(Alias/Angel/American Idol)
By wordwolf
Disclaimers in part 1.
Chapter 3.
The two leather-clad figures strode through the hotel lobby as if they owned the place and it was filled with treasure. The broad dark one in the mid-length jacket leaned over to his companion and growled sotto voce, "Just go in and get it done. I don't want any theatrics or attention-hogging; got it?"
"Should've thought of that before you gave me the job, mate," chortled the lean blond one in the floor-length coat.
"I meant what I said, Spike. Go in there, do your number, and get out. Meet me at the west exit, and I'll have the artifact." Angel peeled off, leaving Spike to continue on toward the crowds of contestants while he slipped into the nearest stairwell.
Yeah, right, mate, and good riddance. Now time for a bit of fun for a change. Spike found a group of contestants milling around, and did a bit of his own milling. Now and then he noticed some girl or another looking at him, and flashed back a look of his own, but nothing was going to distract him, not here. When his name and number were called, it came as a relief and a shock at once.
Spike tried to look confident, swaggering into the audition room. It was easy when he kept in mind that he was capable of snapping all the judges' necks in a matter of seconds – whether he actually ever would or not. "'ello there!"
"Well, hello!" replied Cowell, obviously pleased to hear an accent from the old country. "From my part of the world," he glanced at the list, "Spike?"
"That's right." Spike was able to hide a moment's disappointment at not seeing Paula Abdul there, and gave the remaining judges a big broad grin.
"Just Spike?"
"That's also right."
Jackson folded his arms and gave the contestant a narrow look. "Isn't it a little early to be using a stage name, dog?"
Spike stretched the grin toothily. "Oh, I've been around a bit longer than you might think."
"Okay," Jackson said agreeably. "Whatcha gonna sing for us, Spike?"
"A bit o' Bowie. 'Diamond Dogs.'"
Cowell smiled and nodded. "Off you go."
Spike couldn't be more ready. A cappella, this... He played back the music in his head, felt the rhythm move into his limbs, and went for it.
"As they pulled you out of the oxygen tent, you asked for the latest party
With your silicon hump and your ten-inch stump
Dressed like a priest you was, Todd Browning's freak he was
Crawling down the alley on your hands and knee
I'm sure you're not protected for it's plain to see
The Diamond Dogs are poachers and they hide behind trees..."
He had it! He had it in a death-grip and it wasn't getting away; Spike snarled and spit the words, letting the beat swing him and move his boots, his coat flapping like black wings as he stamped back and forth hard across the floor flinging the song into their faces...
"Hunt you to the ground they will, mannequins with kill appeal
Will they come? – I keep a friend serene
Will they come? – oh baby, come unto me
Will they come? – well, she's come, been, and gone
Come out of the garden, baby, you'll catch your death in the fog
Young girl, they call them the Diamond Dogs
Young girl, they call them the Diamond Dogs!
"That Halloween Jack is a real cool cat, and he lives on top of Manhattan Chase
The elevator's broke, so he slides down a rope
Onto the street below – "
"Spike!"
He slammed to a halt in mid-stomp. "What?"
"Whoa, dog!" Jackson recoiled from the contestant's growl. "You don't have to go on, 'cause you are GREAT! You got edge, you got punch – Simon, I say we send him on."
Spike's jaw dropped. He felt as if he might suddenly melt away onto the floor.
"Well, Spike," Cowell began in a considered tone, "I have to concur with Randy that you are a first-rate rocker. That song especially is perfect for you. I would be concerned, however, whether or not you could deliver on a ballad or a classic show tune."
"Oh, I can, I can! Right now! What d'you want: 'As Tears Go By'? 'On the Street Where You Live'? Just gi' me a chance and – "
"Relax, Spike." Cowell was smiling indulgently. "You'll get your chance to show us. You're going to Hollywood."
"What? I am? WELL ALL RIGHT!" To the judges' astonishment, Spike shot four feet straight up and almost connected with the ceiling.
As the ensouled vampire barreled out of the audition room, flourishing his new yellow ID tag, he was suddenly accosted. "Looks like we have another success for today in LA!" Spike had a microphone pushed under his nose, a bubbling blond boy attached to it. "Hi, I'm Ryan Seacrest, and you are?"
"Bloody damn GREAT, I am!" In a delicious rush of excitement, Spike grabbed the American Idol host with both hands, pressed a kiss on his face almost hard enough to crack the perfect cheekbone, and flung him across the room. Seacrest slammed against the wall nine feet away and slid to the carpet as the lucky contestant went leaping across the lobby, whooping and punching the air all the way.
With a groggy shake of his head, Seacrest picked up himself and his fallen mike and rose unsteadily to his feet. "Well, now we see what a break like this can mean to an aspiring performer. Tomorrow's superstar? We'll find out as American Idol continues..."
XX
How long have I been down here? Sydney Bristow felt like she'd covered miles, both vertically and horizontally, since entering the underground service areas of the hotel. There were two levels, not counting the parking garage, and the Rambaldi device's radiation signature was so weak that sometimes she lost the signal entirely. No fault of Marshall's, though; there was so much concrete and iron down here that it was near-miraculous that the tracer worked as well as it did. And helpfully, it was flawless in warning her, with a very soft beep and a spot of red on the screen, whenever a hotel employee was getting too close. Sydney sneaked, hid, and sneaked again, and soon was gratified to see the blue indicator strengthen. It was near, and she was drawing nearer.
She was reaching the bottom of the basement; soon the service areas would give out into the underground garage. But the tiny blue light was now bright as a planet at midnight, and the agent noticed a bundle of wires clamped to the wall, leading to an electrical terminal box not far away. A sudden hunch and a pulse of the tracer proved the case; Sydney approached the box, turned the latch – and caught the delicate, sinister object as it tumbled out.
Il Silencio. It was theirs. "This is Mountaineer, reporting recovery of objective."
"That's great!" exclaimed Marshall.
"Well done, Mountaineer." She could hear pride and affection in Michael Vaughn's voice. "Proceed to rendezvous point."
Suddenly she heard another voice, this one deeper and harder, coming from behind. Sydney glanced down at the tracer; it hadn't sounded its signal, and no red indicator was there to match this new presence. "Not so fast," it announced triumphantly. "Turn around, and keep your hands where I can see them. That artifact is now the property of Wolfram & Hart."
TO BE CONTINUED
