Angel took his seat in the conference room and inwardly smiled to see Wesley busily preparing, connecting a laptop and projector. The near-lethargic melancholy that had characterised Wes's movements was almost gone. It wouldn't have been a surprise if he'd worn glasses this morning. But no. That Wesley had been outgrown. This man would probably always have a whisper of the dark about him. Later in the day Gunn had his own presentation to give, but for now the floor belonged to Wes.

Lorne and Spike, who had been sharing a joke, quietened as the projector lit up and an image appeared on the screen facing it. There were several circles of different sizes, all with oddly frilled edges, forming a single shape. The largest circle looked like it was crushed at one end. As Wes pressed a key on the laptop, the image zoomed closer, and one of the tiny frills magnified until Angel saw it was an exact replica of the original image. A detail of this grew larger until it too was revealed to hold the same combination of circles. This repeated continuously, like a series of Russian dolls that went on forever, beautiful and unsettling.

"I've grasped the fundamentals of Illyria's article," Wesley said as he paced to and fro. "But they're rather abstract and difficult to explain, even in layman's terms. You'll have to take most of what I tell you on trust." He pointed to the screen. "First, some background. This is the Mandelbrot fractal set, order and chaos."

"Pretty," said Lorne. "Is there whale song and panpipes?"

A restrained smile appeared on Wes's face. "I hadn't considered that." The image on the screen changed to what looked like a satellite photograph of swirling clouds. "Complex systems may seem ordered, predictable, subject to fate, if you like. However, when we look at them more closely we can see wrinkles and irregularities in that order. Occasionally these cause predictability to break down. The most well-known example of this is the so-called butterfly effect."

From the corner of his eye, Angel saw Spike raise a hand. "A butterfly flaps its wings over the Pacific. That little breeze ends up as a hurricane over the Atlantic, or something." A little defensively, he added, "Saw it on the Discovery Channel."

Wesley's eyebrows rose the tiniest bit. "That's essentially correct. It was once believed that weather patterns were a system we could fully understand. In fact, tiny events can affect the whole in ways beyond our ability to predict. And so we come to quantum mechanics."

"We do?" Gunn was pensive, clutching his briefcase like a comfort blanket. He looked puzzled, but perhaps that was because his attention was somewhere else.

"I'm afraid so. The particular interpretation of quantum theory Fred leans toward is based on the idea that our minds in a sense create the world around us. They cause potential events to become actual events. At the level of subatomic particles, the tiniest things known to exist, reality itself is made from pure mathematical probability. Although we perceive matter, energy, space, and time, these are only methods we use to comprehend the universe; they are not how it actually is." Wesley rapped his knuckles on the table. "Though important, this is merely our version of reality. Beyond this, there is just mathematics."

His head spinning, Angel tried to comprehend what on earth that meant. Damn. He'd just been congratulating himself on how well he was following this. After furtively checking that everyone else wore a dazed frown, he said, "I'm not with you."

For a moment Wes glanced downward, his mind obviously ticking over. He raised his eyes and spoke haltingly. "Think of it this way. Unlike the reality we're familiar with, the quantum realm is one of mathematical ideals. It is perfect and unchanging. There, all probabilities co-exist. One of the things a subatomic particle can do, one possibility, is perceived by us and comes to pass. Our consciousness flattens out other potential outcomes and allows the event to become part of what makes up the solid reality we know. But outside of that reality the particle is still pure mathematics, a wave equation, containing all possibilities."

Spike leaned back in his chair and put his boots on the table. "That's what I was thinking. Glad you cleared that up."

"The point is that our thoughts create the ordered reality we know from an underlying chaos of mathematical interactions." It seemed that Wes wasn't encouraged by the looks he could see on their faces, because he threw his hands in the air before touching the laptop's keyboard. The clouds were replaced by an incomprehensible mess of symbols. "Illyria's paper goes much further than this." Wesley gestured at the bizarre math on the screen. "Take this set of equations. They seemed familiar to me, but I couldn't quite place them. On going through Fred's notes, I realised that she formulated these as part of her effort to re-corporealise Spike."

"Makes sense." Some of the confusion on Gunn's brow lifted. "Bodies and souls."

Nodding, Wesley reached for the laptop again. "Indeed. If I'm reading this hypothesis correctly, the soul's structure is composed of massless energy packets known as virtual particles." Now a paragraph appeared on the screen. "Listen to some of the accompanying text." Wes turned to the screen and read from it. "If we consider delta constant chaotic bifurcations in atomic energy states to be equal to the rate of compactification, then it is clear that the system becomes observer-dependent, with a set of variables determined by the observer."

"Is it because I'm not from this dimension that I didn't understand a single word of that?" Lorne looked around the table. "It isn't, is it?"

Glancing in the demon's direction, Wesley scowled softly. "Doubtful. I've devoted almost every waking hour to this for four days, and I only half comprehend it. It's hard to convey just how radical it is. What is implied here is choice and control transcending physical laws. The observer doesn't merely generate reality from possibilities. He or she decides on the course of events."

This struck a chord with Angel. Dim understanding began to form in his mind. "Standing outside the machine, responsible for your own choices?"

Wes pressed a key. "Screw destiny, yes." The equations returned. "This is a mathematical description of the soul." He paused for a few seconds, probably to give everyone the time to take that in. The next image on the screen showed lots of small spheres gathered around a larger one. "In this simplified diagram of an atom we can see how electrons, subatomic particles, orbit the nucleus at specific distances. The distance of an electron from the nucleus is determined by its energy state and is called a shell."

Gunn uttered a quiet, bitter laugh. "Heard that word a lot lately."

Answering this with a half smile, Wesley said, "That's probably not a coincidence." He gestured to the screen. "When the energy state of an electron changes, it abruptly moves from one shell to another, the famous quantum leap. Illyria proposes that this can be instigated by the mind of an observer." Now a picture of lines – short, looped, and split – came into view. "Another way to think of particles is as strings. This is actually complimentary – superstring theory combines with quantum mechanics by a process called perturbation. Illyria's article, which builds on Fred's earlier work, suggests that strings may be compacted into higher spatial dimensions. These dimensions are themselves curved into such a tiny space that they exist within atomic shells."

"Dimensions like Pylea?" Lorne asked.

"Not exactly, though they are places, in the sense that they're made up of space-time." Wesley seemed about to go on, then he sighed resignedly. "What is new and remarkable here is that an observer causes this compactification to happen, intentionally. You may recall Fred operated on the assumption that Spike's non-corporeal essence straddled a dimensional void. I believe that, at the end, Fred concealed herself within the atomic shells of Illyria, inter-dimensionally. It's an almost exact reversal of a re-corporealisation technique she invented last year."

Okay. Angel was beginning to feel he had a vague grasp of the idea. But that re-corporealisation stuff needed equipment and other things. "I hear what you're saying, but I don't see how she managed this."

Passing a hand over his brow, Wes sat on the edge of the table. "Illyria's resurrection process meant that vast quantities of mystical energy were present. And Fred's strong, Angel. Stronger than the rest of us put together. Without her we were rudderless. We very nearly self-destructed. Her knowledge, her discoveries, her experience as a survivor, her strength of will – they provided an escape route."

Stronger than all of them? Fred was tough, sure, but that was overstating things. And it didn't explain this, anyway. "But how did she do it?"

"She used her mind to shape her reality."

There was a moment of silence. He didn't really mean that, did he?

"You're saying she just thought her way out of it?" Spike said.

His voice calm, Wesley stared at the other vampire. "Why not? Why shouldn't a sequence of thoughts have power? A spell alters reality by the mere intonation of words. At least, it seems to. The spiritual intent behind those words is what truly drives it."

Angel's sense of understanding suddenly became more solid. Not words, he thought. Consonant representations of a mathematical transfiguration formula. "She can get free the same way?"

Still calm, Wes shook his head. "Not without help."

Just before the door opened, Angel smelt her.

"You must all concentrate your wills," Illyria said, striding into the room. "A source and focus of energy is also needed."

Unbelievably, Spike grinned. "You're late."

Folding herself into the chair opposite Angel's, she barely acknowledged any of them. "My movements are not yours to dictate. Nor am I a willing slave to timepieces."

Angel looked at her; she stared back impassively. He looked at Spike, somehow resisting the urge to push him out of the window for a nice suntan. Wonderful. This was just wonderful. "You invited her here? Today? After I told you to be careful?"

"It's okay, angel cakes," Lorne said.

Wesley climbed off the table and took a chair himself. "Don't be concerned. Illyria and I have reached an understanding. She's offering us her assistance."

Her face turning in Wes's direction, Illyria spoke with unusual gentleness. "I am allowing you to assist me."

He said nothing in return, but inclined his head.

Angel glared around the table. Was he imagining things, or was there faint amusement? "Am I the only one who didn't know about this? Gunn?"

Shrugging, Gunn patted his briefcase. "Don't look at me, man. Been up to my ears in evil's memoirs since Thursday." He didn't actually say no.

Fine. Great teamwork. Looking at her again, Angel was as always struck by how otherworldly she was. Her head suddenly cocked. Fred might be in there but, like Spike said, she was still the same Illyria. The cold, unreadable blue of her eyes unnerved him. With an effort he held her gaze and leaned forward, confrontational. "Why would you want to help?"

She glowered silently.

"Let us help you, whatever. What do you get out of this?"

Her voice remained soft and liquid, but now a trace of sadness came into it. "True leaders are untroubled by their mistakes. Nevertheless, they acknowledge them. I underestimated the shell. I do not belong in this world. When she is restored I will return to a sleep that should never have been broken, until the latter days when the Old Ones walk the Earth once more."

Wesley nodded slowly in response to Angel's questioning look.

She sounded genuine. There was something very earnest and weary about her words. It was the sort of voice people had when they felt they'd outlived their usefulness. A brief twinge of sympathy passed through Angel. "You said something about an energy source and focus."

"Yes."

If it was anything like what had been needed to re-corporealise Spike, that wouldn't be easy to find. Gladly moving his eyes away from hers, Angel turned to Gunn. "Might the Senior Partners-"

The attorney stared steadily back at him. "Not a chance."

Dismissively, Illyria said, "You have no need of the Wolf, Ram, and Hart. Some of my power has been here all through the ages of my slumber. My sacraments can bestow this on you."

Spike held out his hand.

She glanced at it and then at his face. "They are within the shell of my Qwa'ha Xahn."

"Qwa'ha what?" said Lorne.

Something a lot like hatred flitted briefly on her features. "The maggot called Knox. They are in his body."

Jumping a little, Wesley drew a breath. His expression became momentarily dead and unrepentant. "What was done with it?"

"Buried in the Wolfram & Hart corporate cemetery, as per his contract." Gunn spoke as if he was describing the man's pension.

The W & H cemetery was just over an hour's drive away. "Then we go get these sacraments." That part, at least, was simple.

"There is a difficulty," Illyria said. "Only the Qwa'ha Xahn may touch and move them. They and he are linked."

Spike sneered good-naturedly. "Don't be so picky, Blue." When she said nothing, he laughed. "Come on. What's the worst that could happen if one of us fetched them?"

Her look might have frozen an ocean. "You do not wish to know."

Angel believed her, but perhaps there was a way around this. Like Lilah, Knox was bound to the firm even in death. "As CEO could I call on the perpetuity clause in Knox's contract, get him back here on sabbatical?"

"No," said Gunn. "But as head of the Black Thorn, you can." He produced a pen and made some notes. "I'll prepare the paperwork."

Now things were being set in motion, Angel felt uncertain. "If this works, Wes, what will happen?"

His eyes bright, Wesley faced him. "I thought that was clear. Illyria's essence will return to its sarcophagus and Fred will re-corporealise."

Spike looked up. "Her body, too?"

"Of course." Some of Wes's reclaimed vitality drained away. "If this works."

Conversation stopped. It seemed like this part of the day was at an end. Angel shifted his gaze over them. Spike, Lorne, Illyria, Wesley, Gunn. He sensed a connection between them and himself. The Circle of the Black Thorn was in session.

"Is there something you wanted to say, Angel?" Wes asked.

No. Not now. "We'll break for lunch. Meet back here in thirty."

- - -

The boss had something on his mind. He'd never handed out a lunch invitation before. Being CEO had its perks. You got a nice big office, everyone at your beck and call, and some bit of hot stuff called a PA. The girl – what was her name? Wanda? – placed two large cups of blood on Angel's desk. Spike watched her sashay out of the office, carefully noting the movement of her buttocks and swing of her hips.

"I was just checking her out-" Angel began.

Spike leered. "Me, too."

"-to see if she's a robot."

Bollocks. "Yeah. Me, too. So, erm, you always come in here for a bite to eat?"

Looking hungrily at the blood, Angel sighed, "I don't want to put the others off their food."

A bit shy with the old liquid lunch? Spike's senses homed in on it. The cup's contents were warm, fragrant, and inviting. Blood, blood, glorious blood. Nothing quite like it. "That's not true, is it?"

Angel grimaced slightly. "No. The truth is that I don't want them to see I'm enjoying mine."

Raising his cup, Spike tilted it slightly as a toast. "Cheers."

The grimace became a smirk. "Sláinte."

No need to be polite, Spike thought. It's just us vamps. Blood. It wasn't the good human stuff, but it did the job. In a single draft he drank it all, savouring the tangy and electrifying liquid.

Both vampires slammed their cups onto the desk with heartfelt and vocal sighs.

"God, that's good." Angel had vamped out.

"It hits a spot, alright," Spike agreed. His face was different, too – he'd let a little of the demon out to play. "Not like the real thing, though."

"We don't think about that." His eyes closed, Angel smiled a bloody, fang-toothed smile.

"Well, I don't."

"Glad to hear it. Me neither."

"Ever." After a while Spike felt himself put the game face away.

Angel did the same and started to look thoughtful. As close as he ever got to looking thoughtful, anyway. "What do you think?"

"The pig's blood? There's a funny aftertaste."

"No, I mean about what we just heard."

So that's what this was about. Spike suddenly understood exactly what Angel was thinking, and why there were in this office. Old boys like them had a special perspective on the world. Maybe a bit jaded, a bit bitter. But it was usually right. Didn't look like Angel wanted to come right out and say anything. Surprising himself, Spike took pity and decided to do the doomsayer bit for him. "Wes thinks he can make Blue a real girl again."

"It looks that way." Then Angel seemed to notice the expression that Spike had allowed himself to show. "What?"

You know what. In different circumstances it would have been fun to bait the other vampire. "I can't see it. It's still hard to believe Fred isn't all burnt up. Think we spent our luck already. Don't you feel that?" Fred and Wes making it to the last stanza? Pipedreams. There was something else, too. The other re-corporealisation ideas she'd come up with were dangerous. Fred had said it herself. Best mention that to Wes.

"I'm learning not to trust my feelings. Are you sure yours aren't being got at?"

"This is different." Spike thought about exactly what he meant. "We've been around a long time, seen a lot, you more than me. Is that what you wanted me to say?" Speaking more gently, he motioned toward the apocalyptic city outside. "There are no happy endings, Angel. We both know it."

Angel looked at him, and then rose and walked to the windows. His hands on the glass, he stood hunched for a few moments before turning back. When he did, something on his face had altered. "Sometimes there have to be," he said.

- - -

There were no preliminaries from Gunn, no asides or pictures. He pressed his palms on the table and gazed down at them all. Even though nothing was said for a time, it felt to Angel like the attorney was cross-examining each of them. Eventually, Gunn began to speak in measured and unemotional tones. "Eight years ago the Black Thorn's seers noticed key events happening that had never been prophesied. They got the idea fate was being messed with."

"Eight years ago." Speaking fondly, Lorne gestured to the room with his eyes. "That was when I came to this dimension." He smiled dreamily. "Ah, I remember that balmy May like yesterday."

Casting a sharp glance at him, Wesley said, "What was the date?"

"Hmmm. I think it was … the seventh?"

Illyria somehow sat straighter than she had a moment before. "The same day the shell went missing from the Stewart Brunell Public Library."

An uncomfortable sensation made Angel withdraw into himself. Eight years ago. He'd met Whistler, and Buffy had been called as the Slayer. A few months later, she'd arrived in Sunnydale. May 7th two years ago was the day Tara was shot. The year after that, on May 7th, he'd had his friends' memories altered and taken over a certain law firm.

"Right." After pulling some pages from among his notes, Gunn continued as if he'd read Angel's thoughts. "You're getting the picture. Forget about coincidence. Something's been playing us, and it ain't the Powers or anything else we know."

Lifting his head up from whatever he was writing, Spike said, "That's old news. A demon by the name of Skip was plotting, so I hear."

"It was more subplot than plot. Skip, Jasmine – just a couple of other pieces on the board." Gunn flipped through the pages he'd chosen. "The Black Thorn had people constantly looking at events, how they played out, how they connected. You should see it. Everything falling like dominoes." The pages dropped from his hand onto the table. "We haven't always been captains of our ships."

That made perfect sense to Angel. Hadn't he thought, on the night they'd fought the Senior Partners' army, that his decisions were coming from somewhere external to himself? Hadn't all of them been second guessing themselves ever since? "This something that played us – what kind of something are we talking about here?"

"I don't know. The Black Thorn's people figured it was a group, some powerful gods of fate. All I can say is that the Circle and them weren't buddies."

"The Black Thorn's enemy," Lorne said, musing. "That makes them good guys, right?"

The attorney's voice was tired. "Wrong. Sometimes they fool with the Senior Partners' plans; other times they help them along." He pulled out a chair and slumped into it. "I don't have much. I know they want some of us to turn bad. They've been moving the vampire with a soul toward a pivotal place in the apocalypse."

CEO of the Wolfram & Hart LA branch, leading the Circle of the Black Thorn. To all intents and purposes, Angel was in charge of the apocalypse. It didn't get any more pivotal. "Okay. Me." He aimed a brief and belligerent stare at Spike. "Who else?"

"Wes." Gunn's eyes turned on the man. "You've been getting pushed into the dark ever since you were Faith's Watcher, maybe even before then. But they didn't really get to you until Billy Blim."

There was some surprise on Wes's face, but it quickly faded. His brow creased, doubtful. "I was infected with demon blood through what was ultimately my own carelessness. The odds against that being somehow arranged must be vast."

Letting out an acidic laugh, Gunn gripped each side of the zipper on his top, as if he was in court and holding the lapels of a suit jacket. He probably wasn't aware of it. "You think? Then try this: how did Billy get free from hell in the first place?"

"You know that already," Angel said. "I had to break him out as a favour to Wolfram & Hart. It was the only way to help Cordy. I understood there'd be consequences…" He trailed off, knowing what Gunn was going to say.

"Remember who was guarding Billy?"

Skip. Skip was Billy's guard. It was the first time Angel met the demon, and he'd felt bad that the two of them had to go into combat. What seemed like decades later, though it was actually nineteen months, Angel learnt he'd been allowed to win that fight. "It was Skip," he said. His voice sounded oddly quiet in his own ears. "Skip let me take Billy."

"He obviously wanted the sick bastard released from hell." Wesley seemed suddenly more persuaded. Resentment cast a shadow on his face. "I imagine it wouldn't take much to ensure I was exposed. They could have implanted the certainty in my mind that the infection was mystical rather than physical, for example. Had I thought otherwise, I would have proceeded more carefully. My God."

With a sombre expression, Gunn placed the pages in a column down the table. Each one had some details of their lives written on it. "An example," he said. He stopped, screwed his eyes closed, and opened them again. "Billy throws a wrench in the works. After the ballet, Wes is left alone and ripe for the picking. Connor is taken and comes back old enough to father a child. Jasmine rises. We put her down, and then we're offered Wolfram & Hart." His gaze met Angel's with no judgement. "You had to accept because of Connor. Cordy dies and Illyria happens. The records stop there, but I can fill in the blanks." A final paper was brought out and added to the column of pages. "Angel goes Michael Corleone; Wes is killed; we're left in an alley to be sliced up into champion pastrami. Everything just like dominoes."

He'd skimmed over the most painful incidents, but they were written down for everyone to see. Drawn to one section, Angel noticed Gunn had appended a note. It stated that the decision to take out the Circle of the Black Thorn had stemmed directly from Fred's apparent death.

Spike picked up a page and read aloud from it. "At the Deeper Well, Spike convinces Angel to allow Illyria's resurrection." With a disgusted snort, he threw the paper across the room. "Nice to see I've been doing my bit for Team Puppet."

"And Fred?" Lorne said gently.

For an instant Gunn stared at him. Then he laughed under his breath. "She's been a fly in their ointment from the get-go."

"A butterfly." Illyria spoke matter-of-factly.

Her sudden contribution silenced Gunn. After a few seconds, he carried on. "The seers were certain Fred was brought to LA so that Wes would be turned. It didn't work, because she wouldn't play ball, no matter what happened. Every time she was supposed to shove him out into the cold, she wound up bringing him back in."

A rush of affection filled Angel's dead heart. Fred wouldn't walk the path she'd been given. Of course not. She and destiny weren't the best of friends. "What about Illyria?"

"Illyria's a wild card, too. Her coming was a big surprise to everyone: the Circle, the Senior Partners. At first they were worried. They thought she might be the start of these fate honchos moving against them. She didn't turn out the way they figured she would."

Illyria hadn't even turned out the way Illyria thought she would. Angel looked at her, looked for Fred.

If it hadn't been for the hollow quality of Gunn's delivery, he would have sounded like he was summing up. "Then they guessed Illyria was just here as the nuclear option to send Wes to the dark side. Fred gone, her soul destroyed, he'd lose it for sure. The Black Thorn were banking on that. After all the effort that had gone into changing Wes, they were positive he'd be a big asset for them. See, whenever they can, the Senior Partners make use of what these other guys do." He motioned to Angel with his open hand. "They've had their sights on you since you came to LA. At least since you came to LA."

Unmoved, Illyria haughtily lifted her chin. "My role in this is a chance overlap. The return of Illyria, god-king, was foretold many eons ago."

How deflated Gunn seemed. "I'm not sure you're getting this."

"They can backdate the changes they make." This came as a statement from Wesley. He certainly appeared to get it.

"They can do anything." Gunn turned to Angel. "It's like what you told us about Buffy's sister."

One time, Angel had visited a sixteen-year old Buffy in the night and had to hide in a closet when Dawn entered the room. He would have sworn that actually happened. The past life Vail had given Connor was similar. This was nothing more than those things writ large. "You've touched on who, what, where, and when. How about why?"

"Why do they do it? Maybe just because they can, because they get off on yanking our chains."

Lorne stared despondently at the table's surface. "Or pulling our strings."

"So we cut the strings. Right now." Spike's face and voice were set, but they rapidly weakened. "They could have made me say that. Hell."

"I don't think so. The way things look to me, we should never have made it out of that alley." Glancing momentarily at Illyria, Gunn snapped the clasps on his case shut. "Something upset their game that night. The pattern since then has been different. If I had to lay out my stall in a courtroom, I'd say we've had them playing catch-up ever since."

There was a resolute glint in Wes's eyes. "At any rate, we have to proceed as if that is the case."

He was right. They couldn't go around questioning everything they said or did. There was a job to do. "You'll keep working through the math?" Wes nodded, and Angel moved his attention to Illyria. "About these sacraments of yours…"

"Summon the Qwa'ha Xahn tomorrow. I will be here." In a single, fluid, vertical motion, she stood and turned toward the door.

"Where are you going?"

"I have something to attend to. It does not concern you."

Angel watched her go. He still found it difficult to trust her, but it seemed he had no choice.