Author: Rabid Squirrel
Title: "Murphy's Law"
Summary: Alternate version of season 7. The real story behind Buffy's resurrection, and the conspiracy that threatens to destroy her, along with the entire human race.
Disclaimer: You know the drill. I own nothing. I've just misappropriated the BTVS crew for a little spin through my demented little world.
Spoilers: (BTVS) Thru season 6, though my selective memory allows me to edit out, rewrite, or outright ignore certain unsavory aspects. Assume Angel more or less true to canon thru season 3.
Rating:R, for violence, strong language, and the wanton abuse of creative license.
Feedback: Constructive criticism, comments, and suggestions are greatly appreciated. Flames will be used to burn couches. Couches? Yes, you read correctly, I said couches. Don't ask. You wouldn't understand anyway.
Notes: Just wanted to clear up a few things. Number one, I have no idea how long this story will be, though I can say with a high degree of certainty that we're past the halfway point. Also, in the last chapter, I erroneously referred to the Fallen Angel with Faith as being dressed in black. As an astute reviewer pointed out, he should have been dressed in white. My bad. Not the first mistake I've made, and damned sure not the last I'll make. And to the reader who asked about there being 3 Slayers: Yes, Dawn is now a Slayer…sort of. Confused? Join the club. Even I don't understand what goes on in that head of mine, which, in all honesty, is probably for the best.
Dedication: To the MellonBallers, heir apparent to the Hell's Angels and unholy scourge of the [not so] mean streets of Dayton, Ohio. Gentlemen: The sidewalks are yours.
Words of Wisdom: Never take life too seriously. Nobody gets out alive anyway
Chapter 21: "Casus Belli: Or How I learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Apocalypse"
Sunnydale High SchoolThere were those things in life you never really wanted to experience firsthand: The much maligned 3 a.m. visit from the police officer, complete with the standard 'I'm afraid there's been an accident'; your doctor rubbing his chin thoughtfully as he informed you, albeit casually, that he'd 'found something interesting' on your x-ray; your lawyer calling to inform you that you'd been bequeathed a sizable inheritance, and that, by the way, 'your parents had a little accident."
And then of course, there were the little things, like finding out that the woman you just might sort of be in like with wasn't exactly 100% Grade A, made in the USA, Homo Sapien.
In retrospect, it shouldn't have come as that much of a shock. Xander had always entertained his own closely held theories regarding the Slayer's dubious origin. That, coupled with Buffy's heartfelt admission earlier that day, and in light of the fact that she had cheated death on no fewer than two occasions, presented a compelling argument against Buffy's assumed humanity. Of course, if there was one thing that transcended the very notion of rational thought – at least on Xander's part – it was his own unrelenting obstinacy, an outright refusal to accept as truth anything that conflicted with his preconceived notions of how his world could, and ultimately should, be.
Despite his better suspicions, suspicions which – by virtue of their own basis – only confirmed Danyael's claim, Xander managed to maintain a façade of unflappability. He nodded dutifully, a disingenuous smile creeping stealthily onto his face. "Oh…I get it," he deadpanned. "It's like humor, but without the funny."
Danyael barely succeeded in biting off a laugh. "Good for you kid. They say if you can laugh about it, then you're not beaten."
Eying the other man hesitantly, Xander was overcome with a sudden urge to state the obvious. "Have I told you lately that I don't like you very much?"
"Nobody likes me very much," Danyael acknowledged with an air of indifference. "But for what it's worth, your girlfriend is partially human."
"You're not really helping matters. And for the record, she's not my girlfriend."
"Whatever. The point is, I'm sorry. I'm not used to dealing with people."
"No kidding? I hadn't noticed."
"I did say I was sorry," Danyael reminded him, almost managing to sound hurt.
Xander wasn't buying it. "And you sounded so damn sincere."
"Look, I really am sorry you had to find out this way, but trust me, better you hear it now than later."
"Trust you?" Xander asked incredulously. "Now there's an interesting concept."
"Cynical much?"
"What can I say? My mother taught me never to run with scissors, never to ask a woman her weight, and to never trust anyone who's been kicked out of heaven. She's kind of funny that way."
"She sounds overprotective."
"Only when she's sober," Xander conceded. "And that ain't often."
"That's touching," Danyael remarked sarcastically. "You're breaking my heart, kid…really."
"And you're trying what's left of my patience," Xander countered. "So why don't we skip the chitchat and get to the point already."
Danyael shrugged. "Shoot."
Don't tempt me, Xander thought, managing not to express the sentiment aloud. "Why don't you start by telling me what the hell Buffy is…. if she isn't human."
"I could do that," Danyael hedged. "But just between you and me, it's a little complicated."
"Complicated? I'm standing here talking to an Fallen Angel about an apparently not-quite-human Vampire Slayer who, word has it, is about to take the big dirt nap for the third time, all while trying to prevent your old frat buddies from unleashing yet another apocalypse on our not-so quiet little Hellmouth. Call me crazy, but I'd say we passed complicated about three exits back."
Danyael threw him a cockeyed look, his amusement evident. "I never figured you for a drama queen."
"And I'm having a difficult time believing there's anything the slightest fucking bit angelic about you, so I guess that makes us even."
"Whistler warned me you'd be a pain in the ass," the former angel remarked snidely.
Xander took the insult in stride. "He told me you'd be an obstinate, self-righteous prick."
"Looks like he was right on both counts," Danyael weighed in.
The meaning inherent in Danyael's admission did not escape Xander. "You're not going to tell me, are you?"
"Doesn't look promising," Danyael conceded.
"And why exactly is that?"
"I doubt you'd understand."
"Try anyway…" Xander suggested impatiently, even as his cell phone began ringing. He ignored the buzzing annoyance, instead gazing expectantly at Danyael, waiting for an answer.
"You going to answer that?" the angel demurred, gesturing to the offending cell phone.
"It can wait."
"If you say so…" the other man mumbled.
Xander mumbled a curse under his breath, glancing in progression at his phone, then Danyael, and back to the phone, finally snatching the plastic unit from his belt clip. "Harris."
He lapsed into silence for a moment, listening intently to the voice on the other end before responding, and even then, haltingly. "How do you…. are you sure…. are they…?" He mumbled an insincere "thank you" as he thumbed the end button, glancing up at Danyael.
"I've gotta go."
Danyael nodded knowingly. "Thought as much."
"Why doesn't that surprise me?" Xander asked accusatorily, his expression reflecting his disbelief.
"I had what you might call an epiphany," Danyael confessed, "wasn't exactly forthcoming with the details."
"You could have…." Xander began, then stopped, thinking better of it. "Forget it," he muttered, turning his back to Danyael and taking a few steps toward the stairway exit.
"Hey, Xander," Danyael called out after him. "You serious? You really want to know?"
Xander stopped in mid-stride. "I wouldn't have asked otherwise."
"You realize it's not really my place to tell you?"
Xander had expected as much. He turned slowly to face Danyael. "Would you have told me if it was?"
"Probably not."
"Then I guess there's not much left to say, is there?"
Danyael cocked his head, gazing prophetically at the crevice below. "Guess not."
Xander let it go at that, making for the stairs once more. From behind him the angel spoke up again. "Xander?"
Xander paused momentarily, without turning to face him. "What?"
"Don't worry about your friends. They're in good hands."
Xander resumed walking, without so much as another glance at the man. "Sure they are," he mumbled, without much in the way of conviction.
"You know kid," Danyael directed at Xander's retreating form, "for someone so young, you're pretty damn cynical."
"And for someone who's supposed to be one of the good guys, " came Xander's bitter response, "you're doing a pretty damn good job of playing both sides." On that note, the basement door slammed shut behind him, effectively ending the conversation.
Danyael listened for a moment to the sound of Xander's retreating footsteps, then, assured he was basically alone in the basement, pulled out his own wireless phone, dialing a Los Angeles number from memory. He was not the least bit surprised when he heard a corresponding ring not twenty feet behind him.
"I see your people skills still haven't improved much," admonished a familiar voice, coming from somewhere immediately behind the fallen angel.
"Neither has your sense of style, Whistler," Danyael retorted, thumbing the end button on his phone, without hazarding a glance behind him. "But do I hold that against you?"
The balance demon emerged from the shadows, shaking his head in mock disappointment. "I leave you alone for a few days, and look what happens."
"Relax Whistler," Danyael reasoned. "It's not like all Hell's broken loose. Well, not yet, anyway."
"At least we have that to look forward to," the balance demon added, before turning serious. He jerked his head in the direction of the stairs. "You think he'll play ball?"
"He won't interfere," Danyael averred with a dismissive shrug. "And even if he wanted to, it's too late now to matter."
Whistler accepted that at face value. "She's dead then?" he asked, surprised by the twinge of sadness in his own voice.
Danyael nodded. "As of a few minutes ago, Ms. Summers has joined the ranks of the living impaired."
"I take it you didn't tell him?"
Danyael shook his head. "The kid has plenty to deal with as it is. He'll find out soon enough."
"I don't envy him that," Whistler admitted, exhibiting a rare flash of empathy.
"He has bigger concerns at present. We all do."
"Amen to that," Whistler conceded. "But then, I believe you have somewhere to be."
"She's not going anywhere," Danyael hedged.
"She needs to be," Whistler admonished. "Time's not exactly on our side."
Danyael considered that. "As much as it pains me to admit it, you do have a point. Think maybe you could give me lift?"
"Can't you just do that…you know, that thing you do?" Whistler asked with a confused frown.
"And pass up a ride in that wonderful piece of shit you call a car?"
"It's not a piece of shit," the offended balance demon insisted, "it's a classic."
"It's a classic piece of shit," Danyael remarked with an expansive grin. "But don't feel bad. I don't even have a piece of shit to call my own. I have to bum rides in yours."
Whistler eyed his counterpart with thinly veiled disdain. "Has anybody ever told you that you're a real prick?"
"You're the second one today," Danyael admitted matter-of-factly.
"And it's still early," Whistler observed optimistically. "Come on, I'll drop you off at the church. Maybe it'll do you some good."
"Good idea. I'll be sure to say a prayer for you."
Giles' House
That same timeIn the six years or so since Rupert Giles had taken up residence in this once quiet neighborhood, his neighbors had learned four things about the man. One, he was the High School librarian, or at least had been until the school had blown up under decidedly suspicious circumstances. Two, he had a particular – some might say obsessive – affinity for tweed, even for an Englishman. Three, he spent an unseemly amount of time hanging around younger people, especially a certain twentyish blonde woman, whose relationship with the aforementioned Mr. Giles was the subject of much sordid speculation. But the most important thing they'd learned about their neighbor was that being in close proximity to the man tended to have a detrimental effect on one's health. The current situation across the street did little to dispel that belief.
For that reason, the onlookers gathered outside the yellow police cordon were relatively few in number, consisting mostly of teenagers and assorted neighborhood ne'er-do-wells whose collective curiosity far exceeded their common sense. As a group they gazed in rapt fascination at the assembled fleet of police cruisers and ambulances, speculating amongst themselves about what had happened no more than 100 feet from where they now stood.
Within the police cordon, officers of the Sunnydale Police Department milled about, marking the myriad locations of expended ammunition with small yellow flags before collecting the spent shells in small evidence baggies. Police photographers stalked the courtyard, snapping photographs of the crime scene, preserving the evidence for posterity. The officer in charge supervised them all, overseeing the policing of the crime scene as he leaned against the courtyard wall, while a half-dozen EMS technicians stood in small clusters talking amongst themselves, their services largely unneeded, despite initial signs to the contrary.
Inside the house, an entirely different scene was unfolding, as the entire SPD Criminal Investigation Division – all three of them – tried valiantly to piece together exactly what had lead up to the events of that afternoon. Suffice it to say they were not meeting with much success.
Detective Vincent (nee Vicente) Martinez studied the face of the man seated in the couch before him, a man who, despite all physical evidence to the contrary, was surprisingly not in need of any immediate medical attention. The detective cleared his throat audibly, glancing haplessly at his colleague standing nearby as both braced for yet another round of increasingly fruitless questioning. He turned back to the man on the couch. "Let's try this one more time, Mr. Giles. And this time, let's try the truth."
Rupert Giles sighed impatiently, rapidly tiring of this dance, once again reminded why he'd never opted to have children. "I'm afraid can't tell you anything more than I already have, leftenant."
"So that's it? You're sticking by your story?" Martinez asked. "Just another drive-by shooting in this fair yet inexplicably crime-ridden city of ours?"
Giles nodded in agreement. "That rather sums it up, I'm afraid."
"Getting to the point where you're not even safe in your own backyard," the second detective remarked pointedly, a hint of sarcasm evident in his voice.
Giles shrugged. "I have been meaning to form a neighborhood watch group."
"A neighborhood watch group, huh? I bet you'd make a pretty effective neighborhood watcher," Martinez observed sotto voce, enjoying the brief look of alarm on the otherwise stoic Englishman's face. He smiled benignly at the Watcher, his gaze lingering just long enough to let Giles know that he knew, but not long enough to be interpreted as threatening. Breaking eye contact, he turned to his colleague. "Detective Pierce, would you please give Mr. Giles and I a few moments?"
Pierce nodded, cognizant of the informal dealings between the two men. "I'll run the tags on the van," he offered, knowing full well he'd find nothing, but obligated to do so nonetheless. "I'll let you know if anything turns up." With a sympathetic glance at Martinez, he left the room.
When the other man had gone, Martinez turned back to Giles, looking the older man in the eyes. "All right, Mr. Giles. I'm gonna be straight with you, and I hope you'll grant me the same consideration." He paused a moment, waiting for some sort of indication. At Gile's reluctant nod, he continued.
"I've always made a conscious effort to grant your group considerable leeway, out of respect for your, shall we say, extracurricular activities." He caught Gile's eye, holding his gaze for a long moment to drive home the point, lest there be any confusion about the extent of his knowledge regarding the Slayer and her friends. "I am also aware that this department has not always acted in the best interests of those it is sworn to protect. However, I think we can both agree that the latter has changed for the better, given the former mayor's…. untimely demise." Giles nodded perceptibly, acknowledging the fortuitous change in city administrations. "However," the detective continued, "our tacit agreement notwithstanding, I'm getting more than a little tired of having smoke blown up my ass on a daily basis. Are we on the same page, Mr. Giles?"
Giles nodded again, not bothering to wait for the question he knew was coming. "Where would you like me to begin?"
Martinez smiled feebly, taking a measure of accomplishment in the apparent victory, however small it might be. He produced a manila folder, tossing it on the coffee table in front of Giles, where it fell open, spilling several police photographs across the glass surface. "For starters, you might tell me what you know about this man."
Giles picked up one of the macabre photos, briefly perusing the picture of an obviously deceased man, a man whom he did not recognize. "I've never seen him before," he answered honestly. "Who is he?"
Martinez retrieved the file, flipping to a document faxed from Washington only hours earlier. "According to the State Department, he's a Bulgarian national, goes by the name of Kovacs. Or at least, he did until yesterday."
Giles eyed the detective warily, waiting for the other shoe to drop. "And what, pray tell, does this have to do with me?"
"It seems that our friend Mr. Kovacs was a former agent of the Bulgarian secret police, the Dirzhavna Sugurnost, I believe it was. Anyway, the boys at Quantico – the FBI for you civilian types – believe he was a stringer…a contract killer for hire. Apparently Mr. Kovacs used to do a lot of black-bag operations for the KGB back in the good old, bad old days."
"You didn't answer my question," Giles pointed out, though he could see where this was going.
"I was getting to that. As I was about to say, Kovacs entered the country three days ago… crossed over illegally from Mexico under an assumed identity. I don't know exactly what he was up to or whom he was working for, but he turned up dead yesterday on the outskirts of town, near the new industrial park. He was shot twice in the back at close range, stripped of identification, and dumped in plain view just off the water treatment plant access road. Aside from an empty wallet and the murder weapon, we found only one item on his person… a rather extensive dossier on one Rupert Giles."
Had the detective not known any better, Gile's reaction might have surprised him. But the fact that the Englishman didn't even blink at the disturbing news came as no great surprise to him, given what he knew of Mr. Giles's exploits. "Was that an accusation?" Giles asked evenly.
Martinez smiled benignly. "You're many things, Mr. Giles, but you're no murderer. Mr. Kovacs is another story entirely."
"Who do you think killed this man, if not me?"
The detective leaned forward in his chair, folding his hands thoughtfully under his chin. "I was hoping you could shed some light on that."
"I have no earthly idea," Giles insisted, again truthfully. "I presume you suspect it had something to do with what transpired here today?"
"You tell me, Mr. Giles. Did it?"
The watcher leaned back in the couch, pondering how best to answer a question that had no correct answer. "If I had to guess, I would venture to say yes…. and no."
Martinez didn't follow. "Come again?"
Taking a deep breath, Giles prepared to launch into an explanation. "As you no doubt suspect, what happened today was more than a simple drive-by shooting."
Martinez arched an eyebrow. "No shit."
Giles continued, unperturbed. "The men who attacked us were here for a particular reason…. a specific purpose. Killing us was not high on their agenda."
"I've got a yard full of expended 9mm that says otherwise."
The Watcher shook his head. "I said killing us wasn't high on their agenda; I never said they lacked the desire to do so."
"And yet here you are, no worse for wear. You mind telling me how you pulled that one off, or should I direct the question to Miss Rosenberg?"
"Beg your pardon?"
Martinez smiled broadly. "Let's just say I have a friend at Sunnydale Memorial who keeps me apprised of the more…unusual goings on in the emergency room." He paused, noting the look of trepidation on Giles' face. "Consequently," he continued, "a few months back this friend shared with me a certain surveillance video featuring our very own Willow Rosenberg."
"You don't say?"
"At the risk of sounding like a dirty old man, Miss Rosenberg's a very photogenic young woman, despite the varicose veins and the Goth getup she happened to be sporting at the time."
Giles felt the urge to say something; he just wasn't sure what. "I can assure you there's a logical explanation for anything…inexplicable you might have seen."
"Rosenberg's a witch?"
That caught the Watcher off guard. "When you put it that way, it doesn't sound quite so logical," he conceded.
"And today?"
"Pretty much the same," Giles admitted.
"Rosenberg healed you?"
"What gave it away leftenant? The massive bloodstains? Or perhaps the bullet holes decorating my pant leg?"
Martinez ignored the last remark. "And the bodies out back?"
Giles played stupid. "What of them?"
"Who are they, and what happened to them?"
Giles thought about it for a second, using the time to stretch his cramped frame. "Well, detective, to answer your first question, I can't rightly say. However, if I were so inclined to speculate, I might infer they were in some way associated with Wolfram & Hart."
"Wolfram & Hart? The law firm?"
"It's only speculation, of course."
"Of course. We all know how ruthless lawyers can be. And as to my second question?"
Giles smiled weakly. "I believe the appropriate term is immolated."
"More of Ms. Rosenberg's handiwork, I presume?"
"Let's just call it an act of God and leave it at that."
Martinez rolled his eyes. "We seem to have an abundance of those where you're concerned."
"God looks out for fools and children," Giles reasoned. "And on occasion, middle-aged British expatriates."
"But not rifle-toting mercenaries," Martinez added, before reverting back to the issue at hand. "Tell me something Mr. Giles. You said those men were here for a specific purpose, but that they weren't here to kill you. Supposing that's true, what was their motive?"
"You're a smart boy, leftenant. You tell me."
"They were looking for something…for someone?" the detective surmised aloud. "But they didn't kill…" His voice trailed off as realization sunk in. Martinez shook his head in amazement, muttering a Spanish invective beneath his breath. "You mean to tell me this was a goddamned attempted kidnapping? Jesu Cristo! Why the hell didn't you say anything?"
Giles eyed the man studiously. "I trust you, Detective Martinez. I cannot say the same of your men."
Martinez opened his mouth to argue, then thought better of it. "Who was it?" he asked, a little too loudly, before lowering her voice. "Were they…you know…?"
"They were human," Giles imparted, "for the most part. There was a vampire among them."
"Anyone I know?"
"Perhaps. The demon in question goes by the name of Spike."
"You mean Hostile Seven…." Martinez blurted out, then checked himself. "I mean, uh, William the Bloody."
"I see you're familiar with the Initiative," Giles remarked coolly. "Why am I not surprised?"
"It'd be best if you forget hearing that," Martinez cautioned, his eyes darting back and forth conspiratorially, a look of genuine anguish on his face. "For both our sakes."
"I take it there's a new player in town," Giles surmised quietly.
"You might say that," Martinez conceded, pulling a pen from his pocket and scribbling something on the manila folder, which he held up for Giles' benefit. "And he doesn't play well with others."
"I see," Giles responded, not the least bit surprised by the three letters the detective had written. "I venture to say that in these uncertain times one cannot be too careful."
"Without a doubt," Martinez agreed. "Anyway, these men, these kidnappers. Who was it they were looking for? Was it Summers?"
"Yes…it was Summers." Giles confessed, "but not the one you're thinking of."
The detective's eyes widened with shock. "Dawn? I assumed she wasn't here."
Giles nodded soberly. "She isn't. They took her."
SHS Parking LotIt's been said that death has a plan for everyone, that when your time is up, your time is up, and there ain't jack squat you can do about it. Fortunately for Xander Harris, that wasn't exactly true, at least not in the strictest sense of the word.
Strangely enough, it wasn't the Slayer that saved his life. It wasn't fate, or good luck, or even chance, either. What saved Xander, in a manner of speaking, was good old-fashioned capitalism – that, and an extremely persuasive car salesman named Steve.
When Xander hit the remote ignition button on his aftermarket key fob, a simple radio signal was transmitted to a receiver slaved to the truck's onboard computer, which was in turn linked to the ignition. As the vehicle's engine turned over, a similar, if more ominous signal was relayed to a detonator concealed within the truck, surreptitiously placed only minutes before by a heretofore-trusted member of Xander's crew. The detonator, in turn, catalyzed a somewhat more spectacular, if less desirable ignition, setting off a small but potent Composition-4 charge positioned strategically near the fuel tank.
The first explosion easily lifted the truck off the ground, blowing out the tinted windows in an impressive display of pyrotechnics. It was followed less than a second later by another, more powerful explosion, this one tearing the metal frame asunder, completing the destruction of what Xander had already begun referring to as "his baby".
The nominal owner, meanwhile, fared somewhat better than his beloved toy. The initial blast left Xander largely unscathed, aside from a few minor cuts and scrapes sustained from the flying glass. The subsequent explosion, replete with shrapnel and ensuing shockwave, sent Xander reeling, shredding his favorite flannel shirt as well as the skin beneath. He hit the ground ten feet from where he'd left it, rolling to a stop on the cement promenade directly outside the front entrance to the school. Dazed and bloodied, he lifted his head with considerable effort, staring in mute shock at the remains of his truck, even as a single smoldering tire rolled lazily by. Rapidly losing consciousness, Xander heard footsteps approaching from behind, and wondered fleetingly whether they belonged to his would be murderers. He slowly turned his head, struggling to focus on the two figures running toward him, his vision already blurring. As the world faded to black, he was heard to mutter:
"Damn…only 48 payments left."
End Chapter 21. Not to beat a dead horse, but I apologize once more for the delay in posting. My old laptop finally gave up the ghost (adios Compaq), and my new Dell fell victim to the Sasser worm. Needless to say, my writing has been especially sparse of late. Anyway, as always, feedback is not only appreciated, but outright craved. You know the drill.
Regards,
Rabid Squirrel