Corruption Cycles On



"This could be it." Tara coyly explains. "I know Spike as a person, not his bad boy persona, not his reputation, but as the person he is." Her dainty pale hand, clasps onto mine in a reassuring gesture to a dying one that there is a way to still live. "He will help you . . ." My eyes project my immediate relief into her magnetic cinnamon eyes, " . . . more so for his own reasons, though. That shouldn't matter, as long as Angel . . ." She looks away as the unspoken word strum their cords in each of our minds.

The word will not leave her mouth, for the party is underway and that tingly fear that people (especially Angel's most trusted people), may accidentally overhear our little meaningful conversation.

We do not want to end up dead so soon.

With watery eyes, I stare at the iridescent curtain of her dirty blond tresses now being used to veil her clashing emotions. Poor Tara. Bribed to uphold Angel's actions, bound by fear to do the duties he requires, but always the understanding, resilient, nurturer, gentle woman unscathed by these things; or is she? All the things Angel puts her through, the drug transactions, weapon transactions, sickening parties he threatens and flashes money in her face her to commit . . . How could anyone be subjected to these things, do these things, without contemplating their own morals and being psychologically dented for life?

How selfish I have been thinking. Angel taints everyone he touches . . . not just me and my fellow prostitutes.

"Now all I have to do is ask him?" I softly inquire.

She employs a moment to calm her inner self. Gradually, with precision, she once again gazes into my eyes. A beat passes. Then . . .

. . . A dazzling Tara-smile blooms on her face. "Ask and you shall receive."

Since Willow informed me of Spike just two hours ago, we talked it over, the pros, the cons, and the in-betweens. She went on to say how he has a shaky past with our dear ol' Angel. Something about a girl. Drusilla? Yeah, a druggie named Drusilla.

Isn't it always about a girl?

She was some dark, mysterious, psycho goth chick that Spike worshiped like some eternal Goddess he thought she was. Hooked on all sorts of illegal substances. I can even begin to go down the list Willow sadly recited, and the things Drusilla did to get these drugs. It made my head spin and tears erupt. At least I get money for what I do. Money that can buy essential things.

Willow consoled me some before continuing.

She had some kind of power over Spike. Off on jobs he went, to return home as soon as possible to her fucked up side. She was unwilling to give up the dangerous drugs. He was unwilling to give up his equally dangerous job of freelance assassin.

Then Angel heard of their tragic story. Their story of strong addiction. Their . . . love.

He flung out every type of sneaky characters that he owned to dig up information on them. And to think that was damn suspicious behavior. Once he had all the components to their everything laid out before him as if he was an Angelic king, he did a cat like pounce down upon their crumbling lives. That is when it went from suspicious to fearful.

Drusilla quickly received word from Angel on his high priced drugs. The good stuff, Willow quoted from Angel. Drugs don't even come close to good on my list for me nowadays. Drusilla was one sick bitch and helplessly devoted to her precious drugs, for she met up with Angel in New York without a second glance back at poor uninformed Spike.

Angel zapped every penny she had. She begged for more. That's when he put her on the streets. Spike came home to merry ol' Britain as usual from a job, to find his beloved gone.

Gone.

Not even a note to where she was. He stalked the streets, banging on snitches' doors, knocking heads, and scrambling together clues . . . All to find this broken woman.

I believe Drusilla and me were not that different. Her reasons were different from mine. But that is where the differences end.

Finally, Spike heard all about Angel and his plotting against his Drusilla and himself, which led to a raving confrontation fueled by Spike's mingled desperation and rage, and Angel's gluttony to see the results of what he created (or in this case, who he screwed over). From what details Willow shared there was bloodshed, un-kind words, and when it all ended Drusilla was dead.

Angel shot Drusilla square in the forehead.

Bang!

Bulls Eye.

She wandered in searching for her junkie fix. Not heading anyone's warning about the battle coming to a conclusion. In the middle of vicious actions Drusilla entered and caught Angel's radar. His gun was drawn. The curtain forever closed. Spike did not even have time to understand what had just happened. But when he witnessed her dead body falter on its feet, crumble to a heap, and hear Angel's laughter of satisfaction . . . I think he understood then.

And that's where Willow's information wobbles to a crash of bits and pieces. All say he just walked out. Left behind Drusilla's dead form. Face cold. Body rigid. He walked. That is relatively true, Willow said, but I believe that was what he did psychically, mentally- it's a whole other story, sister. I am inclined to believe Willow. Spike most likely said his last words, those famous last words that every character has in books and movies, last words that leave you in awe, ring in your head, and haunt the other character in their days and nights, up in his head- mentally.

So this Spike guy has his own reasons to go against Angel. Whatever. As long as he helps me.

Willow has done something that I will eternally be grateful even if I die at the hands of Angel because of my betrayal. She's found a potential follower of my new club: Kick Angel's Bony Ass. Two members are better than one. The odds aren't nearly in my favor, but still, it is something. It is something.

Willow and me did the giggly girly hug. Spoke of the good times rolling in after the bad times will (eventually?) roll out. She made the phone call to Tara and I was off. Exiting the apartment in good spirits--still am--with possibilities fluttering through my brain at a rapid speed.

With one of those clique bounces in my step. With those sparkles you get in your eyes when you're truly happy about that something that makes your whole face shine with a warm glow.

Oh yeah, happy, happy, joy, joy!

Opportunity has arisen. And I am there, ready to clutch its hand, yank it out of the ground, and make it mine.

"When is he crashing?" I extract myself from my inner thoughts.

Tara sweetly chuckles. "One could never know when he'll arrive. He likes to make everything a big surprise."

My eyes do an annoyed little roll. Processing this new piece of information, I know what I will be doing for the rest of the party. Waiting. Waiting for Spike's impromptu visit.

"This is way too suspenseful for my taste." I huff, before slumping back in my chair in great disappointment, allowing my mind to wander once again.

This party is like every other party Angel has thrown. Huge with an over abundance of decoration. Buffet tables lay out with dishes we all know and love. Drinks overflowing in everyone's cup (alcoholic in majority). Millions of funky tables and sofas with equally funky chairs arranged around the whole club. A certain area dedicated and decked out just for steamy dances. And as usual the music is blaring. This party is in full swing.

Whoosh.

People are prancing around like lambs ready to obliviously be slaughtered. Rich men parade their earnings to half clothed nymphs. The chefs are behind the scenes, whispering death wishes to all the lucky bastards. Co-ed bartenders smoothly working the bar, while essaying to work on nearby ladies and men. Rich women strutting around throwing distasteful glances at the frolicking nymphs or chatting them up, 'cause beware the lesbian customers . . .unless you are lesbian or bisexual, then, well it goes something like, come one, come all . . .

Tara and me took seats just moments ago in this dark little corner table. Out of sight, and, if the old saying is true, out of mind. Getting here was the effortless part. The getting past Angel's honed radar was not. Never underestimate the Xander dubbed Buffster. I tip toed in through the back door and glided along the wall with Tara over here. Stealth Buffy can pull anything off, just not when it comes to Willow . . .

"Buffster!"

. . . or Xander.

Tara's next words blow out of her mouth in a rushed fury. "Buffy, this is more than suspenseful. This is dangerous, stupid, and the list continues until infinity. There is nothing but luck on your side. If you succeed it will mean so much too so many people." Tara's eyes well up but her voice presses on without breakage. "If you fail-"

"You gals didn't say hi." Xander giddily says donning a pout, naively cutting Tara's speech off, and lithely plopping down into an extra seat, not even taking heed of the suffocating tension. "I may be thinking you two little ladies are a plotting some evil, evil mischief." He flashes a self-satisfied grin. "Do I have to break out my gun and go Kung Fu style," Awkwardly he trudges on, "just without those fancy karate moves?"

No one replies. Not a word is released. The tension gets thicker than the Oval Office's walls. Tara's eyes are seemingly transfixed by the swirls that spinning a straw in a glass can produce. Mine are guiltily cast down, which annoyingly leaves them on my cleavage. Nice Buffy boobies . . .

Is that a mole?
Xander lets his grin fade into a bemused upturn of a side. "Can somebody puh-lease tell me just why," His head over dramatically swivels in Tara's direction, "you're playing twister in a glass with your drink," He turns his attention now on me, "and why you are checking out your own merchandise?"

Tara graciously lifts her head at the sarcastic comment directed towards her, and her musical laughter flutters through the air into our ears. Her steady composure is back in full force. I steer my gaze away, wanting and yearning to be anywhere but here. If he persists or Tara spills these heavy ass beans, then looks to me for confirmation . . . I know in my mingled black and red heart, that lying to Xander will be the undoing of whatever self-respect I am still holding onto.

Tara's eyes are dim with brain overload, but her mouth is in the most warming smile. Xander relinquishes his sole attention on Tara. He shakes his head from side to side, clicking his tongue in sharp tsks. My stomach nauseously flip-flops. Please, Xander. My throat constricts in a warning that my stomach is in dire need to empty its contents. It never occurred to me in all my talk, mentally and vocally, what I would do about Xander. He definitely cannot ever know, but why not?

Will he notify Angel or anyone else?

Will he stop me by all means?

What will he do?

These are the questions now swimming in my head, creating awfully disturbing scenarios that are making the lurch in my stomach become violent. I have just flung myself and landed ironically back on square one. I can't tell Xander. I can't lie to Xander. So what can I do?

"Okay, that was a very loooong, tense, and uncomfortable silence if I may say. You two got gigantic jitterbugs." He takes a quick amused glance at me before looking back at Tara, not even attentive to my darting eyes and faraway stare. "Who's getting married?" Xander playfully prods, leaning much closer to Tara. "Willow finally popped the grand question?" Tara slyly quirks the side of her mouth in a secretive and inadvertently sexy smirk. "Was she already on her knees, so she just said what the hell, and did it? Come on, you know lesbian activity turns me on faster than Buffy can say--"

As if my senses are dulled, my brain has burned itself out, and my body is behaving like a fleeing wild animal I escape the shelter of the table to the hypnotic dance floor. The bodies piled on this floor are vibrating to the ferocious beat of the faceless musicians, and absorbing the screeching but velvety sound of the unknown chestnut haired singer.

Tara and Xander gawk at me. Questions personified in their eyes. Their conversation immediately halted by my abrupt departure. The music captures me in its grasp, fondles my soul like a breast, whispers in my ear of past and present, things of which I want to elude, broadens my mind to shove more thoughts inside, places thoughts in bold text to make them more visible, holds me remote and out of my very own grasp.

All of which propels me to dance.