was a late-thirties blonde woman in grey slacks, a blue silk blouse and a leather jacket; she was half-scampering their way, her left hand to her cheek, her right clutching at her side under the left breast of her jacket, her breathing a series of blubbering sobs, tears running down her face. A fortyish guy in jeans and a flannel shirt was a couple of paces behind her, his expression murderous and his fists clenched.
Game time. "Doesn't look good, whatever it is," Nemo shrugged guardedly, scratching the back of his neck; Willow didn't know he was clearing his access to his cuff-mike. So, Amethyst, we finally get to settle our unfinished business....
"Don't you ever talk back to me again, you bitch!" Flannel Shirt snarled after the blonde. "Don't you fucking dare -!"
Well, this is another fine mess I've gotten me into.... "Of courthe you realithe thith meanth war!" Nemo stated firmly (in a perfect Daffy Duck lisp) as he stood up; he was as much speaking to his radio-pickup as to the two 'disputants'. "Can we help you, miss?"
Why's he using a Californian accent? Willow wondered... right before events went into fast-forward.
The blonde's right hand came into sight -
- holding a silenced P99 that lined right on Willow's midsection. Both youths froze.
"As a matter of fact, you can," Amethyst smiled, lowering her left hand to reveal her powderburned cheek, and the mark from the slap she'd had Turquoise lay on her for authenticity. Even as she spoke, her companion was producing a suppressed Walther of his own. Behind her, Shooter and Xander appeared around a column, each being frog-marched by another pistolero. "You can start by coming with me - and let's keep this nice and quiet, hey? It would be a shame to end this lovely evening by putting a bullet in Miss Rosenberg's guts."
"Yes, it would," 'Nemo' agreed evenly, with a cryptic little smile. "It'd defeat the whole purpose of the exercise."
Chapter End Notes:
In 'Touched by an Angel', Andrew is one of the titular angels: the Angel of Death, in fact.
Stasi - before the fall of the Berlin Wall, the Stasi were East Germany's secret police; kind of like the KGB, only with no sense of humour.
And yes, I know that by canon, Xander's Dad was named 'Tony'; I believe I made my position on that matter quite plain in the end-notes for the previous chapter. :-D
ersatz - loosely, 'imitation'. (German)
In 'NFL Blitz '99', the players have ten 'free' seconds to select their plays, and each game-quarter is two minutes, game-time being checked off from the snap to the ball going dead (by tackle, sack, out-of-bounds, incomplete pass, or actually scoring); first downs require an advance of thirty yards or more, two-point conversions are fully permissible (even encouraged), and there are no penalties or time-outs. All colour commentary from the console is as actually heard during a game.
The comment on Joyce Brothers' position about firearms - and about her hubby Milton - is a verified matter of public record (though I can't vouch for the weapon he actually carries). Makes you wonder, doesn't it? :-D