They stepped out onto a road, or something that had once looked like one. Chunks of broken pavement were strewn over uneven ground between dilapidated structures of scarred brick and jagged glass. It was just dusk, and the shattered highway reflected the sky's eerie red-grey glow. Far ahead and to one side, a faint yellow light glimmered against the drifting smog. Alfred donned his plumed hat and fingered the glittering hilt of his rapier. Beside him, Mireille checked the clip in her Walther and chambered a round.
"Something's coming," she murmured, and he nodded agreement. They rotated slowly, scanning the street before and behind, where the portal had been moments before. Nothing came out to meet them, and they began to move slowly in the direction of the yellow glow.
They had not gone more than half the length of a city block when the attack came, in the form of a mob of disorganized miscreants lurching out from a dark alleyway. Mireille dropped three of them at the curbside with as many bullets, ducked under the wide swing of a fourth and grounded him with a vicious uppercut, and tripped a fifth with one stylish black boot around his ankle. She kept the gun on him as he fell in the gutter, but he lay still.
Alfred had charged into the fray with rapier drawn, but quickly realized that such an out put of energy wasn't necessary. Instead, he brought the hilt down on the head of the first thug, knocking him senseless, then sheathed the sword and used his fists, tapping each one across the jaw until they all lay still on the pavement. When the entire mob was downed, he and Mireille turned to each other in surprise.
"What was that supposed to be?" She asked, looking around at the fallen heavies. "They practically knocked themselves out. Some welcoming committee…"
"Let us hope that the rest of our journey is as painless," Alfred said, turning to face the yellow glow in the distance. "And let us not forget the Director's warning – we mustn't involve ourselves with anything other than retrieving our target."
They continued on, twice more defending themselves against unprovoked street attacks. Again and again, the thugs fell with a single blow; Mireille conserved her bullets and began using her hands and feet. Alfred, likewise, didn't bother to draw his weapons when they were attacked. After the third fight, Mireille realized what bothered her most – not that they fell so easily, but that it was the same group, over and over. Their faces and clothes didn't change; rather, it seemed that the group simply moved to a new location every few minutes to ambush the intruders.
The sky had not changed by the time they reached the edge of the circle of the yellow light. At last they could see the source of the glow: A flickering neon sign advertising the "Loser Bar" spread its sickly glimmer around the square, illuminating the faces of the empty buildings and throwing the alleys into total darkness. The bar's large picture window was smeared with grime and dotted with bullet holes. Inside, they could see a pinball machine that seemed to have shared the same fate as the window, and a few empty tables. The rest of the interior was too dimly lit to be seen from the outside.
Mireille glanced at Alfred's conspicuous clothing, then at her own rather flashy leather jumpsuit, and flipped a mental coin. "I'll go in first," she told him. "You cover me."
Alfred nodded and drew one of his pistols. Mireille stepped through the door and paused while her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. There were very few patrons in the bar. The bartender glanced her over, then went back to wiping the counter with a rag that looked far dirtier than the spot he was cleaning. A handful of drinkers nursing their glasses at the bar didn't spare her a look.
After a cursory glance, Mireille spotted her target in the back corner of the bar, slouched over a table with an empty glass in front of him. Her throat tightened immediately, and she had to steady herself against a barstool as a wave of memories washed over her again. A graveyard, and rain, and running, so much running… She gradually became aware of the bartender staring at her, and Alfred gripping her shoulder, his voice urgent in her ear. She shook her head to clear the images and made for the table in the corner. Alfred followed a few feet behind.
Spike's eyes were glazed as he contemplated the dust settling on the rim of his glass. Something seemed very wrong; this blank expression did not match the wry grin he had worn in the file photograph and in her own hazy memories. Mireille wondered how long he'd been sitting here. Could he have been this way since the formation of this limbo world? Before she could approach him, Alfred circled the table and bent close to Spike, speaking to him quietly. Spike lifted his head and eyed Alfred more sharply than she would have expected, given his near-catatonic state a moment before.
"To where?" she heard Spike ask. Alfred glanced around the bar, but no one seemed to be paying any attention. He pulled out a chair and sat across from Spike.
"This is not where you belong, sir," he explained quickly. "This world is made only of fragments of your memory. We have come to retrieve you and take you to a place more appropriate for…"
Spike shook his head. "I can't leave while he's still here. I have to face him, to prove… that I'm… that…" His eyes began to glaze again.
Alfred and Mireille exchanged worried glances, and Alfred turned back to Spike. "Who else is here?" he asked urgently. "If there is someone else that we must take with us…"
Spike jerked to alertness again. "No!" His voice was rough, strained. "No, he has to be destroyed. I have to finish him. He's hunting me, and I'm hunting him. It won't stop until one of us dies. It will never stop…" He faded again.
Mireille looked at her watch. They were short on time, after the unexpected street fights, and Spike wasn't showing any signs of mobility. They needed to speed things up, but she was wary of rushing him and bringing the world down around their ears. Maybe she could simply talk him into going with her, as she'd told Amon she could. She took a deep breath and stepped forward. "Spike…"
His head snapped around, his mismatched eyes met her blue ones and widened in shock, and suddenly she was frozen. She watched his lips formed one silent word – Julia – and memory washed over her like an icy waterfall…
…he was bleeding, and she was lifting him from the sidewalk, bandaging his wounds, singing to him, trying to explain to Vicious why there was another in her bed, but he wouldn't understand, he never understood, and she wanted to go with Spike, but Vicious put a choice before her, her life or Spike's, and she chose to live, and he left her to fly to the stars, and they never forgave her…
It was Alfred's voice, once again, that cut into her mind and pulled her out of the memories. She gripped the back of a chair, shaking, and broke her gaze away from Spike's eyes. Alfred was beside her, watching her face with alarm. She shook her head and pushed him away.
Spike was still watching her in shock and disbelief, finally broken from his inertia. She stepped beside his chair, once more in control of herself. She would convince him to follow her, she must… But before she could speak one of his arms had circled her waist and pulled her close. He whispered the name of the woman she had been – Julia, Julia – and she was unable to resist. Fighting the memories again, she curled her arms around his neck and bent close to him, her hair falling over his shoulder. The embrace was warm and tempting, but behind her Alfred discreetly cleared his throat. "We have to go," she whispered to Spike, pulling away. "Now."
It seemed Spike was ready to follow them anywhere, now that he'd seen his Julia. They flanked him and left the bar, making for the empty street on which they'd entered. It was still just dusk – it seemed to be perpetually dusk, in this twilight world – and they felt the ground tremble as they headed for the highway.