Hello Everyone! I apologise for the wait endured for this chapter, but hopefully it'll be worth it. Also, as this chapter was originally intended to be a single, large chapter, with the next update, the next chap is already well under way. I took my proof reading a little further here, by request, but couldn't find a beta reader, at least not without lengthening the time it took to update!
Anyone who might worry that the Scoobies have not yet appeared in this story, fear not, because they will arrive within a few chapters.
Please review, and enjoy!
APOCALYPSE NOWISH
Chapter 17-Gathering Clouds
A sharp whoosh shook the air in the wake of a sharply swung, and fisted, blow. The fist's target staggered back and was quickly tripped to the ground by a swift blow to the back of the leg. His collision with the marble ground was silent amongst the massive roar of battle that consumed the room, and that echoed distinctly from the high roof. But as he toppled over his attacker stood proudly to his feet, his face as damaging, and strong as the force behind his punch. His eyes were piercing, and powerfully ruthless, pleasure in the kill seemed to grin down from him, as the blood-red sword he bore struck his victim fiercely, a sharp spray of blood shooting into the air, traces of it hitting his cold face.
Wesley wasted no time in admiring the bloodied corpse, its head lying in a growing pool of blood, and swung around as he heard footsteps behind him. Swinging his sword through the air at eye level, and before he had turned to see what might be there, a jet of blood shot into the air as his sword made contact. When he saw his target he was already screaming, his eyes covered by scared hands, blood seeping through the fingers. Wesley scoffed at the fearful state this, supposedly fearless demon, or person, was in. His foe was clearly not as strong as they had proclaimed. Indifferent to the shocking scene before him, blood in the air, on the walls, and across the floor, he drew back his sword and prepared to impale his foe in the heart. Yet he paused, as, unexpectedly, a heavy figure fell right onto his enemy, knocking him to the ground, and lying unmoving on top of the fallen man. It was another identical man. He glanced up above him, at the railings from whence the body came and saw Connor, looking down at the battle that raged in every corner of the lobby. Wesley smiled shortly but then turned back to battle, thinking of Lilah as he slammed an opponent in the side of his face and sending him into the wall.
Where was she? The tip of his sword made a soft clang as it touched the wall, impaled through the body of the identical man. He sincerely hoped, both for her sake, and his, that she hadn't been found. She was the wolf, and that meant that she was an integral part of events to come, or perhaps even happening as they fought, amid the burning and distraught city. And whilst that was what he told himself he must care about, always, at the back of his layered mind, something told him that she had to be saved, she had to survive this. He felt for her, and he could feel, on some level, that it was not for his own devices. He wished her happiness because he felt that she should have it, a sign of humanity, and at times the only thing keeping him from losing faith in it, faith that seems to always want to tear itself down. Whilst his adoration of Fred was something that was ever present, and one of the few distinct feelings he owned, it was a selfish one. He wanted Fred for himself, to make himself happy, but he wanted Lilah to be happy, whether he was there or not.
Even now, as he smote an attacker on the chin, he wondered why he fought. Did he fight for survival? Or was he fighting for something else, something that really mattered? Was he fighting for others? No,' he told himself as a sharp spurt of blood erupted from a slain identical man, I fight because that's all I know to do.'
A short break in the onslaught of blows gave him a chance to view the room. As he glanced, he saw a disturbed Dylan dive over the reception desk, and fall behind it, sheltering from the sight of preying eyes. Something else caught his eyesight more boldly, and that was a panicked Gunn, against the cold floor, desperately trying to fend off three attackers. He was just in the door to the reception area.
His breath erratic, Dylan grasped his aching side, pained from his harsh fall. His heart began to calm as he felt the comforting walls of the reception desk surrounding him. He was out of the battle, and he'd only just managed that. Angel, whom it was his job to kill, had saved his life on more than one occasion in the intense fray, and still fought valiantly behind him, behind the cowardly cover of the desk. He, on the other hand, cursed himself for not fighting, not willing himself to risk his own flesh and blood for that of others. The only thing he could do was run or be saved by others. He was becoming more worried by the second as the storm of battle, by its raging song, seemed to slowly surround him, entrapping him in an ever-growing web of fear. He was not like Lilah, fearless, indifferent, and despite his terror now, he was thankful for that fact. He had seen her on many occasions sentencing various employees to their deaths. Never by her own hands of course; nonetheless the damage was done and over the years she had become whole-heartedly self oriented, which had made her the employee she was today, at the evil emporium of Wolfram and Hart.
As he hid now, the only thing between him and death: his enemies, he remembered signing a long and ruthless contract, in blood, for that company. It's forsaken text dooming him to eternal service to the wicked firm, beyond death, beyond everything. Why had he signed it? Why was he here today, in this hotel, surrounded by hordes of vicious demons, and not a glimpse of friendship? Because it promised him wealth, the thing everyone wants and, or so they believe, needs. And, although he wasn't a bad guy, he didn't mind getting his hands dirty, especially when there was no literal sense in the phrase. A few times now, in the courtroom, he'd unjustly convicted innocence, and, although he slept little for long afterwards, he had done evil. He remembered all this and then suddenly, as he shivered with from the evil that surrounded him, he knew; he knew that he had to get out, be strong and fight for the side of good, which he'd noticed was a lot harder to do.
He didn't want to be like Lilah, slowly frozen from the inside until but a shell remained, seemingly a soulless machine. His wish might have been answered, with the recent slaughter of Wolfram and Hart, and he truly hoped that marked the end of his career. He'd seen a lot at that company, and had learnt just as much, about the fine line between good and evil, righteousness and malice, about what it meant to live, and what it meant that others lived. Yes, he had learnt that to live, you had to feel for others.
A grin of confidence slowly spread across his pale face, under his unkempt dark hair, his visage slowly becoming one of precise conviction. Only now did his heart honestly discard evil, and all its promises, now, after all these years of questioning, he was sure of himself. Laughing softly to himself he looked over to the reception area before him. Suddenly a heavy thud made by the swift fall of a strong body to the marble floor came from just in front of him, and Gunn fell into view from the open doorway that led to behind the desk. He let out a pained grunt as he collided with the cold, hard floor, and quickly looked up to see several of the identicals crowd around him, looking down upon his fallen body with a glare of vicious pride. Dylan, but a metre away from one of the men surrounding Gunn, pushed himself as far back against the wall of the desk as he could, watching fearfully as they clenched their fists and Gunn could but watch despairingly.
Cruelly trapped, Gunn could do nothing, or so Dylan thought. But suddenly a shock rang through his body as Gunn launched himself to his feet, defying all Dylan's worries with a proud jump. These people truly are something special' he thought, as he watched Gunn struggle whole heartedly with his growing number of foes. The stubborn bravery played before him, like a chillingly powerful hero scene from a movie, brought an overwhelming hope to Dylan. Empowered, he rose to his feet, his fists clenched with eagerness to fulfil his resolution, to fight for something other than himself. An identical man was sent crashing to the floor by a sharp punch from Gunn and his head hit the floor just at Dylan's feet. The identical looked up, and his eyes widened quickly as Dylan raised his knee, carefully positioning his foot over the man's head. In but a swift moment a repulsive crack found his ears, and he recalled his foot, placing it softly onto the floor as he stared down with a slight tremble of shock, at the man's crushed head. He continued to stare down, his heart beating fast and his mind swelling, the sight of blood pouring from littered cracks throughout his enemy's skull made him sick, and the fact that he had intentionally caused it.
A chill dived down his spine as the body below gave a shudder, then, as all thoughts of self disgust escaped Dylan, a distinct movement. Dylan stepped back into the desk, searching wildly for something to aid him, a weapon of some sought. He gasped as the man rose slowly to his feet, but half a metre in front of him, blood still painting his face, and dripping angrily to the floor. Dylan, biting his lip with tense fear, spun around and swiftly scanned the desk once more, this time his eyes thankfully catching a small lamp at the side. Without wanting to turn behind him, and see the horrid figure lurking menacingly, who's bloody breath he felt to the back of his neck, he grabbed the lamp, tugging it from it's the power socket with a short grunt, and swivelled round to strike his target. When he turned he found his face mere centimetres from the identical, who smiled excitedly behind a veil of thick, dark, red, and with a repulsed expression brought the heavy lamp above his head, ready to smite his enemy. But suddenly he felt a hand viciously grasp his wrist and hold his arm in place. An identical man from in front of the desk must have intervened. Dylan was sweating now, with fear and panic, as he was forced to watch the man before him smiling malevolently, due to the fact he could no longer turn his body, his arm still held tightly by the sneering man behind him.
The bleeding man suddenly struck out, and cut off Dylan's sharp yell with a bladed grasp to the throat. Dylan's eyes began to widen slowly, and the man's reddened face smiled ever-cruelly as his hands torturously gripped tighter and tighter. All of a sudden Dylan's mind took control, and with its last strain of oxygen, forced him to act. All else in the giant lobby was nothing; it was only him, and two enemies, one behind, one in front. It became harder and harder to think as pain clouded him forcefully, and his face swelled with a deep, agonising purple. But he shifted his eyes to the side, desperate for something to fight back with. Even this simple task hurt him insurmountably, but suddenly a distinct and empowering hope came to him, in the form of a bright white telephone, sitting conveniently beside him, and hopeful within arms reach. Blackness began to overcome his already blurry vision, so, knowing that he had not a second to waste, he swung his unheld arm over his head, and with all the strength he could, grabbed the whole phone. His untrustworthy grip fought through the odds as he managed to lift the whole telephone, and swing it, with the most brave effort he'd ever delivered in his life, towards the head of the man behind him, or at least where he thought the head was.
Relief and hope overcame him when he heard a distinct clunk, despite the piercing ringing in his ears and the heavy sound of battle all around him, and suddenly the grip around his hand, and the lamp he held, died. With his last strain of consciousness, he brought down the pre-poised blow to his attackers head, and, as the sound of shattering porcelain sung hope through his ears, his throat was freed. Not a thought crossed his mind then, not relief, not joy, he simply let go of his body, and fell to the floor, his muscles asleep, and his mind hidden by the still unbearable pain.
After a few deep, and precious breaths, he made himself open his eyes, hoping to confirm his enemy's death. Right next to him, in a puddle of dark blood, lay the unmoving figure, his empty stare to the ground, his death a relief to Dylan. He gave a strained sigh, and, as his vision cleared, looked over to the back of the reception area, where he'd seen Gunn fighting just moments ago. There he saw Gunn, on the floor, a man over him, with his fist drawn back, eager to pound his face to oblivion. Dylan, desperate to fulfil his pledge to fight for others, especially for these people who had saved him countless times already, tried to force himself to his feet, but, still weak and dizzy, fell to his knees and could not make his body go further. A sincere tear of empathy gathered in his eye, and as he wiped it, despairingly watching Gunn, being threatened and teased by his opponent, a grateful smile graced his grim face. The man was thrown from atop Gunn by a firm kick in the rear, and sent flying past Dylan's sight and into the wall besides the entrance to Angel's office. The identical jumped to his feet swiftly, and readily drew his fists. Wesley charged past Dylan, with a sword gripped behind him, and expertly slew him, a sudden spray of blood expelled into the air.
His respect for Wesley grew slightly, where there had been a cold feeling of mistrust before. He remembered in Wolfram and Hart, when Wesley fought, he could sense something by the way he stared, the way he walked, talked, and fought, a stroke of cold across his rugged face. Dylan could tell then, that Wesley didn't care whether he or the others died or not. But now, as he fought for Gunn, Dylan could feel a certain affableness, a warmness that seemed unusual for Wesley. Wesley, oblivious to Dylan watching, approached Gunn, who was lying, sorely on his back. Dylan smiled unexpectedly when Wesley outstretched his hand, to the now sitting, Gunn, who took it heartily after a moments hesitation. As Gunn was helped to his feet, his legs trembling a bit, clearly layered in bruises, Dylan could almost see some weight disappear from the air between the two, and he could tell that that handshake had meant something far more than could be seen by the eye. Always known to be quick on reading people's emotions, Dylan sensed a deep history between the two, marred by tragedy and guilt, which seemed now to be slightly forgotten and relieved, by but a simple gesture. Maybe Gunn beheld, like Dylan, the sincere heart with which Wesley had came to his aid.
Dylan, the sound of battle quickly overcoming his thoughts, stepped over the bloody corpse at his feet, and slowly approached Gunn and Wes, who now stood at the doorway to the reception area, watching the battle, with strategising expressions, and occasionally sparring with the odd enemy.
Wesley had a frown of concern as he glanced out into the intense battle, making sure he located everyone. Fred he saw first, whether it was his eyes that chose, or by where she happened to be, and she was beside Lorne, pinned against the wall that the steps climbed, on the other side of the room. Angel was standing back to back with Cordy, both with red swords, fighting together in an almost graceful agility. Connor, whom he had seen before, was atop the stairs just above and beside him, fighting valiantly, by his bruised fist, his unwrapping bandages trailing behind his striking blows like a graceful shimmer in the wind. Most concerning was the innumerable amount of bodies that were strewn across the antique floor, their blood splattered about beside them. And still more poured through the now felled doors, clambering over the shattered remains of the rich wood, and trusty glass. As the smell of blood grew ever more intoxicating, Wesley spoke to Gunn, one of his eyes still cautiously stationed to Fred, who he feared might soon lose her strength, and Lorne would be of little help in that circumstance.
"We have to get out," in a slightly weary and gravelly voice those words reached, heedlessly to Gunn's ears. His mind was enveloped and distraught by the ugly, and horrific scene that lay before him, never a sight of such death and blood, had Gunn seen, and although he had killed, and would still, so much gore was a thorned shock to him. This, and his consistently aching body, burdened by wounds and sores, born from the feet and hands of this cruel enemy who poured ceaselessly upon them, made him distant. But, as his eyes gradually panned the room, he saw Fred fly back against the wall from a vicious punch, and, as her weapon fell to the ground beside her, and she struggled to return to her feet, Gunn lost his own woe, and turned to Wesley, wholly ready for action. He nodded to the expectant Wesley, who then proceeded to explain to him that they must get to the truck. As Gunn knocked down a charging identical, with a delighted sneer, Wesley, walking right past Dylan, who stood behind them, listening unnoticed came to behind the reception desk. "Angel!" he cried strongly.
"Yeah?" Angel replied with a grunt, felling a nearby foe.
"We have to get out, retreat to Gunn's truck!"
"Oh, I dunno, I think it's about time we got rid of"
"Right, let's go!" Cordelia sharply interrupted, having no time for Angel's battle antiques. Angel frowned with feigned disheartenment, but was clearly too thankful for Cordy's presence to be upset by it.
Asherea, sprinting, with all the strength she still retained, sharply rounded a corner, bumping into a well-built man, who too was running, and caring a hefty electrical appliance. She paused for the slightest of moments, searching for the Hyperion, far down the street, hearing a loud crash behind her. Just as she sprang fourth, after seeing the hotels unamusable charm amongst dirty, grey buildings, a strong hand grabbed her shirt, hauling her back. The counteraction against her swiftness sacrificed a few of her top shirt buttons, which silently bounced onto the concrete as she was aggressively pushed against the hard concrete wall, being held unkindly by her shoulder. The man was sneering, his looted prize shattered on the sidewalk behind him. But she looked into his hating eyes, and, without hesitation, drew her sword and ran it swiftly across his neck, in a single, refined movement. Blood spurted into the air as the man fell back onto the concrete, into his VCR, dead. But she was already gone, her sword re-sheathed, and her mind focused on but one thing: the Risen, and thereby the fate of the world. And, although she hated to tell herself the truth, a few mortal lives didn't matter in this epic war. They were dispensable. Angel was not.
When she was but a block from the hotel, she saw the identical men, swarming everywhere, across the streets, and especially by the entrance, but then a sight far less troubling. Paused, a distant, unmoving star in the night, she spied upon the crowded street, and smiled a felt smile of relief when all the men suddenly became a tumult mass, falling, charging, and fighting. The gang left a tight trail of bodies amongst the men, as they charged through defiantly, their weapons flailing about, cutting through the endless army of identicals. Asherea's hope became dimmer as she wondered where they could possibly escape to, figuring she might have to aid them, though knowing there were too many opponents for success, she gripped the fabric-wound hilt of her katana. She had been hoping she could conserve her energy, and her power, for the true evil, who had, mysteriously, not presented himself at the scene. The Risen; he was her target.
Bracing herself to mount a worthy charge upon the host of identicals, she suddenly halted with a welcomed shock of realisation. Angel, after throwing an identical over its bonnet, swung open the door to a large and hefty truck, and jumped inside. They were damn lucky they had parked the car across the road from the hotel, or it would have, undoubtedly, been sabotaged, and she was even pleasantly surprised that the enemy hadn't put ever car on the street into wreckage. Wesley was standing on the rusted floor of the back of the truck, his hand held out to the rest of the crew who quickly rushed to safety beside him. Yes,' she exclaimed silently, as the truck, their only hope, revved amongst the swarming cohort. The sky, still alight with angry flames, and their roar, was joined by the battle cry of a powerful engine.
Knocking down a small number of identicals it sped off down the long, empty road, pursued by the large amount of remaining identicals, who she knew to be impossibly relentless, and right now, escape was their only option. She resumed her hastened pursuit, of Angel, and of hope.
Yet, though she ran with conviction, and determination, a pebble of fear ever-slightly sank her heart. The Risen had not come, but he will, and with his cool, and cold, grin, came death, and dark power beyond all reckoning. Where he was the consuming blackness, she was the star, and now she was a bright shooting star, lit with unbreakable courage.
Cold without the life in the world
And you're caught in the fray
But now the tide's breaking and there's hell to pay,
The sky has gone away,
All hope has gone astray,
Treetops burnt to the ground
And the air is so stale..
and I'll be damned to try, but I will not fail,
Under these gathering clouds, let the ending begin,
You see the stars enclosed but I won't give in.
The sky has gone away,
All hope has gone astray,
The sky has gone away,
All hope has gone astray.
Please tell me what you think! Thankyou for reading!