Jean Grey sipped at a cup of lemon tea, trying to make sense out of Sunnydale. Demons, vampires, underground military bases with strange experiments… And she couldn't forget Scott's cousin and her friends. Or the fact that Scott's cousin's mom was currently out on a date with Sabertooth.
"This place makes no sense at all."
"Now that you've realized that, you're on your way to adapting," Willow smirked over her laptop. "You know that the line is back that way when things start making sense again, and then it's too late, your life will never be the same again."
"Trying to ignore the strangeness of this place, have you made any progress with those disks?" Jean tried not to admit that she was wondering how any of this made sense, and how long it had taken for it to look like it did to the younger redhead. "And are you sure that Mr. Giles won't mind us being here while he's at his shop? He seemed rather upset this morning."
"No, that was mildly upset, not rather upset. Anya might have been exaggerating the problems at the shop; she sometimes has a bit of trouble remembering that the deed says Rupert Giles instead of Anya Emerson. Beyond that, I recognized the name of the officer that called. His younger brother was in our graduating class, he's not going to throw the book at us."
"Right. The decryption? And have you heard from Scott or Buffy this morning?" Jean sipped her tea, wishing that she'd brought her headache medicine with her.
"Coming along nicely, and no. Anybody in particular you want it to be sent to when I've got it done?"
"Several places, but we'll need the decryption to be finished first," Jean rubbed at her temple, wincing.
"Hang on," Willow stepped over, and placed her hands beside Jean's temples, not quite touching. Murmuring something in a language Jean couldn't identify, there was a faint glow and warmth that surrounded her hands before sinking into Jean's head.
"My headache… how'd you do that?" Jean blinked, amazed at the sudden lack of pain.
"Magic, of course," Willow grinned back. "Useful for all sorts of things, both big and little. But sometimes the little ones are better. In this case, I don't know what sort of medicine you're taking for your headaches, but too much of it would be bad, and you look like it hurts. It's also good for that thing just a few inches out of reach on the top shelf."
"Useful," Jean murmured, remembering times when she'd used her telekinesis for things on the top shelf or the back of a cupboard. "Is there anything that I can do to make this go faster?"
"I need to go find Oz," Willow bit her lip, thoughts whirling as she paused. "If you can stay here and keep the decryption going while I go looking for him? I already checked and he's not at the police station, the hospital or the pound, so…"
Jean tried to stop herself, but the question slipped out, "Why would he be at the pound?"
"Considering that you're already complaining that the Hellmouth makes no sense and gives you headaches, I don't think you want to know." Willow sighed, "I just hope he didn't do anything he's going to regret."
Jean decided that for today, she would resist her scientific curiosity. With the existence of vampires, magic and God only knew what else, she probably didn't want to know. "I'll keep working on the program then. I should only need to change the disks, and click okay and continue a few times."
As Willow left the apartment, Jean decided that she wasn't going to try to figure out what the full moon had to do with Oz and his behavior. Psychological studies had shown a correlation between violent or unstable behavior and the lunar phases, and that would be more than enough in this town. Instead, she decided to try to contact Scott, and maybe to check in on his aunt Joyce.
Reaching out with her mind, Jean focused her thoughts on Scott. She'd trusted him to watch out for her in situations far more dangerous than decrypting computer files, and he held a special place in her heart. If she had the chance for 'happily ever after', she wanted it with him. :Scott? How did things go last night:
:Strangely. And I promised Buffy that we could get her some leather outfits that weren't quite like the uniforms, and maybe in lavender: Scott's mind felt tired, and there were fragmentary images. :Can you check on Aunt Joyce? I went back to her house last night and there were dark vans on the street, and lights on in the house. Things didn't look pretty.:
Jean sucked in a deep breath:Do you think the soldiers know what happened? Some form of retaliation, or an attempt at a hostage:
:I've had too many ugly suspicions. Sticking to facts, there were dark vans when I know she doesn't have any. She didn't mention any visitors, and I know that none of us were using any of the upstairs rooms. I'd feel much better if we could find her and make sure that everything's safe. Even if it means that she's with… Creed's probably better than some governmental Black Ops team.: Scott was trying to force back ugly images of rooms disturbed, fragments of movies with people kidnapped, tortured and brainwashed, or of people who just vanished. :Buffy doesn't know, she thinks her mom is out with Creed. I'd rather she kept thinking that until we know otherwise.:
Jean sent the equivalent of a nod, trying not to send the idea that it must have pained Scott to suggest that his Aunt with Sabertooth was in any way a good idea. :I'll look into things. If need be, I can see what the neighbors thought or were told about the vans.:
For a moment, Jean considered trying to contact Sabertooth to check on Joyce. After struggling to find a way to phrase the question without sounding like she was accusing him of something, she decided that it would be a bad idea. Considering his temper, the way he'd attacked those vampires, and the unfortunate history between him and the X-Men, she didn't want to do anything that could be taken poorly.
She also didn't think it would be a good idea to try to telepathically reach for Joyce. She would probably be able to recognize her mind, if the people driving the dark vans hadn't done anything horrible, but Joyce wasn't used to telepathic conversations. She and Scott had both enjoyed being around someone who wasn't afraid of them and also wasn't a mutant. Joyce and her acceptance gave her hope that the Professor's dream might be possible.
Willow's computer beeped, and Jean changed the disk. "I'm forgetting the obvious. Joyce has an art gallery; maybe I could call there and get in touch with her or someone who knows where she should be."
Flipping through the phone book, Jean decided that she was glad that Sunnydale had such limited opportunities. She hadn't remembered the name of Joyce's gallery, but she had remembered the street. "I'd never be able to find a gallery in New York with only a street and knowing the owner's name. Now I just need to hope that she's there, or at least somewhere safe."
Her fingers tapped impatiently as the phone rang, and she whispered, "Pick up, pick up. Someone needs to be there, preferably someone who can get me in touch with Joyce. Pick up already…"
'Painted Sunsets gallery, may I help you?' a woman's voice answered, traces of a Mexican accent flavoring her words.
"I'm trying to contact Joyce Summers," Jean forced her voice to hold steady. They couldn't afford to hint that anything could be wrong, not before they had more than fear and vans.
"Un momento, she's in her office. I will transfer the call to her," the voice seemed calm enough.
The woman wouldn't be that calm if Joyce had shown up injured, or terrified. Jean tried to view this as a good thing – they knew where Joyce was, and she was in good health. It would feel very relaxing to be able to hang up the phone and laugh about being too paranoid.
There was a click, and she could hear Joyce speaking to someone in the background. 'Ira, we need to have something to pass on before we get in touch with… let me take this call.'
Hope burned a bit brighter, and Jean spoke into the phone, "Joyce? Scott and I were wondering if everything was okay. He said there was some sort of traffic disturbance near your house last night."
'Oh yes. There were a few vans that left the road,' Joyce paused, and there was a muffled noise that could have been a question directed at her from someone else in the room. 'I didn't see what went on, but it certainly had people stirred up!'
"Good to know," Jean replied, wondering just what suspicions might be in Joyce's mind. "Scott and I were worried about you."
'Actually, I missed the whole thing. I happened to drop in to visit a friend of mine, and we ended up talking into the wee hours. You and Scott will have to come over for dinner.'
Jean had a brief image of spy movies, with houses dropped with so many listening devices that the agencies could tell who went to the bathroom when and how often, let alone whatever else they might have done or said. Unable to keep from shuddering, she countered, "Why don't we take you out for dinner? I feel bad about making you cook all the time, even though you make wonderful hot chocolate."
'That sounds nice,' Joyce murmured. 'I'll be done here at about six, if you'd rather just pick me up here?'
Jean tried not to let herself wonder if Joyce was reluctant to go into her house after last night. "That should be fine."
She just hoped that her words wouldn't turn out to be a lie.
End part 66.
"That was rather odd," Joyce mused, hanging up the phone.
"What was so odd? If your nephew doesn't see you very often, why not go out to dinner?" Sheila arched one eyebrow as she leaned back. "Oh dear, how old is this couch?"
"The problem isn't the couch, it's the fact that you aren't twenty anymore," Ira kissed the top of Sheila's head. "I think if I were Joyce, I'd be very careful what I said or did in that house until it's had a thorough inspection."
"Of course. The sort of people who do that wouldn't hesitate to try to listen in on your life. If only we knew why they'd swooped in on your house to begin with!" Sheila rubbed her temple, and sighed. "I hadn't thought I'd have to deal with this sort of thing again. Not even during the whole MOO disaster."
"You never did go into any details on that, dear" Ira commented.
"And I'm not planning to in the near future," Sheila retorted. "We need to focus on the current situation, not last year's insanity."
"I still don't know why they were in my house," Joyce sighed. In truth, she had two possibilities, and she didn't like the implications of either one. Her first thought had been that they had some idea about Buffy's special abilities, and were after the Slayer. Her second had been that they were after Scott and Jean, and that maybe some of those horrible rumors about things happening to mutants could be true.
"Nothing good, I'm sure." Sheila's snorted words summed up their feelings.
"If we had something, some sort of proof that we could distribute," Ira started to think out loud. "Between the three of us, we have the contacts, and computers give us the technology. Anything solid could be spread nation-wide within days, if not hours. Even if all we had was some very strong circumstantial evidence…"
"Stronger than unsubstantiated rumors or vans on my street," Joyce sighed. "The police said they couldn't find anything to prove who had been in my house, no fingerprints or any physical evidence that we could use. As for the rumors, how could we prove that a mutant didn't just run away?"
"So many? Unlikely," Sheila snorted. "It's statistically unlikely, even if they all began to feel isolated or unable to properly relate to their peers. And from the papers, most mutants appear no different from everybody else."
"Maybe your nephew will be able to find something," Ira offered.
"I suppose that's a possibility," Joyce agreed. Considering that Scott and Jean had mentioned a special school, they might have a very good idea about some of the rumors. And if they hadn't heard, then they needed to know what was being said. "Sounds like a topic for dinner discussion."
"Be sure that he knows we can get information around quickly," Sheila taped the couch. "Ira and I both have plenty of connections."
Joyce nodded, "Don't worry, I'll remember."
"This town has plenty of reasons to worry," Ira scowled.
End part 67.
Willow walked through the gates of Our Lady of Peace cemetery, a folded up blanket in her arms. The grass was growing tall, and it tangled at her feet, yellowing and sharp edged. Glaring at the sharp edges, she muttered, "Too many vampires in the area – even the grass is trying to bite."
The tiny green light danced, resembling a firefly more than anything else. While she was glad that Oz wasn't in jail, or the pound, or at the hospital, it had left her with no idea where to look for him. This locator spell had sounded like a good idea, and she'd been wanting to try it since she and Tara had found it last month. Her mind had immediately brought up a dozen times when it would have been great to cast a spell and know where someone was. Willow ignored the fact that she hadn't even known magic was real for half of them, and that she couldn't have cast it for most of the rest.
The light danced in front of a mausoleum, twinkling and changing to a more golden color.
"Oz, I hope you're okay," Willow murmured, her hand touching the door. The hinges had been twisted until they'd separated, one from the door and the other from the doorframe, leaving the door fallen at an angle.
Oz lay on the floor, his pale skin mottled with bruises and slashes. Dust motes shimmered in the sunlight that came through the window opposite the door.
Willow darted forward, mouth open in a wordless gasp. He looked terrible, and she had no idea what could have happened to cause this. Placing on trembling hand on his shoulder, she managed, "oz?"
He groaned, and managed to turn enough to face her. "Willow?"
"I'm so glad that I found you! Something happened at the Magic Box, and you ran out, and we didn't know where you were or if you were okay," Willow leaned forward, kissing the top of his head. "I brought a blanket."
Oz nodded, taking the blanket from Willow's hands. He lurched to his feet before wrapping it around him, blinking at the marble walls. After a few moments, he spoke, "There were men with guns."
"At the Magic Box?" Willow gasped. "Oh, that's bad. Why would there be people with guns breaking into a magic shop? I mean, we've had the baddies trying to get herbs and amulets, and once Spike trying to get a spell, but none of them ever needed guns. You didn't get shot, did you? Oh, what if Anya or Xander got shot? Or Tara and Charlie?"
Reaching out, Oz tucked a strand of Willow's hair behind her ear. "I've got bruises and scrapes, a few cuts, but no bullet holes."
Willow hugged him, holding him close enough to feel the warmth through the blanket. He was here, and safe, and they could take care of his injuries later. "Let's get out of here."
Oz waited until they were settled in the car before he said anything else. "How'd the plan go?"
"Things went fine for us. We got the disks, and they're decrypting now. None of us got hurt, and Vic seemed to have some fun with the vampires that tried to get us when we came out. Scott and Buffy called in the soldiers, and they were all out of our way. Buffy's still freaked out that her mom's dating," Willow smiled, her fingers trembling as she searched around the key-ring.
"Long-distance decryption?" Oz leaned against the door, a small smile on his face.
"Jean and I crashed at Giles' apartment last night. I left her to click buttons and change disks while I came to find you," Willow started the car.
"What do we do with it?" Oz picked up the half empty bottle of water and opened it up, taking a long swallow.
"That's the part we're still working on," Willow admitted. "Jean said that one of their friends knows a reporter, but that's probably not going to be enough. We need to make sure that if it's something big and bad, that it gets out and can't be squashed. And if it's medical, then… maybe Jean or someone she knows can help. It would be great if we had some sort of network, like what Mom talked about from when she was in college."
"Ask her," Oz suggested, his eyes closing.
For a moment, Willow doubted what she'd heard. Had Oz really just suggested that she ask her mom for help? The same mom who'd tried to burn her at the stake? The same mom who hadn't realized Willow'd cut six inches from her hair for almost a month? "I wouldn't have to tell her what it was about, I suppose. And with all of those conferences, she must know a lot of people. If we could get this to some of them, there'd have to be someone who'd say this sort of thing just isn't right."
"Maybe she could help," Oz took another drink of the water. "If she sees you as an adult dealing with a problem instead of her daughter…"
"That might help," Willow admitted. The idea that her mother couldn't relate to her as a parent was old, and only a dull ache now. But the thought of her mom treating her like an adult, of paying attention to what she said was new. It might be able to work, as long as her mom didn't get caught up in social groups and demographics to the point where she didn't listen.
"In the mean time, do you still have a spare set of clothing at Giles' apartment?" Willow glanced at Oz, hoping that he was still awake.
Oz only nodded.
"Right," Willow decided. "Pants first, and then we figure out how to inform the world."
End part 68.