Buffy hears some unsettling things about Angel from Groo. And Wolfram & Hart make Angel a most unsettling offer to help him help Buffy save the world.
To the surprise of everyone, the Bringers were gone. After failing to prevent the enemy from entering the inner sanctum, they slit their own throats in shame and fell into the ditch they had dug the night before to keep Buffy out. The forty foot strip of ground between the door and the ditch is strewn with Reaper parts and Bringer corpses. The exhausted, disappointed and awestruck gang slowly makes its way in silence through the carnage and across the makeshift bridge. They can't believe they caused so much death, or that their efforts were for so little. Most of them are hurt. Faith has a deep cut in her right shoulder. Buffy has a sizeable gash just above her left hip. Spike has two stab wounds through his chest and a bloody cut above his left eyebrow. All three of them also carry bruises from their tussle with Nina. The Potentials have nicks and cuts on their shins and hamstrings from keeping the Bringers off the ramparts. Their multiple stab wounds aren't nearly as deep as Buffy's or Faith's, but then again they're not Slayers. Giles has a dagger slash in the middle of his right quadriceps, as well as a bloody nose and a bruise under his right eye. Everyone is dusty and grimy from fighting on the loose dirt. None of them took solace in the tactical victory, but instead focused on the strategic defeat. When they are two hundred feet from the building, they stop to put their weapons away and lean against Xander's and Giles's vehicles, exhausted and in pain. Buffy and Faith help Xander carry his catapult back to his truck. Spike looks up anxiously at the clearing cloud cover, fearing a reappearance of the sun. Finally, Buffy broaches what it is on everyone's mind.
"Okay, who are you?" she asks the newcomer.
"I am the Groosalug."
"You're a real Groosalug!," Anya exclaims. "That would explain a lot. Though it wouldn't explain why you're in this dimension."
"What's a Groosalug?," Xander asks about the ridiculous-sounding name. Anya explains.
"They're like Slayers, with penises. And longer life spans. Protectors of the innocent and so forth. But not the innocent on earth."
"You knew my name," Buffy points out. "How did you know my name?"
"Word of your great deeds has carried far and wide over these lands. You are the saver of worlds, and the scourge of demonkind." Buffy smiles. She loves it when strangers sing her praises. Partly because that happens so rarely. Spike doesn't like the competition from another male superhero, especially one who seems intent on charming Buffy.
"Actually, I only saved this world," Buffy demures. "But I've saved it several times." Spike thinks she's flirting with him.
"I heard you were in great peril, and I came to help you before returning to my homeland."
"Big bloody help you were," Spike grouses. "Nancying away from Nina when we had a chance to strike."
"Nina. You mean Na-an."
"That is another one of her names," Giles notes. "You have heard of her?"
"Na-an is the enslaver of worlds. No man can kill her."
"What about a woman?," Buffy asks.
"She would need to be very powerful. Like you. Or my princess." Buffy's about to find Groo a lot less to her liking.
"You're married?," Xander asks.
"I was betrothed back in Pylea, shortly before I became king."
"Pylea . . . that's where Fred was enslaved," Willow recalls. "You didn't have anything to do with that, I hope?"
"I freed all the slaves. With Angel's help, of course."
"You know Angel?," Buffy asks with surprise.
"You know Angel?," Groo asks back with equal surprise. "He never mentioned you."
"How come you're no longer king?," Spike asks, hoping to turn the talk away from Angel and towards the new guy's failings.
"There was a revolution."
"They kicked you out. Bloody amateur," Spike snipes.
"The political life was not for me. I am a warrior at heart. And so I came to this world, to find my betrothed. But it did not turn out as I had hoped. My Cordelia loved another."
"Cordelia?," Buffy gasps. "You gotta be kidding me."
"You know her as well? Then I trust you know how they feel about one another."
Buffy looks confused. "You're losing me with the pronouns, pal."
"Cordelia loved Angel. And he loved her." Buffy gasps and enjoys a few laughs before recovering her breath.
"Angel loves what?" She laughs some more. Groo looks very confused. Spike's starting to like the new guy.
"I left after it became clear to me that they belonged together." Buffy stops laughing, but isn't ready to take Groo seriously, either. She looks at him as if he were delusional.
"You mean professionally. Where else would she find a job?" Groo starts looking at Buffy the way she's looking at him, each one not understanding why the other has such a poor grasp of reality.
"Even before I knew Cordelia loved Angel, I could tell that he loved her." A tense hush settles over everyone. Buffy takes a couple seconds to respond. And she's not the only one who's incredulous. Faith, Willow, Giles and Xander also think he's imagining things.
"You mean he loved her as friend," Buffy suggests. "You must have misinterpreted that."
"He could not stand to see us together. After I arrived, he gave us ten thousand dollars in cash and told Cordy to take a trip far away."
"Ten thousand quid. I guess you can put a price on jealousy," Spike comments with satisfaction.
"Fred told me that some months they have trouble paying the mortgage," Anya reports. "That must have represented Angel's accumulated liquid savings over several years."
"He could have had a windfall," Buffy argues defensively. "And there's nothing strange about wanting to pay to get rid of Cordelia. The thought occurred to me a few times."
"Why are you jealous of Cordelia?," Groo asks. Buffy bursts out laughing.
"Jealous? Please."
"You are both very powerful. But in completely different ways. You fight with your hands. She with her glowing."
"You saw the glowing? What was it like?," Willow asks. Buffy glares at her best friend. "She only did it twice. And she can't do it anymore."
"So much has changed," Groo laments. "She became so unlike the woman I knew. Raising a beast. Making sex with the demon spawn." It takes Dawn a few seconds to realize what he's talking about. But once she does, Dawn expresses her outrage with a right cross to the Groosalug's nose.
"Don't you EVER call him that!"
"You must be the one he calls Dawn. The tamer of the demon spawn." Dawn's face goes red and she hits him again.
"What did I just tell you!" Groo grabs his nose.
"I am sorry. But it is hard to forget the boy he was when returned to this world."
"You were there? When he teleported back?," a curious Dawn asks.
"I saw him emerge from the hell place. He was savage. Fierce. Uncontrollable. Like a wild animal."
"Well, he can still be like that sometimes," Dawn says with a smile on her face and a twinkle in her eyes, making Buffy, Xander and Giles nauseous.
"In my world, they say the daughter is formed from the mother as the son is molded by the father."
"In this world, they say rubbish like that on greeting cards," Spike snaps.
"Your mother must have been very powerful and very beautiful." Buffy smiles and sighs, putting her right hand to her heart.
"That is so sweet." For the moment, she doesn't hold Groo's high opinion of Cordy against him. He's merely confused and unable to understand a world not his own.
"You've got to be bloody kidding me," Spike says, rolling his eyes. He can't believe women are impressed by a guy who talks like he came out of a children's fairy tale.
Dawn was also impressed. "Thanks. Sorry bout the punch . . . es. Just remember, his name is Connor."
"As it was when I met him barely one year ago. He was a tiny infant back then."
"Can we lay off the pre-teen history?," Dawn forcefully suggests. It's the one part of Connor's past that creeps her out.
"I understand. In affairs of the heart, timing is everything." Groo's smart enough to have figured out that he came to LA at precisely the wrong moment. "For all his mistakes and misdeeds, Connor does treat women with respect and gallantry. He takes after his father." Spike groans. "Not all men are as noble as Angel. Which one of you is the Xander?"
"That would be, the me," Xander jokes. From the look on Groo's face, it's obvious he doesn't like the joke.
"You are the one who impaled by princess?"
"Impaled! What are you talking about?"
"Ahem," Willow reminds him sheepishly.
"Ohhh. That wasn't my fault. It was Spike's fault." Groo glances at Spike, who looks astounded. He genuinely has no idea what Xander is talking about.
"I never stuck a bloody thing in that woman. I swear on my soul. Which, by the way, I earned. Unlike some vampires."
"Actually, she wouldn't have been impaled without you," Anya clarifies. "Still, the pain caused by Xander's wandering lips and busy hands took far longer to heal." Groo still has his hands balled up in fists, making Xander nervous.
"Look, the whole jealous ex-boyfriend thing, I get that. Been there myself. But perhaps you're directing your anger at the wrong man. I'm not the one who broke you two up." Xander can see Buffy scowling. "Anyway, there's a statute of limitations on these things."
Groo reaches out his right hand and takes hold of Xander's strange-looking left hand. He quickly pulls it off, shocking himself. Groo's never seen a prosthetic. He looks it over, realizes its a substitute for a flesh hand and hands it back. "I am sorry," Groo tells Xander. "I did not know."
"That's okay. Water under the bridge, big guy."
"I would never hurt a cripple."
"Now wait just a second!"
"I believe handicapable is more politically correct," Spike crudely jokes as he walks over to Groo and puts his left arm around his shoulders. Buffy worries about what Spike's concocting. Naturally, she assumes it's something to hurt Angel. "Let's talk," he suggests as they walk together.
"You are a vampire with a soul. Are you a champion?"
"I've never been one to get caught up in labels. But enough about me. You said you're going home. Why? There's nothing there for you anymore. Obviously, there isn't anything for you here. Have you considered a third option?"
As Fred walks to her door, she hears the phone ring. By the time she's inside, the machine's picked it up. "Hello. This Graham. I was one of the commando leaders you worked with during the blackout. I happened to be in town for a few days to visit some friends, and I was wondering, if you were free - "
Fred picks up. "Hi Graham."
"Hey. You remember me, right?" For her not to would have been humiliating.
"Of course. The boy from the Oklahoma panhandle. Were you in Sunnydale these past few days?"
"Mostly outside of."
"I thought the army was still there."
"The army is. Now that the situation's settled down, they're cycling out the specialists so we can get back to demon fighting. I ship back out on Thursday. But while I'm here, I thought maybe we could get together for dinner or something?"
"That's sweet, Graham." He can feel the pangs of rejection already. "But I don't know. My life's kinda unpredictable. I can't predict if I'll be free tomorrow night. Something could come up. It usually does in this line of work."
"Don't I know it. What about tonight? I know it's short notice - "
"I have plans to be held hostage." Graham winces. She'd rather be abducted that date him? Now that was brutal.
"Wow. I've heard a few interesting excuses in my day, but that's gotta take the cake."
"It's not an excuse. I'm completely serious. It's complicated. Look. The hostage thing is at nine. It shouldn't take too long. There's this Tuscan place I like called Lorenzo's. It's on Wilshire, about three blocks over from the Vine intersection. I could meet you there at ten."
"Great. That's, that's great." Talk about a swift reversal of fortune. A few seconds ago, Graham was road kill. "I'll see you there." For her part, Fred's flattered by the attention. Charles and Wesley had taught her that sometimes when you take men's affection for granted, they find someone else to bestow it on. She doubts the whole visiting friends story, and gets a kick out of the idea that a guy she's maybe spent a cumulative total of ten minutes talking to would travel ninety miles out of his way just to ask her out.
"You want me to send him to Scyra?," Anya whispers to Spike. They're back in the bunker, talking in Anya's room. Groo's outside at ground level.
"Cum on! He's a perfect fit. Don't tell me that bloke doesn't strike you as a dyed-in-the-wool pre-modern."
"He clearly has Angel envy. And he's not exactly crazy about you. How do you think he'll react to living in a world where the two of you are worshipped as deities?"
"He'll be the biggest bloody celebrity on the whole bleeding planet. And to top it off, the bloke's got superpowers!"
"They would probably see him as a lesser god," Anya concedes. "Why are you so eager to help him? What's in it for you?"
"I'm trying to do a lost guy a favor. Which, by the way, involves me doing absolutely nothing. No skin off my nose."
"This isn't like you."
"Anya, I've changed."
"Not that much. Don't embarrass yourself by trying to pull the phony saint act." Then it occurs to her. "Very clever! I gotta hand it to you. Exploiting this opportunity took some pretty crafty strategizing."
"What the bloody hell do you mean?"
"Groo has this whole Angel-belongs-with-Cordelia mindset. He goes to Scyra, he spreads that idea. A guy with firsthand experience would carry a lot of weight. And the strengthening of the anemic Angel-Cordy faction couldn't help but buttress the Buffy-Spike faction. The relationships are complementary."
"You really think all that crossed my mind?"
"You'd have to be an idiot for it not to." Spike takes his time before replying to that one.
"My people have one set of views. His people have another. They're both dead-set in their ways. We accepted that before we left."
"What about the millions of people they've conquered? Their minds have yet to be made up."
"I could care less about what blokes I've never met who live in another bloody dimension think of me. I have more important things to worry about."
"You wouldn't do this if it didn't benefit you in some way. No one does anything purely out of the goodness of their heart."
"Will you give him the spell?"
"Sure."
"What's in it for you?," Spike asks with a puckish smirk.
"I'm curious. Plus, altering the fates of individuals, and possibly an entire world, gives me a certain god-like thrill that I've been missing ever since I lost my demon powers."
"Playing God can't be much fun. People blame you whenever anything goes wrong. Who wants the hassle?"
Angel and Fred walk into the lobby of Wolfram & Hart. It hasn't been completely repaired, but all the blood's gone. The cavernous space is empty, save for a sleepy security guard sitting in front of a desk forty feet to their right and a tall bald woman in a shiny, floor-length, sleeveless silver gown thirty feet in front. Mona gives both of them the creeps. But the creepiness is just beginning. Fred and Angel shiver, then look at each other. "Did you hear something?," Fred asks him.
"Follow me?"
"That's what I heard, too. Ya think we should?"
"Don't see what choice we have." The suspicious telepath leads them to the elevator. The ride of seems far longer than it actually takes. Angel and Fred alternate between trying very hard not to stare and being unable to resist the urge to stare. Wolfram & Hart has always contained its share of weirdos, but Mona has a disturbing Sphinx-like quality the others lacked. She's not simply mysterious. She's nothing but mystery. For the time being, Fred can write her off as a telepath with a Sinead O'Connor fixation. But Angel sees something more sinister. To him, she's a terrible beauty, to borrow Yeats's phrase and use it completely out of context. In her he can sense that most dangerous combination of personality traits – malice and innocence. When the door opens on the twenty third floor, Mona leads them to Clayton's office. The entire floor is quiet. His secretary's gone. She stops in the empty waiting room and "tells" Angel that Clayton Jenkins will see him now. After pausing for a few seconds to contemplate if this is a trap, Angel realizes he only hears one person on the other side of the door and enters. Mona tells Fred to sit on the couch. "Don't worry. The two of you will be out of here in ten minutes," Fred hears in her head. Suddenly, Mona leans down and gives Fred a quick kiss on the lips. Her eyes bug out in shock. Then they close. Fred's body falls to the right as Mona sits down. Fred's head lands in her lap. She strokes Fred's hair with her right hand and sticks her left thumb in Fred's mouth, smiling mischievously as Fred starts to suck on it. It may be a rather juvenile practical joke that is a waste of Mona's abilities, but it's also a way to pass the time. And what good are enemies if you can't have fun at their expense?
"It's a Celtic torque," Angel comments, rather underwhelmed by what Clayton has handed him.
"It's a magic torque. Fashioned by Druidic priests from the Treveri tribe in northern Gaul, late second century B.C. Think of it as a circuit. Right now, there's that one centimeter gap in front. Put it on, both ends touch your skin, and the circuit is completed through you. Then you just let the positive feedback loop do its thing and make you more and more powerful. Provided you're worthy and noble and all of that Arthurian bric-a-brac.
"You mean it's a suicide machine," Angel replies with raised eyebrows.
"Come again?"
"A positive feedback loop keeps getting hotter until the material melts."
"The torque was designed to enable a champion to rise to the occasion and overcome whatever evil forces threatened the people. The problem was that sometimes the evil would be too great, and the champion would be filled with more power than human flesh could bare. As a vampire, your threshold would be much higher. I understand your concern. You have your own business. Friends. A son. If you want, you can always use that other vampire as a guinea pig. Who knows? Maybe he'll turn the tide, go up in flames, and then you'll put it on, finish the job and survive. Tradition has it that the last time the object you're holding was used, ten men wore it, one after the other. They all died, but they killed the demon, stopped its ascension and saved Strasburg. That was nine centuries ago. But I'm sure it still works. So go play Galahad and save the day."
"What's the catch?"
"Her." Clay picks up the remote and turns on the television behind his desk. On the screen is a red-headed girl. "Leslie MacDonough. Age ten. Lives in Oxnard. No brothers or sisters. I have her home address, school address, and the address of the gymnastics center were she spends her early evenings on most weeknights. I think the parking lot outside the gym will be the easiest place to get her tomorrow night. You'd have to do it by then. Because the big game's in thirty six hours, and your team is a four-to-one underdog at the inter-dimensional web site where I made my bet. Myself, I put down two hundred grand in cash on the Forces of Good. Had to take out a second mortgage on my house. Like I'll need it if they lose."
"Why do you want this girl out of the way? What sort of special powers does little Leslie have?"
"None. She is of no concern to me or anyone else at this firm. I picked her pretty much at random. That's the beauty of this. An act of pure, senseless evil. In exchange for saving the world. Look at it this way – you refuse, the good guys lose, she'll probably die anyway. Then won't you feel stupid."
"No. I would feel stupid if I took your deal and found out this was nothing more than a clunky piece of jewelry."
"In which case, once you got back in town, the first thing you'd do is kill me." They stand in silence for a few seconds. Clayton can tell that Angel buys his argument about why this is not a bluff. But he can also tell that Angel is dead set against taking the deal. "I understand. Buffy has saved the world again and again. Though sometimes she's had to die in the process." Angel's eyes light up with anger. "You must have wondered if your presence would have made a difference."
"How dare you." Angel says as he moves menacingly towards Clayton, who doesn't flinch because he knows Angel wouldn't risk getting Fred hurt. "You don't deserve to say her name."
"It was a closer run thing than you could possibly imagine."
"How the hell do you know? Were you there?," Angel asks sarcastically, assuming this guy's full of it.
"Afterwards, an elderly demon came to us for protection. He had been right in the thick of it. He testified to what he saw and did. Gave us a lot of unrelated knowledge he had acquired over the centuries. In exchange, we sent him to the dimension of his choice, where he is living out his golden years." Clayton picks up a thin manilla folder. "It's in here if you want to read it. Six pages. Double-spaced. Of course you don't." He puts it back down on his desk. "It was tragically anti-climactic. Glory was already dead. But, while Buffy was busy killing a mighty god, a lowly demon tried to open the portal. All Buffy needed was one fighter to stop that lone demon. One fighter. That's it. Oh well. Nothing you could have done about that one. You were in another world. But this time you're around to make a difference. What if you choose to do nothing, and she dies? Sure, right now telling me to go screw myself is a no-brainer for an ethical guy like yourself. But it won't seem so cut-and-dry afterwards. By the way, anyone else in that town you care about? Are there other lives in the balance? What are the chances of every single one of them surviving?"
"Let me guess: I say no, and you still kill this girl, just to piss me off?"
"What fun would that be? You say yes, I want Leslie's death to torment you. You say no, I want Leslie's life to torment you. Which will it be?"
Angel hurls the torque through the television screen. "Two things you should know: I don't work for people I don't respect, and Buffy doesn't need help from scum like you."
"True, and true. Your point being?" Dissing this guy was like trying to eat jello with a fork. Angel turns around and storms out. "Don't worry about the tv. Not my problem. The firm will pay for a new one." No point letting Angel even get a sliver of satisfaction from dramatically symbolic property destruction. After Clayton mentally signalled to Mona that Angel wasn't taking the deal, she pinches Fred's nose, causing her to cough, open her eyes, and notice – to her horror – that she's lying on someone else's lap and sucking someone else's thumb. Fred leaps to her feet, wipes her mouth and looks disgusted. Mona smiles mischievously at her. Fred feels icky. And somewhat lightheaded, as if she's coming down from some drug trip. Also, Fred has vague memories of a very colorful dream. She's not quite sure how profoundly Mona fiddled with her brain chemistry. But she knows that Mona is going down. No one messes with Fred's brain and gets away with it. Angel comes into the room.
"Let's go. They got nothing." The two of them quickly walk into the hall and towards the elevators, each one with their own reasons to leave as fast as possible. Mona stands up when Clayton leaves his office. They stick their heads out of the waiting room and watch Angel and Fred walk away. He puts his left hand on her skull. Through her thoughts, she tells him that he should have skipped the quid pro quo and just given Angel the torque so he'd be in their debt. Clayton shakes his head.
"This wasn't about co-opting. It was all about getting the chance to make the offer. Do you know what my definition of good offer is? One where the other guy loses no matter what choice he makes."
NEXT: Giles discovers a way to win. But it's the sort of tactic you never want to be forced to try.