The Cautionary Tale of Numero Cinco

Part One

Angel tucked Connor into his little bed and sat down beside him, with a deep sigh. 'Story', the little boy demanded.

'It's bedtime little buddy, you gotta go to sleep - or else you'll be all cranky in the morning.' He sighed again - wishing that a decent night's sleep would be all it took to stop him feeling so cranky these days.

'Story,' Connor insisted, shaking his head and refusing to close his eyes.

'Well - OK, but close your eyes first,' he waited a moment whilst his tiny son obediently shut his eyes - and unconsciously lodged his thumb into his mouth. 'This is a story my Mom used to tell me,' Angel said to him, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest. 'Back when I was a boy - a long, long time ago now. It's the story of Lugh - a warrior king in the Tuatha Dé Danann. He was a brave and mythic hero…' he paused for a moment, 'a champion,' he said quietly. He closed his own eyes. 'He went into battle wielding a fiery spear - and he had loyal hound named - uh - Failinis.' It had been a long time since Angel had thought of his mother, and even longer since he had thought of her stories - and he realised all the myriad things he had learned across the world, throughout his eternal life, had driven some of the details to the very far corner of his mind.

'He was the bravest and wisest of all the old gods … and the fiercest fighter. There was this one time,' he frowned as he mentally reached to find the details, 'He took his people into battle against the most dangerous enemy…' bad things always happen here, 'they were monsters, creatures of evil, slithered out from the sea and spreading fear and terror throughout the land. These creatures were led by a monster called … Balor. And he had - uh - well, he had this eye, see? It was - um poisonous - yeah, it killed everything that it looked upon. And Lugh's army, well, they didn't want to go into this fight - they were afraid. But Lugh spoke to them all - he gave them a speech that filled their hearts with courage and lifted their spirits until they all felt like kings…' He sighed and came to a halt … he had just been about to give a speech to his own warriors when Lilah had appeared, contract in hand, and taken him prisoner.

Connor stirred in the bed, and Angel remembered himself and carried on talking. 'So they went into battle against the monsters - and many of them died. But just as Balor was gonna open up his poisonous eye and slay the whole army, Lugh used his slingshot and knocked the eye clean out of Balor's head. Woosh - splat - just like that. It landed in the middle of the army of monsters - looking up at them - and they were all killed instead. So the army went home - and Lugh ruled the land for forty years.'

He opened his eyes - the rhythmic, steady breathing told him Connor was now sleeping. His little face was flushed and his thumb was still in his mouth. Angel leaned over and kissed him on the forehead, before gently tugging his thumb out and tucking his hand under the covers. 'Sleep tight, little buddy.'

He needed to get back downstairs. There was work to do, cases to solve, lives to... save - he guessed. If that's what you could call what they did here. But instead, he stayed where he was - watching Connor sleep. He reached out and stroked his hair - and had a sudden image of his mother doing the same to him, back when he was a tiny boy in Galway - snug in bed in their little house, the light from her candle throwing dark, flickering shapes against the walls - looking like the shadows of the monsters themselves. She had always known lots of stories - and told them much better than he did - about the Celtic heroes of the olden days, and the saints of the newer days. Always stories of warriors and champions and good triumphing over evil.

He sighed again. They were just fairy stories. Children's stories. That wasn't the way the world worked, even if he tried to kid himself - tried to pretend he lived in the world as it should be to show it what it can be. That wasn't him any more. He didn't help the hopeless - he ran Wolfram and Hart. All these years, he had been like a child - playing at being a champion, not understanding the truth of the world - where the real power lay. He'd gone from being a fairy tale monster to a fairy tale hero - and never realised that none of it mattered. Now he got it. He didn't like it - but he got it. Heroes were for stories. The shades of grey was where the grownups lived. And there was no happy ending, no shining moment when the deed was finally done and the tale finished being told - there was just more of the same. For eternity …

He needed to get back to work.

The security guard shone his flashlight around as he did his rounds. The warehouse was dark and creaky. He passed by a fence with a keep out sign. Ignoring the sign, he carried on - only coming to a stop when he heard a noise. He shone his flashlight again, the sound was coming from the basement. He headed across to the stairs, speaking into his C.B radio as he did. 'This is Henderson. South side's basement door is open. I'm gonna check it out.'

There was a crackle over the airwaves, and then a voice replied, 'OK, copy that.'

Henderson began to take the stairs, carefully, one at a time - his flashlight held in front of him. A shadow suddenly loomed out of the darkness and pulled back - before the light from his torch revealed the figure of man. 'Whoa! Jeez, Carlos,' Henderson was breathing heavily - but chuckling. 'Thanks for the heart attack!'

'Right back at ya! Had to swap out that septic pipe.' Carlos said.

'Mmm - well on behalf of a grateful nation…'

Carlos laughed and walked past him - up the stairs. Back towards the main warehouse. Henderson got back on his radio, 'mystery solved,' he said, 'found a crazed plumber...' he stopped talking as he suddenly heard Carlos cry out. He ran up the stairs to investigate and, in the darkness, could just make out the shape of an immensely large man attacking the plumber. He ran towards them, 'Halt!' he cried out. But the attacker just threw Carlos to one side and swatted the flashlight from Henderson's hand. Then it struck out at the guard, knocking him to the floor.

In the uneven, jumping light of his fallen torch, he could just make out glimpses of the man … it wasn't a man - it had - claws… and teeth like he'd never seen. It wore a helmet - and it was bearing down on him, it's wild eyes blazing in the torchlight. Henderson backed up, scooching along the ground, trying to get away from ... it. 'No - don't!'

But the creature came at him - reached out those sharp claws and slashed him right across the torso. Henderson screamed.

Cordelia walked into the office, her purse slung over her shoulder and a half caf non-fat skinny latte in her hand. Doyle was sat in the chair behind the desk, he had steepled his fingers, resting his index fingers on his lips, and his brow was furrowed. He seemed to be concentrating very hard. 'What on earth are you doing?' she asked him.

He looked up, shaking his head slightly, and looking surprised to see her there. 'Oh -um - I was - um … pretendin' to be Angel… actually.'

She laughed, 'you really have the whole knitted eyebrows thing down… Is there any particular reason you're pretending to be broody boy?'

'I was just tryin' to think like him,' Doyle shrugged, 'you know,' he gestured towards their crime board. 'We're stumped Cordy, we've not had a lead in weeks. I've not had a vision. I was just tryin' to work out what Angel would do next. You know?'

'He'd probably beat up some little snitch demon,' Cordelia suggested. 'You want me to go out and…?'

'No one knows anythin' - we've tried all that.'

'Then he's probably start drawing obsessively - you want me to get you a pad and a pen?'

He smiled. 'Nah - I'm not so good at workin' with my hands.'

Cordy quirked an eyebrow. 'Oh I don't know about that,' she crossed the office and sat down on his lap, draping an arm around his neck. 'You do have your moments … and I don't know if I've told you this lately but I'm really really glad you're not Angel. So don't go too method with your imitation.'

'Yeah?' He looked pleased.

'Yeah.' She leaned in and gave him a kiss, nearly spilling her coffee on him, as she did - but she realised her cup was tilting in the nick of time and pulled back. She withdrew her arm from around his neck and put the latte on the desk, before plonking her bag beside it and drawing out the mail from inside. 'I picked this up on the way in,' she told him, 'more bills.'

'Yeah? Can we pay 'em?'

'Well - they're not on their final notice yet - so we don't have to. But - money isn't coming in as fast as we would like, or at all. And we don't wanna get evicted. Again. We are gonna have to find a way to start cutting down on expenses.'

Doyle nodded slowly - and felt his stomach twist into knots. It was time to talk to her. Time to have that conversation … but she wasn't gonna like it.

The sun shone down through the necro-tempered glass, as another day got underway at Wolfram and Hart. The mailman pushed his cart down the corridors - same as every day - handing out packages, delivering letters and taking items to post in return. He was an elderly man, bent almost double over his cart - the only remarkable thing about him was the Mexican wrestling mask he wore - every day - red and blue, with a white number five daubed on the forehead. He had worked for the company for years - in lots of different offices - had returned to the L.A branch once it was rebuilt, after the disaster last year. He spoke to nobody and nobody spoke to him - and that was the way it had always been … until this morning.

'Ok - umm - professional opinion?' Lorne stopped number 5 in the corridor and held up two greetings cards. 'Sexy soccer mama or brainy beauty?' The mailman peered at him from beneath his mask. 'You're an ageing sexpot celebrating a decade of turning 29,' Lorne explained his dilemma - as number 5 continued to stare at him blankly. 'You got 2 little rugrats that aren't that little, a husband who thinks the extra's trailer is a buffet table and gravity aint doing you any favours… so,' he held the greetings cards out, 'Happy Birthday sexy mama or…' he cut himself off as he saw Fred walk down the corridor towards him. 'Fred, hey Fred, sweetie, you're sorta like a woman.'

Fred frowned, 'oh - that's not a compliment,' she said.

'Well - I mean more so than El Cid here.'

The mailman rolled his eyes. Lorne launched back into his dilemma, explaining it again for Fred. She cut him off - she'd heard already. 'Don't send a card,' she told him, 'don't mention her birthday. Send her a big bunch of flowers just because she's wonderful and special and eternally blah de blah.'

'Ha! Staring me right in the face! Genius.' Lorne chuckled. Number 5 pushed his cart round him and continued on his rounds. 'And I'm a lot like a woman,' Fred said to Lorne, as she walked away.

'Oh you're all woman! You're everywoman! You're Wonder Woman!'

'Damn straight!'

Angel sat at the conference table in his office whilst Gunn handed him paper after paper to sign. He had been given a very fine and fancy pen to do this but … he was still sighing deeply as he worked. He scrawled his name one more time - and squinted down at the rich, red colour of the ink. He sniffed. 'Is that blood?'

'Yeah but it's OK, it's yours.'

'Huh.' he signed another contract. 'How is that OK again?'

Gunn reached out and took the now signed contracts away from him. 'Demon law requires blood signatures on all legal documents. As CEO and President of Wolfram and Hart, you just bankrupted a company that dumps raw demon waste into Santa Monica Bay, banished a clan of pyro warlocks into a hell dimension and started a foster care programme for kids whose parents have been killed by vampires. Not bad for a day's pay.'

'Yeah … great,' Angel said, but his stare was blank and his voice unenthused. Gunn shuffled the papers so they were stacked neatly and raised an eyebrow at his boss. 'Look I know legal weasels and business deals aren't as heroic as rescuing young honey's from tumescent trolls in dark alleys - but I love what we do here. You know, for the first time in my life I can't wait to get to work in the morning? You've always had your special powers. Now I have mine.'

'Isn't that special!' Spike's sneering voice cut in from the end of the conference table, where he was balancing, his arms crossed against his chest and a scowl on his face. 'We all have special powers. Anybody wanna trade? I'll swap you - two for one. Walking through walls, picking up mugs…' he focused all his concentration onto the mug in front of him and gripped it by the tips of his fingers - lifting it a few inches off the table. 'In exchange for - I dunno - how about me not being dead?'

'How about you not being here?' Angel snapped.

'If wishes were horses.'

With a deep sigh, Angel slammed his chair back from the table and got to his feet. He strode over to the window and stared out - his brow lowered, his eyes dark. Gunn watched him, 'are you OK?' he asked, sounding a little worried. Angel had been in a funk for … months now. And it only seemed to be getting deeper.

Angel shrugged his shoulders but didn't look around. 'Yeah, fine. Like you said - not bad for a day's pay.'

Gunn and Spike exchanged a look - and then Gunn got to his feet and carefully approached the brooding vampire. 'Look, I know you hate working here,' he said gently. 'What with the bureaucracy and the fact that most of our employees want us dead… but in house attacks are down 30% this week. And we've done more good here in a month than Angel Investigations did in a year.'

Angel's scowl only deepened. Maybe that was true - on paper. But at what cost? What was lost in the balance? What evil had they enabled, aided and abetted at the same time? He reckoned someone, somewhere probably had a great, big spreadsheet with the figures divided into columns - bloodless and bureaucratic. Just numbers on a page. Not lives and people, with hopes and dreams and loved ones. And as long as the numbers for good just edged over the numbers for bad they could shrug their shoulders, look the other way. They were still ahead by the numbers. It was those shades of grey - this whole place was like living in an anaemic, slate coloured hell. He missed the monochrome of AI. The black and the white - the good and the evil - the champions and the monsters. The clarity that came with purpose He wondered what Cordy and Doyle were up to today.

'Angel?' Gunn said to him, as he didn't answer and the silence lengthened.

'What?...' he shook his head, 'I know - I know… I'm just, I don't know - feeling a bit … disconnected.'

'Are you serious?' Spike sounded incensed. 'Here you are - finally living a piece of the high life: new clothes, new cars, my old tumble fetching you tasty snacks and what's your gripe? "I feel disconnected." You wanna feel disconnected, try being a bloody ghost for a bit. Try bobbing around with no touch or taste or smell. Not many worse fates than that I'd wager.' The old mail guy pushed his cart into the office, just as Spike finished his diatribe, '...OK maybe that,' the ghost conceded, nodding at number 5's slumped figure.

'I know what you're saying about the disconnect,' Gunn told Angel, as the mail guy put Angel's post on his desk and started to collect the outgoing packages. 'Much as I love the legalese, gotta admit, I miss mixing it up sometimes. Miss getting my hands dirty you know?'

'Then you'll be interested in this,' Wesley appeared in the doorway carrying a report. Three people had been found in East Los Angeles, each with their hearts cut out, all in the last few hours. The mailman froze as he listened to the watcher speak. 'The police are on it,' Wesley told the team, 'but my sense is it's more demonic than some murderous nutjob.'

Number 5 pushed his cart back through the door - just as Spike quipped about ruling out demonic nutjobs. But Gunn had the last of his contracts, ready for posting, still on the table. 'Yo you missed one,' he called after the retreating mail guy - but number 5 did not stop or even slow down.

'I'll get it,' Angel took the envelope and hurried out of the office, following number 5 down the corridor. 'Wait wait!' he caught the old man up and grabbed his arm. 'Hold up for a second!'

Number 5 twisted beneath his grip - so they were facing each other, and then clutched Angel around the throat - lifted him up in the air and launched him through the plate glass window. Then he turned back to his mail cart and continued his rounds.

Lying on the floor of his office, flat on his back, surrounded by the wreckage of the now shattered window, Angel sighed his deepest sigh yet. 'I really hate this place.'

An awkward silence hung over the office. Cordelia had climbed out of Doyle's lap and retreated to the far corner - where she was looking troubled and defensive. Doyle stayed in his chair and watched her, anxiously. 'I don't know what to say,' she said, eventually. She ran her hands through her hair, pushing it away from her face. 'I don't … I mean - what do you want me to say?'

'I don't want you to say anthin',' Doyle said softly. 'It's just … I mean it had to happen - you know - logically. We are gettin' married.'

'Don't logic me,' she gave him an irritated glance and sat down on the green sofa. She rested her elbows on her knees and her fists on her cheeks - but she still kept throwing angry glances at Doyle. 'I mean - what you're asking…'

'I'm not askin'...'

'You mean you're telling?' she sounded outraged.

'No - I don't…' he sighed, 'I'm suggestin' - Cordelia. That's all. We're gonna get married soon - and it is normal for a married couple to live together. Plus we gotta find ways to cut back on expenses- and this would half our rent. More than half. You know - this makes financial sense and it's kinda inevitable anyway. The Green card people will not look too kindly on me being married to a woman I don't even live with. They're really strict on that sort o' thing.'

She looked annoyed. 'But our relationship is real.'

'I know - but it won't look that way to the authorities. This is the next step we had to take anyway. I mean, I love you Cordy, you know? I wanna live with y' - it's not just about paperwork and expenses. I want us to be together - properly. I wanna wake up every day with you next to me and go to bed at night with you by my side. I want you to be the first and last person I see everyday - for the rest o' my life. But … there are some logical and rational reasons behind it too. You normally love all that stuff! Ways we can save money, or beat the system, just by bein' together. This is … I want this to happen, Cordy. And I want you to want it as well.'

'I do, I do - it's just …' she ran her hands through her hair again. 'You're talking about me leaving Dennis.'

Doyle glanced down. 'I know,' he said quietly.

'He's like - he's like my best friend. More than that. He's been there for me when… when everything happens. When I kicked you out, when Angel was missing - and then when he was evil … no matter how badly screwed up my life became, Dennis was always there.'

'I know,' he said again, even more softly.

'And now you just want me to leave him? What will happen to him?'

'Well - he's a ghost. I guess he'll stay in the apartment and just … room with the new tennent.'

'And I'll never see him again.'

'...No.'

She sighed and got to her feet. 'I don't wanna talk about this,' she said.

'Cordelia-'

'No.' she held out a hand, cutting him off. 'No - just drop it OK? We have work to do. Let's get on with that.'

Angel sat up slowly, looking around at all the fragments of broken glass now littering the floor. Wesley and Gunn converged on him, wanting to know what had happened and if he was OK. He rubbed his neck. 'The mail guy threw me,' he told them.

'Number 5?' Spike's face lit up in wicked delight, 'isn't he like a hundred years old?'

Angel got back to his feet, 'well it's hard to tell - what with the mask and everything.'

Gunn was already on his phone, speaking with security - telling them to lock the place down and search for the mail guy.

'Why did he attack you?' Wesley asked, sounding confused. But Angel was just as confused as he was. 'I was trying to give him mail? Look - this is just a thing … maybe I just startled him or something.' He wanted to brush the whole thing under the carpet. But Spike had other ideas. 'Hey Fred, did you hear the news?' he asked brightly - still grinning his devilish smile as she came into the office, 'Angel attacked the old mail guy.'

Fred looked horrified, 'not number 5!' she stared at Angel with disappointment and not a little anger. 'You didn't hurt him?'

'What? No - he attacked me!'

Gunn's cell phone rang - security had found him and were now escorting him off the premises. Her hung up the phone and looked across at Angel, 'you do wanna fire his masked ass don't you?'

'Umm - I don't …'

'I think it's for the best,' Wesley counselled.

'Look - I'm fine. Let's just get back to the bodies…' but again he was denied this, as Lorne walked into the office and raised his eyes at the debris, 'holy tornadoes it's true.'

'Yeah - it was amazing,' Spike told him, 'Angel went right off at the mail guy.'

'This must have been one major smackdown,' Lorne nodded - glancing around at the shards of broken glass now scattering the floor of the office.

'There was no smacking,' Angel tried to say - but this was not the hubbub going around the firm. The word on the web had Angel suckerpunching old Grandpa Moses - but Lorne already had his flak catcher spinning this into PR gold. Once the word was spread that he had beaten up an old man - well their enemies would think twice about going toe to toe with the avenging Angel.

'Yes - the geriatric community will be soiling their nappies when they hear you're on the case,' Spike said seriously, giving Angel a thumbs up, 'bravo.'

'I didn't beat anybody up, OK?' Angel snapped at his team, irritably. 'Now can we get back to what's important like - Wes' bodies.'

A woman came in and handed a report to Wesley, he took it from her and read it. 'A fourth body has just been found,' he told the rest of them. 'This one was in a church after an All Souls mass.'

'All souls?' Angel asked.

'Prayers for the departed,' Wesley said, 'today was a special service. It's the Mexican Day of the Dead.'

Once night had fallen, Angel and the men took one of his new cars from the car pool - a classic red convertible - and drove, top down, towards the scene of the latest killing. Spike was in the passenger seat whilst Wes and Gunn were crammed in the back, clutching their weapons. 'Still don't see why blondie ghost tagged along,' Gunn muttered.

'Not much choice really is there?' Spike said to him, from the front - not even bothering to turn around. 'Can't drink, smoke, diddle my willy. Doesn't leave much to do other than watch you blokes stumble around playing Agatha Christie.'

'Remind me again why you got the front seat,' Wesley said. Spike smirked. 'Called shotgun, mate.' Wesley glanced down at the shotgun in his hands. 'Oh - I thought we were doing a weapons check.'

'Nothin' wrong with that,' Gunn raised his axe, 'we might need these bad boys if we're goin' up against some Mexican Day of the Dead heartsucking monster.'

Wesley leaned forward in his seat so he could talk to Angel, give him directions for where they were headed. 'Angel, the church were looking for is about half a mile…' But, with a squeal of tyres, Angel suddenly swerved the car off the road - screeched the car to a halt and jumped over the door, headed into an alleyway and leaving the rest of the team in the car, without so much as a word to them. Spike rolled his eyes, 'always was a bit of a drama queen,' he said to the men crammed in the back.

...

They got out of the car and followed Angel down the dark alleyway, finding him standing over yet another body. This one was lying in a pool of blood, their chest ripped open. 'Too late,' Spike sighed.

'So you what, heard his scream?' Gunn asked Angel. Angel tutted and looked away. 'He smelled the blood,' Spike told the men, his own eyes fixed on the shredded body. 'Nothing grabs a vamp's attention like the ruby red.'

Wesley crouched down and began to examine the corpse. 'His heart's been removed,' he said, confirming that this was yet another kill by the demon they were hunting. 'Looks like it was cut out with some kind of crude knife and - based on the blood spatters - I'd say it was still beating when it was removed.'

'The blood's still fresh,' Angel told them all - the metallic tang in the confined space was almost overpowering. 'This just happened.'

'So whatever did this might still be close,' Wesley mused, getting back to his feet.

'How close?' Gunn asked. The three of them were still staring down at the body. Only Spike had turned away. 'Oh - about ten, eleven feet,' the ghost said, staring over his shoulder at the snarling, eight foot, armoured demon creeping up on them.

Cordelia switched her computer off. 'I'm calling it a night,' she said, 'going home.'

'Cordelia -' it had been an awkward day all round. They had had no need to leave the office: no visions, no demons, no clients - no excuse to get out. They had worked steadily - and for the most part silently - on their respective computers trying to find out anything about their demon victims or what might be hunting them. They had not found much - and any reason they had had to speak to each other had resulted in stilted and strained conversation. Doyle's suggestion lay over them like an oppressive cloud, smothering all the oxygen out of the atmosphere. But now she was headed home - it seemed right to mention it again.

But Cordelia was not eager. 'I don't wanna talk about this Doyle, OK?' she said. 'I'm going home - and I'll see you in the morning.' She grabbed her bag, and then hesitated by the doorway - before relenting and heading back to Doyle and giving him a swift goodbye kiss. 'I'll see you in the morning,' she repeated.

'Will you at least think about it?' he asked her.

'I - I don't know,' she headed back to the door.

'Cordy - wait,' he got to his feet and shuffled them awkwardly, shoving his hands in his pockets. She turned back to look at him. 'Uhm - I know you're worried about Dennis,' he said to her, not daring to make eye contact, 'about what he'll do if you leave him… you know, whoever moves in next - they might not be so understandin' - or relaxed about sharin' house space with someone that's dead. I know you're worried he'll be lonely.'

'Well he's my best friend,' she sniffed, 'I'm all he has - it's my job to worry about things like that.'

'I know,' Doyle nodded, his voice was uncomfortable. 'And that you care so much is one o' the things I love most about you but … I was thinkin' … maybe you wouldn't have to leave him. Maybe he could - could leave you.'

She looked confused. 'What the heck are you talking about?'

He shuffled his feet again, and cleared his throat. 'Well - uhm - I was thinkin' … he's been dead for over fifty years now - never left the apartment. I mean, does he really wanna be there forever - literally for all eternity? We know there are afterlife dimensions - Buffy went to one. Don't you think - maybe - he might be happier in one o' those?'

'What are you suggesting?' Her tone was coldly suspicious - but Doyle cleared his throat again and ploughed on. 'Uh - I was thinkin' - maybe we could … I dunno. Help him cross over? He is - well he is dead, Cordy. And a heavenly dimension - I really think that would be a better place for him to be. He can't move on any other way. You were always gonna move on - one way or the other - and he was always gonna be stuck there, waitin' for whoever came next. And then they'd move on - over and over… that's not much of an unlife. But in an afterlife? He could be with his own kind.'

'His own kind?'

Doyle gulped and nodded, 'yeah - y'know - dead people. I really think it might be kinder - on both of y' - if y' both allowed each other to move on - move forward.'

'I don't know,' she sighed deeply - a crease appeared between her eyebrows and she frowned. 'Do I have to think about this right now?'

Doyle shook his head and sat back down. 'No,' he said, 'not right now. But maybe - maybe consider it over the next couple o' days, yeah? Give yourself time to think and I'll … I'll research the ritual - so we're ready - if you decide… but - you know, take as long as you need. No pressure.'

'Right - no pressure,' she repeated. But her voice was heavy. She sounded like someone who already knew the answer - and didn't like it at all - so would delay making a decision, and end up only stringing out the misery. 'Well,' she shouldered her bag and raised her hand in a little wave, 'I guess I'll see you tomorrow, Doyle.'

He nodded. 'Night princess.'

The gang were now face to face with the demon. It was dressed in old, burnished armour - a breastplate and a plumed helmet. It had lots of pointed, vicious looking teeth and burning eyes. It's skin was yellowish and wrinkled. It carried a sword.

Angel raised his own sword and parried the first blow from the demon. Their blades clashed mid air - they swung again - but after a few blows the demon managed to overpower the vampire and throw him down the alleyway. He landed on a pile of wet, cardboard boxes and rolled over, groaning.

Wesley aimed his gun at the giant demon and pulled the trigger. He let off three rounds, but the bullets did not slow down the monster and, like Angel, Wesley found himself having his weapon yanked from his hand and then himself flying through the air.

Gunn swung his axe and buried it in the demon's back - the creature shrieked in pain and Gunn grinned, 'how do you like that, Sparky?' But the demon was not killed and it simply turned on the man, snarling. 'OK - next time I'll hang onto the axe,' Gunn said - as the demon swung a punch at him, backing him into a corner.

Spike looked around for a weapon of his own. He saw a plank of wood lying on the floor and reached down to pick it up. 'Now - focus,' he commanded himself, willing his incorporeal fingers to connect with the 2x4. He stood up and swung with all his strength at the demon's head - nothing happened. His hands were empty. He glanced down and saw the plank of wood still lying on the floor, undisturbed. 'Bloody useless!'

Angel was back on his feet and headed for the demon - the demon looked around at the four warriors and then pushed a dumpster down the alley, heaving it in Angel's direction, before running away.

Back in the lab, Fred put the blade of Gunn's axe under a magnifying glass and began to examine the blood. 'We shot it, chopped it, hacked and whacked it,' Gunn explained to her. 'The only souvenir we got was the gunk on this blade. Thought you might do some tests.'

'Sure,' she nodded, frowning as she examined the demon's blood. 'Maybe hematological … cellular RH enzymes ...obviously a full SMA20.'

'...obviously,' Gunn agreed - his face blank. He shook his head. 'Give me a shout when you know something, OK?'

She nodded, he left the lab and she got back to work. She was just placing a sample beneath the microscope when Spike materialised inside the lab. 'If you're trying to find out what this thing's made of, it's gonna take a while,' she warned him.

But he shook his head, he wasn't interested in that. He was just trying to put as much distance between himself and general grumpypants as his ghost leash would allow. Fred smiled sympathetically, 'he just gets like that sometimes. Not easy being a champion - you now that.'

'Really don't,' he raised a sardonic eyebrow.

'Come on! You saved the world, sacrificed yourself, closed a hellmouth...'

'Didn't do much really,' he admitted. His voice was quiet - as he thought about his so called moment of heroism, of the wrong impression Fred was getting of what he had done. He couldn't lie to Fred - couldn't bring himself to pretend he was more of a champion than he really was, there was just something about the bird that made him want to be honest. He wanted her to see him clearly - not through some rose tinted spectacles, making him out to be like Angel - when the reality couldn't be farther from the truth.

There was no trace of his knowing smirk, of his trademark swagger and bravado as he remembered those final moments with Buffy - and what his role had been. 'Just stood there... Let the fire come,' he said softly, his voice serious, for once, as he reflected on how passive his one act of great sacrifice had been. 'Nothing real heroic about that.'

Fred looked unconvinced, she smiled at him warmly. 'Well, you saved my life.'

He smiled back at her, matching her warmth. 'When you put it that way…'

Wesley was in his office, surrounded by his books and his assistants. One was working on a computer, one was making a sketch of the demon based off Wesley's description and another was cross referencing the weapons list with Aztec and Incan artefacts. Wes glanced at the photofit. 'less reptilian,' he told the sketch artist. 'And the mouth was larger. Think bird of prey meets demonic gladiator.' He picked up one of his template books and whispered a title to the spine. 'Xiochimayan codex.' He opened the book and watched the writing appear on the pages.

'How are we doing?' Angel asked him, walking in.

'Based on the creature's appearance and weaponry, I'm focusing my team on pre-Hispanic texts. Specifically Mesoamerican.'

Angel nodded. 'Good.'

'We're not there yet - but I'm confident.'

'Yeah I can see that,' he looked around the office, at the hive of activity - everybody with a specific task to complete and a direction to take. And all that knowledge and resources right at their fingertips - making everything so much quicker than when it was just Wes at the Hyperion with his pile of dusty old books. 'You'll find it. We'll figure a way to stop it. And then … then I'll stop it … 'cause that's what we do.'

Wesley looked up from his text and gave him a searching look, as if divining something was wrong but was not sure what. Angel only shrugged. 'I'll be in my office,' he said and turned to leave. Wesley carried on reading. After a moment, he became aware of the sensation of being watched - of someone peering over his shoulder from a short distance.

'I wasn't aware you could read cuautilhian pictograms,' he said, without looking up.

'Who me?' It was Spike. 'Nah - I was just … is this one of those books on prophecies?'

But Wesley shook his head. This was one of his source books - a template that linked up to every text in the Wolfram and Hart archive. This particular book was linked to historical narratives. He pointed to another book, lying on a table - that was the one that dealt with prophecies.

Spike wandered over to the table and looked at the book, he ran his fingers across the cover - though failed to make contact. He glanced over his shoulder, back at Wesley. 'So you could look up that - ah - sans shoe thingamabob …You know, the prophecy that says Angel gets to be a real boy again?'

Wesley looked up from his text and frowned. 'Shanshu prophecy, yes - though it's a bit more complicated than that.'

'Complicated?'

Wesley sighed. 'It tells of an epic, apocalyptic battle, and a vampire with a soul who plays a major role in that battle. And there's a suggestion that the vampire will get to live again.'

'When you say "plays a major role in an apocalyptic battle",' Spike said, trying to sound casual, 'do you mean like - um - heroically closing a hellmouth that was about to destroy the world?'

Wesley gave him a pitying look, 'the text isn't specific about the battle,' he said.

'But it's specific about the name of the vampire with a soul?'

The watcher shook his head. 'No - I imagine it could be any vampire with a soul … who isn't a ghost.'

Spike snorted in derision. 'It's a bunch of nonsense. It's a bedtime story to get vampires to play nice.'

Wesley bit back a smirk and returned his gaze to his book. 'Says you.'

'No - says Angel.'

Wesley looked back up again, swiftly and Spike nodded. 'Yeah, tall, dark and dreary told me he doesn't believe in the Shanshu Bugaboo - says it's a suckers game.'

'Sir!' Wesley was prevented from answering by his assistant at the computer calling him over. He got up and went to look at her screen. Spike returned to the prophecy book and ran his hand over the cover again. Over by the computer, Wesley peered at what his assistant had found. 'That's it,' he told her, 'good. Print it out.'

...

He headed into Angel's office - print out in hand - and filled his boss in on the details. It was an Aztec demon named Tezcatcatl, they didn't know a lot about it yet, their codex was missing some key pictograms, but it had been here before - exactly fifty years ago to the day.

'The day of the dead,' Angel said. Wesley nodded - though that might simply be a coincidence. They would know more once they knew why it was here in Los Angeles and what it wanted. But Wolfram and Hart did have a brief record of what had happened back in the fifties. Tezcatcatl had risen in the same place and killed over a dozen people before it was finally defeated.

'Defeated?' Angel asked.

Wesley nodded, 'yes, by five brothers. They were the champions of the time … but it came at a high price. The brothers were killed - all but one.'

'Is he still alive?'

'yes.'

'OK - I'll talk to him. I'm sure he'll wanna help. Do we have his number.'

'Yes -' Wesley told him, 'as a matter of fact we do.'

Cordelia arrived home at her apartment complex, she walked slowly down the open hallway to her door. The jasmine bushes were blooming - their fragrance perfuming the air. Admittedly, she didn't find that scent as alluring and romantic as she once had … it now came with distasteful memories and bad associations. But nevertheless she still loved this place. It was home - and it meant Dennis … and she didn't know how she was supposed to come to terms with leaving all that. She wasn't ready. This was too much.

She reached her own front door - and it swung open without her even having to touch the handle. The lights were on inside. Dennis was welcoming her home.

Angel stood outside the door to the apartment and checked the number against the address Wes had given him. The champion who defeated Tezcatcatl fifty years ago should be inside. He raised his fist and knocked. The door opened, and the mail guy - Number 5 - stared out at him.