Hello all. Gather round, gentle readers, and behold, in awe, the 18th chapter of Apocalypse Nowish. Now if this chapter doesn't prove that this story is epic, I don't know what will. This is basically where I turn away from the light-hearted angst of old, and enter into a new era of tragedy and turmult. Thanks for the continuing feedback, from everyone, I appreciate it, and it helps me dedicate my time to the story! Hope you enjoy the chapter:
Chapter 18- Let it Rain
The air gusted proudly through the open window of the racing truck, and Angel's gelled hair shivered from it's sharp sting of coldness. Gunn, ignoring the strong wind breaking on his face, kept his hands firmly gripped on the sweaty steering wheel, staring ahead with a sharp gaze of concentration. His mind was chanting distinctly, telling him that they had to escape, at all costs, and that that relied on his driving. Swerving around a sharp corner, he flicked on the windscreen wipers, which began to methodically sweep away the gathering raindrops from the cold glass.
A rumble of thunder could barely be heard amidst the deep, empowered roaring of the engine. As the rain continued to slowly intensify, from a light drizzle, to now, a light pour, sweat gathered on Gunn's hands, and his pained face. The pressure was building, and the host of enemies behind them, seemed only to strengthen in number and in tirelessness. His heart was pounding, his gaze trying not to glimpse the fuel gauge, which, before, had greeted his straying eyes with the hostile display of 'empty'. The truck wouldn't last much longer, he warned himself needlessly, and with it's end, Gunn forsaw the end of himself and his friends.
Angel, whose face was deeply woven with a concerned frown, glanced over to Gunn, and saw the growing hint of terror in his face, which bore a feigned and fickle espresion of fearlessness. The car bumped loudly again, and both Angel and the others in the back, shook jarringly.
"Gunn, take it easy, stay calm." Angel advised, slightly concerned that Gunn's brash, and berserk, driving habbits might inadvertedly cause the very tragedy they fled.
"That's easy for you to say," Gunn replied, the words harsh, forced from a tight, anxious throat.
"Why's that?" Angel said loudly as the tires beneath him screeched piercingly, as though they screamed from the sharpness of the turn. They were now heading straight down another long road, which was almost empty. The cars that were around the city either seemed to be parked, or on fire, and stationary. The orange glow that lit up the darkness was beginning to be subdued by the ever-persevering rain, which was now becoming strong, several harsh splats hitting Angel on the back of his neck as he turned to Gunn, expectantly.
"You haven't seen how much fuel we don't have." Gunn informed, his wit not spoken with humor.
"Dammit!" Angel cried, frustration eating at him as he checked the rear view mirror to see the huge mass of identicals, which neatly occupied the whole road across-wards with it's enormousness, and which charged forward relentlessly. Weariness, and slumber, were clearly forgotten by these inhuman pursuers.
Unfortunately Angel all but owned that need, his foray into the bowels of the defiled Wolfram and Hart building, having taken its costly toll. His body still ached from his various encounters there, and his latest skirmish had further weakened him. His preternatural abilities could not battle sleeplessness, and his recent time without revitalising blood had kept him from having his full strength. His neck and shoulders were becoming layered in cold water, as the rain began to pour through his window, trickles of it running down his leather jacket.
The realisation quickly came to him as he saw the coming horde; he could not win. There were too many. If the truck were to stop there would be nothing he could do, in battle, or in flight. And when they found themselves facing that reality, he would be standing beside his friends and colleagues, whom he had fought so hard to keep near him for so many years. He couldn't let that be a comfort to him, because he knew that if they were there beside him then, in the face of death, it would be because of him. Their doom would be born from the trust and friendship they'd given to and received from him.
He frowned and looked down as the car gave another bold bump, as it ignored the roadway, its driver, spinning the unsteady wheel with insane passion.
Wesley looked up suddenly with that harsh bump, his rear knocked uncomfortably against the cold, hard steel of the bed of the truck, which now was coveted in a shiny layer of dampness. He tightened his grip on the side of the truck as he looked straight backward, at the menacing sight tailing the them, gaining ever more ground between darkness and their lives. His short hair was ruffled and swayed subtly in the strong wind that blew across him and his friends from over and around the truck. His expression was cold as he looked around at the people beside him, people whom he had come to know well, and whom he had loved.
He wondered then, as he directly faced the assemblage of malevolent enemies, had he loved them, or did he love them even now. He remembered the strength in Gunn's hand as he placed it in his and the warmth in his face when Wesley helped him to his feet. Could his sins be forgiven? Gunn's acceptance of Wesley's assistance certainly told him so, but doubt still had him by the collar, and would keep him in despair for all its worth. He felt something click then, and also with Angel deep inside Wolfram and Hart, that sense of freindship that he been missing for so long. A cruel image of his empty, desolate apartment, struck him, its grey walls conjuring a striking sense of loneliness. That was his house, but he had been without a home for too long now, and he wanted it back. He wanted something to fight for, something to keep him sane.
"They're machines." Cordelia unexpectedly exclaimed, her eyes facing the pursuing enemy with a look of disgust and hatred, and water dripping from the tips of her saturated hair.
The others remained silent, Cordelia keeping her eyes firmly upon her predators. The rain quickly became harder, and as the engine roared on perseveringly, they were soon bathed in a deep downpour, shivering as the icy wind met their water-logged clothes. Wesley sat in the corner of the truck, against the wall to the drivers cab, his arm firmly gripping the left barrier, and his eyes solemnly, and vaguely, gazing about the dark, fiery storm that had enveloped the city. Thunder rumbled powerfully about them, as the truck gave another sudden jump.
Mutterings from behind him stirred his drowned mind to alert consciousness. He forced his ears to carefully heed the fanged one's words through the thin wall at his back, and quickly wished he hadn't. The tumultuous and erratic nature of their short journey suddenly became all too justified. The time for clear and restrained thoughts and actions was long gone, now their modest force was left to flail hopelessly amidst the pool of hungry quicksand. With nothing but panic and hysteria to bide the cruel time.
A single, grim laugh escaped Wesley's lips as he smiled weakly, the sheer hopelessness of the situation, overcoming his sanity. He saw Fred look over to him, with the wary corner of his eye, disturbed by his sudden espression of mirth, but he forgot everything as his mind collapsed, and broke on the cold ground. Fear, hope, and bravery, abandoned him, and he looked upon his enemies and saw them as through a television screen. Suddenly he was the audience and this wreck of a man who sat, smiling darkly, drenched in the forceful downpour, was an actor, whose life was entirely fictional, and whose death was entertainment.
Fred frowned with sincere compassion as Wesley bent over and remained unmoving. Her heart felt cramped and scarred, bleeding for the pain that Wesley seemed to carry. Her mind feared to even consider what torture his soul had endured of late. What grave thoughts and emotions could have done this to a man she knew and respected for being so strong, so determined.
She couldn't feel the warmth of the tears in her eyes as the wind froze her damp skin, but it was there. She had only to consider the pain that could have transformed Wesley so completely and so forcefully from the jovial and lovable character he once was and her heart froze. What had they done to him? Had guilt been its own punishment, loneliness and abandonment just excessive torture? She remembered when she had forgiven him once before. He had chased her, wielding an axe, and with all intent on using it, but she knew that it was not his own mind that drove him to it, and she told him this. It was Billy. She could still remember feeling sick when Wesley turned away, his eyes drowned with shame.
She issued a deep sigh, silent againt the roar of pouring rain, and shivered a she felt the water gush down her face, and fly from her hair, flailing in the mighty gust.
That means nothing now.
We'll all be dead soon anyway.
The journey's almost over...
And some of us won't die as freinds.
She suddenly shook the dark thoughts from her mind, refusing to believe that anything was certain. With so many facets to their plight, nothing was strictly determined. There was hope, even if the others' faces disagreed. Even if there was no light in the sky, no beauty in the world. Despite the storm and the strong fires, she felt a hope. They were not alone.
Suddenly Asherea pulled herself to a sudden halt, her squinting eyes gazing straight down the wide empty road that lay before her. She was certain that they had come down here, both Angel and her enemies, even though she could not see them. Now that the fire was well and truly drowned in the torrents of rain, only darkness stretched before her, it's inhabbitants further obscured by the thick downpour. She shivered in her damp outfit, her white dress sticking to her skin and the lower part of her skirt tainted by dark stains of mud. She felt colder now that the world about her was dark and hidden in consuming shadow. The blackness was mirrored in her heart.
She continued to look as the rain and the wind tore at her violently, as though it wanted her to be smitten to the ground. And suddenly, through pure chance, a sharp stroke of lightning shot across the sky and its radiant glare lit up the street, from her feet to the horizon. However, along with the light came not hope, but further fear, though now at least she knew what was out there, and had no doubts. She had seen the malevolence with perfect clarity during that heartbeat moment, in the form of tall man silhouetted before her, walking swiftly down the street, his deep black jacket swaying at his tail.
The Risen is here.
He was heading, with purpose and determination, towards the large crowd before him, his fists clenched, a evil smile upon his wet face. She stopped and breathed in deeply, despite the harsh cold, feeling an all too familiar rhythm pulsate through her veins and in her mind. Once again her life was coming to a glorious end, and by now she knew its tune. Her right hand shot suddenly to the hilt of her katana, holding it ready in its sheath, as her eyes watched the shadow walk into the night.
Her heart began to beat with increasing rapidity as her mind screamed to her. But she ignored its despairing and doubtful words as her own formed upon her lips, knowing that her bravery and her sacrifice meant something, everytime.
"Risen!" She screamed into the thunderous shower of rain and gust of storm.
Gripping the leather covered hilt with further strength, a sign of her nervousness, despite the many times they had auditioned this part of the play. She shivered as his barely visable figure stopped with an inhuman abruptness. Breathing heavily, she knew this place, this game. This was her death. It was her destiny, to fight, to die. And every single time her defiled corpse was a broken picture of a fruitless death. But not this time. He swiveled around and stared straight into her with a vicious eagerness, his blue eyes unravelling her mind and piercing her soul, even if her sight was too poor even to see their colour. She felt him laugh and she glared into the shadows with fierce hatred.
Suddenly her thoughts shot back to 1792, a tall imposing figure standing before her, looking down at her bloody body with sadistic contentment. It was Angelus. Of all the Harts she had met, he inspired her the most, and ever since he left her that day, nearly dead, strange sense of hope had lingered, hope that this time was different, that the prophecy was not pre-determined.
Yes, she thought, her lips an impossible smile, This time has to be different. She slowly drew her sword, and discarded the sheath, not hearing it splash and sink into the flooded gutter to the side of the road. The music inside her mind sped up, and she felt her muscles tingle with a new energy. Is this what hope does for you?
Her quiet musings were suddenly interrupted when the Risen, with unprecedented speed, skidded to a halt about five metres away from her, and she gasped from the shock, still holding her sword pointing towards the ground a few metres to her side.
"It's red." He said quietly, barely audible in the storm.
Her eyes widened as her mind quickly fell into a short bout of self-disgust, and as the last streaks of human blood dripped from her lowered sword, she looked down at the red stains splashed over her white outfit. They were paled by the water but they were still there, a cruel and unfair reminder of the sacrifices that have to be made to triumph. This battle she was giving everything she had, and that man's death was an unfortunate side effect. She shook her head slightly, her long her spraying water as it whipped across her shoulders.
She couldn't afford to feel bad now. Lightning stabbed the sky once more and the Risen's expression was illuminated, his manic grin, inspiring a fiery passion inside of her, an anger. She brought her sword back to a ready position in front of her, and frowned with hatred when she saw the unnerving smile grow, with pleasure.
"No matter how many times I'm forced to experience this, Asherea, I never, NEVER, tire of it. To see that despairing face of yours gasp desperately one last breath, having only recently shone with bravery, is a joy beyond any other I have known."
He could see her trying to feign indifference, but her lips were trembling slightly, and her eyes avoided his. "I will break you as I always do. But I'm afraid prolonged physical pain is not an option for this shortlived encounter, for I have a group of people behind me who really need to be hurt."
"No." She said with as much blunt confidence as she could. "This time is "
" different?" He interrupted bitingly. "How can this possibly be different? You know as well as I do their deaths," he continued, pointing to the distant crowd, "are inevitable, just as yours is. A shiny new blade of metal is nothing, your confidence is nothing, this dimension is theirs, and there is nothing you can do to stop it." He sniggered briefly, "you can't even destroy me, try your luck against the omnipotent, omniscient guys up there!"
Asherea stepped forward, his potentially destructive rant having had little effect on her. In fact, it only added fuel to the flame that burned inside of her, for now she knew that he didn't know about the book. "Yes," she cogitated, "if they can understand the prophecy then maybe they can avert it."
The Risen's piercing smile was ever present, his confident and sadistic gaze ever effectual.
"Should we begin, or should I just make my way over there and slaughter Angel's companions, except, of course " A sharp slice through the air cut him off, and he reacted just in time to lean back, below the silver shimmer of a skilfully striking blade. Both of their movements impossibly fast to the human eye, Asherea sliced the sword downwards, still within one graceful movement, towards his chest, and the Risen twisted his body to the side. The sword managed a subtle snick of his black shirt, but his spine had been curved away from the blow, and the sword struck the ground with the force of the uninterrupted slash.
The last clangs and crashes of strewn debris died out into the consuming rain as they reeled from the sudden, jarring crash. The rain hated them as they recovered their original positions, having been thrown to the floor of the truck bed. The back of the truck was flooded, and there was no way to escape the aggressive cold. The people in the back shuddered at the sharp sound of Angel's door being mightily thrust open into the brick wall that they had hit, his side of the cab being at a sharp angle with the wall. As they knelt in the pool of filthy water, the gang, bar Angel and Gunn, who both exited the cab in a type of fury, came to their own brick wall. Their minds looked up and on the bricks, the words 'Dead End' seemed imprinted, and the realisation struck them.
Fred turned her head weakly to Angel who angrily grabbed his sword from inside the cabin, and walked around to the side of the truck, but his eyes didn't meet hers, they were focused, with immeasurable hatred, on the enemies that surrounded them, all across the street. They were slowly coming to a halt, standing imposingly around the small group, waiting patiently.
"Shit!" She heard a cry of anguish and anger. Gunn, on the other side of the truck, which faced the road, was glaring down at the head of the cab, which was now a mess of bent steel and shattered plastic.
"Guys, get up!" Angel shouted, contending with the fierce downpour. Connor had already jumped to his feet, and off the truck, his fists clenched hungrily, and readily. Shivering, Fred wondered poignantly why she was here, among these champions. They were all different, somehow, they were stronger than her. Gunn has been fighting demons and vampires his entire life; Angel had the strength of 3 men; Connor boasted the deed of weathering a hell dimension for his entire life; Cordelia had bravery, courage, and an unbreakable heart.
What was she? A sweet Texan girl. She had been in Pylea, but there she had hid, and her soul had buried itself in a cave, wanting never to realise the truth, that she was alone. She sobbed quietly. Nothing she had seen could compare to this. Being cornered, trapped, ... this was the end.
Lightening cracked, and Angel helped Cordelia off the truck, whilst Gunn stood still, fixated unsettlingly on the alley behind Fred.
"C'mon guys! Get up!" Angel repeated, his request becoming an order, but in his commanding tone Fred sensed an undertone of fear. She crawled to the edge of the truck, almost wading through the pool at her knees, looking away from Lorne after glancing at his ruined visage.
As he stepped solemnly off the truck, gazing around at the monsters surrounding them, their eternal gaze penetrating the nighttime shower, Lorne saw Gunn staring down the alleyway behind him, owning an expression of disbelief, fear and, anger. Fred and Dylan abandoned the truck and stood beside him and Angel, Connor standing about a metre off to himself, and Lorne followed Gunn's line of sight and peered down into the deep, black alley. A blow to his mind sent a shiver through his body as he saw a vague movement, then, as his vision gained its focus, a lurking mass. The shadows stood in the distance, their eyes sharp, their minds pervaded by a primal hunger. With a deep sigh, following the morbid surprise, they were surrounded. This proud company, who had so often slain demons in alleyways not dissimilar to the one they were now cornered into like rats, was trapped, defenseless, dead, and ruined./ kkk
"They're not moving!" Fred frantically stated the obvious. "Why?" she shouted, her tone growing ever more desperate.
Connor let his eyes stray from those of his prey's, when he swivelled around to the group, an undetectable smile hidden behind his bruised appearance. He quickly studied the group, noting all of their panic-stricken, fear-laden, and emotionally scarred faces, feeling the slightest pity nibble at his heart as he tried to think what they might be feeling. They could see that this was their apparent end, as it was his, but he, although he saw as clearly as they did, refused to let himself fear it. He would take life as he had been taught to, one step at a time. Worry for the future aids not your battles in the present, and time spent grieving for coming death, is life wasted. "Frame by Frame" he told himself, as he unwound his loose bandages, throwing them into the devouring sea of rainwater below.
This was just another battle, and if it was the last, it would be fought with every ounce of strength he could commit. If it was the last, he would prove himself to his father, and liberate his soul, which has been clouded by confusion and confliction for too long.
He felt their eyes on his back, but lent them indifference in return, his eyes devoted to Angel, who called Wesley off the truck, in an increasingly commanding tone. Connor frowned when he got a good look at the upset and unresponsive Wesley. His eyes were empty, as though he had left, fled.
Weakness.
Connor was surprised to find this weakness in Wesley, one who he had recently come to respect, for being a man willing to risk everything to do what he thought was right.
Wesley grunted as a sudden burst of pain shook through his back, and his sides. He quickly realized that he had been violently thrust into the closed door of the truck, by an impatient and aggravated Angel, who had him by the shoulder. Wesley's eyes were suddenly part of him again, and he saw his friends standing in the distance. He was awake again. The pain was good, it had given him the chance to be reinspired, to revive his passion, his will to fight. He could see Fred's eyes, even in the unclear night, and he could see that he had a freind.
"Wesley!" shouted Angel. "We need you! You can give up later, but right now we have to stay here! We have to fight."
Angel stared deeply, and piercingly through Wesley's eyes, seeing past his self-imposed coldness, and finding strength behind them.
Courage is knowing you're going to lose, and still fighting.
Wesley returned his eyes to Angel and saw his distant and dim expression in his companions' own. In his mind, guilt started to become unimportant; it was dying. He was on a cold, hard floor, and a hand was offered to him. He took it. That abrupt shock which had awoken him, and the profound warmth he could now see about him, in himself and in those who cared for him, renewed him, and now, despite the cold, which was both in the torrents of rain, and their dire situation, he was himelf. Feeling a fool for his short and unhelpful breakdown, though not letting the guilt begin to freeze him once more, he replied, in the most sincere tone he had used in a very long time.
"I'm sorry Angel," Wesley said augustly, his words meaning more than Angel could even comprehend, "I'm here, and I haven't given up."
Angel promptly released him with an apologetic, and grateful look, and looked back to the the rest of the group, the gang. He could see Wesley's restored presence's effect on the group, for they seemed taller, and more of a unit. That strength was beginning to come to him now, knowing that everyone else had the strength to fight against the odds, took some of the bitter edge off it. Yes, he wasn't alone. Wesley moved from the door and walked over to the rest of the group, and Angel swung it open, revealing the large front cabin of the truck, his side. Beside the seat was a long, silver blade, which seemed to reflect a non-existent light, and emit an intimidating sense of power. He grabbed the blade and held it tightly with both hands, admiring it for the umpteenth time. The traditional Irish blade was solid, and strong, the hilt a simple yet effective handle.
When he turned back around, suddenly ready for battle, undetered by the weariness his body still suffered, his mind suddenly did a leap of distraction. Connor was there, standing away from the group, a primal and fierce look on is face, which Angel recognised as a passion for warfare. But even though his face was prepared to kill and to die, his eyes held something more sensitive, something which he would usually conceal but now wanted to express. He looked at Angel and recognised him as his father, with love.
Angel smiled at him, and Connor smiled in his own, almost unnoticable way, before turning his back to his father, and the tip of his weapon towards his enemies.
This can't be the end . . . not yet.
"Gunn?" Angel bellowed over the truck.
"Yeah?"
"You ready to show these freaks just how many of their asses we'd be happy to kick?"
"I thought you'd never ask." Gunn replied, discarding all of his fears when he heard the enthusiasm, and confidence in Angel's tone. He grabbed the axe from inside the truck, and slammed the door with one hand, twirling once, then gripping his hefty and proud axe with the other. He looked over to the others, as Angel came around the truck to stand beside him, Wesley following. Fred seemed to be alright, a little disturbed, but he knew that she could manage this, at least until their fate was certain. Lorne was looking distant, dazed, and disconcerted, while Dylan and Cordelia both looked ready, Dylan with a little less conviction than she.
Angel shook his head sharply, flinging the water from his face and eyes, and once again catching Connor with the corner of his keen eyes.
"Connor," he said, not applying the same volume he had to with the others. Connor turned, his body a wreck, but his mind determined and angry. He seemed surprised, but after quickly viewing Angel's expectant expression, he knew what he wanted.
Connor nodded, with the heart of a smile.
The army lowered their stance, their poised fists prepared and eager, and as heavy footsteps scattered the thick layer of puddles about the street, and the cry of a feared warrior echoed powerfully about the dark oppressive air, they smiled.
Asherea screamed angrily as her sword chipped the sunken concrete, the Risen's foot raised above it, having just avoided its swing. He attempted to trap it under the sole of his boot, but, rolling her body across the ground, having been kneeling before, Asherea curved the sword from under his falling foot, and, as she rolled to a kneeling position, swung it up towards his exposed groin. With inhuman speed and precise timing, he teasingly threw his body into a backflip, only just avoiding the blade, and flipping himself back to his feet, he only had to touch the filthy road with his hands. She stood up with an honest grunt of effort, her sides and back already severely bruised by a couple of blows, and glared at him with the utmost hatred, his smile never having faded, not once.
She hesitated, wanting to drag out this pause in battle for as long as possible, attempting to catch her breath. He let out a short laugh and looked down upon her petty, tired stance, standing tall and fearless himself.
"Asherea, once again you make me laugh, for your inferiority, and also for wonder. Every time I snap your neck, or slice your throat, under the eternal night which lies above us yet again now, I wonder to myself, why? What is all this for? All your effort, your painful deaths, why can't you see it's for nothing? You have helped no one thus far, and let me promise you now, I will never let your sacrifice mean something, so what is the point?"
He finished poignantly with that question, his malevolently jovial expression forming into one of frustration, and even anger, as he waited expectantly. She didn't move, her lips never thought to part, her tongue never to express words, and her eyes ever fierce in their glare. They were still, as the rain fell about them, their hatred for each other was like ice, slowly freezing them both. Her breath returning to calm regulation and she happily observed him as he tried to force an answer out of her by simply asserting his presence, and threatening her with his deep blue eyes, but he was crackling with impatience; a miracle, given his usual indifference.
He acted suddenly, but Asherea expected it in every fibre of her body. Springing forth, he swung his fist into her chin, sending her into the air, her body twisting above the ground, before landing in the pool of blackness. He smiled and looked down at her, as she struggled to regain her stance, pushing herself up, with all the strength left in her slender arms. But, as she raised her gaze, her sword, on which dashes of red were quickly fading clenched in her hand, and a glorified smile upon her sweet face, his own smile shattered. There was no hand attached to his right arm, which was now spurting thick red blood, and sending vicious spasms of pain down his arm. The shock had left him, and now he knew full well what had happened, and realised the pain to its full force. He grunted, and his eyes widened, with a distressed surprise.
"It seems I'm not the only one who can feel pain, you pathetic toy!" She shouted bitterly, but with detectable glee. He was quivering from pain as he glared at her with pure detestation. She did not feel unsure anymore, for his eyes, still horrified, didn't enforce the same fear they had before. They would never mean the same thing to her again.
" Now if you kill me, I'll die happily, knowing that I made you bleed, made you feel pain. You may enjoy what you do time and time again, but your lack of conscience makes you insignificant! You're a puppet, a toy for those above, and because of this, you mean nothing! But you'll never realise this . . . "
The Risen's fury and agony consumed every part of his wounded mind, and he became ever more clouded as she went on, spitefully. So when Asherea lashed out at him with her sword, which cut through the rain, sending whispers of the water trailing behind, he had no time or effort to react effectively. The sword skillfully carved through his shirt, and his stomach's skin, and she stopped the swing with the sword above her head, splatters of blood being thrown of its' blade. The Risen gave a short, savage cry of anguish and fell to his knees, his hand clutching his opened stomach, as his body shook disturbingly. The water at his knees was quickly becoming red, as he struggled intensely to breathe and literally to keep himself together.
She was smiling as she looked down at him, not contrite at the pleasure this sight gave her, after having spent most of her life bearing similar pain, and fighting to ignore his sadistic grin. "I know you can't truly die, you'll always be back in front of me, with more fire than before, but this time you can wait to perish, every second a lifetime spent in unceasing agony. Burn you bastard!" She shouted as he gasped desperately for air and for relief.
But he managed to control himself enough to slowly raise his head, his vision, and soon she found herself looking into his persevering smile once more. He wasted less than a second before, with a sudden blur, injecting his finger into his neck. Blood cascaded from the wound and he fell over backwards, dead.
"No!" She screamed angrily, and no time after she expressed her frustration a powerful fist made contact with her face, sending her flying down the street, rolling through the water for some amount of metres before coming to a silent lie. Her head was on fire, and she could feel her various bones were disfigured; her nose felt broken, blood pouring out from it and once again staining her grey dress. But, using her trained, and experienced will, she managed to sit herself up, watching through shaky and uncertain eyes, as the Risen, a dark black figure, with a long jacket, which swung at his anckles, strode confidently and impressively through the curtain of rain.
When he stopped before her, looking down once more, his body in pristine condition, and his mind now sharply focused, she tried to employ her strongest, most fearless expression, although inside she wept. "You got lucky for a moment there Asherea, but as you said, I'm back. You defeated me because, as I said, it's a good sword, but it all amounted to nothing, as usual. Well, I must say you have suceeded in angering me quite severely, and I'm tempted to..."
"Shutup!" She interrupted harshly, doing the impossible as she spoke. "Whatever happens now, I will forever consider this a glorious truimph," she said, now on her feet, although slumped wearily," and as I said, you can never really win in any outcome. Because nothing you do is for yourself, or by yourself. Without them, you have no power!"
Intense pain shook fiercely through her body once more, as, after carefully grabbing the hilt of her sword, the Risen sharply kicked her in the stomach. As she fell harshly on her back, struggling to breath after the force with which his heavy boots had hit her belly, the Risen walked towards her again, the sword now held readily, it's point diagonally reaching out to the ground below. She had been blown off her feet once again, and she, once again, against all odds, began to push herself up to a kneeling position. Her vision was no longer straight, or clear at all, and her mind barely had time to think, still quivering with the affliction she had suffered. He approached slowly and hauntingly, making sure that his steady footsteps would each resonate harshly in her memory. He was savouring the moment, all of what she had said to him being thrown aside as useless information. He didn't want to live among other mortals, their petty emotions being but clouds, distancing them from achievements. His life had purpose, whether it was only to serve or not, he was still free from their aimlessness, and their simple mind. All that mattered was what was actually achieved, none of this morality humans, and other sentient mortals, seemed to abide was of any concern. Wrapped up in their emotions they become shortsighted.
He stopped in front of her, clutching the bloody sword eagerly. Lightning struck the deep black sky, lighting it up gloriously, so that everything could be seen, the edges of the thick clouds, the distant battling mass, and every fine detail on the Risen's handsome, yet hateful face. His features were ablaze with powerful satisfaction, and twisted pleasure. She looked into him, and perceived his thoughts.
Pathetic . . . He deludes himself, to hide the fact that he is inferior to her, to the people she fought for. He existed, but they did more. They didn't just walk, talk, and breathe. No, they had the ability to love, and the ability to hate. She had meaning in everything she did.
Her vision went near to black with a disturbing suddeness, and the heavy, aching pain she suffered before was replaced by the sharpest, most unbearable agony one could feel. It was happening again. She fell backwards, and looked up to the clouds, as she felt the warmth and life gush out of her. Her contorted face was greeted with the best vista, the single best sight she had ever seen: through the most subtle gap in the clouds above shone a bright star. This time things were different, just as that star could never be seen before, now hope existed. The bubble of darkness that had enclosed every dimension she had ever seen had a hole in it, and oustide was freedom. The book, and the bravery of the Hart would change things this time around.
She was physicaly dying, and every second that passed bought her infinitely closer to her final, blood stained breath. But there was a part of her that was standing to its feet, tall, proud, and unharmed. Her soul sighed with content, and suddenly the star was no more.
The Risen profanely removed the sword from her chest, and, not looking away from her defeated corpse, snapped it's blade with his bare hands. Yes, victory is mine again you petty child. It'll never change.
He began to turn around, quickly shifting his attention back to Angel and his companions, more specifically Connor and Cordelia, when a strange feeling made his mind shiver with resentment. He walked back up to Asherea's bloodied corpse, which was buried in a sea of red, and bent down slightly, so that he could see her face clearly, hoping to put to rest a strange sense of unfulfillment gnawing at him. His mechanical heart froze, and his mind turned itself over with shock and anger. She was smiling!
How can this be possible, through her physical pain, and the knowledge that she was to fail, how could she ever smile? Perhaps I didn't break her as I thought I had done, as I always have done.
It was unheard of, seemingly impossible, and the slightest possibility that she considered herself the victor, the superior being, threw his usually calm complexion, and unfeigning conviction onto its knees, and into disarray.
"Damn!" he exclaimed, feeling even worse that he let this small facet overcome him so profoundly. He swept the top of her long blade from the sea about him, back into his hand, and leant over her, raising it above his head. His hands were cut by the efficient sword, as he embedded it in her face. Standing back to his feet, feeling not at all comforted by her now defiled corpse, he looked at his wounded hands and felt his confidence, and his definite, unchallenged complexion failing. Throughout the rest of his almost eternal life, he would slowly regain this, but he would never be the same again. He would never be complete, for she had wounded him, and it was a wound that could never heal. Her humanity had prevailed.
Pain punished Angel's failing body with more and more strength and frequency as Angel desperately struggled amongst the large brawling crowd, which expanded both into the alley and out onto the street, the truck being firmly in the centre, rammed into the mouth of the alley. He was ducking and falling about with decreasing coherency as he essayed to avoid the precise and stealthy blows that were being dealt from all around him. The intensity of this battle was quickly overcoming him, and the pain and weakness that had already been inflicted upon his body, made it hard for him to fight with the power that he usually had. They were landing more and more hits, to his stomach, his back, his face, everywhere, but, wiping the blood from his face, and stubbornly ignoring the agony that pleaded him to give up, he constantly returned to his feet. But, being so outnumbered, even his valiance meant little, ruthlessly empty expressions he still received, and fear he did not impose.
He caught a fist that struck at his face, in the palm of his hand, and crushed it, hearing the bones crack, feeling them crack, and threw it way, sending his enemy over onto his back, destined to be trampled into the rain by the brawling hordes. As his mind began to slow down with his body, it began to wonder, and he unexpectedly considered his friends, who he had scarcely seen in the heat of battle. He blocked another blow with his arm, and returned a sharp kick to his opponent, throwing him back into his kin. Angel ignored any sense of urgency that called to him then, slowly turning around to search for his friends, the ones who he had sentenced to death. Guilt rushed over him as he saw Cordelia suffering a cruel and undeserved attack, she was saved from another blow by Gunn, who seemed to have absorbed the ferocity of his opponents, or maybe adopted it, as he fended them off viciously.
"He has a lot of power to him," Angel suddenly thought, "and this time, when it truly matters, I am powerless."
He felt the pain again, this time after being hit, with inhuman force, in the chest. With an inpolite suddeness his grave musings were no more; he was brought back to the harshness of reality, and had to fight just for his breath as his stature was finally broken, and he crumbled to his knees, like an ancient statue finally surrendering to the perservering attack of time. The fire in his heart died and now his mind was clouded by the thick smoke, his passion, his will, left behind. He could do little to defend himself, and hadn't even registered the next attack before he was smashed in the back of the neck and thrown down into the dark, cold water, face-first.
They were waiting patiently, he deduced, not from his blurred vision, but from something else; he felt them sneering hatefully as they savoured the moment. He knew what it was like to be there, looking down on his victim, savouring the power that he felt from killing. He suddenly saw harshly clear images of such scenes, from behind a sadistic smile he saw once again the murder of Alfred, whose body was defiled by his own cross, and cut into a large window. He remembered vividly the feeling that gave him, and realised that he was now that old man, beaten, broken, a victim to a wicked predator. He was the prey to be toyed with, for the first time in his life, or his unlife.
Although it didn't really matter to him at that point, his dried-up walnut of a heart having being long since drowned in the sea of despair, he tried to focus his eyes. Around him were the dark shadows of his predators, but above them, above the darkness, as the sky is above the sea, he saw something that made him discard his grim, darkened thoughts, and stare in awe. For some strange reason, it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. A single star, shining brightly through the shroud of darkness that had long since enveloped the others, seemed to look down on him. It was as though he were in a storm, at the mercy of the seas, an unsure captain on an unsure ship, and this star was a beam of light from a lighthouse, revealing the way back to shore. That single star was proof that hope was out there, no matter how long the tunnel was, or how deep you're buried in darkness, there was always light.
He was suddenly awake again; he felt weary, but empowered all the same. He felt the rain, and he saw his enemies. One of them leant down, smiling, and brought his fist down towards Angel's face. Angel caught the sharp blow in his palm, just centimeters from his nose, where it had been intended, and, keeping the angry fist in his grip, smote his enemy's lower leg with sudden and unexpected power.
Falling to his stomach beside Angel the identical had clearly been taken by rude surprise, and his face was contorted in an expression of bewilderment and confusion. Without hesitation Angel's hand sliced through the heavy air, and crushed the identical's neck with preternatural power. His agony, expressed in painful choking and spluttering was ignored as Angel rose to his feet, fending off another few attacks. He was hunched over, the stance of a weak man, but there was something else about him that kept most of the other identicals around him waiting silently, with an understated feeling of awe, and an unwanted feeling of fear. His eyes spoke unbreakable hatred, but even worse, confidence.
The truth was, Angel had long since forgotten the idea of defeating this army, it would have been stupid to continue this thought. After having measured their strength and calculated their numbers, there would be few who could not see that it didn't add up, there was no way they could triumph. He was only free from grief and fear because he knew that he was fighting for something again.
Angel jumped with shock when suddenly the identicals around him began to be knocked back, and, spraying a short burst of blood into the air, felled. He spun around looking all around him as his foes rapidly dropped to the ground. Then suddenly he heard it, and saw it. Just above the fierce roar of the rain was the piercing battle cry of a gun, and he stopped looking around him, when just above the crowd, atop the ruined truck, he saw Wesley with a large assault rifle in his hands and to his shoulder. Small golden shells rang like bells as they scattered across the ground, and Angel could feel the bullets whiz past him now, bowling down his unwitting opponents with unnatural efficiency.
Angel smiled knowingly, a he watched a streak of blood soar into the air, and the saw the bodies of his foes littering the ground.
Yes, there was hope, and together, he and his team would find it, and fight for it. These enemies they faced now were many, and individually they were strong, but Angel, Wesley, Cordy, Gunn, everyone had a clear and profound advantage; they were human, or in Angel's case, ensouled, and therefore capable of love, and capable of caring for each other. The team they had developed over the years was tightly bound by love and friendship, so much so that no amount of power could break them apart, at least that was how it seemed. They were better than the identicals, in only one way, in the only way that matters.
'We can't win," Angel whispered to himself, keeping a watchful and wrathful eye on the identicals renewed advance. Wesley's fire had retreated, and Angel saw that the identicals were swarming towards him, ruthlessly attempting to take out the foremost threat first. They were diving up onto the truck, swiping at him as they were blown apart by a barrage of unforgiving bullets, attacking from all angles. He would soon be overcome; Angel knew this. Meanwhile the identicals surrounding him were no more cautious or patient, and threatened to charge into him from all directions, and at any moment. He readied himself, unsure as to whether or not he could survive this next onslaught, but sure as hell that he would fight them as long as an ounce of strength remained.
Once again, friendship, companionship revealed itself, revealed what it could do if it was assaulted. It was powerful, and it was angry. Connor screamed fiercely as he broke the enclosing circle of identicals surrounding Angel, sending one into the air, and several more to the hard, wet ground. His fists were clenched, and his eyes spoke both hatred and compassion at the same time. He was looking at Angel, and approached him with a barrel roll, avoiding several kicks skillfully. On his feet again, Connor's back stopped at Angel's side.
"Thanks," Angel said, banishing an enemy with a sharp punch to the face, "these bastards are relentless. I wasn't sure how much more I could take."
They both took the innitiative to swing round into a back to back position, and were now rapidly fending off empowered blows, and delivering their attackers to the ground.
"It's no problem." Connor said amiably, with a subtle undertone of sincerity. He wanted Angel to know.
While they fought furiously, there seemed to be a strange silence, that could have been awkward but was instead touching. The silence was between them, and was one of acknowledgement and realisation; they both knew. They were a team, just as they were when they slew the vampires in that club. Finally, after being divided by a vengeful old man, they were together again, in mind and body, and now Angel felt that they could never be torn apart again, not he and his son.
"It's the least I could do after after being so "
"Stubborn?"
Connor nodded softly, whilst defending his chest from a particularly strong blow.
"Forget it," Angel said, with an earnest bluntness that told Connor, with perfect clarity, that it truly was a thing of the past. Slightly surprised, and eternally relieved, Connor wondered why his recent actions did not warrant more punishment. Surely being sentenced to insurmountable, and eternal pain, deep under the serene waves of the sea's surface, hidden from anyone who might rescue him, would be a severe and unforgivable cruelty. Maybe this is what a true father was meant to give, forgiveness and understanding, two things that Connor had searched for all of his life.
He thought he had found these things, and everything else people deserve, but that had all been a lie, his whole life had been a lie. Nothing Holtz ever did for him meant anything, because none of it was actually for him. Holtz was all about himself, and that had rubbed off on Connor, which lead to him being easily used. Anger is a whole lot easier to breed when everyone cares about themselves, and this is because self-involved people can only ever see one half of the picture. That is why Connor felt as though he had been reborn, and every simple human gesture seemed completely new.
"Right now," Angel continued, grunting as he swiftly engaged his opponent with a barrage of punches, "we have to focus on getting the hell out of this hell. I can't lose anyone here, Connor, I can't, or I swear I'll lose myself."
Connor paused momentarily, contemplating Angel's words. There was something about them, about the reason he chose those particular words; it was forboding, and they seemed somehow ominous.
I'll lose myself.
"I've had enough of this fighting," Angel exclaimed, his voice stronger, louder, and strangely, Connor felt that his words were no longer directed at him.
"Just an hour ago I was happy. Everything had come together, everyone had returned, DAMMIT!" Angel shouted, his voice filled with formidable rage, rage that had been surpressed for too long. But it wasn't so empowered as it was tired, and frustrated. No, it felt like this was his last effort. He was spent.
Heads turned to his outburst, his friends, and his opponents stood almost completely still as the rain bombarded them, trying to compete with Angel for attention.
"I don't care about prophecies, and apocalypses! I don't care about you," he cried, pointing into the crowd, and every identical felt that he had pointed at them, "not how powerful you are, not what you want, nothing!"
The constant scream of bullets had died away now, and the fighting had calmed to a standstill. Even the fierce storm about and above the two armies seemed to look to Angel in anticipation.
"Right now all I care about is the people I came here with, the people you essay to kill. Now you can throw everything you have at me, all the storms and all the armies in the world, it wouldn't matter. But, here, today, if any of these people are taken away from me, I will personally watch each of you die by my own hand, and if you are ever going to believe anything in your entire pathetic lives, then believe that is no threat, that is a promise!"
Angel quickly used the pause in battle trailing his speech to assess his friends' positions. Gunn was standing in front of Fred, Dylan, Lorne, and Cordelia, his axe held firmly and with mistrust for the silence. The blade of the axe was covered with almost as much blood as Gunn, despite both of them being continuously cleansed by the rain. From the way the group stood it was apparent that Gunn had been doing the majority of the fighting, understandably, as he was the only one with a weapon, and these guys were as dangerous to approach without protection as a speeding train.
Separate from them was Wesley, who threw his heavy weapon to the ground, and picked up another of the same type from the back of the truck, where he stood. And, of course, there was Connor, who still had his back to him, but was watching Angel with everything but his eyes. He felt strangely reaffirmed, after seeing Connor. They were strong together, the gang, and Angel hoped that they would be strong enough to be together after this, all of them. He knew that they had to make their escape right now, but still hesitated, knowing that he might soon know whether or not they would all survive.
"You ready, Connor?" He asked quietly, noting that his enemy's faces had forgotten the blank, indifferent expression from when he was talking, and became eager, and ready once more. This was it, Angel's last effort, this time he either failed or succeeded.
"Gunn, get to the red truck across the street and start it up!" He yelled, with all that he had. This announcement got both parties moving, and Connor and Angel once again fought vigorously, this time cunningly making their way towards the truck. They disconnected, and ducked and dodged their way through the swarming crowd as swiftly and carefully as possible. They were working together with an innate coordination, taking out each others opponents as the other ducked, and attacking through and over each other. It was making them stronger; Angel saw that in their victims' eyes, and their attackers' hesitation.
Wesley immediately jumped into action, and cleared the identicals surrounding the truck, aiding his landing with a shower of well-placed bullets. He landed in a crouch, without taking his finger off the trigger. After spinning the gun around sharply, distributing bullets in an almost complete circle, he aimed it in front of him and charged forward, enemies falling down before him, and shells splashing into the shallow ocean behind. The force of the gun was tearing into his arm, but it was paying off, because now he could see a tear in the mass of identicals, they were moving aside, and he could see the otherside of the road like a light in the fog. He saw the red vehicle Angel had mentioned and ran for everything he was worth, thinking himself lucky, as he broke through the crowd, which then followed him like an inescapable wave, that he had not been tripped.
He arrived at the truck, and spun around, allowing him to launch himself from the ground and land in the truck facing his enemies. He continued shooting as his back hit the hard metal, hitting his opponents down in mid-air as they dived for him. He groaned as he sat up, and crawled towards the back wall of the cabin. His spine sent a relentless, throbbing pain up his back to his neck, and the noise from the gun was deafening. He was now struggling to stay focused, as his head felt like it was being gripped tightly by an invisible being. He had to suffer whatever hell could concieve if he wanted to keep his companions from being slaughtered, and he wanted too, just as much as Angel, or anyone else in the gang.
Just after he landed the window to the cabin was smashed by a quick jab with the butt of Gunn's sword, and the remaining glass was soon knocked to the ground to land among the rest of the shards. Wesley heard very little though, for his ears rang unforgivingly with sound of gunfire.
Gunn unlocked the car and swung the door open, handing his axe to Dylan, who looked even further out of place with an axe, as home-made as it was, that looked as though it was stronger than him. As he cracked open the the part of the dashboard that sat beneath the ignition, Gunn knocked forcefully on the thin metal behind him, having seen Wesley leaning against it just before he jumped in. He did all this with such speed and efficiency that Wesley was notified to his friend's presence before any of the others gathered around the front had even considered shouting out to him. Gunn knew that he had no time to waste, and hence became a well-oiled machine, doing this with utmost proficiency was the only option.
As soon as he heard the metallic thud, Wesley leaned around the cabin and saw the others standing outside the open door. He could not see all of them, but they were sticking together, and moving ever closer to the car door, as the horde quickly approached. He had to give Gunn the time. He stood to his feet once more, even though it made him feel slightly dizzy, and caused him terrible pain, and resumed his fire so that it covered himself and the others. It was not as effective, and now the enemies were only being slowed slightly by the fire, for both parties. The identicals would be at his throat in less than a minute.
Gunn's hands were slippery from blood, and sweat. He could feel the pressure now, as he sorted the wires. He found the correct ones and wrapped a dirty cloth he had found under the seat around his hands, it might at least decrease the risk of being fried. Dylan was standing next to the door trying to look threatening, and the others were staying close, and trusting in Wesley's support.
The half circle of enemies was now about a metre from the distraught team, and were advancing slowly but surely, simply stepping over the corpses of those that had been in front of them just before. There was layer after layer of identicals, and Wesley was holding on by a straw, both in terms of his ammunition, and his physical state. Just as he was about to give up, he was distracted from his overwhelming pain when Angel and Connor charged through the crowd, knocking several to their feet as they continued running towards the truck, which revved proudly as they reached it. Wesley resumed firing, carefully shooting around Angel and Connor. He vaguely heard Angel mutter something to Gunn, before the others quickly jumped into the back of the truck, from the other side, the clear side. Connor sat next to him, and the rest of the gang leant solemnly against the cold, wet walls of the rear compartment, shielding their ears from the unfreindly sound of the gun, as they kept their faith in Wesley. There was nothing else they could do, except make haste. Shells of ammunition sprinkled the metalic floor around them, some hitting their soaked clothes before falling to their watery graves.
The last few minutes had been so intense, their struggle to escape the fray so swift and dangerous, that none of the group was truly awake. Either they were overcome with fear, pain, or the inability to face the extremes of the situation. Things were a blur, and through the dark, cloudy skies, and the emotional strain of battle all anyone could see were fragments of the whole picture. The sudden flashes of the gun, the rain pounding into the river that was once a road, the face of an angry, yet infinitely confident identicals, all pieces of a puzzle.
Unfortunately it wasn't until too late that Lorne, as perceptive as to the presence and emotions of a person as he is, found the key jigsaw piece. He was vaguely looking over the battle, filled with some kind of deep sadness and despair that he couldn't quite understand, knowing that something was wrong, aside from the obvious situation. His mind was frantic, and lost somewhere, as though it knew it had to be somewhere but didn't know where, when it stumbled into something, something of grave importance. It seemed to him that he found the jigsaw puzzle visually, through his eyes, with which he saw Cordelia being rushed back into the crowd, a firm hand covering her mouth, and desperation apparent on her face, but he knew it first. For a short while his throat just wouldn't let the words come out, the shock, and the horror of seing Cordelia being swept off her feet and pulled back into the consuming crowd was too much. This can't happen, we were supposed to make it.
"Cordelia!" He suddenly screamed. He felt the realisation instantly grabbing the others, with such a force, he felt that some would just die then and there, the look of remorse, guilt, and shock, their last expression. She was gone from sight now, blanketed by the thick mass of identicals, but they didn't need to see, they knew. It seemed to him that they had known she wasn't there for the last 30 seconds, but without it having properly registered. Wesley immediately swung his aim to the point in the crowd he suspected Cordelia to be, trying to be careful with the weapon he was holding. He figured, though, that she was better off taking a bullet than being eaten alive by this giant body of power. With a poignant click, the gun shut down, gave up, and he looked down, his face devoid of any sign of hope. He threw the useless gun into the crowd and stood helplessly. It suddenly occurred to him that they were the helpless.
Where is our Angel? We need saving.
He could not act, as his mind edged him to leap from the truck, and follow her to the ends of the Earth, but it also told him that that would be a stupid thing to do.
She's lost, but if I'm lost too, won't we both be found?
After all, how can two people be lost together?
Torn, he stood on the edge of the truck indescisively. He would never know what his descision would have been, but it would have defined him for himself, but, as others acted for him, and the choice fell from his grasp, he would be forever lost, until the day comes again (If it does) and he would have to make the choice.
As the truck sped into the night, Wesley, having been pulled back, sat looking at the road behind them. It was flooded slightly the whole way, and the speeding tires sent water flying across the street. The rain never stopped, and Wesley was cold, colder than the others. His eyes were almost closed in empty concentration, something he could not properly explain. He was seeing into the past, as the buildings to his sides, and the stripes beneath, on the black road, dissapeared into nothingness, he could still see Cordelia being dragged away. They were speeding away, escaping that moment, but a part of Wesley seemed to remain there.
At the same time, Angel, in the passengers seat, beside a solemnly silent Gunn, was looking ahead with a fiery passion, less saddened by the loss of Cordelia as he was enraged. This was partly because he knew that she wasn't dead, something he was not sure the others knew, but primarily because he saw himself now, as the road spun ever onwards, the dark buildings watching as they fought their way down the path of needles, enforcing his promise. The ray of hope which he had seen in the depths of battle, which had revived him, was getting smaller in his mind, becoming harder to see. But he saw himself tearing it open.
If it was the last thing he did, he would fight the darkness, and kill every last one of those inhuman identicals. He was morbidly eager to see their blood streaked across the wall, and layered across his own hands. He no longer cared about being noble, and wise, revenge would be his. He didn't understand the prophecy, and he didn't want to. Whatever was going on around him seemed irrelevant, all he could see was himself and his family, and the people who were trying to pull that image apart. He knew that he had to throw everything he had at them to get Cordelia back, because he knew that it was entirely his fault that she had been taken.
The horrible image of the Risen, standing just outside the crowd, his hand grasping Cordelia's neck threateningly, the rain seemingly avoiding him, and the aura of power he owned, his smile devoid of conscience, would remain with Angel for a very long time. It was impossible to ignore his evilness, it was the purest thing Angel had ever seen, but somehow Angel was not at all afraid, because in some indeterminable way he gave the impression of being wounded.
None of them could possibley comprehend that the darkness of the past was merely the tip of an inescapable iceburg that threatened to sink them and everything they stood for.
Btw, Buffy and Willow arrive in the very next chapter, for all those who've been asking me about that. Thanks for reading, and I'm sorry about the size, excluding the final chapter there won't be any more of this size.