Part Thirty-eight
Sunnydale, California. April 25, 2001
"Hey. What's going on here?" the police officer said, as he and his partner advanced down the alley.
The demon known as Clem looked up in sudden fear, and the two humans that were close to him looked, well, *put out* that they were being disturbed. One of them said, "Nothing's going on here, officer. Just talking to our friend about things in general, isn't that right buddy? You'll have to pardon his appearance, he has a skin condition-"
The first cop looked at the loose-skinned and floppy-eared creature carefully, as he shone the flashlight downwards. "No, I sure as hell don't think so. No skin condition there! You're a demon, aren't you?"
Clem's eyes widened at that. "Uh, officer, I know it looks like..."
The policeman held up his hand, not wanting to hear the spiel. "No. I know demons, mister, and you are one of 'em. Only question is whether you're the violent or peaceable type! So, what's going on here?"
"Nothing, officer. They were just discussing some matters with my friend here. We had some business to transact, so to speak..." A demon with the head of shark stepped out of the shadows, from further down in the alley.
The second officer laughed, and his partner looked questioningly at him. "Don't you get it? He's a loan shark," the junior cop explained.
The first police officer exhaled a large breath in exasperation. "You've *got* to be kidding me! The loan shark we've been hearing about from the watch commander since yesterday, he really *is* a shark?"
The demon in question walked over to the thin blue line in a friendly manner. "Officers! In the past, I've always enjoyed the most cordial relationship with the representatives of the law enforcement community around here. And I'm confident that we can continue that tradition tonight..." He placed his hand the on the right shoulder of the first officer, intending to bribe him.
"Get your smelly fin off me, baby seal breath, or I'll be having sushi for dinner tonight!" the police officer growled. The loan shark jumped back in shock. "Let me guess what's going on here, you're hassling...what's your name?" he asked Clem.
"Clem."
"Clem here, over some debt that started out small - but ballooned out into some outrageous amount, almost instantly. Now you're threatening him with grievous bodily harm, if he doesn't cough up?" the patrol officer speculated.
"Hey, he's just a damn demon. What's he to you? And why are you guys meddling in this?" one of the not-so-bright human thugs asked.
The loan shark, someone Spike would have called Teeth towards the end of the year, stiffened at that. He didn't like using humans to do his strong-arm chores; but what with the activities of the Slayer, her crew, the Knights of Byzantium and the new Sunnydale police department, it was hard to find good demonic minions - even vampires - these days. For the little things like threatening Clem, well - humans were the most economical prospects to use at the moment.
"He's a citizen of Sunnydale, California. And unlike practically anywhere else in the country, the guy's species doesn't automatically make him the villain in this equation! As such, it's my sworn duty to protect him until I learn otherwise," the beat cop said in an even voice.
"Really, officer, it's no bother..." Clem started to say.
"How much are you into him for?" the second police officer asked.
Clem - whose name was actually short for Clement - read clearly the unspoken order to cut the bullshit already. So he shrugged, "Twenty kittens. Persians only," the nonviolent demon answered.
"Cats?" the first policeman asked in disbelief. "You owe him *pussy cats*?"
"I, uh, it was this poker game last week. I mean, I'm trying to cut down on the intake of Siamese, see - my doctor said they're not doing my cholesterol levels any good, at all-" Clem stammered.
"Oh, my daughter would *freak* if I told her about this conversation! And I'm betting this guy had the poker game rigged, too? Forget it. The debt's canceled," the senior officer declared.
"Now hold on here-!" the loan shark said.
"Don't even think about it," the other cop snapped, unsnapping the clip fastener on his .38 sidearm.
"Why not? There are three of us here," one of the human thugs said, in his charming Neanderthal way.
"You can count, good for you. Want to try again?" the first police officer said.
At that moment, they heard the brief howl of a police siren turned on and off quickly. The hired muscle then looked towards the entrance of the alley to see a couple of Sunnydale PD cruisers sitting there with their engines idling, and more cops visible within them.
"All of you, get lost; you're lucky I don't feel like doing the new kind of paperwork that has to be filled out, for the people like you three mooks. Go home and you, Mr. Loan Shark, write off tonight as a bad debt - and a learning experience, about the new order in this town!" the first officer said with a no-nonsense tone of voice.
The two humans looked at each other, and then swiftly fled the alley. Teeth waited a second, before following them as fast as his shark-like body could carry him.
The senior police officer then turned to the floppy-eared demon remaining in the alley. "Look, uh, Clem? Friendly piece of advice - don't deal with anything that has fins again. Now, you have a nice evening..."
Clem nodded. "Certainly, officer. And, and thanks..." Clem hurried out of the alley, as the two cops headed for their comrades in the police cruisers. {Oh, now *that* was surreal! The police around here, on the side of someone like *me*? I need to talk to someone about what just happened! Hmm...yeah, that Slayer, Buffy Summers, she's going to want to know about this.}
Los Angeles, California. The same night
It was the end of an era, or so it felt to Angel.
Tonight's adventure had started out with a grisly vision Gwen had had, about a man stabbing himself in the eye for no good reason. Angel had followed it up, and it had led to a Pockla demon clinic...and his old nemesis from Wolfram & Hart, Lindsey MacDonald.
The Texan had recently been given the gift of a new hand by his law firm, for faithful services rendered to Linwood Murrow. But to Lindsey's consternation, the foreign appendage had kept writing 'Kill' of its own volition, whenever the lawyer wasn't paying attention.
A quick trip to Caritas, and Lorne's instructions to join up with Angel to solve the mystery had *not* made Lindsey a happy camper. But that had been nothing, compared to finding out that his new hand had come from a former colleague...during MacDonald's early days in the company mailroom...
Someone named Brad who, like all the other poor bastards trapped in that damned demon establishment, was being used as a supply of human spare parts by the firm; and who had been trying to tell Lindsey to kill him, and put the guy out of his agonized misery.
For the Texan lawyer, whose conscience had been decimated but never quite obliterated in the employ of the demons, it was too much to deal with anymore.
MacDonald had quit Wolfram & Hart after he and Angel had destroyed that clinic, and he was now leaving town. As an aside, Lilah Morgan hadn't been unhappy about that at all - until she realized that she was now the only target left for Xander's promised vengeance, one day...
As Angel watched Lindsey's crappy old truck start off down the street, he thought about what the legal eagle had said as a last goodbye: "The key to Wolfram & Hart? Don't let them make you play their game. You gotta make them play yours. That's what those government types have been doing, the last two years; the firm's been dancing to their tune, and constantly losing because of that..."
Then the vampire suddenly smiled - as MacDonald obviously hadn't realized that the Champion had stuck a 'COPS SUCK' sign onto the back of the truck, as an *immature* farewell gesture...
The law offices of Wolfram & Hart, Los Angeles, California. The same time
Lilah Morgan knocked on her boss' door and entered the office.
"Is it done?" he asked simply.
Lilah nodded. "Yes, the arrangements have been made, and they've agreed to carry out the assignment. They even had an idea for the proper target."
"Good," Linwood said. "Because this has been going on long enough! We've been playing to their strengths. It's time they learned about ours..."
He swiveled in his chair, and looked out the window at the LA skyline. "This has not been a good time for us, Ms. Morgan. Mr. MacDonald's departure is just the latest mishap to occur..."
Murrow turned back around and glared at Lilah, not having forgotten Lindsey's revelations at the last staff meeting that this woman knew *all* their dirty little secrets. "This is just this start, as I said. I want you working on ideas on how we can keep turning the tables on them. Be creative - show the enemy that we've been here a *lot* longer than their puerile little federal government. We were here before they were, and we'll still be here long after their dominion is history..."
Downtown restaurant, Los Angeles, California. April 27, 2001
"You know, this steak is actually pretty good!" Virginia Bryce said with a shrug as she dug in, the rest of Angel's Avengers seated around the restaurant table.
She and Wes had officially reconciled recently. And the whole gang, apart from Charles Gunn, was here celebrating Cordy's good news. After a lot of patience and hard work, it looked like she was *finally* getting her big break; Cordelia had been in some local and regional commercials, ever since she had moved to the City of Angels from Sunnydale.
But now, after a series of auditions, Ms. Chase had won a role in a national commercial for a suntan lotion. Cordy had been so excited by the news that she had actually *squealed* in delight yesterday, after she had gotten the phone call telling her what was the situation.
Angel had been pleased to see his old friend so happy. So he had decided to splurge and take everyone out to dinner to celebrate; to a place Gwen knew and had often frequented in the bad old days, instead of a place that would have given them food poisoning. Of course, they'd had to wait until the sun went down, but it wasn't late enough to interfere with Cordy's scheduled wakeup call at 4:30 am - so she could get to the shoot bright and early.
In a change from what would have been, though, Gunn hadn't liked being the dateless odd man out here - and so he had begged off from hanging with the white folks, putting in some solo job time in Chinatown at Lorne's suggestion. And Chuck, Cordy's significant other, was here in his place.
Ms. Chase smiled at everyone at the table. "I just want you all to know when I'm rich, famous and popular, that I'll still remember where I came from." She paused for a second. "Of course, I won't publicly admit it!"
Everyone around the table laughed at Cordy's joke. But the laughter stopped suddenly, when Cordelia moaned and grabbed her forehead - and both Chuck and Angel hurried to Cordy's side.
"You all right?" her boyfriend asked in great concern, wondering what the hell was going on.
Cordy shook her head, and reached out to grab a glass of water. Suddenly, the glove-clad hand of Gwen appeared holding two aspirins. "I've been stocking up, ever since I started getting the visions. I'm guessing you're still subscribed to the big old seer network?"
"Been *quite* a long while, but it looks like it..." Cordy took the aspirin and swallowed them. The woman then took a long gulp of water to wash them down. "Oh joy, yay me!" she said sarcastically.
"This has happened before?" Chuck asked instantly. {Why didn't I know about this? }
"Oh yeah, and it used to happen all the time!" Cordy then proceeded to explain the story of her getting visions in the past, having inherited the power from Doyle - and how Gwen had inherited it from her.
At the end of the explanation, Chuck shook his head in amazement. "So you and Gwen have visions, but - why both of you?" he asked. "I thought you said this was supposed to be a one-person-only sort of deal?"
Wesley answered that one. "We don't know. We've tried to find out, but have been unsuccessful in explaining that so far..."
Both Angel and Gwen stayed silent at that. They knew of the involvement of Xander Harris in what had happened, they just didn't want to share it with the others - for various reasons. Then Angel spoke up, "What was the vision about?"
Cordy wiped her forehead. "Haklar demon. Tomorrow night, it's on a rampage. I'm not sure where, all I saw was an outdoor cafe..."
Angel nodded at that, and knew what he would be doing tomorrow night.
Hyperion Hotel, Los Angeles, California. April 28, 2001
"Hello, mum," Wesley said warmly into the phone.
"Hello, Wesley. Oh, it's so good to hear from you!" the good woman said in reply from England.
"I called to wish Father a happy birthday. Is he there?" Wesley asked.
"No, I'm sorry dear, but he's still at the office. He's getting ready for a trip of some sort, and Roger has a lot of things to get caught up on before he leaves," Mrs. Wyndham-Pryce answered apologetically.
"Office?" Wesley said in puzzlement. "I thought he was supposed to have retired ages ago..."
"He was, but some things came up with the Council - and he thought it best to delay the retirement plans for a while. To be honest, I'm rather glad; I just can't picture your father working in the garden all day..."
Wesley suppressed a smile at that image. The he frowned, as some rather nasty childhood memories surfaced of failing to live up to his father's expectations - and the punishments he'd suffered because of that. "I can understand your apprehension, mum. It's been ages since we've talked - what's been going on with you?" Wes asked.
Later that night
Cordelia stomped into the hotel, furious with the world in general and her Hollywood work colleagues in particular. The shoot had been concluded; however, Cordy had *not* enjoyed it. *At all*.
She had arrived on time, a bit early even, and been presented with the swimsuit she was supposed to wear for the commercial. It had been a bikini, and *barely* a bikini at that. Cordelia had been horrified, when she realized just how little they wanted her to wear for this gig. And the day had only gotten worse from there...
That son of a bitch director had treated her as nothing more than a dumb piece of meat, a bimbo for him to move around and pose as he chose. It had been humiliating, and for the first time - Cordy was glad that her friends, both new and old, knew nothing about today's events.
Angel had shown up halfway through the morning, wanting to ask for more details on her vision the night before. That had been a screaming reminder of the weirdness that was her life. The director had *not* been happy about the distraction, either, and later taken it out on her.
But thankfully, it was all over now. The commercial had been shot. Her introduction to the country at large was on film, waiting to be cut and edited. Cordelia Chase was on her way to the top.
So why did she feel so rotten and used, and that she desperately needed a shower?
Cordy imagined it was mostly because Chuck wasn't around to offer boyfriend comfort, he had more gym and aerobics classes to teach tonight. So once the shoot was finished, she headed over to the Hyperion to check in with the Fang Gang.
She found them in a similar funk, and Gwen and Wesley were actually arguing. "We should wait for Gunn to return," the ex-Watcher said irritably.
"Wes, we're losing time. And the guy shouldn't have just wandered off if he's part of the team!" Gwen snapped back, privately amazed that *she* was the one talking up the value of teamwork.
Wesley frowned at the thief/seer. "Angel is hunting for the Haklar demon, I'm sure Gunn will be back before he finds it-"
"So I guess I have more faith in our boss than you do?" Gwen shot back with a Look.
"Kids, kids, let's not get all riled up here. Let's save it for the Haklar, whaddya say?" Lorne the Host stepped forward, trying to smooth things over. He then spotted Cordelia, "Oh hey, honeybunch, great to see you! How did the big break go?"
Cordy rolled her eyes. "Don't ask. Got it done, yeah, but I felt like a piece of meat on display for everyone's inspection!" Cordy hugged her arms around her chest tightly. She doubted that she would be comfortable wearing anything low-cut for quite a while.
Nearby, Gwen raised an eyebrow at Cordy's comment.
Ms. Raiden was finding that Cordelia Chase wasn't as superficial as she'd first thought. She surprised Gwen every once in a while. And that kinda made the other brunette woman curious, about the people that she knew were in Sunnydale. The people who had been involved with the one and only Alexander Lavelle Harris.
There had been a heads-up recently, and Gwen was looking forward to an upcoming trip to ask the time-displaced warrior more questions about his past. She didn't know how successful she would be, but still - the Electra Girl was curious.
At that moment, the door swung open and Charles Gunn stomped in, clearly in a bad mood.
"Gunn," Wesley called to the street warrior. "We need-"
"Hold on. I need a moment," Gunn said instantly.
Cordelia could tell something was wrong. "Gunn? What's wrong?" Ms. Chase forgot about her feelings, and moved to comfort her friend.
"I told 'em to wait for me. I told them, but they wouldn't do it. They went ahead, and now he's dead because of that!" the Gunnster shouted.
East Los Angeles, California. Later that night
Gunn stared grimly at the bonfire. He had told them to wait, but they had chosen not to. Charles was having trouble grasping that his people hadn't listened to him, on this one. Because, he was the leader of the Lost Boys. They followed his orders.
Or at least, he'd thought they did.
Now George was dead, because he had been wrong on that point.
George and the others had gone looking for the vampires that had been stalking a particularly vulnerable area of MacKenzie Park. The Lost Boys were good at dealing with the undead; heck, the supplies they got from their mystery benefactor had helped them greatly in their struggle over the last year.
However, even the best still made mistakes sometimes. And sometimes, mistakes in this business were fatal ones.
George had made a fatal mistake.
And now the Lost Boys had to burn his body, to make sure he didn't come back as a vampire. Gunn stared at the black man's corpse, as it began to be consumed by the flames; wondering how the hell it had come to this...
Nearby, the guy known as Rondell stood silently, every once in a while sneaking at glance at Gunn. For Charles had confronted Rondell earlier: "You should have waited for me!" the man had said angrily.
Rondell had almost snarled back at Gunn, "Hey, man, case you didn't notice - we've been waiting on you for months! Fact is - we don't know you anymore, dog. You been movin' on up, deserted us for your new friends! And if you haven't noticed, even though we're doing better, there's still a war going on here on the streets. You might wanna drop in sometime and help fight it!"
Gunn had almost punched Rondell for that. However, he had restrained himself - the funeral of a dead friend wasn't the place to start a brawl, with another guy he called friend...
Charles watched the body of said dead friend becoming completely cremated. The fight against the darkness was definitely taking its toll on him; first Bobby, then Alonna, and now George.
In any case, Gunn knew that Rondell was right about one thing. The fight was going on at many levels here, and he couldn't afford to forget that for a single moment.
Heathrow Airport, London, England. April 30, 2001
Roger Wyndham-Pryce fidgeted in his seat, as he and the Watcher delegation waited in the private transit lounge. He wasn't too happy with the current arrangements; he would have much preferred the Watchers Council making his travel arrangements itself...
However, one of the conditions of their participation in this little conference was that they were not to have too much advance knowledge of where they were going. So the arrangements for transportation had been taken out of their hands. And pride meant Roger wasn't exactly happy about that.
It wasn't that he was really fearful of something untoward happening to him. Monsignor Bentallo had personally guaranteed the arrangements, and that man's word was good enough for the head of the Council not to be squeamish about this.
Pryce also rather doubted that the Americans would stoop to some trick like killing some of the most senior Watchers during this time, after all; they had been willing to bomb a building in downtown London on a prior occasion. They wouldn't feel the need for such subtlety, if they were in mind to do harm to the Council again.
But still, to be treated this way because one of their own had become almost completely unhinged.
Roger's musings were interrupted by one of his assistants clearing his throat. "Sir, the plane is now ready for us."
Wyndham-Pryce nodded at that. "Very well, I suppose then, we shouldn't tarry." So saying, he instantly stood up and walked down the corridor his assistant had indicated.
Somewhere over the North Atlantic. Later that day
David Nabbit leaned back in his seat. All around him, he noticed people moving around, reading, talking or doing whatever they felt was necessary to get ready.
He still felt a little out of place here, to be honest. The people on this plane were definitely different from those he was used to dealing with. Military officers, high-ranking government officials and scientists were his companions on this trip.
And to be *absolutely* honest, he hadn't really stopped being nervous about his new role in life ever since that visit from Dr. Irving Hollins, and his teenage telekinetic friend. He had of course known of the underworld that inhabited his city, before that occasion; after all, he had encountered it before.
Well, the corporate geek had promptly gotten into trouble and needed to call Angel Investigations for help, but he'd learned his lesson since then about visiting demon brothels.
As said, with his new situation and position of responsibility, he was kind of worried about getting into trouble again. However, Nabbit was also excited about the opportunities it offered. The principles from running his corporation also applied in the present circumstances.
He sighed and went back to the technical manual. Right now, the software mogul was helping design the Internet connections to be used by Siberian Trip Wire. Well, redesign anyway. They already had some in place and they were good, David recalled that the Internet had originally arisen out of a Defense Department research project, but he figured that they could definitely do with some improvement.
All the software provided by Uncle Bill could go, for a start.
He started jotting down notes on the pages of the manual. David quickly lost track of his surroundings and time, as he became engrossed in the technical details of his idea. Across the aisle Irving Hollins, a.k.a. 'the Wizard' noticed Nabbit focus on his work and softly smiled. {Mr. Nabbit is turning out to be a good addition to the Committee. Of course, watching the interaction between him and Secretary Rumsfeld *is* utterly priceless.}
Nearby, Gwen Raiden tried to sleep. She had been called, and told she was needed at this meeting that was taking place outside the country. So later - Gwen had told the Fang Gang, fresh from its defeat of the Haklar demon, that she was leaving to do a job. And that she would call, if she got any visions.
And they had accepted that, as after all - just because she had become a conduit for the visions from the Powers, Gwen still had a day job involving liberating items from undeserving people.
So here she was, headed to a meeting in Iceland of all places. Her life had definitely gotten stranger, this last year or so. {Have to admit, I much preferred it when I only had to deal with security guards and alarm systems.}
Raiden's musings were interrupted, when the cabin's intercom sprang to life. "Ladies and Gentlemen, we are beginning our final approach to Keflavik. Please return to your seats, and fasten your seat belts. We should be touching down in Iceland in about 15 minutes."
All around Irving and Gwen, everyone in on the plan moved to do as the pilot asked, except for Nabbit - who was still engrossed in his technical manual.
Keflavik Naval Air Station, Iceland. May 1, 2001
"Refresh my memory again, why are we here?" Xander asked of Cleburne, as they got into the Humvee that had greeted their plane.
"To meet with all the various organizations, that are starting to fight the demons and vampires out there, to liaise, and exchange ideas and methods. A meet and greet. Kinda like the Shriners, only we don't wear funny little hats and we all brought holy water and crosses!" Cleburne closed the door, and nodded to the driver. The Humvee started driving away from the plane that had flown them to the U.S. Navy air base.
"No, what I meant was why Iceland? I mean, this place is freezing - and just outta curiosity, why is the sun up? It's only five am, if that," Xander asked.
"We're so far north that daylight hours are much longer than back home," noted Cleburne. "Didn't the Wizard cover that, in those classes you're supposed to be taking?"
"Yeah, yeah. But why did you pick *Iceland*? Why not somewhere warmer and more southern, like the North Pole?" Xander said, as he tried to prevent his teeth from chattering.
"Iceland is actually preferable for these type of meetings, kid. It's an island, so the local authorities can keep track of who the hell is entering the country. There's *at best* only a small vampire population, smaller after our people did that sweep 'n clear a couple of weeks ago. Plus the locals are very good at handling secret meetings, you should have seen all the stuff that went on here during the Cold War," Cleburne explained.
"And the Navy air base?" Xander asked.
"Lots of Marines around here, armed ones too. Officially, they're on a training exercise. And people, vampires and demons generally know better than to start trouble - when they're surrounded by heavily armed Marines," Cleburne said with a grin.
Xander suddenly realized what that meant. "Why do I get the feeling you're worried about someone starting something here, at this little shindig?"
"Well, in any group this large there's always the chance there are misunderstandings, and that difficulties will arise..." Cleburne started to say.
"Who's here?" Xander asked at once.
"Lots of people. The Israelis, Weitz is supposed to fly in later today. There are some Russians, and-"
"Who?" Xander interrupted Cleburne.
Joshua paused for a second before answering. "Okay, kid, here's the situation. Security is tight. As a matter of fact, they don't even have their own transport; the Air Force flew them up here. They've got personal chaperones, all of whom make Rambo look like a wuss-"
"Who?" Xander said again. "And cut the goddamn horse hockey, if you don't want me to jump out of the car right now and head back to the plane!"
"The Watchers Council sent a delegation," Cleburne said, bracing himself for the eruption that came just after he finished that sentence.
"WHAT THE-! The Council is here? I don't believe this, you brought me to the same place as those assholes? Damn it, Cleburne, you *know* they're gonna-"
Cleburne shook his head, and finally got a word in edgeways. "Kid, Travers is no longer in charge of the Watchers; remember what Monsignor Bentallo told us back in February? They've got a new boss, and that horse's ass has been officially kicked out for good. And we're talking new ground rules too, they now know messing with us is on the 'don't do if you want to live' list."
Xander raised an eyebrow at that, calming down a little. "Right, I remember that now..." He paused, frowning. "Uh, the new guy in charge - his name's Roger Wyndham-Pryce, isn't it?"
Cleburne nodded. "Yep, he's now the boss of the Council. Can't remember for sure, but I think he's the father of that Wesley guy you know in LA? Anyway, the new head honcho at Watcher Central wants to play nice. He's been talking to Bentallo; the good Monsignor thinks they're on the level, and says we should give them a chance. So, the Wizard and Esther thought we should invite them to the summit. Proper security arrangements were made so they couldn't cause any trouble."
"Proper?"
"Well, they didn't even know they were going to Iceland until they landed here. And we've been monitoring them ever since they arrived yesterday," Cleburne explained.
"Yesterday? You mean this meeting has already started?" Xander demanded.
"Just preliminary stuff, setting the agenda and things like that," Cleburne said. The Humvee turned onto a street of full of well-maintained houses.
"And I wasn't here for that?" Xander asked in confusion
"Hey kid, like it or not - you're one of the big players that everyone's come to gawk at. Think of it this way, the star attraction never opens the rock concert; the supporting acts do that, so that you build up anticipation for the main event," Cleburne joked.
"Hmmm. So, do I get any groupies throwing themselves at me this week?" Xander joked back.
"Kid? Reality check. Besides, you've already got your own fan club and web page! Me? Half the time, I almost think I'm nothing but your roadie!" The Humvee stopped in front of one of the houses.
"Nah, your hair's way too short for you to ever be a roadie. At least, that's what Oz tells me," Xander replied, shaking his head.
Main Conference Center, Keflavik Naval Air Station, Iceland. Later that morning
"Howard is on-site. Cleburne and he got in about a hour ago," Gunny whispered into Esther Marcum's ear. At the head of the conference table, a Japanese man talked about the slides that were flashing on the screen behind him.
"Good. Any problems?" she asked.
Gunny shook his head. "No, they're resting at the house, gonna let the jet lag run its course. The colonel thinks they'll make an appearance later today, or tonight. Also, Secretary Rumsfeld should be touching down in about two hours. He'll be at the reception."
Esther sighed. "You know, when I joined Siberian Trip Wire, I never expected to be talking about the undead over cocktails..."
"None of us did, ma'am. And I shudder to think what my parish priest would say, if he knew what I did for a living now," Gunny replied.
Later that night
Xander Harris hadn't ever thought he would be facing this kind of danger.
Basically, the guy felt completely out of his league. He had never faced something like this before. He almost wanted to run and hide.
Of course, Xander could remember a time when as the normal guy amongst a bunch of supernatural people, he had felt out of place - and why not admit it, unworthy. Like his ex Cordelia Chase had so vindictively put it, "it must be really hard when all your friends have, like, superpowers - Slayer, werewolf, witches, vampires - and you're, like, this little nothing."
But even though Harris had faced down zombies, vamps, demons, assassins and other unspeakable things since that occasion - which now existed, only in his memories - he had never thought he would face this.
Politicking disguised as idle chitchat at a dinner reception.
He and Cleburne had spent some hours trying to overcome the jet lag. And after sleeping for most of the day, they'd headed over to the conference after an early dinner. They had arrived about half an hour after the start of the reception...
Xander had been surprised that a meeting such as this would have time for a cocktail hour, actually. It seemed so...normal, when everything else was so abnormal.
Cleburne had explained during the ride over though, that it made perfect sense. "Kid, every get-together of this sort *has* to have some kind of social time like this. Allows the participants to talk to each other, without having to parrot the party line. That way, everyone can compare notes in an informal setting, helps agreement come about. Booze makes everyone a bit more friendly, if you know what I mean."
"So you're saying, this type of thing is common?" Xander had asked suspiciously
"Heck, yes. Happened all the time, during the Cold War! The arrangements over shipping the Stinger missiles to Afghanistan were worked out during a coffee break in Cairo, oddly enough."
Xander had understood that reasoning, and it actually made sense when he thought about the other stuff he had encountered so far. What he was having trouble accepting now was that when he walked into the reception, "the little nothing" had become the center of attention.
Well, no one was obvious about it, but almost everyone in the room seemed to keep track of his movements and when the chance arose, they would approach him.
The Siberians (including Gwen) kept an eye on him, but didn't really bother him, except to rescue him when a conversation had grown tiresome or bothersome. Xander had also seen someone who he thought was Donald Rumsfeld, and seemed to act like it. He wasn't really paying that much attention to Xander, busily trying to convince some delegates of something.
Of course, Harris welcomed some of the attention. When he had arrived, he had spotted Rachael Weitz. The Israeli secret agent had been working the crowd and given him a big smile, when she caught sight of her some-time lover. She hadn't been able to talk to him yet, but Xander could see her constantly stealing glances his way.
Finally the young man decided to take matters into his own hands, and started towards where the Israeli spy was.
"Good evening, Mr. Harris. I, ah, I hope you're well," a voice with an English accent said.
Xander stopped, and looked at the older gentleman who had come up to him. Then Cleburne appeared at his elbow, as if by magic. The man who had spoken raised an eyebrow at that, "Really, Colonel Cleburne - do you honestly think I'm going to try something, in the middle of what it took an extensive amount of negotiations and trust to develop?"
"Better safe than sorry," Cleburne growled.
Xander noticed the attire of the Englishman who had spoken. {Tweed, he's wearing tweed!} "You're a Watcher, aren't you," the former Scooby commented.
"I'm Roger Wyndham-Pryce. And yes, I'm the new head of the Watchers Council," Roger introduced himself.
"You'll understand if I'm not too thrilled to be meeting someone from your organization these days," Xander said coldly in response.
Wyndham-Pryce looked somewhat disconcerted at that. "Quite understandable, of course. The actions of the...previous administration...are most regrettable, I will admit-"
Cleburne harrumphed at that, but Roger ignored him and continued on. "However, the new leadership is greatly desirous of making up for our previous mistakes. I hope that you'll believe me when I say that there are good people within the Council - and that Quentin Travers was the exception, not the norm. It, uh, it's my hope of reaching some sort of understanding with you and your current allies today, as after all - we *are* all on the same side here."
"Look, English, I really don't trust you." Cleburne started.
Xander held up a hand and interrupted the Marine colonel. "Wesley Wyndham-Pryce, former Watcher that works for the vampire called Angel. He's your son?"
Roger looked taken aback for a second. "Yes, yes he is. He's my son-"
"Then I'd imagine he's told you about me. And I also imagine he's real proud of you becoming the head tweed these days, huh?" Xander observed.
"I don't know. In fact, I'm not even sure he knows about my promotion! His living in Los Angeles and my work in London - it hasn't allowed us much time to talk to each other, lately. Make that none at all."
Xander thought for a second. "Piece of advice, elder tweed. Talk to him. *Make* the time! He's your son, and family...well, let's just say family is a treasure you shouldn't squander. If there's one thing I'm sure of in this life, or even that other one, it's that."
Wyndham-Pryce and Cleburne were silent for a moment. While the head Watcher hazarded a guess as to the sentiment behind Xander's statement, Cleburne didn't have to guess; he knew the history. And there were times when he thought about going down to Houston, Texas to express his displeasure with Mr. and Mrs. Harris's actions in person...
"Anyway - I'm sure you didn't approach me to talk about family matters. So, what has your tweed-wearing ass all a-twitter?" Xander asked.
Roger cleared his throat. "Mr. Harris-"
"It's Howard," Cleburne interrupted at once. "Alexander Howard. Don't use that name again – ever, same as everyone else in this room."
Wyndham-Pryce raised an eyebrow at that, but then continued, "Mr. Howard, the Council does regret what's happened in the past. However, it's my opinion we cannot afford to become entangled in endless recriminations; not now. Everything I have seen and heard clearly indicates to me that you believe that there is some dire threat to the world approaching."
"I don't just believe that, mister, I *know* it. I've seen it with my own two eyes. Even with my one remaining eye, back in the day," Xander replied.
This time Cleburne raised an eyebrow at that, even as he turned to face Roger. "What he said. There's definitely a Big Bad out there."
"I see, and yet - you do not seek our help? We of the Council are ideally suited to deal with the demonic threats to the world, whatever else you may think of us."
Cleburne smirked at Pryce. "Your actions last year didn't really scream out, 'hey, come on over and let's chat a while'. It said something more along the lines of 'we see, we want, we take'. And screw anyone who doesn't wear tweed, and speak with an Oxford accent!"
Xander inwardly winced at Mother Hen's unknowing use of Faith's motto. But Pryce answered Cleburne frostily, "At the time, there appeared to be valid reasons for our actions. Granted, it would have been far better if we had pursued a less confrontational method."
"Like not torturing the kid that way?" Cleburne snapped back.
"If I understand correctly, you were not reticent in dealing out physical pain yourself?" Roger replied.
Xander held up a hand, a little surprised that *he* was having to act as the peacemaker. "Guys, please. No fighting, you're starting to scare the straights around here! I thought we all showed up at this party to play nice?" He turned to Roger. "Like I said, the Big Bad is coming. The First Evil. Know anything about it?"
Pryce shook his head at once. "Not really - ah, I do remember Rupert Giles making a reference to it in his journals, during the December of 1998. I seem to recall it was tormenting that vampire with a soul? Of course, we'll now do an extensive search of our journals and libraries-"
Xander shook his head. "Won't do you much good, as I recall, but what the hell - knock yourselves out. Thing is though, that it's damn annoying; the incorporeal ass talks and talks and talks. Can't ever get it to shut up."
"Which means it shouldn't be too much of a threat, then?" Pryce asked.
Harris snorted. "Oh but it is, Roger. Ever heard of its Bringers? The First has this legion of followers, see, who *really* don't seem to give the same priority to good eyesight that you and I do. They do its bidding, and they do it damn well! Plus, let's not forget the über-vamps..."
"Über-vamps?" Cleburne asked.
"Yeah - they're bigger, stronger, faster and a helluva lot meaner than your run-of-the-mill bloodsuckers. They're called Turok-Han. And they're really hard to kill-" Xander started to explain.
"WHAT?!" Roger asked in a raised voice, gaining the attention of all the delegates present - who at this point, stopped pretending not to be listening. "But, but that's not possible! The Turok-Han a-are just a myth! Damn it, man, they don't exist!"
"Sorry, Watcher guy. But in my memories, I've seen them. I've fought them. And they're plenty real! You sticking your head in the sand like that, it's not going to change the fact that the damn things are out there one bit!" Harris sneered, as Roger glanced around and felt extreme embarrassment at everyone's stares.
"So, so where did the Turok-Han come from?" Pryce asked, the look of fear and loathing on his features starting to make the other attendees nervous.
"Where else? From within the Hellmouth," Xander said. "But look, that's not the main concern right now. The potentials are what you need to be worried about."
"The potential Slayers?" Pryce said in further alarm. {The future Chosen are at risk? Good Lord, what else is this man going to tell me?! }
"Yep, that's a big part of the First's plan; one of its key goals was to kill off all the potentials, in an attempt to extinguish the Slayer line," Xander replied, unconsciously shuffling his feet at the memories.
"But, but how? The Slayer lineage is invulnerable, immortal; protected by the strongest known mystical forces. It's powerful enough to withstand something like that," Roger said in confusion.
Xander looked down at his feet for a second. "Well, in the future I remember, the forces protecting the Slayer line were...practically torn apart, five months from now. They became altered, vulnerable to attack. Don't ask how or why, all you gotta know is that they were forever shaken up really bad! That gave the First the opportunity and means to try its scheme."
"And now?" Pryce asked in mounting terror.
"Hell, I don't know! *Hopefully* it won't turn out that way this time around. But the First Evil seems to have figured out that history's changed a lot, ever since 1998. And the conversations I've had with it, they do *not* fill me with hope about the First just accepting this brave new world we're all living in! We need to prepare for whatever it's planning in the future," Xander stated firmly.
Pryce thought for a second, as the other conference delegates started whispering amongst themselves. "Yes, yes, preparations will need to be made..." He thought for a second. "The Hellmouth in California, we need to secure it."
"Done already. Sunnydale is not the demon welcome mat it used to be," Cleburne replied.
"Then I'll contact Rupert at once-" Pryce started.
"No!" Xander said with absolute firmness
"What?" Roger asked blankly.
"No, you won't let Giles know what's going on, or I swear I'll see to it from now on the Council remains out of the loop on *everything*! Think about it, he'll want to know *how* you learned this information. That'll lead to further questions being asked, and eventually someone in the Scooby gang will figure out that I'm still alive. And as far as they're concerned, I'm dead," Harris spat out.
"But, but surely your friends need to know that you're still amongst the living-" the bearded Watcher started to say.
"My *friends* already do," Xander snapped. "The people I think you referring to, they're not my friends. Not anymore."
Cleburne noted Xander's reaction. "Also, the Wizard says if we react too quickly and spread the information too widely, the consequences could be...dire."
"The Wizard?" Pryce asked, ignoring the stares of the other delegates and their huge, flapping ears.
"Someone else we need to introduce you to. Be on your best behaviour, and I might put in a good word for you," Joshua said with a smirk.
Xander turned around and made as if to leave, but Roger's voice suddenly stopped him. "Mr. Howard, there's one more thing, if I may?"
Harris sighed, and turned around again. "What?"
Pryce suddenly had a begging look on his face as he said in a rushed voice, "You once said to Quentin Travers - that my organization is doomed to be destroyed soon. Please, I beg of you - tell me what you know! The lives of thousands of my people are in your hands."
But Roger Wyndham-Pryce then stopped and stepped back in fear, as did many of the other conference delegates - when they saw the expression on Xander's face.
It was a look of lethal rage, of deadly fury and horrible anger.
Like the one of a wild beserker ready to kill and kill and kill, till he was finally put down like a rabid dog. Even Cleburne was stunned at the raw hatred on his compatriot's face, as the wineglass Xander had been holding *shattered* from the pressure of his hand upon it.
"December, 2002. Caleb..." Harris hissed, before he stormed out of the conference center; blood dripping onto the floor from his red right hand. And his reputation as a very dangerous man to know, began to be firmly established within the world's intelligence community...
Base housing, a short while later
"I think you scared a lot of people at the cocktail reception tonight," Rachael Weitz said cheerfully, as she began to bandage Xander's self-inflicted wound.
"Tough. Like the old saying goes - you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen. Because this isn't a game, Rachael," Xander said broodingly.
"True. But hey - I figured you'd be getting a thrill, being the center of attention and everything," Rachael teased her lover.
"Try being bored. By all the talking. You know me, I'm more action than I am talk!"
"Oh, yeah. You are indeed..." Rachael smiled widely at that. "I heard you speaking to the head Watcher; hell, I imagine so did everyone else! Want to talk about it?"
Xander lay back on the bed, as the Israeli woman finished bandaging his hand. "Nothing to say, they're on their best behaviour. Cleburne is playing the snarling watchdog pretty well."
Rachael also lay down next to Xander on the bed. "So I noticed. The security is pretty obvious, he wants to remind the Watchers they won't last long here - if something hinky happens."
Xander sighed. "So, what else goes on at these meetings? This is my first, y'know, and I don't know what to expect."
Rachael smiled at that. "Oh - you're doing fine honey, like a real pro. Oh, you meant the meeting?" she joked. "Doing great there also."
"Why does everyone keep saying that? That I'm doing great, when I haven't done anything?" Xander asked.
"Are you nuts, Alexander? Just the fact that you're here means a lot! You're the reason everyone is cooperating, all of a sudden. They want to know how to fight the Big Bad that's coming. The one you've warned them about. Everything else is details," Rachael played with Xander's hair.
"So what does that make me, the mascot they trot along the sidelines during a football game?" Xander asked with a snort.
Rachael giggled for a second, and then got serious. "No, you're not the mascot. You're something more."
"What?" Xander asked.
"A legend."
Harris snorted again, briefly reminded of Whistler's cryptic message, and made as if to get up; but reacting very quickly, the Israeli woman grabbed his shoulders and held him down, as the secret agent quickly straddled his waist. "What are you doing?" the young man demanded.
"We might need an extra blanket," Rachael leaned down and cooed into Xander's ear. "Or else we can rub noses, like the Eskimos do?"
"Rachael..." the former Scooby sighed. "We've been through this before..."
"Says you. Think we can find some time during the meeting to slip away, and maybe do some sightseeing?" She nuzzled Xander's neck.
"You're not listening to me-"
"No, you're not listening to *me*! It's been nearly 2 1/2 months since I've gotten any, Mr. Howard. So if you think you're going anywhere tonight, now that I've got you right where I want you - you're crazy!" She then slammed her lips onto his, her tongue gently probing and thrusting its way down his throat.
When they stopped kissing, Rachael smiled victoriously. "So - is that a gun hidden in your pants, or are you just happy to see me?"
Xander groaned. "This isn't healthy for you, Weitz - you're wanting the impossible..."
But the woman simply shut him up again, in the nicest way imaginable. And then she leaned upwards, and in an amazing show of strength and dexterity - the female spy neatly peeled off her sweater and top, and threw them away.
"Rachael..."
But it was already far too late, for Xander's half-formed objections. And all too soon, the clothes started flying and the bedsprings started squeaking, as the heat between the young couple built up enough to melt a glacier - in that bedroom surrounded by the freezing Arctic cold, outside.
VIP housing, the same time
"The Japanese are on board. They'll back our proposal tomorrow," Cleburne said.
The group of people was seated around a small coffee table; Cleburne, Rumsfeld, Esther Marcum, Irving Hollins and David Nabbit. Rumsfeld nodded at Cleburne's comment, "Good. Who else?"
"The Israelis are agreeable, but of course we knew that going in. I think they're also looking for further cooperation when it comes to terrorism," Marcum said.
"They don't know about September 11?" Rumsfeld asked.
Cleburne shook his head. "No, that information is strictly limited to us. No one outside of the Committee or STW knows about it. We're keeping that close to the vest, until it's time for our little surprise."
"Yes, we don't want to risk the information leaking and becoming worthless," Hollins said. "That's also something for another day."
More than one of the adults around the table raised an eyebrow at the child genius' comment. Rumsfeld then spoke up again, establishing in his mind that he was running the meeting. "Who's definite when it comes to commitments?"
"The Japanese, Israelis, Australians, Poles and Germans. They've all agreed to the broad outlines of what we have in mind. The Indians are close, I think they're just fishing for more strategic cooperation beyond the paranormal," Marcum ticked off the list of names.
"Indeed. I suspect they're worried by both the Chinese and Pakistanis," Hollins observed.
"Speaking of which? Why aren't we and the Chinese talking to each other more?" Nabbit spoke up.
"They're the second round. Things have been hairy with them, the past month or so. Let's get past the mess with that surveillance plane on Hanian, before we start in-depth negotiations with them," Rumsfeld declared. "The Russians have been hanging tough. They want some concessions."
"Well, they're in a strong position; keep in mind they've got Project Rasputin up their sleeves. Their telepath program is stronger and better developed than ours. And while their library of paranormal items isn't as great as you would expect, it is still nothing to be sneezed at," Cleburne noted.
"What do they want?" Marcum asked.
"I *think* they want more input and participation. People on the ground, other than those involved with the telepaths. Don't be surprised if they also want direct access to Mr. Harris," Rumsfeld said, using Xander's real name - to Cleburne's silent displeasure.
Joshua then rolled his eyes. "Well, great, they'll be sending one of their swallows to worm her way into his confidence. That's all we need!"
"Swallows?" Nabbit asked. He was a newcomer to the world of international black ops, and was still unfamiliar with all the jargon.
"Female agents trained in the art of seduction," Cleburne explained. "Some of the stuff you read in the spy novels? It actually happens in real life."
"Speaking of which, I saw Rachael heading over to Mr. Howard's quarters earlier. I take it the man will be staying put in his room, for the night?" Marcum noted.
The Marine colonel laughed. "Oh, yeah, we won't see those two again until the morning!"
"Do we trust the Israelis not to pull something funny with Howard?" Nabbit asked.
"Oh yeah, they won't bite the hand that feeds them; fact is, they really need our cooperation. They're a small country, in a dangerous neighborhood to live in. They'll try to get what information they can from him, but Weitz's people won't do anything to endanger their relations with us," Cleburne responded.
"Like they did with Pollard?" Rumsfeld interjected.
"Okay, good point, that's why I've got Gunny keeping an eye out just in case I'm wrong. But still, I doubt it; I know Agent Weitz from way back. That's how I also know she's committed the ultimate cardinal sin in this business; she's fallen in love with her assignment! Explains why a lot of the muckety-mucks in Tel Aviv are pissed at her," Cleburne chortled. "How about the French?"
"The French are the French," Hollins said. "They're being...difficult."
"Maybe we can have Monsignor Bentallo talk to them? The French don't have as many issues with him as they do with us," Marcum suggested.
"I'll mention it to him in the morning," Cleburne said. "I've also got some questions about the role of the Mormons. A lot of the delegates can't tell if they're an official part of our delegation, or something separate."
"Well, I really don't know the answer to that. Seems to me though, you're our Mormon expert," Marcum said to Cleburne.
Joshua rolled his eyes. "Room with a Mormon in the Academy, and you're marked for life as a Mormon expert! Okay, I'll talk to Chalmers in the morning as well. I suspect that they're completely on board, but probably don't want to be taken for granted. Hmmm, we're going to have to establish some ground rules for the non-state actors involved. The Watchers and the Catholic Church come to mind."
Nabbit rubbed his forehead. His introduction to the world of government conspiracies was frustrating at times, as they spoke a language that he wasn't fully up to speed on yet. Still, he soldiered along, trying to keep up. "I know for a fact that not every actor in this theater is attached to some government. And there are a lot of independent players out there, especially in LA," he said, remembering the help that Angel Investigations had given him in the past.
"Agreed, that's why I intend to raise that point during the morning session tomorrow. I want them involved somehow, they have expertise and experience we can't afford to avoid," Rumsfeld said. "Which brings up Mr. Harris'...well, whatever he calls himself, the people in Sunnydale. All that'll need to be addressed too, at some point."
Base housing. May 2, 2001
Rachael Weitz woke up with a huge smile on her face, early the next morning - like the proverbial cat that ate the canary.
The previous night with Xander had been everything she'd hoped for and then some, but nonetheless - there was...something missing. Something wasn't quite right - as her smile turned into a frown, upon spying her bed partner.
Xander was dreaming, and it was obviously not a good one. Twitching minutely with rapid eye movement, Rachael guessed that he was reliving one of his past demon-related horrors-
And then in a moment of clarity, the female spy suddenly realized what it was that was wrong.
Both times they had slept together, she was the one who had initiated it. Everything Rachael had gotten from her lover, she had *taken* it; Xander hadn't *given* himself to her at all, in fact on both occasions he had resisted her advances - and eventually succumbed, only because she'd refused to take no for an answer.
And the Israeli woman didn't like that. Her man - no, her *assignment* hadn't given himself to her in the way she'd given herself to him, and deep down - that was a big blow, to both her professional and personal pride.
{Unbelievable} she then thought to herself, leaning her head back onto the pillow and staring at the ceiling. {What does a woman have to *do* to get Alexander to open up?}
Well, actually, she knew the answer to that one; because Rachael had noticed the way Xander had been acting around Fred, the past few months.
There was no point in trying to deny how the Texan physicist had managed to reach Harris, in a way that she hadn't. Their shared experiences had forged a closer bond between the two former slaves, than the one Xander shared with her. And even though Rachael had had the man's body, that was a poor runner-up in some respects to the intimate late-night talks the Timetripper had often had with Ms. Burkle, in that apartment they shared with Oz.
Rachael turned to stare at the still-sleeping Xander. {One way or another, one day soon - I *will* get you to open up to me. Because you're mine now! }
Keflavik Naval Air Station, Iceland. Later that morning
"No, no, no!" Cleburne said firmly, shortly after the morning session of the conference had begun.
"Why not? I think it's a great idea," Nabbit asked plaintively. Various delegates watched the exchange, Esther Marcum for one trying not to smile.
"I don't care how great an idea you think it is, the United States Marines Corps is not going to go around carrying super soakers!" Cleburne said heatedly.
"There *will* be holy water in them, you know. It's just...a different kind of field ordnance," Nabbit protested, thinking his grip on the jargon was improving.
"Unless they're hand-held flamethrowers, no way," Cleburne folded his arms. "Flamethrowers are all right, even if you can't put bayonets on them."
A couple of the Marine officers along the wall who were acting as aides, laughed at loud at that. Rumsfeld glanced at them, which silenced those guys at once, and then he turned and looked at Cleburne.
"Old Marine joke, I'll explain later," Joshua said. "But besides the whole issue of my people looking ridiculous carrying water pistols, holy water doesn't work in every situation. Quite a few demons out there could bathe in the stuff, and it wouldn't even tickle them."
"Still, the idea of large-scale delivery of holy water is something I think we should explore. I have no doubt that circumstances will develop, where that would be an effective method of dealing with a threat," Hollins said.
Xander shook his head. {Probably wouldn't be the right time to mention that crossbows were the preferred weapon of choice, back in Sunnydale.}
The thing was, the morning session had been involved with the discussion of weaponry being used by the various demon-fighting organizations throughout the world. And the Watchers had seemed horrified, when they'd realized just how widespread the use of firearms was.
Personally, Xander suspected that the Council members had convinced themselves that it was only the cowboy Americans who were using guns and ammo, and upsetting God knew how many centuries of tradition.
It had quickly become clear though, that that was not the case.
The German representative had started out talking about something called a 'blitz aktion' trauma round. The police officer said that it made very big holes in its target. Very big holes had the effect of at least slowing down the hostile, and making it easier to dispatch with more traditional methods.
He even had video footage of a police unit engaging a vampire, with the ammo in question. The bloodsucker had stared stupidly at the hole in its chest after being shot, not even noticing the officer coming up and cutting its head off with an axe.
Several other groups had shown their own ideas and methods. Thus Roger Wyndham-Pryce and the Watchers with him had grown more and more agitated, as the morning wore on. Only Cleburne's reaction to the super soaker idea had topped their reactions.
It was at this point that Roger felt he had to speak up. "I must admit that I'm extremely disturbed by what I'm hearing here today! The methods used by the Slayer and the Council wet works teams to deal with demons and vampires are time-honored, and field-tested. We must not act in haste, and engage in activities that could have unfortunate repercussions-"
"I fail to see any reason to not try new things," the lead Japanese delegate said.
"It is our experience that firearms are ineffective in the fight against evil," Pryce said firmly.
"Well, I find them very effective myself," Cleburne replied with a glare.
"Our experience in the field is that firearms do not carry the necessary killing power, and are too slow to reload," Pryce declared.
Cleburne made a face at that. "Slow to reload? When the hell did you do your field tests, back around 1600? Automatic weapons are pretty fast these days, when it comes to changing magazines. Let me guess, at the time you did your tests - maybe when Columbus discovered America? - you didn't like the results. So you forgot all about firearms, and haven't given them a second thought ever since?"
Pryce squirmed uncomfortably in his seat, more or less confirming Cleburne's guess.
Hollins spoke up, "There's no need for antagonism. One of the reasons we're all here having this summit is to compare notes, and determine what does and doesn't work. We also want to explore new ideas."
"And have a new look at old ideas whose time has come," Cleburne joked.
The German police officer spoke up. "The one concern we have with the 'blitz aktion' trauma rounds, is that they don't dispatch the targets by themselves. They only incapacitate the enemy, until more traditional methods can be employed. And in a situation where you have many hostiles engaging in combat, the opportunities to utilize the traditional methods are limited."
"The optimal solution would be to develop a weapon that has the one shot, one kill capability. However considering the range of threats we're facing, we've not been able to develop an overall weapon with that capacity. Let me describe to you some of the weapons we've developed that comes close," Hollins said.
Later that morning
"Enjoying your time in the Great White North?"
Gwen Raiden turned to face the source of the guttural voice. Standing behind her was an older blonde man, with a craggy face. She raised an eyebrow, "What's not to like? Ice, more ice - and to top it all off, glaciers," the thief/seer quipped back.
"Different from what you're used to California, is it not?" Cyrus replied.
"You seem to have me at a disadvantage. Who are you, and why should I talk to you?" Gwen asked.
"Call me Cyrus. And for many reasons, after all - we're both members of an organization that still somewhat views us with distrust. And I've heard about your adventures in Los Angeles. Common cause can be made in such circumstances."
Later that day
"Angel Investigations. We help the helpless," Cordelia's voice came over the earpiece of the phone that Gwen was holding.
"Morning, princess. Not too early there, is it? And here I always thought you slept in," Gwen commented.
"Raiden," Cordy's growl was clear over the phone line. "Hello to you too. The British crown jewels still safe?"
"Well, yes. They're in England - and I'm north of there, far north. No crown jewels here, well - none that I know of." Gwen made a mental note to check that fact out, before she left the conference.
"What, run out of normal countries to steal from?" Cordy asked sarcastically.
"Just spreading myself around. After all, it's a big world out there," Gwen replied. "Angel around?"
"Yeah, but he's not up yet. He was out late last night dealing with some demon. Gunn and Wesley aren't up yet, either. I came in early to...well, let's just say I came in early."
"Everything all right over there?" Gwen asked, noting the exhaustion in Cordy's voice.
"Oh my God, but I've been up night and day trying to get all the paperwork sorted out," the LA brunette replied wearily.
"Paperwork?" Gwen was confused by that particular remark.
Cordelia sighed. "Oh, yeah. It's the evil lawyers' latest way to get under our skin! They've gotten this new attorney Gavin Park, or Pack, or something like that? He showed up here, to look over the hotel. Said his firm wanted to buy it! But Angel sent him packing."
"So?"
"So ever since, it seems every little license, regulation, and inspection imaginable has been thrown in our faces! We've been running ourselves ragged, trying to keep up. We even had a termite inspection the other day, and the hotel still stinks from the fumigation that had to be carried out..."
Gwen grimaced at that. She knew that in her line of work, the little things were what got you caught or killed. She made a mental note to harass Cleburne or Marcum later on in the meeting; bureaucratic mind games sounded like something they could deal with. Maybe they could also do something about the commercial that Cordy had been filmed for. "You have my sympathy, Chase. However, I'm afraid I have to add to your troubles a bit."
"Oh great, let me guess; the big 411 from upstairs?" Cordy said.
"Yeah, get a pencil and I'll tell you the details."
Keflavik Naval Air Station, Iceland. Later that evening
"Mr. Harris."
Xander turned around to see who had called him. He was halfway tempted to just blow whoever it was off; the 24-year-old was tired, and wanted to get back to his housing to rest. Harris also had a sneaky suspicion that he would need his energy for later, when Rachael came by.
However, when he saw who it was, he knew he couldn't blow this guy off.
After all, he was the Secretary of Defense for the United States government.
"Secretary Rumsfeld," Xander replied.
"I was wondering if I could have a few minutes of your time," Rumsfeld asked. And any idea Xander had of being flippant was stillborn, because he knew Cleburne would be really offended, Chain of command, and all that.
"Of course," was Xander's short reply.
Rumsfeld motioned for Xander to walk with him. As they walked down a corridor the older man said, "I was wondering what your impressions of this meeting were."
"Lot of people. Lots of new faces," Xander observed.
"Yes, but are we making progress?" Rumsfeld asked.
Xander thought for a few seconds. "I guess so. The first go-around, I really didn't see any signs of an organized response to the creepies, apart from the Initiative; and nothing on this scale, that's for sure. Things are...changing a lot."
"They're getting better for our side, then?" Rumsfeld commented hopefully.
"Not necessarily, bigger challenges are coming. The bad guys are getting smarter." Xander remembered what Whistler had said during the vision quest, about survival of the fittest.
Rumsfeld raised an eyebrow at that. "More challenges? Talk to me about them."
"Don't know much, if anything. They're part of that virgin territory Mother Hen talks about," Xander replied with a shrug.
"That's not good enough! Look, you need to be more forthcoming about the events in the future," Rumsfeld declared, as both men suddenly stopped.
"No," was Xander's instant sharp reply, as his features shifted into a scowl.
"Mr. Harris, I don't believe that you understand everything that's at stake here-" Donald huffed.
Xander looked at the older guy. "Mr. Secretary, I understand perfectly. I lived the future. I was there, and I had the blood on my hands to prove it. I also know that if I say too much, all sorts of bad things are gonna happen. I went through all this with Irving, over a year ago-"
Rumsfeld frowned at Xander. "What if I told you it was a direct Presidential order for you to reveal all that you knew of the future?"
"Then I'd say sorry, but I'm gonna have to disobey it. On account of I have every right to refuse accepting a criminal order like that."
"WHAT?" the SecDef snapped.
But Xander stood firm, "Lock me up if you want, but you can *not* just order me to do something which I know is a huge-ass mistake. I know what happens when I stand aside and don't say anything, and just go along with actions that I know are wrong. They come back to bite me on the ass! And get people killed..."
A shrug. "If it was just me, I'd risk it, I could lose an eye or arm..." Xander inwardly shivered at what he had just said, before he continued on. "However, I'm not putting other people at risk. No one is going to get killed because of me. Not again..."
With that, Xander turned around and stormed off, completely missing the faint smile on Rumsfeld's face.
Sunnydale, California. May 3, 2001
General Gregor punched his right fist into his left palm in frustration, in the warehouse that he and his fellows were quartered in.
"How long have we been here on the Hellmouth? Seven, eight months?" he asked the gathered Knights in front of him. "And we *still* do not know where the Key is! We are the Knights of Byzantium. We are honor-bound to protect this world from Glory's mission of destruction; all our resources have been dedicated to doing so. And yet, what have we accomplished in our primary goal? NOTHING!"
He paced a little bit, before continuing. "We have searched everywhere. We have interrogated everyone, in this unholy place. And yet, we have been thwarted in completing our goal. Not by Glory, but by a human girl and her friends!"
"But General, she is clearly something more than human, and her friends..." Orlando's voice trailed off, as Gregor glared at him.
"That is irrelevant. We must perform our duty! The prophesised time for Glory's portal to be opened is upon us, and we can't risk the Beast obtaining the Key and destroying the world..." He surveyed the assembled knights, and then turned to his chief cleric. "Send for the rest of our brethren. This ends now. We're going to do our duty, or die trying!"
Keflavik Naval Air Station, Iceland. Later that night
"I know we're all anxious now to go home, and put into place all that we've agreed to during this summit," Esther said. "However, we have one last presentation. Dr. Hollins wants to brief you on some research that he's been doing for the last year or so." She turned to the Wizard. "Dr. Hollins?"
The child genius stood up, and walked to the head of the table. "Thank you, Mrs. Marcum. Ladies and gentlemen, I want to talk to give everyone here some ideas for consideration, for the next time we meet."
The boy turned to the screen set up behind him, and punched a button on the remote control he had in his hand. A screen with the insignia of NASA appeared on it. "Let me start by telling you about something called Project Barsoom."
TBC...