A/N OK - First off, I hope everyone is keeping well and is not too anxious about ... world events.

Secondly - I'm not really ready to start posting yet, but when I finished posting the last episode a month ago I had no idea that 30 days later we would all be quarantined. And as people self isolating will need some kind of distraction ... here's the next episode to keep you busy.


You're Welcome

Part One

Far above the world, on the higher planes, the eternal struggle - the ongoing battle between the forces of good and evil - still played out. The chess board was different now, the pieces moved around from where they had been. The Senior Partners had now made their move, bringing forth the old ones - the creatures the lower beings called The Scourge - and allowing them to run rampant across the gaming table that was the earth. They had more in the way of old ones up their sleeves - if they had sleeves - should it prove necessary. But, for now, it was the turn of the PTB to make their move - influence one of their own pawns to turn the tide of the game in their direction. This was a time to take pause, required delicate planning if they were to put their opponents in check. It took time, careful discussion, negotiation and disagreement and then an action was finally approved. The course was set. The die was cast. And - far below them, in a hotel room in England, the halfbreed was hit with a vision.


Doyle's whole body convulsed and shuddered, as the pain of the vision slammed into his neocortex whilst he slept. He saw flashing images of a black circle - jagged - made of … thorns, and demons chanting - though he only glimpsed their faces briefly - not long enough to recognise any of them. The throbbing agony was enough to jolt him back into wakefulness - and he sprang bolt upright in his hotel bed, gasping and sweating.

The pain and the images subsided - and he looked around him. The rosy fingers of dawn were just beginning to creep through under the blinds. The light was murky and grey - but just bright enough for him to start to make out the furniture through the gloom of the early morning. Cordelia slept beside him twisted up in the sheets, peaceful, untroubled - exhausted by the jet lag.

He lay back down, resting his head on the cheap, Travelodge pillow, and rubbed his face. There was no need to wake her. That vision had not been urgent, he felt that. And furthermore - though he couldn't quite explain it - he knew she was not the intended recipient. This vision - the information the PTB was trying to pass along - had been for Angel. He would need to ring him when he got the chance.


Halfway across the world, where it was still the previous day, the team were out on a case. They had been led to a dank basement apartment - and now Angel was hammering down the door. After a few kicks it began to buckle and then, with one last blow, the lock gave in and it flew open.

It was dark inside - red and white candles were scattered on a table, giving off the only light. The men shone their flashlights around as they entered, pulling up short when they noticed what else was in the room.

Fred, on the other hand, carried a scanner and was reading from it - barely paying attention to her surroundings. 'He's been here,' she said - though the men already knew that, having seen what she had not. 'I'm picking up loads of trace signatures.' She walked further into the room, still focusing her attention on her hand held scanner and all the information it was giving her.

'Fred - ' Wesley started to say, but she was too preoccupied to hear the note of warning in his voice. 'Hair follicles,' she read, 'and enzymes and something … blood.' For the first time, she looked disquieted - she was picking up a lot of blood. 'But it's not his - it's…' She finally looked up from the display on her scanner and looked round, seeing at once what it was the men had all been staring at: lying on the floor were several nuns - all with their throat cuts. 'Oh God.'

'I think God is out at the moment,' Wesley replied, his voice grim.

Gunn was staring down at the dead women, his face wrinkled with disgust mixed with a lack of understanding of what he was seeing. 'Why would Greenway do this? It was just a stupid racketeering charge. I told him we'd get him off with probation, so long as he shut down operations.' Beside him, Wesley swung his flashlight around, inspecting the scene carefully under the light of its beam.

Angel was staring at the bodies. He could hardly claim this was his first room full of dead nuns, but that only made it cut all the deeper. He understood what it was to kill holy women, the drive - the evil behind it. The joy of an act of sacrilege. To see the remains of that type of evil now he had a soul … that took a moment to get his head wrapped round. And worse - this evil was still on him, even if he hadn't done it. Greenway was a Wolfram and Hart client. Their client. And he was evil - what were the odds?

'What do we do now?' Fred asked, staring around the room - her eyes were wide and startled. There was no way of making this right, and she knew it. But Angel already had plans. 'Now? I find Greenway and I kill every inch of him.'

But Wesley had other ideas. He was examining the altar that had been set up and drawing his own conclusions. 'You won't find him. Five holy women. This wasn't random. This was ritual. He's jumped dimensions.'

'What?'

'Also not shockingly, our client practices black arts. He's escaped through a pan dimensional doorway. Disappeared into any one of an infinite universes.'

'Fred?' Angel turned to his resident scientist to find out what she could do about this. But she was frowning. 'My equipment's not calibrated to track anything out of this dimension. Even if such a thing were possible it would take months - maybe years to …'

'That's it!' he threw his arms up in the air in exasperated anger.

'But probably months - or even weeks if I really pushed…' she gabbled all the faster.

'I can't do this anymore,' Angel announced, backing towards the door. 'Do what?' Gunn asked him. He opened his mouth to answer - and then closed it again. He meant he couldn't do any of it anymore. Running Wolfram and Hart, representing their clients, balancing the scales and the never ending shades of interminable grey that haunted him no matter what direction he turned in. He couldn't be doing with aiding and abetting evil and evil doers whilst pretending to himself that he was playing some kind of long game, working the system, changing things from the inside out. Nobody believed that - it was ridiculous. They were doing evil. Maybe not themselves - not their hands, not their actions - but they were enabling it. The Senior Partners were too big, the evil was too great and no amount of playing by their own rules was ever going to change that. If it wasn't for Connor, he'd walk out this minute. Go back to the hotel - never set foot inside the law firm again.

But therein lay the rub. Connor. His life was forfeit if Angel broke the terms of his contract - and until he found a way around that he was trapped. No matter how hard it was. And so, no matter how done with the whole thing he was - there was nothing he could say to answer Gunn's simple question. He had to keep this to himself, until he had a plan, until he could see his way out, he couldn't tell anyone. Couldn't risk The Senior Partners getting wind of it.

So, instead of answering, he just shook his head - and stormed out of the basement, 'get a clean up crew in here,' he snapped over his shoulder at the others. 'Make sure these women get a proper burial.'


Doyle picked up the brown sauce and squirted it all over his plate, onto the sausages and bacon and mixing it into the beans. 'I miss this stuff,' he said, shoving a forkful of meat and beans into his mouth. He closed his eyes. 'And I really miss baked beans,' he mumbled through his mouthful.

Cordelia took a sip of her fresh orange juice and wrinkled her nose in disgust. 'What even is this? What even is that? What the hell is going on on your plate?'

He swallowed, wiped his mouth with a napkin and grabbed the server guy asking for a fresh pot of tea. ''S called a 'full English breakfast',' he told her, 'obviously they're Irish breakfasts where I come from - with soda bread on the side and white pudding but ... mmmm,' he broke off to take another loaded forkful. 'But this is close enough - this is the breakfast o' kings.'

'I think it's the breakfast of heart attacks,' she said pointedly, raising an eyebrow. 'And there's something wrong with your bacon.'

'Nuhuh,' he shook his head and speared a morsel of bacon on his fork. 'This is proper bacon - back bacon. What you guys have - the streaky stuff … disgustin'. Worst thing about livin' in the States. But this…' he took another mouthful and groaned. 'I don't think I wanna go back to California.'

'Really? You wanna stay here with the grey skies and the baked beans?'

'Sounds pretty sweet to me, yeah.' He picked up the stainless steel teapot and poured himself a cup, stirring and adding milk. He lifted the cup and took a sip, closing his eyes again. 'If Wesley could see me now…'

'What?'

'He'd rip off his own arm for this cuppa. This…' he took another sip. 'This is what home tastes like.'

'Really?' She stared around the little cafe they had come to for breakfast. The tables and chairs were plastic, the floors were sticky and the paintwork was decidedly past its best. A dying aspidistra drooped quietly in a corner, shedding leaves. 'I always kinda imagined Europe would be … more classy than this. This is … this place is kind of a dive.'

'It's a greasy spoon,' he told her, 'place like this - backbone of Britain.'

'Is that not pubs?'

'Well - not before midday. They're English not Irish.' He saw her face. 'It's a joke,' he said, 'and I'm allowed to say it. You're not though.'

She twisted her mouth up, 'don't worry - I've always put your drinking habit down as a Doyle problem not an Irish problem.'

He laughed, 'look - we can go somewhere fancier for dinner. And for breakfast tomorrow. This is London, yeah - the most vibrant city in the world. We can find anythin' we want here. But just for today - I wanted a little slice o' home - seein' as I'm so close and yet still so far. I don't complain - and Wes doesn't complain - but honestly? Livin' in the States can be hard. It's just nice to see somethin' that feels familiar - comfortin' - even if all it is is overcast weather and baked beans.'

Cordelia had furrowed her brow as she thought of something, his words making her consider a possibility that had never occurred to her before. 'So … do you not want to live in America - in L.A - forever?' she asked him. 'You think you might wanna go home one day?'

He chewed thoughtfully, put his fork down and wiped his mouth with the paper napkin again, before he answered her. 'I dunno,' he said. 'I mean, home is wherever you are, Princess. That's what matters. And there's a lot o' good stuff about L.A. I'm all giddy about the grey skies today but after a week o' this...?' He pulled a face. 'There's a lot to be said for eternal sunshine. I guess … I dunno … I mean, it might be an adventure if we lived overseas for a while - don't you think?'

'I guess … I never thought about it before. Where would you want us to go? Back to Ireland?'

'Maybe - or somewhere warmer. Spain - or France.'

Cordelia gasped in sudden delight. 'We could live in Paris!'

'Right - or you know - somewhere less expensive.'

She threw her screwed up paper napkin at him, 'cheapskate!' He threw it back at her, 'hey - you're the one that cares about money. I'm just tryin' to think responsibly.'

'Doyle! If we're running away to live a bohemian life in Paris, renting a little garret in some old building in Montmartre and living off croissants and coffee and taking in all that art and history - we don't need money. Money is like the opposite of what that lifestyle is about.'

'Yeah? And what about when you decide it's time to take in all those designer boutiques along the Champs Elysees?'

She threw the napkin back at him. 'You're ruining my fantasy. Parisian me doesn't care about that stuff.'

'Parisian Cordelia doesn't care about fashion?' he asked sceptically.

'Parisian Cordelia is effortlessly chic - she looks good in any old thing. She cares about impressionist paintings and ancient cathedrals and … and' she struggled to think of a third French thing. ' And... accordion music.'

'So Parisian Cordelia has been taken over by the Pod People. And I'm just - what? Supposed to pretend not to notice that?'

'I have layers you know!' she exclaimed in faux outrage. 'You know, sometimes, Doyle, I think you don't appreciate what a deeply complex and even contradictory person I am.'

'I appreciate everythin' about you, darlin',' he smiled at her, warmly.

She reached out for the napkin - and then threw it back at him once again. 'Don't be sappy,' she chastised, though she was smiling just as warmly as he was.


Angel sat behind his desk, his hands clamped together so tight that his knuckles were turning white and his head bowed. Even though it was so late at night, the team were still in the office. They were talking, though the conversation was mostly going over his head - filling Lorne in on what had gone down. 'So he just … pfft … dimension jumped out of this reality?' the demon asked.

'It's a set back,' Wesley admitted, 'as well as a tragedy of course but …'

'Aint nothing we can do if we can't find him,' Gunn finished up. Lorne looked around the others. 'Can we do that? We've portal hopped before - though pray Arethra he hasn't gone to Pylea, can't we just bring him back?'

But Fred shook her head. 'It's not that simple,' she explained. 'He could have gone to any one of a number of universes and my tracking systems … they're just not that sophisticated. I'll get the lab working on it but… who knows how long pan dimensional plasma readings will take to develop?'

'And by the time Fred has worked out the tech … the portal will have gone cold,' Wesley said, 'meaning the trail…'

'Will be all the harder to follow,' Lorne said. 'Well, this is a pickle.'

'It's not a pickle,' Angel interrupted, all of a sudden. They all turned to look at him. He hadn't looked up, was still glaring down at his hands, and his voice was hard when he spoke. 'This is the status quo. This is what we do. Evil wins 'cause instead of just wiping it out we negotiate with it - or worse ... for it. This guy gets away - and the wheel keeps on turning - and the next evil client steps up to the plate. And we just … make sure their needs are taken care of. Because that's what The Senior Partners want us to do.'

The team all looked glum. As pep talks went - that one had just sucked all the energy and hope out of them. 'Actually - Wonder Bread -' they all looked over at the door, Lilah was standing there - smirking. 'Right now, what The Senior Partners want you to do is work on getting Greenway back into this plane of existence - and then making sure he pays for what he did.'

'The Senior Partners want Greenway punished for the nun slaughter?' Wesley asked, sounding surprised. But she laughed and shook her head. 'No. Dead nuns they can deal with. But the firm's down ten million in bail costs. They want him back - and they want him to feel the wrath that messing with their bottom line brings down.'

'The money,' Angel said, finally looking up. 'Of course that's what they care about.'

'This is a business,' she reminded him, 'and one that's a bit more savvy than old Angel inc. Yes, the money is what matters. But hey!' she shrugged, 'you were just bellyaching about having lost him - about evil winning. Now you've got instructions to bring him back and make him suffer. Seems to me like, currently, your needs and the needs of The Senior Partners mesh. The motive doesn't matter. It's just all part of those shades of…'

'Don't say it!'

'...Grey, that you deal with here.'

Angel slumped down in his chair. 'You said it,' he muttered.

'Well,' she smiled again - ruthless and wolfish, 'it's getting late - and tomorrow you all have a busy day ahead of you tracking down a nun slaying racketeer across dimensions. I think maybe it's time we called it a night, don't you?' She turned and left and - one by one - the rest of the team followed her out, leaving Angel alone.


'I really wish you'd put that thing away,' Doyle muttered, as he and Cordelia walked down the main road, past King's Cross station. 'You look like a tourist.' Cordelia only rolled her eyes. 'Men! We need this thing.' The offending item was a large street map of London, which Cordy had unfurled and was now using to navigate her way towards their destination. 'It shouldn't be too difficult to get to - but if we get lost … this place is like a maze, they built the city before America invented the grid system. I'm keeping the map.'

'Well just try to look like you're not with me, then.'

She immediately linked her arm though his. 'Suck it up, little Irishman.' They hurried across the road - following a large crowd of people, even though the little man on the crosswalk light was red. Cordelia squealed as a big, double-decker bus suddenly swung round the corner and ploughed straight towards them. 'This is what happens in a society that allows jaywalking!' she complained, as they regained the safety of the pavement. 'We need to look out for a right turning,' she told her boyfriend, scrutinising the map again. 'Look out for Judd Street.'

'Will do.'

It began to rain - splotches of water landed on Cordy's map. 'Oh dammit.' She frowned skyward, 'at least it's not too heavy.'

Doyle laughed and stuck out his hand to test the drizzle. 'Sorry, darlin' - this is fine rain - it'll soak you through. Is your coat waterproof?'

'I live in L.A - I don't own a waterproof coat.'

'Then I suggest we pick up the pace, yeah?' He tugged her along the road, past the Wetherspoons and Pret a Mangers and the banks. They passed by the ornate St Pancras building on the other side of the road, and saw the British Library up ahead of them. But then it was time to turn right into Judd Street - and the noise of the main road became muffled.

It had taken Doyle a fair amount of internet research to fathom out where it was they were headed exactly; having to look up property deeds and registrations at Companies House and the British electoral roll, none of which was too easy from L.A. But eventually he had got an address - and Cordelia had pulled out a map and perused it until she should have known the route to get to it off by heart. Yet here she still was - carrying it around with her - opened up … like a tourist.

They walked down Judd Street. Even though she was a woman on a mission, Cordy couldn't help but take her eyes from the map in order to look at the buildings. Not all the buildings were impressive - there were plenty of cafes and pubs on one side. But on her side of the road there were houses. Beautiful Regency townhouses like something out of a Jane Austen novel. She'd never seen anything like them in real life before.

Doyle was looking far less interested. There was no shortage of Regency architecture in Dublin. 'Do people really live in those?' she asked him, staring up at the wide window panes and the little Juliet balconies and down at the boot scrapers attached to the steps. He shrugged. 'I'm not sayin' there's not the occasional millionaire livin' in one of them but … mostly they'll be broken up into offices now, darlin' - look.' He pointed to one which declared itself to be the Royal National Institute for Blind People.

'A Royal national institution! That's so fancy! - but people did used to live in them?'

'Yeah - two or three hundred years ago.'

Cordy gave a little squeal, and looked up and down the road. 'And the horses and carriages would have driven along here?'

'Yep.'

'And taken the people who lived here to balls in their fantabulous gowns? Like when the Dashwood girls go to London in Sense and Sensibility?'

'Uh … yeah. I guess.'

She squealed again. 'This is what I thought Europe would be like,' she announced, and skipped a few steps down the road. Doyle chuckled, 'well - I'm glad my continent isn't lettin' y' down.'

'So - if we get all this wrapped up quickly can we go and see some other old stuff? Like Buckingham Palace? And Westminster Abbey? That's where Charles and Lady Di got married - I'm named after her - my middle name.'

'Huh - I didn't know that. We can go if you want. You know, Londoner Cordelia is actually a lot like Parisian Cordelia.'

She laughed - and then scrunched her face up as she thought of something. 'Wait - won't that be boring for you? - have you seen this stuff like a hundred times before?'

He shook his head. 'This is my first time in England. I'm up for a trip to see Big Ben.'

'If this is your first time in England why aren't you more excited? This is … amazing.' She stopped walking to read a blue plaque she found on the side of a building: Alexander Herzen 1812-1870 operated the free Russian press from this building 1854-1856. 'I have no idea who that is - and it's still amazing!' she said, smiling her widest and brightest smile of delight.

'Yeah - it is … it's just a lot more exotic for you than it is for me. But I'm happy you're happy. And I'm happy too.'

She eyed him suspiciously, 'even though this is what we're having instead of a proper wedding?' she asked.

'I think bein' with you in London is just as special as a weddin',' he told her. 'I've never been to London before - I've already been married.' She smacked him on the arm with the back of her hand. 'Ow! Well - it's true!'

They carried on walking and then took another right onto Tavistock Place, following this road all the way to the end until they came out at Tavistock square. 'OK - the building should be one of these,' Cordelia said, raising her hand to shield her eyes from the combination of rain droplets and weak, winter sunshine that was making it difficult for her to see.

Tavistock square was a small grassy park, surrounded by iron railings. There was a path that ran through it and some trees, which were all bare as it was early February. At the other side of the park were more of the same large, Georgian era houses. Unable to get into the park because of the railings, they walked round the edge of it and then began to examine the house numbers and business plaques.

'I mean what will it even say?' Doyle asked, 'it's not like they can really advertise what they are.'

'I guess maybe you just need to know what you're looking for.'

'And if we don't?'

'We do.' She pointed to the brass plaque attached to one of the buildings. It bore one letter in the middle of it - a capital B. The curved lines were curling and gothic looking but the straight line - if you looked closely - was drawn as a stake. Underneath the B it said 'London Headquarters'.

'I guess this is it,' Doyle said, squinting at what she showed him. They glanced at each other, nervously, and then stepped towards the front door. It was locked - but there was a buzzer, with a speaker. Cordelia pressed it.

'Identify yourself,' a not too friendly, young, female voice answered the intercom. Cordy and Doyle exchanged another nervous glance. 'I'm Cordelia Chase,' she said into the speaker.

There was a brief pause and then the voice came back. 'No Cordelia Chase on the list.' and the line went dead.

Cordy pressed the button again. 'I don't care about your list,' she said, before the other voice had even spoken. 'I need you to tell Rupert Giles that Cordelia Chase is here to see him.'


It was so late at night now that it was headed towards morning. The team had long gone, but Angel still hadn't moved from behind his desk. Shades of Grey. It was always shades of grey. So The Senior Partners wanted him to bring this guy - Greenway - back to earth. Lilah was right - that was what he had wanted to do as well. He wanted to find this guy and hurt him. The Senior Partners wanted him to find this guy and hurt him … and that gave him pause.

The game - whatever game it was they were playing, he was playing - it was too long, too hard. He still hadn't worked out the rules, so couldn't know if he was playing it by theirs or his own. But as long as he stayed here there could be no winning, of that much he was sure.

And - as long as he was here, then he was no champion. A champion wouldn't sit at his desk and sign his cheques and wonder what rules to play by, or what action to take. A champion would have punched a hole through the dimensional walls and jumped through there - worrying about how to find Greenway and how to get home later. Sure it might not be the smart way to do it, he could try and comfort himself that the old way was the dumb way … but it was also the heroic way. The right way. And he missed knowing what was right - having that clarity.

It was this confusion, this lack of direction that he hated. Angelus had always had the pure clarity of evil, single minded and ruthless. And Angel - the old Angel - had always done what was right no matter what. Lived in the world as it should be to show it what he might be. But here, here he sat still and wrestled with his conscience and second guessed his actions and just couldn't escape those damn shades of grey.

He needed to get out.


After a few minutes waiting, the buzzer suddenly sounded and the front door clicked. With another glance at each other, Doyle and Cordy pushed it open and went inside. They were met at the reception by a bored looking young woman of about 17, who, when she spoke, revealed herself to be the owner of the disembodied voice over the intercom. 'Mr. Giles asked me to show you straight up to him,' she said. She raised an eyebrow at Doyle. 'Who's he?'

'He's with me - take us to Giles.'

With a shrug, and a snap of her chewing gum, the girl led the way up some very steep. very narrow, carpeted steps. 'Be careful,' Doyle warned his girlfriend - as their guide didn't seem to think to, 'hundred year old stairs like these can be quite uneven.'

He wasn't wrong, and the carpet did more to hide the bumps than smooth them out. They tripped their way to the top and came out on a landing. The ceilings were high but the hallway itself was barely wider than the stairs had been. They were led to the end of the corridor, to a set of double doors. The girl knocked - and then opened the door and ushered them inside.

They found themselves in what would once have been the drawing room of a fine Georgian residence, but was now being used as a study. Shelf after shelf of leather bound books lined the walls. 'Yep - this is definitely Giles' place,' Cordelia murmured, taking them all in.

There was a sudden movement at the far end of the room, a man stood up from behind his desk - blocking out the murky light that trickled through the window behind him. 'Good lord - Cordelia, it is really you.' Giles took off his glasses and polished them before placing them back on his nose and looking at her more carefully. 'You cut your hair.'

'Oh…' her hand flew self consciously to her short curls and she grinned. 'Yeah - many many times since last we met. Some times with more disastrous consequences than others.'

'You always looked beautiful,' Doyle told her reprovingly. Cordelia glanced at him - and then remembered that Giles had no idea who he was. 'Oh - this is Doyle, Francis Doyle - my fiance.' The two men shook hands, Giles raking a surprised eye over Doyle as if - had he ever taken the time to imagine what Cordelia's husband to be would look like - he would certainly never have guessed this.

'Delighted to meet you - please, please,' he gestured at the chairs the other side of his desk, 'sit down … now what is it that brings you two here?' he asked once they were all settled.

'Well - I guess it's kind of a long story,' Cordy twisted her hands together, nervously, in her lap as she spoke. 'I guess you know all about that time, last summer, when Buffy called all the slayers at once?'

'Well, I was there,' he nodded.

'Right - of course - well the thing is … the thing is... The spell, I guess Willow did it? When it called all those slayers at once - gave all the girls the power well … well … it kinda affected me as well. I was chosen, I mean, called.' She took a deep breath. 'I'm a vampire slayer.'

Giles stared at her. He took off his glasses and polished them and put them back on again and stared at her some more. 'Good Lord.'


Despite the lateness of the hour - the fact that it was now the early hours of the morning - Spike was still awake, and staring into the dark. 'You just made the biggest mistake of your life,' he said, 'and I'm gonna make you pay. Oh yeah, feel my wrath, gorilla throwing barrels.' He pressed the buttons on his controller, biting down on the inside of his lip as his little plumber hurled things at his arch nemesis. But the gorilla threw another barrel - he was hit - and the video game played the little tune that signified he was dead. 'Oh bloody hell.' He threw the controller down in frustration.

He should just go to bed - that would teach the damn thing - he just wouldn't play it anymore. It could sit on the side gathering dust. A relic, obsolete… he picked the controller back up and pressed for a new game. 'You really should knock on a bloke's door,' he said, without taking his eyes off the screen. 'Especially one that's got no qualms about killing trespassers.'

Doyle was standing there. He smiled and came inside, sitting down on the couch beside Spike. 'Now is that anyway to speak to your benefactor?' he asked. 'I'm just a little concerned about you - you haven't been out in the field lately.'

'In case you haven't been keeping up with the sport's pages, I got my bloody hands hacked off by that deranged slayer you sent me after.' He pointed at the other man to make his point.

Doyle grimaced. 'Yeah I'm sorry about that. But, hey, our good old buddies over at Wolfram and Hart managed to reattach them just fine, huh? You can sit around here and play video games...'

'Rehab, mate. Working out the digits.' He held up his hand and waggled his fingers in the other man's face, then got off the sofa and headed for the fridge, taking out a beer. 'You got no idea how rotten this feels.'

'I guess I don't. You know, I saw someone get their hand cut off once. A woman. Your old pal Angel sliced it clean off - she screamed and she screamed … but you know, it was in the line of duty. She had it coming. Angel was saving the day. He was the hero back then … which brings me back to you. Don't forget you got a job to do. The Powers That Be are counting on their champion. So are all the other helpless people that ...'

'Don't need a pep talk, Doyle,' Spike sat back down on the couch beside him, and swigged his beer. 'I already plan on going out. You just get one of your visions and tell me when and where.'

Doyle smirked. 'Well it's funny you should say that,' he said. 'Had one earlier - difficult job. Dangerous.'

'Yeah?' Spike quirked an eyebrow.

'Yeah - man called Alonzo Greenway - bad guy, racketeer, murderer; the kind of guy they love so much over at Wolfram and Hart.'

'What about him?'

'Slaughtered a bunch of nuns earlier tonight - jumped a portal to another dimension. Who knows what manner of stuff, shades of evil he'll pull off in his new world? The Powers That Be are really looking for a champion to hop on through the portal themselves and bring him back so he can face some swift, brutal, American justice.'

'And how exactly the bloody hell is a bloke supposed to jump through a portal and find this Greenway fella?' Spike asked him.

Doyle smiled wryly. 'Like I said, it'll be dangerous. You game?'