Part Two

Cordelia sat down on the sofa and took off her boots. Behind her, the front door closed as if by itself - and then she heard the sound of the tea kettle heating up on the stove. She leaned back against the cushions and stared up at the ceiling, her eyes blurring with tears. A few minutes later the screech from the kettle told her the water was boiled - and then a moment later a cup came floating out. It was placed on the coffee table in front of her. She pushed herself upward. 'Thanks Dennis,' she said, her voice came out all croaky and she hastily cleared her throat, hoping the ghost wouldn't notice anything was wrong.

Her boots were moved so that they were stored neatly beneath the sofa - and her jacket and purse floated off and seemingly hung themselves on the hooks by the door. Then the television switched itself on. The channels were flicked through - all with Cordelia not raising a hand - until they reached the Discovery Channel. There was a documentary on about capuchin monkeys. Cordelia picked up her tea and took a sip - watching the activity of the funny little primates scrambling through the trees, whilst the voice over guy narrated what they were up to.

She took another sip of her tea and then sighed deeply. Then she picked up the remote and turned the television off - she found the sudden silence deafening - but she cleared her throat. 'Actually, Dennis - uh - we need to talk...'

Angel stared in surprise into the masked face of the mail guy. 'Hi,' he said. Number Five did not reply. Instead, he reached out, grabbed the vampire by the lapels and dragged him inside. Angel barely had time to mentally take note that a vampire could cross a threshold without being verbally invited, if he was forcibly yanked inside by the homeowner, before he found himself thrust up against the wall and held there by the angry mail guy. 'Stop doing that!' he complained.

'Perhaps I wasn't clear in our last conversation…' the mail guy said to him. His voice was heavily accented - Hispanic, to go with the mask … and the Day of the Dead killings. Angel shoved the man away from himself, and then pinned up against the far wall. 'What conversation? You threw me through a window.'

'I heard you talking. You were going to drag me into the quest for the Aztec demon.'

Angel looked nonplussed. 'No I wasn't,' he said, his tone one of injured surprise. 'I was gonna give you some mail.'

'Oh - sorry.'

He tightened his grip. 'Now I'm dragging you back in.' He hauled the man away from the wall and threw him across the room. Number Five stumbled and fell, and Angel watched as he struggled back to his feet. 'I need your help. You and your brothers beat this Aztec warrior thing last time around. And I need to know how.'

Number Five held his arms out wide - encompassing his small apartment, his whole life - his advanced years. 'I'm sorry. In case you haven't noticed, I'm retired from that life.'

'Wearing that mask doesn't exactly hide your past.'

The old man folded his arms across his chest. 'It reminds me that only a fool would want to be a champion.'

'Fool?' Angel asked, ignoring the hollow feeling in his chest that beat an empty agreement with the masked man. 'Is that what you think of your brothers?' he didn't even see the punch coming. As old as this guy was - as dejected, beat down and officially retired as he claimed to be - he still had the moves of a champion. He blindsided Angel and sent him staggering with the force of the blow. 'Never disrespect the memory of my brothers,' his voice was a low growl. 'They were honourable men… luchadores. Mexican wrestlers. The greatest that ever lived. Together we were known as Los Hermanos Numeros.'

'The number brothers?' Angel translated, his brow wrinkling up in disbelief. His eyes scanned the little apartment and he noticed a shrine in the corner, decorated with flowers and candles. 'Huh,' he wandered over to it to take a closer look - and picked up a black and white photograph. It showed five young men in their wrestling garb, lean and muscular and each wearing a numbered mask - just like Number Five's. 'Boy, you guys had no problem getting past the whole irony thing now, did you?'

Number Five eyed him suspiciously through his mask. 'It was a different time,' he explained, 'one which no longer exists.'

Doyle sat at his computer. The glare was giving him a headache, he'd switched the main light of the office off and so was sat in the dark - a lot like Angel back in the old days - illuminated only by the blueish glow of the screen, and the light being thrown through the windows by the street lamps outside. It made the whole place feel eerie: the deserted building, the creeping shadows, the ghostly, uneven quality of the light. He could hear the quiet, old building creaking and in the distance he could hear the steady dripping of a faucet left to run. Anybody - perhaps most people - would find the whole place unsettling, sinister even. But Doyle was not afraid of the dark or the quiet. He knew exactly what monsters went bump in the night - had accepted a long time ago that he was one of them. He had a job to do.

He scrolled through yet another page - he wasn't finding what he was looking for. There were plenty of spells, available on the net, that claimed they would work to exorcise a ghost, cleanse a spirit from a place they weren't wanted. But Doyle and Cordy were not looking to simply banish Dennis from the apartment, as they had tried to do with his mother a few years earlier. They wanted to help him cross over - move on - head into the light and find out what the heck was waiting for him on the other side. Or at least - Doyle frowned to himself - that might be what they wanted.

He was worried, he had to admit to himself. He figured - looking at all their options - that this was what was for the best, for all of them. And he figured that Cordy knew that too - but a part of him worried that she wouldn't want to accept it. Wouldn't want to seem to abandon Dennis, wouldn't want to leave her old friend. And that was completely understandable.

Cordy had such a big heart. She tried to hide it, hide how soft she really was, under her carefully crafted exterior. The quips, the quirked eyebrows, the snappy put downs - they were all just armour, protection - used so that no one would ever see quite how vulnerable she really was. So no one would ever realise how easily they could hurt her. Snarky Miss Chase might appear brittle and unflappable from the outside - the queen bee of mean - but secretly she was just as softhearted as Doyle was. Maybe even more so - she just didn't wear her heart on her sleeve the way he did. Because she was more afraid of being hurt than he was…

And now he was asking her to give up her best friend, her invisible shoulder to cry on, the one constant in her life - her rock. And, for all that Cordy tried to pretend she was forever cool and detached, giving up Dennis was going to hurt. A lot. And maybe she wouldn't be able to bring herself to do it. Or at least - she wouldn't be able to bring herself to do it right away. She would drag it out - find excuses to put it off, and leave the inevitable hanging over her like a dark cloud, making her miserable. Doyle didn't want that for her. He hated that the next step in their relationship had to come with a sacrifice for her. He wished he could take this burden from her shoulders - she had more than enough on her young shoulders at the moment, she had carried far too much of the weight of the entire team for so many years. To have this final load added to the weight she already carried wasn't fair.

But what choice did they have? Either they committed to living forever in that one apartment in this one city … or, at some point, they would have to move on. It was time to move on. And he just hoped that Cordy could accept that quickly enough that she wouldn't add to her grief by stringing it out.

If it was just a case of killing a monster, or making a tough decision to save the world, or even heading out into the unknown with no money, no plan and no backup - he wouldn't doubt for a moment that she was brave enough to do it. He'd seen her do all that. She'd left home at 18 and moved to a new city all by herself - and found a way to make it work. She'd dived headlong into a crazy, alternate demon dimension to rescue him when he got lost there - not knowing what she might find and risking her life for his. She'd accepted her destiny as the slayer with barely a quibble and taken over Angel's role of champion of Los Angeles, killing the demons and helping the hopeless. Cordy was brave - undeniably so. But giving up on a friend? That took a different kind of bravery - and Cordy had already lost so much, when the rest of their family went to Wolfram and Hart. He hoped she was brave enough for this … but he worried how much it would take from her.

But, still - if he could just find the right spell - assure her, and Dennis, that he knew what he was doing - that he could guarantee that Dennis would be OK, that he would be going to a better place - then that might make things easier for them. And he wanted to make this as easy on Cordelia as possible. But the internet was not being forthcoming.

He frowned, furrowing his brow in frustration - and decided to try a different tack. He switched off his monitor - killing the sickly, blue glare that was giving him headache anyway, and switched on the desk lamp. Then, in the light of warmer, yellow glow of the lamp - he headed for the bookshelf and perused the old, dusty books of Wesley's that they had taken with them from the Hyperion.

He wished Wes were here, right now - he'd know exactly where to look, know exactly which giant, ancient text would contain the information Doyle needed - and locate it in a couple of minutes. But Wes wasn't here - there was no point wasting time wishing for what could not be. He only had himself, in this moment, and Cordelia was counting on him to come through. Even if she didn't realise it yet. He had to find this.

He chose a book - a leather bound grimoire with a sticky, black stain on the front - and took it back to his desk. He flipped straight to the back and skimmed his finger down the index. An entry on earthbound spirits was located on page 394 - he flicked through the pages until he found the right one - and began to read.

'Andale! Andale!' the crowd screamed and roared in appreciation, as the fight bell rang. The Number brothers had been strutting round the ring - but as the fight started four of them retreated to the side lines, leaving Number Two to face his opponent. Like all his brothers, he was shirtless - dressed only in his wrestling gear of leggings and a mask. His torso shone with sweat under the lights of the arena - making it look like his muscles were glowing. He circled the other wrestler, 'Let's dance, milkmaid,' he taunted his opponent in Spanish.

The other wrestler launched at Number Two, but he easily smacked him down and held his hands up in victory. The crowd went wild - their cheers reverberating around the draughty old arena. And then he tagged in two of his brothers - and two more wrestlers from the other team joined them in the ring. They were no match for Los Hermanos Numeros.

The brothers moved with perfect synchronicity, throwing their opponents against the ropes - and then jumping over their heads as they rebounded. It was like a beautifully choreographed dance.

...

'We were great warriors in the ring,' Number Five told Angel, his voice was heavy - reminiscing about his glory days brought him no joy. 'Great heroes. Children worshipped us, women loved us, men wanted to be us.'

...

As the wrestlers were slammed into the floor by the brothers, the crowd erupted in wild cheers once again. The children, clamouring to get near the front, watched with shining eyes - dreaming of one day being such men. Women, dressed in their prettiest dresses and their best hats, blew kisses to the men in the ring - hoping to be noticed by such impressive hombres. The men in the crowd watched half in awe, half in sullen envy - as Los Hermanos Numeros all entered the ring to celebrate yet another win. 'You ballerinas still wanna waltz?' Number Two called to his defeated opponents, who lay flat on their backs. And then his brothers crowded round him, and he was caught up in a many armed hug - all cheering and back slapping.

...

'In all the years we fought, we never lost. Never quit. Never compromised. We were the best … but not all our battles were in the ring.'

...

From deep within the cheering crowd - a man got to his feet, and cocked a shotgun. He took aim - pointing the barrel of his gun at the backs of the celebrating brothers.

From inside the embrace of his brothers, Number Five noticed the danger. '!Hermanos!' He yelled to his brothers - pointing at the man. They sprang into action at once. Two brothers formed a step with their hands - and a third used it as a platform to spring into the air, somersaulting above the crowd…

...

'You need to understand we were more than just luchadores,' Number Five explained. He was sitting down, now, in his armchair - his head bowed with the memory of the life he had lived with his beloved, fallen brothers in arms. 'No one else cared about Mexicans or Chicanos - so we protected our own. The five of us were always joined, always connected. And when necessary we came together as a fist.' He balled his own fist and smacked it into the palm of his left hand to illustrate his point. 'We fought monsters and gangsters. Vampiros,' he nodded at Angel. 'We were heroes. We protected the weak - and we helped the hopeless.'

'I know a little something about that,' Angel said to him, though his voice was uncomfortable.

'We spent every waking hour together,' Number Five told him.

...

The brothers spent their days inside a bar - playing together, training together - always ready, always vigilant. Number Five played at cards with two of his brothers. A woman in red walked past them, she smiled and headed over to the bar. A fourth brother sat there, flirting with another woman. The woman in red took a drink and then carried it back across the bar, heading to the corner where the fifth brother was lifting weights. She kissed him on the cheek through the leather of his mask.

...

'We fought hard, we played hard. Brothers in the truest sense. Never jealous, never bickering those were the happiest days of my life.' Though his voice was glum, pained and regretful. Angel understood - looking back was hard. Looking back on the bad times - that hurt. But looking back on the good times - that were now lost, out of reach forever - that could feel like a great, yawning chasm in his chest.

But at the moment, there was something else bothering Angel. 'Wait a second. So you guys always wore your masks?'

'What you are failing to see, my friend,' Number Five said to him - a slight bite of irritation in his tone, 'was that we had to be ever vigilant. Ready for action at a moment's notice.'

...

Inside the smoky bar, the pay phone on the wall began to ring. Number Five put down his hand of cards and went to pick it up. He listened to the panicked voice at the other end of the line. 'Si Si…' he nodded into the receiver and then hung it up. '!Hermanos!' he called to his brothers.

They all stopped what they were doing. 'The devil has built a robot!' They all got to their feet and clenched their fists, raised in the air, 'Andale!'

...

'Surely you have heard of our great victory over the devil's robot?' Number Five asked. But Angel only shrugged, 'Sorry.'

Number Five shook his head and got to his feet, 'no one remembers the good stuff,' he said sadly, turning away from the vampire.

'Tell me about the Aztec warrior,' Angel said to him. Number Five stopped and closed his eyes - seeing in his mind's eye the flashing image of the wrinkled, yellow skinned creature with it's wild eyes and sharp teeth. He saw the flash of it's blade as it slashed through the air - cutting his brothers down as if they were nothing but blades of grass. 'What can I say about a demon that killed the people who mattered most to me?' he asked softly.

'You can start by saying how you killed it back.'

But Number Five only shook his head again. 'I don't know. Can't remember.'

'Can't remember or don't care?' Angel asked him sharply. Number Five turned to face him again. He peered at him through the dark eyeholes of his mask. 'Do not misunderstand me, after my brothers were killed, I tried to carry on.'

...

Number Five sat at the table in the bar - all alone. His brothers dead and gone - just echoes and memories and mist on the wind. Haze, like the smoke that filled the room - but no more substantial than that. His heart hurt - his soul screamed inside his chest… but still he sat in that room, where he once was so happy - and waited.

...

'I tried to help people. But after a while, the phone stopped ringing. The people went away… until one night when a man walked in. He said his company could use a young man with my abilities.'

...

Number Five looked up as the door opened. A dapper young man - younger even that Number Five, walked in. He carried a leather briefcase and wore a smart suit, and a genial smile on his face. He handed the luchadore his business card. It had the name of his firm emblazoned in the middle 'Wolfram and Hart - Attorneys at Law' - and in the bottom left corner, the lawyer's own name: Holland Manners.

...

'Wolfram and Hart,' Angel said softly. They had a way of doing that - walking in and collecting champions of light for their own side. Waiting until the chips were down, when the heroes were at the end of the rope - no place left to turn to. And then they swooped in and bought their souls. Angel was not the first champion they had taken this way … and he probably wouldn't be the last.

Despair. That was their greatest weapon. Well, Holland Manners had told him that - back when he had used the band of blacknil to go to the Home Office … only to find hell was on earth all along. When a hero lost his way, gave in to despair - that was when The Senior Partners took them for their own. It was a neat little set up: grab them whilst they were hurting - and watch them die slowly of their own remorse. A much more lasting destruction of a champion's soul than a quick and noble kill.

Number Five had turned his back on Angel again, had gone to stand in front of his shrine - looking at the photos, illuminated by the candles. 'I needed a job. They needed muscle,' he explained why he had allowed himself to sell out. 'I knew that Wolfram and Hart was everything that my brothers despised. But what did I care? Nothing mattered after I buried them behind San Gregorio. Every year on El Dia De Los Muertos, I prepare this altar for them. And every year they never come, never visit. Because I am not worthy. But it does not matter anymore.' He shook his head, again. 'Not after this year. I should have died with my brothers.'

He reached out and touched a gold medallion which lay on top of the shrine beside the photographs of his brothers, and bowed his head.

Angel sighed. 'But you didn't,' he told Number Five. 'you got stuck with the hard part, the carrying on.' He knew all too much about that. Of continuing to live when it seemed there was nothing to live for - of having to put one foot in front of the other - force himself to keep on keeping on. The weight of it all dragging him down like a stone - just listening to this guy made him want to crawl under a rock and give in. Give up. But he couldn't - he had a purpose, he might not know what that was anymore but he had to tell himself it didn't matter. What mattered was the mission. He needed to remember that - and so did Number Five. 'No wonder your brothers never come to visit,' he said to the old man. 'Listen to yourself - you've given up.' And he tried to ignore how close to giving up he was himself. 'Tell me: why did you stop caring?'

The old man only shrugged. 'It wasn't hard,' he told him, 'let me show you.'

Doyle had found the spell and scribbled the ingredients he needed down on a piece of paper. It was a good job magic shop owners in L.A tended to be shady as hell, into weird things, and kept very late hours. Despite the time of night he should still be able to find this stuff.

He took the Plymouth and cruised with the top down - the breeze blew his hair around and once again he imagined himself as Angel, driving out to solve a case - to help the hopeless. Everything had seemed so much easier when they had Angel - when the full weight of the world hadn't rested on his and Cordy's shoulders alone. It was hard being the champion - a mantle that rested heavy and fit ill. Life was much simpler when he was just the sidekick. He missed that. No wonder the big guy was always brooding. It was a lot of pressure - being the one to come up with the plan and execute the plan, work out what was needed - do the fighting and then clean up the aftermath. And Angel had done this with a whole team to back him up. Now there was just Doyle and Cordy. Tonight it was just Doyle. It was hard - but it had to be done. There was no one else … but pretending to be Angel somehow made it seem easier.

He arrived outside the magic shop and parked up. The bell above the door jangled as he opened it - and the guy behind the counter greeted him. 'Hey - back again? How did your communion with the spirit world go?'

Doyle frowned, remembering their thwarted attempt to speak with a murder victim who had already crossed over - a few weeks prior. 'We made contact,' he told the shopkeeper, 'spell worked like y' said it would … but we couldn't keep him here long enough to get anythin' useful out of him.'

'Sorry about that,' the guy shrugged, 'so what can I do you for?'

'I'm kinda lookin' for the opposite tonight, actually,' Doyle admitted. 'My girlfriend has a ghost in the apartment.'

'Exorcism, gotcha - I'll just fetch the bile...' he turned to peruse the shelves of various ooky looking fluids behind him - but Doyle stopped him. 'No, hang on - not an exorcism,' he said. 'We don't wanna banish Dennis - he's called Dennis, the ghost,' he explained, as the shopkeeper raised an eyebrow at him. 'We just wanna help him cross over - you know - to the other side? Like - an afterlife sort o' thing. I found this spell...' he reached in his pocket and pulled out the crumpled bit of paper, flattening it out on the counter. Both men pored over it.

'Yep - that should work,' the guy nodded, when he had finished reading.

Doyle cleared his throat nervously, 'and are there - uh - any side effects we might need to know about this time? There were … there were rats with the last spell. And all my mirrors cracked. And we nearly drowned. Might that happen this time?'

But the guy shook his head, 'shouldn't be a problem,' he said. 'This should be a much safer spell - see, last time you were dragging a soul back the wrong way. You were perverting the laws of nature and the whole world wanted to protest it. But this time … this is helping a departed spirit cross the divide. It's travel in the right direction - so there shouldn't be any of the same side effects.'

'Well - that's a relief,' Doyle said. 'Can you bag this stuff up for me?' he pointed to the list of ingredients. The shopkeeper nodded and started collecting together candles and sage and chicken feathers. 'You know the ritual?' he asked, as he rung up the cash register. Doyle nodded, 'I've got a spell book,' he said.

'Good - well good luck - at least today's a good day for it huh?'

Doyle paused and frowned. 'what d'ya mean?' he asked, sounding confused.

'Well - today is All Souls Day,' the guy told him. 'The feast day to commemorate the spirits of the departed. With your accent, I would have thought you'd know a thing like that. The catholic churches will be humming with special masses today. In some cultures they believe that on this day the dead can actually cross a land bridge between the worlds and visit the living. Well - if a bridge is open one way, then it's open the other way, my friend. The worlds of the living and the dead are touching today - the edges are blurring, reality is less defined. Today of all days it should be a walk in the park to get a ghostie to cross over. They're halfway there already.'

'Oh, right,' Doyle nodded, as he put his wallet away and picked up his bag of goods, 'well - thanks.' He left the shop, stashed his bag on the back seat, got back in the car and drove away.

Number Five took Angel to the old Mexican wrestling arena, it was down by the river - not far from the sixth street bridge. It hadn't changed much in over 50 years - still large and draughty, it's seats were little more than slabs of concrete rising up like the seats of an ancient amphitheatre around the wrestling ring, down in the middle. It was still crowded, filled with men, women and children, packed in tightly and cheering raucously. It was what they were watching - the spectacle they were cheering - that had changed most drastically since Los Hermanos Numeros' heyday.

'This is how my brothers are remembered,' Number Five said, nodding down towards the ring. Inside, 5 dwarves - all dressed in spandex leggings and numbered wrestling masks - were running around, being chased by a full-sized man wearing a demon mask. The crowd howled with laughter and threw popcorn at the dwarves. 'This is what their good deeds earned. They sacrificed their lives as heroes, and it is played out as a farce.'

'Maybe you expect too much from people,' Angel suggested, as he watched the 'demon' pick up one of the little brothers and flip him over his shoulder. The crowd roared in delight.

'Is it too much to expect them to remember their past?' Number Five demanded. 'To honour those that fought and died? My brothers are dead, and Tezcatcatl is back to kill again. Why did we bother? What difference did we make?'

Angel sighed. He thought of his own past - and whether or not he'd ever really made a difference - ever done any good. Certainly Lilah and The Senior Partners were going out of their way to assure him he had never done anything but waste his own time. The scales were not balanced - and all he had ever done was kid himself, as he saved one life down an alleyway and ignored the great tentacles of evil that spread everywhere around him. But then - he had surely made a difference to the lives of the people he saved? Even if it was only just in that moment. And the lives of the people who loved them. That had to mean something - no matter how outmanned and outgunned the good guys were - every life saved was a victory in itself.

He thought of Lugh - of the Tuatha Dé Danann - making his speech to his frightened warriors, turning them all into champions with his words, and defeating Balor. You could make a difference - he thought - if you just believed, if you could just reach out and touch someone, make them see - you could make all the difference to that person … and then they would do the same in turn. On and on - like ripples on a lake, champions inspiring each other.

'You made a difference in the lives you saved,' he told Number Five, though he kept his eyes fixed on the farce playing out in the ring below. 'And you did it because … it was the right thing to do. Nobody asks us to go out and fight, put our lives on the line. We do it because we can. Because we know how. We do it whether people remember us or not, in spite of the fact that there's no shiny reward at the end of the day - other than the work itself. I think some part of you still knows that - still believes in being a hero.' He turned to smile at Number Five - only to find that the elderly luchadore had vanished from his side. The smile fell from his face, 'then again, maybe not.'

He left the ring and walked through the parking lot, through groups of people holding their own little tailgate parties, and headed back out to the road. He stood on the sidewalk and sighed deeply, shaking his head in frustration. A car suddenly pulled up beside him and stopped. 'Angel, man? What are you doin' here?' Doyle asked, he was leaning over the driver's door of the Plymouth and looking surprised to see the CEO of Wolfram and Hart in such a low rent neighbourhood. Usually Angel only came round these parts, these days, if he was slumming it with Doyle and Cordy - looking for a pick me up when the grind of corporate life got too much for him.

'Oh - hey,' Angel greeted him, though he seemed distracted. '- I was ...I'm on a case. Looking for a big Aztec monster.'

'Well - that's great, good for you!' Doyle smiled.

'Why do you say that?' Angel asked him looking puzzled.

Doyle shrugged, 'well - I know how hard the Fortune 500 life's been treatin' y' - gettin y' down, like. It must feel good to be just hittin' the streets, fightin' the demons, helpin' the hopeless. Takes y' back to your roots.'

'I guess,'

It was Doyle's turn to furrow his brow. 'And yet you don't seem to be enjoyin' yourself, here, bud. What's up?'

'It's just …' he struggled to find the words, 'I guess this case is just bringing up a lot of stuff for me. Opening wounds that aren't properly healed - that I didn't even know I had.'

Doyle whistled between his teeth. 'Well - y'know - I can tell you for sure that you'll feel better once you've slayed this beastie. Nothin' cheers you up like a good old fashioned kill. It's the champion in you.'

Angel just stared at him.

Wesley and Gunn were still working, late into the night, looking through the books and the reports on the attacks - trying to find some clue which might help Angel, now they knew roughly what they were looking for.

Wesley turned the page of his text, a look of distaste on his face. 'I'd forgotten that Aztec culture was so violent,' he said.

'Yeah, 'cause our culture's so at peace,' Gunn remarked - quirking his eyebrow ironically.

'Alright - but by and large we don't eat our victims.'

Silence fell between them again and there was no sound for a short while, except the rustling of pages. Eventually Gunn looked back up again, 'you got that file on the lady from the All Soul's mass?' he asked.

Wesley got to his feet and crossed to his desk to root for that particular report. 'She's the most puzzling,' he told his friend. 'The demon passed by over 20 people … so it could attack her.'

'I know - we need to find it's M.O - so Angel can guess its next move.' He took the file from Wesley and began to flick through, a frown of concentration on his face. Wesley watched him for a few moments, hesitating - and then he decided to speak up. 'Does Angel seem all right to you?' he asked.

Gunn continued to read the report, 'yeah,' he replied - not looking up, 'still adjusting to corporate life, I guess. Bit of a disconnect.'

'Disconnect?' Wesley pounced on the word.

'His word not mine,' he shrugged, 'but he's still doing his hero thing… wait a minute.' He looked up from his report now, 'didn't you say the homeless guy in the alley was a vet?'

'Yes - Gulf war.'

'And something about a bronze star…' Gunn got to his feet and started to look through all the other reports on the victims. 'Lady in the church worked with gangs, this dude - a fireman…'

'Saved his crew's life,' Wesley read. 'That's the thread? That's the M.O?'

Gunn nodded slowly. 'He's taking the hearts of heroes,' he said.

'So - what are you doing here?' Angel asked. Doyle motioned to the paper bag in the back seat. 'Had to pick up some stuff at the magic store, was just headed back to the office - but a road was closed - police tape, flashin' lights - the whole nine yards. Took a detour - saw y' standin' here - thought I'd try and turn that frown upside down.'

'There was a crime scene?' Angel asked him, 'you think someone else was killed?'

'Someone else?' Doyle looked surprised. Angel sighed. 'It's this case - big Aztec warrior, ripping out hearts. Turns out there's a guy who already defeated him once already - but he won't help. Doesn't wanna know.'

A bus drove down the road past the pair of them. Number Five was sitting in the window. Angel gestured impatiently - 'see, there he goes! So much for my stirring speech.'

'Ah - I'm sure it was a great one.'

'It was one of my best, you know?'

There was a sudden, deep growling sound from within the shadows. Both men turned to peer into the darkness - looking for the source. 'Uh - bud?...' Doyle said, nervously. But Angel only shushed him and took a step towards the sound.

The Aztec demon burst out into the pool of light cast by the streetlamp - snarling and growling. It smacked Angel a sharp backhander, sending him spinning away. It headed towards the vampire, unsheathing it's blade - and then it stopped, sniffed, and turned to look at Doyle.

The Irishman gulped.

Angel regained his feet and came back at the demon warrior, swinging, but Tezcatcatl just threw him aside again - strode towards the parked car, grabbed Doyle by the collar and lifted him out of the driver's seat, one handed. He threw the half demon down on the hood of the car - and raised his dagger high…