Disclaimer: see prologue.
Author's note: chapter 1. The next chapter is complete and needs typing up, but will be online soon. Enjoy.
Chapter 1
Mike was longing to stretch out his arms above his head, and longing to be able to carry his own bag. Instead he exchanged a rueful grin with the air steward who was with him, pushing the trolley holding his suitcase and hand luggage.
"I hope someone's here to pick me up," he said, as they came through Customs and entered the arrivals hall.
"If not, we'll put you in a taxi," the steward said. But Mike had seen his welcoming party by then; a man, standing frowning in a tweed suit.
"There." He indicated with his head, and the air steward followed him over.
"Mr Travers," Mike said. Quentin Travers nodded.
"Welcome back. I'll take that trolley."
The steward handed it over, grinned at Mike, and hurried away. Left with his boss, there was an awkward silence.
"Well," Travers said, stiffly, "the car's outside."
Mike followed him across the concourse and out to a waiting car, black and anonymous. The driver came to deal with the luggage, and Travers opened the door so that Mike could climb into the back. He followed him in, and leant across to fasten Mike's seatbelt.
They set off, the driver sealed off from them by a glass partition. For a while Travers said nothing, and Mike was glad of the silence. He turned towards the window and watched the grey urban landscape go by, thinking of the sunshine he had left behind him.
"We're taking you back to Headquarters," Travers said, eventually. "We have people who can look after you. And we can debrief."
Mike turned towards his chief. "They're dead, sir. We got the job done. What more do you need to know?"
"Even if they're dead, information about Angelus, about Darla, about the Breton - it's all valuable stuff," returned Travers. "The Council needs it. You can give it."
"What if I don't want to talk about it?" Mike asked. "You can't force me."
Travers opened his mouth to respond, but then shut it again. Mike turned back to the window.
They pulled up outside Headquarters half an hour later, the familiar frontage already glowing with lights from the many windows. Looking up at it, Mike realised he had not really expected to see it again, and to his surprise, he felt a rush of pleasure. Someone came out to fetch the bags, and Mike followed Travers inside.
"You have an hour before the debrief begins," Travers said, and held up a hand to forestall Mike's protests. "Come. Decide there whether you will talk to us. You're in room 34. Davidson will take your bags up and help you change."
Giving in, Mike nodded and followed the young Watcher with his bags upstairs to a comfortably furnished room. The Watcher, polite but distant, calmly helped Mike into a clean shirt without commenting on his injuries, and then disappeared again. Mike lay down on the bed and tried to doze off.
Davidson came back promptly and Mike trailed behind as they went down the imposing stairs and into the main council chamber. It was full; serious men and women seated around the table with one place left empty, the chair pulled out. Mike sat down and the chair was pushed back in towards the table. Silence reigned for a moment longer before Quentin Travers stood up.
"Ladies and gentlemen, this is Michael Fletcher, one of our active agents. A short while ago I sent him out to California, to track down and dust these vampires." A screen behind Travers flickered into life and he looked to check it was working. "Angelus. Darla. And Luc Tarpeau, known as the Breton. You all remember, I trust, that until recently Angelus was ensouled and working with the renegade Watcher Wyndham-Pryce?"
Mike gritted his teeth and tried to think of something cheerful.
"Mr Fletcher went to Sunnydale, under strict orders not to contact Miss Summers or Mr Giles, as both have turned their backs on this Council. And here, I think, it is for Mr Fletcher to talk." Travers fixed his attention on Mike, who met the cold blue eyes easily. "Why did you disobey orders?"
"I had the files," Mike said, his voice echoing in the chamber. "You've all seen them. I simply realised that dusting those particular vampires was not a job for one man. So I went to the Slayer."
The Council members murmured then, a ripple of surprise, and, Mike thought, interest. Indeed he was pre-empted before he could speak again by a slight lady with grey hair across the table from him.
"What's she like?"
Mike smiled, remembering. "She's . impressive. She looks like a girl but she's strong, powerful - and I don't mean just physically. She leads like an army general."
"Leads who, Mr Fletcher?" another Watcher asked. "These friends we keep hearing about?"
"Yes, her friends," Mike said briefly, and there was another ripple of interest around the table. "Miss Summers has a dedicated group of friends around her, and they help her, support her."
"The Council will remember I reported this when I visited Sunnydale on the Slayer's eighteenth birthday," Travers put in. "Mr Wyndham-Pryce also reported his reservations on his own arrival on the Hellmouth shortly afterwards. How can these . civilians . help, Mr Fletcher?"
Mike looked around the table for hostility, and, to his surprise, found little. "Willow Rosenberg," he said. "And another girl, Tara. Both very powerful witches. They helped find me, later on. Anya - members will know her under the name Anyanka."
"The vengeance demon?" someone asked.
"Yes. A spell went wrong, and she's become mortal," Mike said, beginning to enjoy himself as the senior Watchers became noticeably more attentive. "Then there are two young men, who help Buf - Miss Summers - fight. One of them is in fact her boyfriend." Another murmur. "And Mr Giles. Miss Summers depends on them, and they depend on her. I think she fights better for having them around. They boost morale when she's low. She doesn't need them physically, but mentally I believe they're vital."
Travers waved his hand in the air irritably. "Yes, yes, Mr Fletcher. You're here to report on your mission, not on a renegade Slayer. You made contact with her."
"I told her why I was there. She had no idea An ." Mike faltered, and pulled himself together with an effort, "that Angelus had lost his soul. That first night we had no sighting of the targets, and I slept at Mr Giles's. On the second night I ran into the Breton at a local nightspot. It's a common place for vampires."
Someone leant forwards, eager. "What's the Breton like?"
Closing his eyes, Mike paused before answering. "Cold. Calm. Nothing rattles him. He's utterly confident. He's proud of himself for bringing Angelus back," this time Mike got the name out first time. "Extremely deadly."
"And physically?"
"Long dark hair, grey eyes, slim, looks very young," Mike said. "Good- looking, I suppose. He has a slight French accent. I recognised him instantly." He ran through that first conversation for the Council, and then told them about the next night. "And I woke up later on, at the place they used as a base."
The Watchers exchanged glances, and finally one of the younger men, fiddling with a pen, spoke. "This is when you sustained your injuries, Mr Fletcher?"
Mike raised his head, letting them see the fading bruises. "What do you think happened?" he asked, and they all looked at each other again.
"Well . I suppose some violence," the Watcher suggested. "It can't have been easy. Did you get bitten?"
"That's the impression you have of them, isn't it?" Mike returned bitterly. "Mindless monsters. This despite all the literature you have on them."
Travers let out a short, patronising laugh. "They are - or should I say were? - monsters, Mr Fletcher. Nothing more, nothing less. Soulless demons."
"Then," said Mike, glaring at Travers as best he could from behind his black eye, "explain why A . why Angelus never once let his demon face show. Why the Breton gave me water. In no way was it simple violence. He wanted information, and he wanted fun."
"And he got both, evidently," Travers said. "All right. Then what happened?"
Mike told them, as briefly as he could, and the Watchers took notes and nodded at each other sagely. He finished the tale with a description of the explosion, and let out a relieved sigh.
"A few questions. Mr Fletcher," the slight grey-haired lady said, holding her pen at the ready. "Do you think the files on these vampires painted an accurate picture of them?"
Mike considered the question. "No," he said finally. "No, I don't. You see, the files listed their . crimes? Deeds? Acts? Whatever you want to call them, they were portrayed as careless. But they planned. Everything was planned, meticulously. Haven't you realised that yet?"
The lady Watcher frowned at him, reminding Mike of his great-aunt in some ways. "And you firmly believe that these friends help the Slayer, and say that she has not abandoned her calling?"
Mike felt like saying that Buffy Summers was far more dedicated to her calling than most, if not all, of the Council, but forbore and contented himself with, "The friends are an enormous help and there is no doubt that the Slayer is extremely active."
More scratching of pens. "And Rupert Giles?"
Smiling, Mike let the image of Giles's intelligent eyes drift into his mind. "He doesn't like the Council. But he'd give his life for Miss Summers."
At the other end of the table, Quentin Travers looked severely displeased by this. "Thank you, Mr Fletcher. I think that's all we need for now. Someone will help you back to your room. I'll let you know when we need you next."
A young Watcher helped Mike up and they made their way silently back to his room. Alone, Mike lay back on his bed and closed his eyes.
Author's note: chapter 1. The next chapter is complete and needs typing up, but will be online soon. Enjoy.
Chapter 1
Mike was longing to stretch out his arms above his head, and longing to be able to carry his own bag. Instead he exchanged a rueful grin with the air steward who was with him, pushing the trolley holding his suitcase and hand luggage.
"I hope someone's here to pick me up," he said, as they came through Customs and entered the arrivals hall.
"If not, we'll put you in a taxi," the steward said. But Mike had seen his welcoming party by then; a man, standing frowning in a tweed suit.
"There." He indicated with his head, and the air steward followed him over.
"Mr Travers," Mike said. Quentin Travers nodded.
"Welcome back. I'll take that trolley."
The steward handed it over, grinned at Mike, and hurried away. Left with his boss, there was an awkward silence.
"Well," Travers said, stiffly, "the car's outside."
Mike followed him across the concourse and out to a waiting car, black and anonymous. The driver came to deal with the luggage, and Travers opened the door so that Mike could climb into the back. He followed him in, and leant across to fasten Mike's seatbelt.
They set off, the driver sealed off from them by a glass partition. For a while Travers said nothing, and Mike was glad of the silence. He turned towards the window and watched the grey urban landscape go by, thinking of the sunshine he had left behind him.
"We're taking you back to Headquarters," Travers said, eventually. "We have people who can look after you. And we can debrief."
Mike turned towards his chief. "They're dead, sir. We got the job done. What more do you need to know?"
"Even if they're dead, information about Angelus, about Darla, about the Breton - it's all valuable stuff," returned Travers. "The Council needs it. You can give it."
"What if I don't want to talk about it?" Mike asked. "You can't force me."
Travers opened his mouth to respond, but then shut it again. Mike turned back to the window.
They pulled up outside Headquarters half an hour later, the familiar frontage already glowing with lights from the many windows. Looking up at it, Mike realised he had not really expected to see it again, and to his surprise, he felt a rush of pleasure. Someone came out to fetch the bags, and Mike followed Travers inside.
"You have an hour before the debrief begins," Travers said, and held up a hand to forestall Mike's protests. "Come. Decide there whether you will talk to us. You're in room 34. Davidson will take your bags up and help you change."
Giving in, Mike nodded and followed the young Watcher with his bags upstairs to a comfortably furnished room. The Watcher, polite but distant, calmly helped Mike into a clean shirt without commenting on his injuries, and then disappeared again. Mike lay down on the bed and tried to doze off.
Davidson came back promptly and Mike trailed behind as they went down the imposing stairs and into the main council chamber. It was full; serious men and women seated around the table with one place left empty, the chair pulled out. Mike sat down and the chair was pushed back in towards the table. Silence reigned for a moment longer before Quentin Travers stood up.
"Ladies and gentlemen, this is Michael Fletcher, one of our active agents. A short while ago I sent him out to California, to track down and dust these vampires." A screen behind Travers flickered into life and he looked to check it was working. "Angelus. Darla. And Luc Tarpeau, known as the Breton. You all remember, I trust, that until recently Angelus was ensouled and working with the renegade Watcher Wyndham-Pryce?"
Mike gritted his teeth and tried to think of something cheerful.
"Mr Fletcher went to Sunnydale, under strict orders not to contact Miss Summers or Mr Giles, as both have turned their backs on this Council. And here, I think, it is for Mr Fletcher to talk." Travers fixed his attention on Mike, who met the cold blue eyes easily. "Why did you disobey orders?"
"I had the files," Mike said, his voice echoing in the chamber. "You've all seen them. I simply realised that dusting those particular vampires was not a job for one man. So I went to the Slayer."
The Council members murmured then, a ripple of surprise, and, Mike thought, interest. Indeed he was pre-empted before he could speak again by a slight lady with grey hair across the table from him.
"What's she like?"
Mike smiled, remembering. "She's . impressive. She looks like a girl but she's strong, powerful - and I don't mean just physically. She leads like an army general."
"Leads who, Mr Fletcher?" another Watcher asked. "These friends we keep hearing about?"
"Yes, her friends," Mike said briefly, and there was another ripple of interest around the table. "Miss Summers has a dedicated group of friends around her, and they help her, support her."
"The Council will remember I reported this when I visited Sunnydale on the Slayer's eighteenth birthday," Travers put in. "Mr Wyndham-Pryce also reported his reservations on his own arrival on the Hellmouth shortly afterwards. How can these . civilians . help, Mr Fletcher?"
Mike looked around the table for hostility, and, to his surprise, found little. "Willow Rosenberg," he said. "And another girl, Tara. Both very powerful witches. They helped find me, later on. Anya - members will know her under the name Anyanka."
"The vengeance demon?" someone asked.
"Yes. A spell went wrong, and she's become mortal," Mike said, beginning to enjoy himself as the senior Watchers became noticeably more attentive. "Then there are two young men, who help Buf - Miss Summers - fight. One of them is in fact her boyfriend." Another murmur. "And Mr Giles. Miss Summers depends on them, and they depend on her. I think she fights better for having them around. They boost morale when she's low. She doesn't need them physically, but mentally I believe they're vital."
Travers waved his hand in the air irritably. "Yes, yes, Mr Fletcher. You're here to report on your mission, not on a renegade Slayer. You made contact with her."
"I told her why I was there. She had no idea An ." Mike faltered, and pulled himself together with an effort, "that Angelus had lost his soul. That first night we had no sighting of the targets, and I slept at Mr Giles's. On the second night I ran into the Breton at a local nightspot. It's a common place for vampires."
Someone leant forwards, eager. "What's the Breton like?"
Closing his eyes, Mike paused before answering. "Cold. Calm. Nothing rattles him. He's utterly confident. He's proud of himself for bringing Angelus back," this time Mike got the name out first time. "Extremely deadly."
"And physically?"
"Long dark hair, grey eyes, slim, looks very young," Mike said. "Good- looking, I suppose. He has a slight French accent. I recognised him instantly." He ran through that first conversation for the Council, and then told them about the next night. "And I woke up later on, at the place they used as a base."
The Watchers exchanged glances, and finally one of the younger men, fiddling with a pen, spoke. "This is when you sustained your injuries, Mr Fletcher?"
Mike raised his head, letting them see the fading bruises. "What do you think happened?" he asked, and they all looked at each other again.
"Well . I suppose some violence," the Watcher suggested. "It can't have been easy. Did you get bitten?"
"That's the impression you have of them, isn't it?" Mike returned bitterly. "Mindless monsters. This despite all the literature you have on them."
Travers let out a short, patronising laugh. "They are - or should I say were? - monsters, Mr Fletcher. Nothing more, nothing less. Soulless demons."
"Then," said Mike, glaring at Travers as best he could from behind his black eye, "explain why A . why Angelus never once let his demon face show. Why the Breton gave me water. In no way was it simple violence. He wanted information, and he wanted fun."
"And he got both, evidently," Travers said. "All right. Then what happened?"
Mike told them, as briefly as he could, and the Watchers took notes and nodded at each other sagely. He finished the tale with a description of the explosion, and let out a relieved sigh.
"A few questions. Mr Fletcher," the slight grey-haired lady said, holding her pen at the ready. "Do you think the files on these vampires painted an accurate picture of them?"
Mike considered the question. "No," he said finally. "No, I don't. You see, the files listed their . crimes? Deeds? Acts? Whatever you want to call them, they were portrayed as careless. But they planned. Everything was planned, meticulously. Haven't you realised that yet?"
The lady Watcher frowned at him, reminding Mike of his great-aunt in some ways. "And you firmly believe that these friends help the Slayer, and say that she has not abandoned her calling?"
Mike felt like saying that Buffy Summers was far more dedicated to her calling than most, if not all, of the Council, but forbore and contented himself with, "The friends are an enormous help and there is no doubt that the Slayer is extremely active."
More scratching of pens. "And Rupert Giles?"
Smiling, Mike let the image of Giles's intelligent eyes drift into his mind. "He doesn't like the Council. But he'd give his life for Miss Summers."
At the other end of the table, Quentin Travers looked severely displeased by this. "Thank you, Mr Fletcher. I think that's all we need for now. Someone will help you back to your room. I'll let you know when we need you next."
A young Watcher helped Mike up and they made their way silently back to his room. Alone, Mike lay back on his bed and closed his eyes.