Chapter 5
"I have a theory about coins. Did I ever tell you about this, William? It came to me during the Great Depression. One of the most brilliant ideas I ever came up with. In fact, it's so good that I'm sure somebody else thought about it before I did."
Oh no. It was another one of those times that Misha felt it necessary to impart some useless ill-founded conspiracy theory on Spike. Dammit, he hated spending time in this guy's company more than he absolutely had to. Spike mentally berated himself for the millionth time in the span of a century for ever saving his life. Of all the people he could have picked to be in his indentured service, he couldn't have chosen someone who was more often off-tangent. Ah, but he had to be polite.
"No. Why don't you tell me all about it."
The tone with which he said this was sarcastic, but it was completely lost on his companion. It was one of those things that demons never got the hang of- sarcasm, that is. And irony too.
The party had already broken up when Clem and Jh'tygn bade their adieus, arms filled to bursting with kittens. It wasn't a particularly bad loss for Spike, considering he had no intentions of keeping any kittens for himself anyway. As for Misha, he was quite content to keep the kittens he brought- ten gorgeous Siamese that were bred from his own personal stock. He could never bear the thought of anybody munching on his kitties so he always took care to win them back in each game without accruing anymore little mouths to feed. It was quite a skill, really.
As soon as the others had left Spike and Misha set up watch on Darcy in her bedroom, sitting on the floor and waiting for her sleep cycle to reach the REM stage. Misha couldn't do a mind probe on the girl when she wasn't dreaming, since there would nothing to probe before the point of 'paradoxical sleep'. So they both waited for the time when she would be most receptive, making pointless conversation and reminiscing. For Spike, it was worse than pulling teeth by using doorknobs and string.
"Well, you see it goes something like this. Humans don't like coins. There's some sort of social stigma about them, like you can only use coins to pay for little things, like gum and candy. The only mortals who use them on a regular basis are panhandlers and bums. Everybody's got at least several hundred dollars in coins that they don't use. It's idle money, sitting around at home, never put into circulation, because people are too snobby to want to be seen as bums. And every couple of years, they change the coins so that the money becomes completely worthless."
Misha paused to take a sip of his beer and then began again, in the annoying and vaguely patronizing tone of an academic who was giving a lecture. Jackass.
"Now, I figured that someone, somewhere figured this out. The government and the head honchos. So they decided to make coins in increasing denominations. First in quarters, then in half-dollars and finally in dollars. Pretty soon they're gonna make them in two dollar denominations and whatnot. Just like they did in France. And you now what that means? More money that stays idle and becomes obsolete. Now, where does that money go? Somebody's gotta be capitalizing on this and it's those Freemason bastards." Misha then knocked back another swig of beer to prove his point.
Talking to Misha reminded Spike of something E.M. Forster once wrote about a particular Hindi, which was that any conversation you engaged in with him would always culminate in the discussion of a cow. For Misha, whether you were talking about the weather, trends in fashion or the Royal family, no matter how many evasive digressions and gambits you threw out it turned out the same and ultimately you would end up talking about Freemasons.
Whenever any of the half-breed's ramblings started to make any sense to Spike, he knew that he had crossed a certain threshold of inebriation, from which the return would be fraught with painful hangovers. He remembers a conversation they had in Paris while smoking some really good Black Bombay, after which Spike was completely convinced that Freemasons were planning to take over the world. He remembers that it vaguely had something to do with phallic architecture and the Eiffel tower, but the content of the conversation was completely negligible. The effect on him, however, was not.
He went on a killing rampage as soon as he got back to England, murdering all of the Freemasons in his local chapter until in the middle of disarticulating a member he realized to his horror that they were made up of tweed and wool over flesh and bone just like other benign folk who joined rotary clubs or town councils. It was the first time in his unlife that he ever felt anything closely resembling guilt, and it was then that he vowed never to listen to Misha again.
He realized that there was nothing more dangerous in this world than a false prophet and it was then that he first undertook the necessary steps to insulate his beliefs from all outside contamination or proselytizing. Which led to the creation of Spike Saying #1: better to think for yourself than have somebody else do it for you. He was really proud of that- proud enough to preach it from a pulpit.
In any case, it was from his talks with Misha over the years that he had developed the art of pretending to listen. That particular skill did him a lot of good when he was with Buffy. That woman was a whinging bitch. Always complaining about this or that. 'My life sucks. I'm the Slayer.' 'I was better off dead.' 'I want to go back to Heaven.' Blah blah blah. Whine whine whine. Bitch bitch bitch. God, he missed her. Best not think about that.
So good was he at the head bobbing and the occasionally expressed 'yeah, oh really, that's interesting' that it took him a while to realize that Misha was actually saying something of importance. He shook himself out of his self-imposed daze.
"Come on, Spike. I think the girl's ready." Misha said, checking his watch and indicating the bed.
They set their beer bottles down quietly, and stealthily walked to where Darcy was lying down.
She looked really peaceful in her sleep, almost as if she was another person completely. Her forehead was smooth and her face was wiped clear of all expression, free of all of her emotional baggage and post-teenage angst. For a moment, Spike felt a little worried about what they are going to attempt.
"You're not going to hurt her, are you? I mean, she's not going to have an episode or anything crazy like that?" Spike asked.
"No." Misha looked at him as if he'd gone insane. "This is a standard procedure. You just get into their heads while they're dreaming and rifle through what's in there. Memories, issues and all that stuff. It's even a lot easier this way, since you don't have to sift through all of the ego and superego's bullshit. It's a hotline to the pure and unadulterated stuff, straight to the latent content. The person doesn't really feel anything, just thinks that they had another dream in the morning and forgets about it within a couple of minutes of waking up."
Darcy stirred and they both froze, thinking that it seemed so utterly indecent and inappropriate for them to be here while she slept. When she finally settled down, they both breathed a sigh of relief at not being caught in such a compromising position and the hybrid proceeded with his task.
He rubbed his hands together, as if he was trying to generate some warmth through the friction. Then he laid two fingers on each of her temples and closed his eyes.
He was completely still for a second.
Then there became a slightly perceptible change in the way he held his body- some rigidity, as if he was bracing himself for something.
He was muttering something to himself as if there was some reel projecting flickering images on the canvas of his closed eyelids, occasionally laughing softly or saying something like "that's cute" or "Uh-oh", a running commentary on what he and only he could see. It was a singular experience that shut out anyone else in close proximity, like playing pinball or watching a compressed film in a nickelodeon; like peering through those binoculars that charged a quarter a peep. Spike got the uneasy feeling that Misha was getting off on this, and he realized that this is why he never really took a liking to the fellow. Something twitchy and hungry behind the eyes, and the pleasure he seemed to take from such a violation of the psyche. Spike could finally articulate why he didn't trust him.
He made a show of tapping his foot on the ground, fiddling with this lighter- for God's sake, anything that will make the time go faster. It didn't take nearly as long for Misha to finish as Spike felt it did and the second Misha opened his eyes he saw his companion gesture for him to leave the room stealthily.
As soon as they closed the door and made their way back to the living room, Misha collapsed on the couch.
"What did you find?"
A pause. "The same old stuff- middle class family, normal childhood, issues with asshole boyfriends, issues with the world. She doesn't seem to like herself much- doesn't seem to like anybody. She wasn't a cheerleader and she was sort of bitter about that but all in all she's just like a million other girls her age. There was a bit about her going to a mental institution for a while and I guess she's not too happy about that. I think she's sort of 'touched'. There are places in her head that she doesn't let herself go- those that are completely cut off. I guess she just stuffs everything in there, hoping that it'll go away."
He breathed deeply for a while, then he continued.
"She had some sort of nervous breakdown when she had these hallucinations a year or two ago. Maybe that was her psychic ability manifesting itself, in not a very nice way."
Spike seemed surprised at this. "The girl's psychic?"
Misha snorted. "In a very loose sense of the word. She has some ability but she doesn't know what to do with it. Doesn't know where it's coming from and she doesn't even know it's there. I had to prod a lot- poke into those dark corners to see those things, but I came up against a lot of resistance. It's a bit of a fluke, really. How she was able to see this" he pointed to the middle of his forehead, which looked like the middle of his forehead to Spike. But then Spike wasn't *psychic*… It wasn't like he cared.
He pondered this for a while, but it didn't really seem to fit with what he had expected. Why the hell were Wolfram and Hart so willing to pounce on some girl who wasn't even a *good* psychic? It made no sense.
It was then that he realized that he needed to get to the bottom of this mess by talking to Buffy and her contacts. Maybe they would know something.
"Is there anything else you need?" Misha asked as he was gathering up his bag and his carrier case of kittens. "I'm going to leave these files with you in case you need them."
He took some papers out of his case and left them on the table.
"No. Just call me in case anything comes up."
He walked him to the door and greeted him goodnight.
As soon as Spike was sure that the hybrid was out of earshot he dug his cellphone out of his duster pocket. He dialed a number and listened to six rings on the other line before a groggy voice finally picked up.
"Slayer, it's me. We need to talk."
TBC
"I have a theory about coins. Did I ever tell you about this, William? It came to me during the Great Depression. One of the most brilliant ideas I ever came up with. In fact, it's so good that I'm sure somebody else thought about it before I did."
Oh no. It was another one of those times that Misha felt it necessary to impart some useless ill-founded conspiracy theory on Spike. Dammit, he hated spending time in this guy's company more than he absolutely had to. Spike mentally berated himself for the millionth time in the span of a century for ever saving his life. Of all the people he could have picked to be in his indentured service, he couldn't have chosen someone who was more often off-tangent. Ah, but he had to be polite.
"No. Why don't you tell me all about it."
The tone with which he said this was sarcastic, but it was completely lost on his companion. It was one of those things that demons never got the hang of- sarcasm, that is. And irony too.
The party had already broken up when Clem and Jh'tygn bade their adieus, arms filled to bursting with kittens. It wasn't a particularly bad loss for Spike, considering he had no intentions of keeping any kittens for himself anyway. As for Misha, he was quite content to keep the kittens he brought- ten gorgeous Siamese that were bred from his own personal stock. He could never bear the thought of anybody munching on his kitties so he always took care to win them back in each game without accruing anymore little mouths to feed. It was quite a skill, really.
As soon as the others had left Spike and Misha set up watch on Darcy in her bedroom, sitting on the floor and waiting for her sleep cycle to reach the REM stage. Misha couldn't do a mind probe on the girl when she wasn't dreaming, since there would nothing to probe before the point of 'paradoxical sleep'. So they both waited for the time when she would be most receptive, making pointless conversation and reminiscing. For Spike, it was worse than pulling teeth by using doorknobs and string.
"Well, you see it goes something like this. Humans don't like coins. There's some sort of social stigma about them, like you can only use coins to pay for little things, like gum and candy. The only mortals who use them on a regular basis are panhandlers and bums. Everybody's got at least several hundred dollars in coins that they don't use. It's idle money, sitting around at home, never put into circulation, because people are too snobby to want to be seen as bums. And every couple of years, they change the coins so that the money becomes completely worthless."
Misha paused to take a sip of his beer and then began again, in the annoying and vaguely patronizing tone of an academic who was giving a lecture. Jackass.
"Now, I figured that someone, somewhere figured this out. The government and the head honchos. So they decided to make coins in increasing denominations. First in quarters, then in half-dollars and finally in dollars. Pretty soon they're gonna make them in two dollar denominations and whatnot. Just like they did in France. And you now what that means? More money that stays idle and becomes obsolete. Now, where does that money go? Somebody's gotta be capitalizing on this and it's those Freemason bastards." Misha then knocked back another swig of beer to prove his point.
Talking to Misha reminded Spike of something E.M. Forster once wrote about a particular Hindi, which was that any conversation you engaged in with him would always culminate in the discussion of a cow. For Misha, whether you were talking about the weather, trends in fashion or the Royal family, no matter how many evasive digressions and gambits you threw out it turned out the same and ultimately you would end up talking about Freemasons.
Whenever any of the half-breed's ramblings started to make any sense to Spike, he knew that he had crossed a certain threshold of inebriation, from which the return would be fraught with painful hangovers. He remembers a conversation they had in Paris while smoking some really good Black Bombay, after which Spike was completely convinced that Freemasons were planning to take over the world. He remembers that it vaguely had something to do with phallic architecture and the Eiffel tower, but the content of the conversation was completely negligible. The effect on him, however, was not.
He went on a killing rampage as soon as he got back to England, murdering all of the Freemasons in his local chapter until in the middle of disarticulating a member he realized to his horror that they were made up of tweed and wool over flesh and bone just like other benign folk who joined rotary clubs or town councils. It was the first time in his unlife that he ever felt anything closely resembling guilt, and it was then that he vowed never to listen to Misha again.
He realized that there was nothing more dangerous in this world than a false prophet and it was then that he first undertook the necessary steps to insulate his beliefs from all outside contamination or proselytizing. Which led to the creation of Spike Saying #1: better to think for yourself than have somebody else do it for you. He was really proud of that- proud enough to preach it from a pulpit.
In any case, it was from his talks with Misha over the years that he had developed the art of pretending to listen. That particular skill did him a lot of good when he was with Buffy. That woman was a whinging bitch. Always complaining about this or that. 'My life sucks. I'm the Slayer.' 'I was better off dead.' 'I want to go back to Heaven.' Blah blah blah. Whine whine whine. Bitch bitch bitch. God, he missed her. Best not think about that.
So good was he at the head bobbing and the occasionally expressed 'yeah, oh really, that's interesting' that it took him a while to realize that Misha was actually saying something of importance. He shook himself out of his self-imposed daze.
"Come on, Spike. I think the girl's ready." Misha said, checking his watch and indicating the bed.
They set their beer bottles down quietly, and stealthily walked to where Darcy was lying down.
She looked really peaceful in her sleep, almost as if she was another person completely. Her forehead was smooth and her face was wiped clear of all expression, free of all of her emotional baggage and post-teenage angst. For a moment, Spike felt a little worried about what they are going to attempt.
"You're not going to hurt her, are you? I mean, she's not going to have an episode or anything crazy like that?" Spike asked.
"No." Misha looked at him as if he'd gone insane. "This is a standard procedure. You just get into their heads while they're dreaming and rifle through what's in there. Memories, issues and all that stuff. It's even a lot easier this way, since you don't have to sift through all of the ego and superego's bullshit. It's a hotline to the pure and unadulterated stuff, straight to the latent content. The person doesn't really feel anything, just thinks that they had another dream in the morning and forgets about it within a couple of minutes of waking up."
Darcy stirred and they both froze, thinking that it seemed so utterly indecent and inappropriate for them to be here while she slept. When she finally settled down, they both breathed a sigh of relief at not being caught in such a compromising position and the hybrid proceeded with his task.
He rubbed his hands together, as if he was trying to generate some warmth through the friction. Then he laid two fingers on each of her temples and closed his eyes.
He was completely still for a second.
Then there became a slightly perceptible change in the way he held his body- some rigidity, as if he was bracing himself for something.
He was muttering something to himself as if there was some reel projecting flickering images on the canvas of his closed eyelids, occasionally laughing softly or saying something like "that's cute" or "Uh-oh", a running commentary on what he and only he could see. It was a singular experience that shut out anyone else in close proximity, like playing pinball or watching a compressed film in a nickelodeon; like peering through those binoculars that charged a quarter a peep. Spike got the uneasy feeling that Misha was getting off on this, and he realized that this is why he never really took a liking to the fellow. Something twitchy and hungry behind the eyes, and the pleasure he seemed to take from such a violation of the psyche. Spike could finally articulate why he didn't trust him.
He made a show of tapping his foot on the ground, fiddling with this lighter- for God's sake, anything that will make the time go faster. It didn't take nearly as long for Misha to finish as Spike felt it did and the second Misha opened his eyes he saw his companion gesture for him to leave the room stealthily.
As soon as they closed the door and made their way back to the living room, Misha collapsed on the couch.
"What did you find?"
A pause. "The same old stuff- middle class family, normal childhood, issues with asshole boyfriends, issues with the world. She doesn't seem to like herself much- doesn't seem to like anybody. She wasn't a cheerleader and she was sort of bitter about that but all in all she's just like a million other girls her age. There was a bit about her going to a mental institution for a while and I guess she's not too happy about that. I think she's sort of 'touched'. There are places in her head that she doesn't let herself go- those that are completely cut off. I guess she just stuffs everything in there, hoping that it'll go away."
He breathed deeply for a while, then he continued.
"She had some sort of nervous breakdown when she had these hallucinations a year or two ago. Maybe that was her psychic ability manifesting itself, in not a very nice way."
Spike seemed surprised at this. "The girl's psychic?"
Misha snorted. "In a very loose sense of the word. She has some ability but she doesn't know what to do with it. Doesn't know where it's coming from and she doesn't even know it's there. I had to prod a lot- poke into those dark corners to see those things, but I came up against a lot of resistance. It's a bit of a fluke, really. How she was able to see this" he pointed to the middle of his forehead, which looked like the middle of his forehead to Spike. But then Spike wasn't *psychic*… It wasn't like he cared.
He pondered this for a while, but it didn't really seem to fit with what he had expected. Why the hell were Wolfram and Hart so willing to pounce on some girl who wasn't even a *good* psychic? It made no sense.
It was then that he realized that he needed to get to the bottom of this mess by talking to Buffy and her contacts. Maybe they would know something.
"Is there anything else you need?" Misha asked as he was gathering up his bag and his carrier case of kittens. "I'm going to leave these files with you in case you need them."
He took some papers out of his case and left them on the table.
"No. Just call me in case anything comes up."
He walked him to the door and greeted him goodnight.
As soon as Spike was sure that the hybrid was out of earshot he dug his cellphone out of his duster pocket. He dialed a number and listened to six rings on the other line before a groggy voice finally picked up.
"Slayer, it's me. We need to talk."
TBC