Los Angeles. You see it at night and it shines. Like a beacon. You see it in the day through necro-tempered glass, and it stands for everything you've lost.
The buildings and streets seemed to go on forever, swarming with humanity. Right now Angel needed to look, to feel attached to the world, even as he was forever separated from it. Wesley might be insane with grief or whatever the hell it was, but his words stung. It had been Angel's decision to work for Wolfram & Hart. Oh, Gunn would have come anyway, and probably so would Lorne. Fred was another story. She'd had real doubts; she might even have talked Wes out of it. It was hard to say exactly what would have happened. One thing was certain, though – there'd been some dreadful choices made in the last year, and even before that. He reluctantly turned around.
Spike was perched on Angel's desk. Gunn was collapsed in one of the tasteful chairs that lined the office, staring at the floor.
"Our memories were altered." There was barely a trace of accusation in Gunn's voice.
"It was part of the deal. Off the desk." Angel glared at Spike until the other vampire, smirking very slightly, stood up. "And now I'm thinking it might be the only way to help Wes."
The atmosphere in the office thickened. Gunn looked at him as if he were a stranger. "You mean, make him forget Fred? That's inhuman."
Folding his arms, Spike leaned against a wall. "It wouldn't work, anyway. You heard what he said, how he could feel she wasn't there. They were soul mates." A lost expression crossed his face. "Mystically, I mean."
That galled Angel for some reason. "I'm kind of fuzzy on the whole soul-mate thing, Spike. You're an expert?"
"Enough of an expert to see the poetry." Spike unfolded his arms. "Soul mates. They're the two parts of a whole. In life, maybe more than one life, they're close family, the best of friends, lovers." His eyes unfocused. It was obvious he was thinking of Buffy.
A surge of dislike passed through Angel. "I never knew you were such a romantic," he said in a flat voice.
A surprised look appeared on Spike's features. "I wasn't, really. A bit late for that. I was more of a neo-Romantic Revivalist." Then his eyebrows went up. "Oh, you meant the other kind of romantic."
Bitter understanding passed between them.
"The point is," Spike continued with a short and ungracious smile, "mated souls should be together. Fact of nature. When they're not, one cries out to the other. His soul's going to be crying forever." He dropped into the chair beside Gunn.
The motion seemed to rouse Gunn a little. "It's my fault they weren't with each other."
Angel walked to him and squatted beside his chair. "Wes doesn't really believe that. You shouldn't either."
"Angel's right. It was the grief talking," Spike said.
"Was it? English…" Gunn's hands came up and passed over his face. "He was my best friend. Took a bullet for me." When he turned his head to face Angel, his eyes were moist. "I looked up to him. I know I joked around, but I respected him. He was smart, precise, educated. Maybe that's why I went after her."
That didn't make sense. "I'm not following you."
"A part of me wanted to be like him. What he said just now was right. I knew there was a thing between them, the way they were with each other. I was sure they would get it together. So why did I start making moves? She was this cute sweet girl, but I didn't love her, not at first. He was crazy about her. What kind of man does that to his friend?"
"You're letting this get to you and you shouldn't," Angel said. "It wasn't the way you're making it sound, Gunn. Things happen. It's life." Was that true, though? Did things really just happen?
It seemed Gunn didn't think so. "Once, the man treated me like I was doing him a favour by hanging with him. You know how that felt? I paid him back by making him a wreck."
"What about Fred?" said Spike. "It takes two to tango."
"It's not simple. Things were different for her. She was still finding her feet. I think-I think she had feelings for both of us, just not the same."
Buffy. Angel sent Spike what he hoped was a hateful look and saw the same sentiments returned. He tried to listen to what Gunn was saying.
"After the ballet, I just forgot about Wes for a while. Then he went away." Gunn paused and glanced at Angel again. "That was because of Connor, right, that big bust up the two of you had?"
"Yeah."
Shaking his head very slightly, Gunn finished hurting himself. "After he went, she was always sticking up for him, worrying about him, wanting to call him, and then she went to him for help. That was when things started to end for me and her. You know the rest." He let out a frayed sigh. "I don't think she ever knew me. She sure wasn't the person I thought she was. But for a while, it was good. It wasn't real, but it was good, Angel."
"I know." So much guilt. And Gunn didn't deserve to feel it, not for liking a pretty girl. It was even possible he'd had no control over events. Angel remembered what the demon Skip had said about their lives, that they'd been manipulated to ensure the rising of Jasmine. If Wes had been with Fred, would he have retreated into himself and taken Connor like that? What if keeping them away from each other was part of the plan? No. No, that was far-fetched.
"My fault," Gunn said.
"Hey," There was some anger in Spike's voice. "Stop that. You lived your life. That bastard Knox, now he was in their way. When I was all ghostly, I saw things. Like the way he would arrive whenever the two of them were alone. Uncanny, that."
If Spike had intended to say anything else, it was interrupted by a soft knocking on the office door. For an instant, Angel expected it to open and reveal Knox standing there. He spoke loudly enough for the visitor to hear. "Not now."
The door opened a crack. "Angel, it's me. Could I have a moment of your time?" Wesley's voice. And, though sombre, it really was his voice, not the madman's syrupy tone of earlier. Spike and Gunn stared at Angel. Patting Gunn on the shoulder, Angel stood. "Come in, Wes."
Wesley stepped inside and glanced around the room, jolting a little when he saw who was there. "If you're busy, I can come back."
"Glad to have you here," Angel said, hoping his smile looked genuine.
You couldn't say Wesley was full of the joys of spring, but the funereal despair had left, and the old no-nonsense determination was in its place. Now the eyes were set and resolute, like blue steel; he was purposeful again, and – was that a magazine he was holding? Angel noticed he also had a foolscap pad. The bottle of scotch in Wes's other hand didn't do much to inspire confidence, but he crossed the room in three strides and held it out to Spike.
"Actually, I'm glad everyone's here," Wesley said. "I believe you're fond of single malts, Spike. Perhaps you'd finish this one for me."
Spike took the bottle hesitantly. "Cheers."
After an awkward few seconds, Wesley moved to the centre of the office. "I've been under a great deal of strain, but that does not excuse my behaviour and words. I can only tell you all how deeply sorry I am."
Was this actually the same person who'd said those hurtful things? Angel had the absurd feeling that Wes was apologising on behalf of someone else. "You weren't yourself."
"That's very kind of you, but I realise that what I said can't be taken back. Angel, Spike, the things I accused you of – it's unforgivable." It was amazing how different Wes sounded. Angel silently thanked whatever had worked this miracle.
Smiling and shaking his head, Spike spoke kindly. "You're right. Can't forgive something when there's nothing to forgive."
Wesley made a sound, something like a sigh. He said to Gunn, "I need to apologise to you in particular. What I said was wrong in so many ways. I can hardly look you in the face."
That made two of them, it seemed. But Gunn said, "Forget about it, man. It's in the past."
"Gunn, I-"
"Drop it, Wes. That'd be best all round."
"Of course." A moment passed between them. Then Wesley thumbed through the magazine and marked a place with his finger. "I want you all to look at this."
- - -
"Can you run that by me again?" Angel wasn't sure he'd heard Wesley right. He stood behind the desk with Spike and Gunn while Wes sat and turned the journal's pages.
"This article was written by Illyria." The voice Wesley used was level, giving nothing away. "Modern Physics Review has a reputation for showcasing controversial material, work that pushes the limits of acceptable science. Illyria's paper falls into that category."
"Is it any good?" Spike asked.
"It's ground-breaking." Wes's matter-of-fact delivery left little room for argument. "As I said, though, controversial. And an editorial comment lists several problems. The article deals with, among other things, the role of human consciousness in the production of atomic energy states. It's not a new idea by any means, but the editors find the tone speculative at times."
Already, Angel's brain was starting to hurt, and the outlandish math on the page in front of him wasn't helping. To humour Wesley, he did his best to follow what was being said.
"Also, the mathematics far exceeds what is required, and there are two equations that appear to have been-" Wes read from the journal "-'randomly inserted.' The editors decided the paper was of sufficient worth to publish in this form, with the faults highlighted."
It was hard not to smile when, as if it would make things clearer, Gunn leaned down to bring his eyes closer to the article. "So Illyria got it wrong? She used stuff from Fred's memories but didn't know what she was writing?"
"That was also my assumption." Wesley shivered. "Now I'm not sure." He pointed out two frightening-looking sums he'd circled. "These are the redundant equations. The first provides the value of quantity F; the second provides the value of quantity B. Neither F nor B has any relevance to the rest of the paper. As you can see, both equations are simple algebra."
"Yeah," said Angel.
"I can see that," said Spike.
"Sure," said Gunn.
"I thought it would be good for Illyria to understand her error, so I solved the equations. Each answer is expressed concisely, using a formula of powers. When these are calculated, the solutions to both equations turn out to be rather large numbers." Wes opened the foolscap pad. "Here."
Angel's eyes moved over the page. He hoped he wasn't supposed to understand this.
F 1010089100119100111010101011001110100101008569100101001110100110011100151001041111111010100110011111101011011111110111011001155811111011145510000971111
B
10100811010010111110011110011971110111001111101191001110100811010031100511001051110111110101786111110010110011111
10101
"It isn't easy to see the pattern at first," Wesley was saying, "but these numbers immediately struck me as unusual. Clearly, some of this is can be read as binary, while some must be in another base, most likely denary. Initially I thought it might be a compound system of notation. Then I realised there is a key of sorts at the start of the first solution. A five digit binary number is followed by an eight and a nine and then another five digit binary number. It soon becomes apparent that F and B in fact contain series of binary numbers with either five or four digits. Certain sequences often repeat, such as one zero zero one one, and one zero one zero zero."
The lines of ones and noughts merged into each other. It was difficult to know whether to be impressed or worried by what Wesley was saying. "You can see a pattern? Are you sure?"
"It's straightforward translation, not dissimilar to deciphering a primitive written language." After a pause, Wesley added, "And I had the lab crunch the numbers. By that stage I knew what to look for. Sometimes a one occurs by itself, which made certain sections a little slippery, but it was fairly simple to-"
"Wes." Gunn put a hand on the desk. "What's the punch line here?"
"I'll get to the point. The numbers break down as follows." Wes turned to the next page on the pad:
10100, 8, 9, 10011, 9, 10011, 1010, 10101, 10011, 10100, 10100, 8, 5, 6, 9, 10010, 10011, 10100, 1100, 1, 11001, 5, 10010, 4, 1111, 1110, 10100, 11001, 1111, 10101, 10111, 1, 1110, 1110, 1, 10011, 5, 5, 8, 1111, 10111, 4, 5, 5, 10000, 9, 7, 1111
10100, 8, 1, 10100, 10111, 1, 10011, 1, 10011, 9, 7, 1110, 1, 1100, 1111, 1011, 9, 10011, 10100, 8, 1, 10100, 3, 1100, 5, 1, 10010, 5, 1110, 1111, 10101, 7, 8, 6, 1111, 10010, 11001, 1111, 10101
"When converted into denary, the binary numbers all become two digits. Like so." He turned another page:
20, 8, 9, 19, 9, 19, 10, 21, 19, 20, 20, 8, 5, 6, 9, 18, 19, 20, 12, 1, 25, 5, 18, 4, 15, 14, 20, 25, 15, 21, 23, 1, 14, 14, 1, 19, 5, 5, 8, 15, 23, 4, 5, 5, 16, 9, 7, 15
20, 8, 1, 20, 23, 1, 19, 1, 19, 9, 7, 14, 1, 12, 15, 11, 9, 19, 20, 8, 1, 20, 3, 12, 5, 1, 18, 5, 14, 15, 21, 7, 8, 6, 15, 18, 25, 15, 21
"That's the purpose of the binary, to differentiate two digit numbers from one digit numbers." Wes stopped talking. Now they obviously were supposed to understand.
"Alright, I give up," Angel said to break the silence. "What is this?"
An exasperated noise escaped Wesley's mouth. "Dancing men."
"What?"
"As in the Sherlock Holmes story."
Sherlock Holmes – those funny little yarns in The Strand. Darla had done her lady-of-fashion thing when it came to magazines like that one. She claimed they were for the lower orders.
"Never read it," said Angel, glancing at Spike and Gunn. They both shook their heads.
Running a hand through his hair, Wes turned to face them. "Well, do the numbers one to twenty-six mean anything to you?"
"Something, maybe," Spike said, noncommittal.
Again, Gunn leaned down to peer more closely. After a while he said, "I got nothing."
Wesley looked at them all. He seemed to be in pain, but was that the ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth? "This is the most basic form of numerical cipher."
A code. Something clicked in Angel's mind. The numbers one to twenty-six… "The numbers stand for letters."
"Exactly. One merely has to add spacing and punctuation." Wesley picked up the foolscap pad and a pen, quickly scribbled something, and then threw the pad back onto the desk. He'd written two lines in block capital letters.
THIS IS ONLY THE FIRST LAYER. DON'T YOU WANNA SEE HOW DEEP I GO?
THAT WAS A SIGNAL, OK? IS THAT CLEAR ENOUGH FOR YOU?
- - -
No one said anything for a while. At least, Wesley didn't think so. He might simply be too affected by the words on the desk before him to hear anything.
Fred no longer existed. He knew that in his heart and soul, and it was worse than futile to hope otherwise. Yet, if she was truly gone, what was this? A shiver went through him again. It wasn't just the words. He could almost feel her presence in the article – the nerdy code that was practically tailor-made for him to unravel, the flicker of impatience. He involuntarily smiled with recognition, and then squashed the smile. It was important to remain level-headed. When his mind felt a little clearer, Wes began to speak.
"The second message is something Fred said to me once." He tried not to show the others the sweetness and pain it stirred in him. "Illyria could be aware of it. But the first message I heard in a dream, shortly after Fred's death."
His head tilting to one side, Spike traced a finger over the hastily-written words. "That's what we're calling these, then? Messages?"
Wes could sense instant scepticism from the vampire. He'd expected it. Emotionally, he himself felt certain that this couldn't be what it seemed. It couldn't.
"Just to be clear, Wes." Angel's voice was nervous. "You're saying Illyria can read minds or implant dreams? That is what you're saying?"
This was going to be difficult. He got to his feet and walked to the other side of the desk so he could confront them. They already thought he was mad, most likely, and there was a worse problem – how could he open their minds to the possibility of something he couldn't bring himself to believe? All three of them were looking at him like he was a slightly unpleasant zoo exhibit. "I'm suggesting that it wasn't a dream. Perhaps it was a vision, or something like a slayer's prophetic fugue."
"Where are you going with this?" Gunn asked. It was clear from his frown that he knew exactly where Wesley was going, and didn't want him to arrive.
Neither did Angel. "You've never had a vision before."
"No."
Spike said what the others were so obviously thinking. "I know what you're hoping for, but you need to let go if you can. She's gone."
The jaw-dropping look of horror and outrage on Angel's face as he turned to Spike was amusing. Wesley willed himself not to laugh. It wouldn't be a good thing to do at this point. "I'm not hoping. I can't hope. I daren't hope. I know that Fred is lost. But, I wonder, how do I know?"
There were a few more beats of silence.
Poor Gunn looked sick. "Sparrow. He told me there was nothing left of her. He said her soul was consumed in the fires of resurrection."
"I was there. I heard. Then I asked you if it was true. I have no idea why I would do that." Wes looked away from them briefly. "By that point you were already convinced. So was I." And he had been. It was as if absolute proof of her soul's destruction had been given to him in those few words. "Illyria very quickly proved Sparrow wrong in at least one sense. She told me that fragments of Fred did still exist: her memories. Consumed is a rather ambiguous word. It can mean swallowed, absorbed. Tell me, Gunn, is Sparrow the sort of man who would mislead us?"
"Well, yeah…" Gunn's eyes narrowed, widened, and then steadied. "But you know there's more than Sparrow. Knox-"
"Knox said she was 'so much more', beyond flesh and perfection."
Incredulous, Spike and Gunn looked at each other. "No," Spike said. "No, that isn't what he told us."
Wesley raised a hand. "You weren't even there, Spike."
The vampire blinked. His eyebrows drew together.
"Knox must have meant Illyria," said Gunn.
"When did Knox ever call Illyria 'she'?"
"He didn't. He called Illyria 'it'. That was how I knew he was a part of something. He slipped up…" Gunn trailed off.
Wes pressed on. "Illyria refers to Fred as the shell. She tells me that the shell cannot come back to me. But she also says that she, Illyria, is within the shell and bound to it."
Angel hadn't spoken in minutes, though Wesley had seen his eyes follow the discussion. When he did speak, he sounded puzzled. "Wait. What Sparrow said – you didn't check it?"
"What would I check it against?"
"I don't know – an ancient text, a prophecy, something."
Wesley's frustration at himself, at all of them, began to creep into his voice. "Information on the Old Ones is rather scarce, Angel, reliable information even more so. Besides, from what I can tell, Illyria's resurrection is a unique event."
Angel stared at him, and then slammed a fist into the desk hard enough to crack its surface. "Damn it, Wes! I asked if you were sure. You said you were sure."
"Actually, I said nothing. You didn't pursue the matter further." He looked at each of them. "We have only Sparrow's word to go on. So do you feel differently now, any of you?" Their faces were somehow both blank and thoughtful. "I ask because I'm still convinced that Fred is gone. It's strange, isn't it? We were determined to save her; then we were determined to bring her back. Our determination vanished in the blink of an eye. Because of something Sparrow said."
There was confusion in Gunn's voice. "But, Wes. She's-"
"Gone. Yes, I know. We've said that often, haven't we?"
Surprisingly, Angel's face took on an expression of dawning understanding. He moved to the window and gazed out. "We've been played."