Canonicity statement: All televised seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel are canonical for this work (to the best of the author's ability), while all non-televised, ancillary material is not.
PROLOGUE
Lifer
(Spring, 2020)
The prisoner twisted on his thin, hard mattress so that he could more easily observe the wandering cockroach that had crept from beneath his concrete-framed bed. The insect's antennae twitched as it searched for crumbs that might have fallen from one of the tasteless, bland meals he was served with monotonous regularity three times a day. Even though his cell was thoroughly bleached at least once a month, arthropod incursions were still relatively frequent.
They truly are indestructible.
Slowly and steadily so as not to disturb the crawling insect, he reached one hand down and laid it flat upon the concrete floor directly in its path. The roach's twitching limbs first found purchase on his outstretched index finger, then it gradually crawled upwards until it was perched on the back of his hand. The man slowly turned his arm so that the roach was compelled to rotate along with it until, finally, he was able to curl his fingers and trap the helpless creature within his palm.
I've got a friend I'd like you to meet.
Joints creaking and popping as he stood, he slowly walked towards a large steel door set in the thick concrete walls of his cell. That door represented his confinement's only point of access, and he knew from long experience that it was completely impervious to any attempts he might muster to breach it.
The door had one small, outward-opening slot that was used for sliding him trays of food and, on occasion, the occasional reading material. Even more seldomly his captors might send him questions, or photographs of people or creatures that he was to identify, or snippets of information for which his input was sought. They hadn't bothered with any meaningful in-person interrogations for a long time. Not for a few years, at least.
That was just an estimate, of course, as without access to television, radio, or even writing material, he had found it relatively easy to lose track of time. Once, early on, he had tried to count the days … and then weeks … by using the edge of a purloined spoon to etch scratches along his concrete bed frame. When his makeshift calendar had been discovered they had removed the bed frame and issued rather dire warnings should he attempt a repeat of the effort.
His captors evidently feared the etchings were intended for magic. That same fear was also the reason for the monthly bleaching of his cell, a precaution they had implemented immediately after an inspection revealed he was using scraps of food to cultivate a strain of mold that possessed mystical properties. His jailers were callous and uncaring, but never oblivious.
The door had a one-inch gap for air circulation along the bottom and top, just sufficient clearance that if he lay upon his stomach he might, through one eye, be able to glimpse a booted foot and uniformed leg as it strode past. The gap was just small enough, and the door just thick enough, that he could not protrude even the tip of his finger outside his cell.
At the top of the thick steel door was an integrated loudspeaker through which occasional commands were issued. As these pronouncements had steadily grown more and more infrequent, his communication with the outside world had been reduced solely to simple orders and commands.
I am no longer of use.
The cockroach was still trapped within his hand when he reached the corner of the room. Bending down, his starched dull gray jumpsuit crackling as he stooped, his hand hovered above a small cobweb nestled to the left of the thick steel door.
Where there's prey you will find a predator.
He didn't bother to look for the spider; he already knew where it was. Its eight delicate legs were curled beneath it as it lay in wait upon the edge of one of the web's supporting strands.
Might have waited forever for a chance at a meal if not for me.
He hovered his hand perhaps six inches from the web, spread his fingers wide, and with a prodding finger he nudged the roach from his palm. The insect fell through the air and landed on its back upon the concrete floor. It frantically scrabbled its legs until it had regained its footing, then it stood there, unmoving, in the corner of the room.
The lower edge of the web now lay between the roach and freedom, though the bug was certainly unaware of that fact. The erstwhile warlock wondered if the insect would manage to navigate the gauntlet and escape with its life, or if it would make a wrong step and become dinner for the lurking spider. Having given both predator and prey a fair opportunity of success, he sat down upon the cold floor and waited to see how events would unfold.
So fixated was he upon his engineered drama of carnivore and putative meal that he failed at first to consciously register a muffled alarm sounding from somewhere within the prison. He had never heard such an alarm before, not once in the long years of his confinement, and it took him a moment to confirm that it wasn't his imagination.
That's new.
Looking down at the tableau formed by the still unmoving cockroach and the spider's web, he noticed that the silk threads had begun to vibrate, undoubtedly from activity beyond his cell.
That is very new.
He gathered his feet beneath him, paused for a moment to viciously crush first the roach and then the spider beneath his thumb, then stood and backed towards the center of the room. He wiped his hand clean upon his uniform, gazed at the steel mirror affixed above his square concrete sink, and noticed that his reflection was jostling in time with each audible thump.
Whatever is happening out there is shaking the entire room.
Despite his usual tendency to avoid making eye contact with himself in the mirror, he stared in fascination as the tremors continued to shake his cell. His formerly dark hair had given way entirely to white and his skin had grown pallid and semi-translucent, like that of a newborn infant. At least they bothered to shave him every few weeks. He was ashamed to admit that he treasured the human touch that the involuntary grooming sessions afforded him.
The dull thudding noises had grown more frequent and were now coupled with what sounded like screaming.
What is going on out there?
His ears then registered sharp, cracking noises unmistakable for anything except gunfire.
He heard a few dozen gunshots in quick succession, then more screaming, then silence.
More and more peculiar.
He scuttled to the door, lay upon the ground, and closed his right eye so he could peer through the gap beneath. Slim legs wearing tan boots and olive-green athletic pants stepped into view and then rotated to face him.
"If you are standing anywhere near the door, step back now," a decidedly female voice ordered.
"Who are you," he called out.
"Later. Right now, I need you to stand well clear."
"Why?"
"Those alarms, you can hear them, right?"
"I can."
"That means we're on a clock," the woman replied in an impatient, exasperated tone. "We're in the middle of the Nevada desert, which buys us some time, but you can bet that someone will send reinforcements to this prison."
"What do you want from me?" he asked.
"I already told you," the woman snapped, "stand back from the door. Now. Please."
The final word was uttered through what sounded like clenched teeth.
This is not someone who is accustomed to asking nicely.
The prisoner wondered if the woman was friend or foe, then decided it didn't matter. Even if she was there to kill him, death would be preferable to his current existence. He scrambled to the back corner of the cell.
"I'm as far from the door as I can get," he called out. "But if you're going to use some sort
of explosive, I should warn you that this room isn't very large."
"I won't need explosives," the mysterious woman assured him.
The thudding resumed, this time loud enough and close enough to reverberate the entire room. The few small grooming items he was allowed and his sole reading material, a paperback copy of The Witch of Blackbird Pond that was likely someone's idea of a joke, fell from the shelf above the sink.
My god, is she kicking the door?
To his astonishment the steel of the door began to bend inward, inch by inch, then finally by more than a foot. Gaping holes through which he could see a dim corridor lined with white LED lights appeared along the ragged edges of the crumpling frame. The woman paused for a moment, undoubtedly gathering her strength for a final effort.
With one final wrenching screech the door tore from its hinges, scraped along the ground, and came to rest only a few inches from his feet. The massive hinges were warped and bent beyond recognition, and the wires that fed the loudspeaker and monitoring devices lay smoking and crackling. An acrid smell tickled the back of his throat.
He looked at the woman. She was short, not more than three or four inches over five feet, and of slender build. A slim blade was strapped to right side of the wide brown belt that divided her olive-green pants from her identically colored long-sleeved shirt. She wore leather gloves, and a thin cord secured her dark brown hair in a tight chignon. Despite her mature bearing, Ethan would have guessed her to be no older than her mid-twenties.
"Ethan Rayne?" she inquired calmly, as though this was a chance encounter at a quiet neighborhood park.
He summoned a bit of the old dry charm that once upon a time had served him well in drinking establishments around the world and smiled as he replied.
"Guilty as charged and at your service."
The woman reached up her right hand and pressed a finger to her ear.
Must be an earpiece radio.
"I've got him, we're on our way back now." She paused a moment and glanced him over, clearly assessing his appearance. She spoke again into the unseen microphone, "You should be aware he looks half-dead." Ethan cocked his head to one side then shrugged.
Harsh, but not an unfair description.
If there was a reply over the earpiece radio it was inaudible to him.
Looking carefully for signs of a heartbeat, he noticed a vein bulging in the young woman's neck.
Not a vampire, then.
He certainly hoped that he could still recognize a demon, even one in the guise of a human, but he detected no tell-tale giveaways. Before he could further speculate on what mysticism was empowering the young woman's feats of strength she turned and began walking out the door.
"Mr. Rayne, my employers would like a word with you. Please follow me." She didn't bother to look behind and simply presumed he would obey. She wasn't wrong.
He crept behind her down the narrow corridor. As he passed the hatch that exited into a basketball court-sized atrium that contained nothing except grass, a view to the sky, and a two-way mirror to observe him, he realized that he was now further from his cell than he had been at any point since arriving. Every crack he trod upon, every new sound, was electricity to senses starved of input.
After several more yards he began to notice smashed electronic devices lying along the wall, likely part of an electronic security system. Ethan also spotted traces of glowing rocks embedded periodically in the concrete with corresponding piles of debris lying on the ground beneath each.
She shattered the runic glyphs, as well … smart … who knows what protective magic they might have triggered.
After the atrium they encountered a collapsed steel gate that lay bent and crumped upon the floor. Beneath the ruined metal Ethan spotted a few twisted corpses. He averted his eyes and attempted to ignore the unpleasant squishing sensation beneath his feet as they clambered over the gate and continued down the corridor.
Past the ruined gate, a third corpse greeted him. Ethan forced himself to look down.
That's the one I called Fat Will.
Fat Will's head was twisted around so that his unseeing eyes stared at the roof while his body was oriented the opposite direction. Nausea threatened to overwhelm Ethan as he fought back the urge to vomit. After passing half a dozen more corpses the woman paused for a moment and stared attentively ahead.
"Get down against the wall," she barked at him. Ethan immediately complied; he pressed himself flat against the ground and peered nervously forward.
Ahead, he saw a guard lurch unsteadily towards them as he yelled into a radio clipped to the collar of his uniform. Of more immediate concern than the prospect of eventual reinforcements was the ugly black pistol the man held in his left hand. The guard braced his right arm against the wall, likely to keep weight off a left knee bent at an unnatural angle, blinked away blood pooling in his eyes from a deep laceration across his brow, then raised the gun and pointed it at them.
He's going to shoot.
The sound of the gunshots was deafening in the enclosed space. Ethan cowered with his hands over his ears as bullets ricocheted off the concrete. He screamed in terror as one of the LED lights above him exploded and rained a shower of glittering plastic and metal onto his prone form.
The woman crouched slightly and began casually jogging towards the guard, her eyes locked onto the gun barrel and the man's finger on the trigger as she smoothly loped down the corridor.
Ethan watched in shock as with each roar from the gun the woman pivoted first one direction, then another, as she casually evaded the bullets with a dexterous economy of effort. The impression it gave Ethan was that of a slithering cobra, and he recalled almost immediately where he had previously seen that distinctive style of movement and accompanying preternatural reflexes.
She's the Slayer. Buffy Summers must finally be dead.
This realization pleased him immensely.
The woman was at nearly a full sprint when she closed the distance between herself and the guard. The man raised the gun at point-blank range, fired again, and without breaking stride the woman evaded the shot with a twisting lunge to her right. The woman cross-drew her knife from its sheath with her left arm, braced her right leg against the wall, then launched herself at the guard. Her blade traced a ferocious, glittering silver arc in the air and an instant later the steel edge tore through the skin, muscle, and tendon of his throat.
The guard crumpled and twitched in a feeble palsy as his head flopped and dangled from a half-severed neck. Pale chunks of trachea and spine were briefly visible in the ruin of the man's windpipe before a torrent of blood began gushing from the hideous wound.
Acid burned Ethan's throat as he raised himself onto all fours and heaved a half-digested meal onto the slick floor of the corridor. The woman knelt, cleaned her knife on the coat of the dead man's uniform, then smoothly slid the blade back into its sheath. Taking care to avoid any contact between her boots and the spreading pool of crimson, she stood upright, stepped away from the puddle of blood, and looked back at Ethan.
"If you've finished vomiting, we need to move."
Ethan obediently wiped his mouth and slowly regained his feet.
They continued down the hallway. Thankfully, no more guards interrupted their progress. They passed unadorned security doors until, finally, the passage opened into a large, glass-enclosed security room adorned with monitors, file cabinets, and several more corpses. The sight sparked a hazy memory of his having seen this particular area when they had first brought him, drugged and strapped to a gurney, into the prison.
He had never seen it since.
Past that room was a larger entryway featuring double doors that had themselves been smashed inward. Cool air flowed through the opening and Ethan could see stars twinkling in the night sky beyond.
Outside.
Ethan paused to collect himself and then followed the woman as she walked into the evening air. As he exited the prison, he felt a chill settle over him. He reveled in the sensation. The stars above him winked brighter than he could ever recall them appearing before. He looked around in the light of the full moon that hung ponderously in the night sky and was surprised to see that there were no other buildings in sight.
A thin, innocuous looking metal fence with rusted barb wire stretched around the perimeter of the building that had served as his jail. A sliding metal gate that had been left open separated the prison compound from a two-lane roadway, and to the left of the gate was a small guardhouse. A trickle of liquid that shone black in the moonlight steadily dripped from the sill of the guardhouse's open door.
Ethan turned and looked at his prison. The structure was much smaller than he had envisioned.
The woman gestured with her head towards the dirt road. "Come with me."
Ethan's breath misted in the cold night air as they walked. He luxuriated in the feel of dirt beneath his bare feet and in the smells and sounds of the desert.
He felt the urge to say something.
"I feel I should thank you," he said. "You can't imagine what it was like in there … I owe you a debt."
The woman shrugged. "I'd kill Watchers for fun."
Ethan was taken slightly aback by her cavalier attitude towards wanton slaughter. "Nevertheless, you have my gratitude."
"You don't owe me anything, but my employers went through a lot of trouble to track down the hole the Council stuck you in once the Initiative was through with you." She paused for a moment, then swiveled to look at him. "Nobody should have to live like that. It would have been better if they killed you."
She turned back to the road and resumed walking.
I don't disagree.
As they approached the fence Ethan noticed a large black semitruck approaching. Judging by the lack of reaction from the woman she evidently was expecting its arrival. They both stepped out of the road to let the cab and its trailer pass.
The truck bounced across the thin scrub grass and uneven, rock-flecked surface as it swung around in a wide circle, reversed course, and eventually faced the direction from which it had arrived. The doors of the cab opened and two men jumped out. Both wore black, insignia-free uniforms, carried sidearms in leather shoulder holsters, and had earpieces tucked behind their left ears.
"Mr. Rayne, if you would please come with me." The man who had addressed him had close-set eyes, a crewcut, and unsmiling features.
Why is it that mercenaries always pretty much look the same?
Ethan followed the men towards the back of the cargo container being pulled by the semi. They swung open one of the large, corrugated doors, then gestured for him to enter. Ethan peered inside with trepidation, but only a soft, welcoming glow could be seen. Everything beyond was curiously hazy to the sight. Using folding steps that one of the men lowered, Ethan entered the trailer. The woman followed close behind, then the mercenaries folded the steps, locked them into position, and shut the door behind them. Ethan heard the sharp click of a lock.
He blinked a few times at the unexpected view in front of him. The flooring, sides, and ceiling of the truck were finished with varnished and dark-stained hardwood, and lining the walls were a number of cabinets containing books and file folders. Curiously, the width of the room had to be at least five or six times the exterior size. Suspecting an illusion, Ethan held out a hand and walked to his right. To his surprise, he was able to reach the far wall and lay his fingers upon it.
Not an illusion, then. Something far more powerful. Interesting.
Four flushed light mountings, equally spaced from front to rear, provided soft but bright illumination. A few scattered monitors and various weapons both modern and ancient were affixed to the walls.
A man seated in the middle of three chairs arranged on the far side of a mahogany desk set in the center of the room spoke first, "Good evening, Mr. Rayne. Please, won't you have a seat?" The man gestured to a black, leather-backed chair on Ethan's side of the table.
The two men sitting on chairs flanking the gentleman who had spoken remained silent as Ethan walked towards the table. Ethan decided to think of the three as 'Left,' 'Right,' and 'Middle' until introductions were made. All three bore serious, grim expressions on their stolid, tanned faces. They looked to be in their late thirties, wore nearly identical dark suits, and their haircuts appeared expensive. Neither Left nor Right wore glasses, though Middle did.
Each of the men's ties were adorned with elegant, golden clips wrought in the shape of an animal visage. Carnelian gems set in the eye sockets twinkled at Ethan.
At least they don't have matching ties; that would be tacky.
Ethan sat slowly upon the gloriously soft, padded surface of the chair and eyed the men in front of him. As he did so, he realized that despite the truck likely being in motion, there was absolutely no sense of movement within the room they occupied.
"This room isn't an illusion, is it?" he asked.
Middle nodded his head. "The details don't really matter, but yes, we have resources at our disposal beyond mere visual trickery."
Ethan cleared his throat, then continued, "If we have met before, you'll have to forgive me, but I do not recall the circumstances."
Middle, he of the glasses and close-cut brown hair, replied, "No, Mr. Rayne, we have not met before."
"Well, you certainly have my thanks."
The man did not acknowledge Ethan's gratitude.
"Mr. Rayne, Ms. Robin Hallett, the woman behind you, is our employee," Middle said.
"She has been with us a long time. Many of us, myself included, consider her family. Do be sure to recall how the path of your life might have unfolded if not for her intervention and treat her accordingly."
"I surely will," Ethan replied. He hesitated a moment, then decided to air his speculation as to the source of the woman's superhuman abilities. "She's the new Slayer, isn't she? Having the Slayer working for you seems like quite the coup."
The man smiled, an expression with no warmth behind it, and sidestepped Ethan's speculation. "I imagine you will be curious about a great number of things. As our time for this meeting is rather limited, those inquiries are best left for later."
"Whatever you say," Ethan replied with a certain degree of wariness.
"In the spirit of fairness and full disclosure, I should also inform you that some topics will simply be off-limits," Middle informed him. "At least for the time being." The man leaned forward almost imperceptibly. "Curiosity as to my name or the names of my associates, for example, would serve you about as well as it did the proverbial cat, if you take my meaning."
"I do," Ethan said.
"Good," Middle said. "As I mentioned before, we are somewhat pressed for time, so let us move ahead to the business at hand. Mr. Rayne, you are likely asking yourself, 'what do they want,' or 'why bother with me?' These are good questions. The answer, Mr. Rayne, is that we have a task that needs to be completed, and we believe you are the warlock for the job."
"What could you possibly need my help for?"
"We have a project which, due to its requirement for certain mystical abilities, you are somewhat uniquely suited for," Middle answered cryptically. "For various reasons, we cannot complete this project ourselves. That is where you come in."
Ethan blinked a few times as he processed the information.
I haven't cast a spell in decades, but I certainly don't want to give them the impression that I'm useless.
"What sort of project," Ethan asked. "I've been incommunicado for a long time … a very long time."
Middle's even white teeth flashed again in his empty smile. "The timetable allows you ample opportunity to reacquaint yourself with the world and whip your magical muscles back into shape, so to speak. Most of the preparation is complete; we only require your assistance for the final phase. To use the civilian parlance, you might consider the present situation to represent a work-release opportunity for you."
"The final phase of what?"
The smile vanished from the man's face as he began to explain; Ethan attempted to keep an expression of disbelief and doubt from his face as he listened. When the man finished, Ethan hesitantly voiced a question in as neutral a tone as he could muster, "Are you sure that's possible?"
"I can assure you that it is," Middle said confidently as he laid a large, leather-bound binder on the table. "Every augur, seer, shaman, and resource at our disposal was utilized to check, cross-check, and then re-check each and every aspect of the ritual right down to the individual syllables of the incantations." Middle tapped the tome several times with his finger. "Be sure that you take good care of this, Mr. Rayne."
"I will," Ethan promised.
The man slid the binder closer to Ethan. "Please, Mr. Rayne, go ahead and take a look."
Ethan obligingly opened to the first page and began flipping through the contents. His Sumerian was rather rusty, but he was reasonably certain of his translation of the runes. The ritual set forth was quite lengthy and extraordinarily detailed. The more he read, the more outlandish the idea seemed.
Left grabbed a pitcher of water from the table and filled a small glass. He offered it to Ethan, who accepted it gratefully. He sipped slowly, reveling in the feel of the ice cubes, as he continued to read. The men were surprisingly patient as Ethan flipped through page after page. Finally, he closed the book and looked up.
"I believe I've got the gist, so to speak," he said.
"And what is your impression of the undertaking?" Middle asked.
Ethan shook his head. "My impression is that it's impossible. If it wasn't, it would have been done before, and I've never heard of it even being attempted." He flipped through the pages till he found one particular section, then he stabbed his finger at a portion of the text. "This spell, even assuming it works, would have to be completed in multiple phases over several days, and the power required couldn't be harnessed by a hundreds of mystics working in unison for that entire time."
"And if you had the power you needed?" Middle asked.
Ethan again shook his head. ""Even if I did, how among the infinite realities would I locate the one I need? I'd like to be of service, truly, but what you're asking is impossible."
"None of those issues are insurmountable, Mr. Rayne," Middle said. "Flip to the fourth tab, page three."
Ethan did so, and his brow furrowed with thought as he read.
"The Obelisks of Thoth? Remarkable," Ethan said as he looked up. "I thought they were a myth."
Middle shook his head. "They are very real, and they are at your disposal." The man reached towards the book, flipped ahead, then pointed at one of the paragraphs. "I think you will find that our stratagem for relocating the dimension we need to be rather elegant. Keep reading."
Ethan bent down, pored over the page, then looked up at Middle in surprise. "A transmutation of this type … I've never seen its like. You're sure this will work?"
"Enough transdimensional energy remains for the purpose at hand," Middle assured Ethan.
Ethan leaned back. "You seem to have researched the arcane requirements quite thoroughly, but aren't you worried about the Watchers Council, or any other do-gooders, sensing a ritual of this scope? You'd need an army to fight them all off."
"We won't need an army, Mr. Rayne, because you will remain strictly low-profile," Middle replied. "As a matter of fact, I'm going to have to insist that all violence associated with this project be kept to a minimum."
Middle leaned forward and Ethan had the unsettling impression that shadows were pooling and spreading around the man's form.
"Do you understand, Mr. Rayne?"
Ethan instinctively recoiled further back into the chair. "I can't say you lot strike me as the squeamish types, but if discretion is your preference, then discretion shall be the byword at all times."
Middle sat upright in his chair and the sparkling teeth flashed once more as the shadows retreated. "I can assure you that we have our reasons."
"I have to ask, why me?" Ethan admitted. "Somehow I have a feeling that your operation shouldn't require the assistance of one incarcerated warlock."
The man responded quickly. Too quickly.
That particular question was anticipated, and the answer rehearsed more than a few times.
"Mr. Rayne, we have warlocks, enchanters, and diviners of all sorts in our employ. The fact that they are in our employ, however, is precisely the problem. This endeavor cannot be traced back to us and thus, to once again borrow a civilian term, we need an 'independent contractor.'"
"Plausible deniability?" Ethan suggested.
Middle frowned darkly at him.
The thought occurred to Ethan that he desperately never wanted to see that man frown at him again.
"Remember what I said about the fate of the curious cat, Mr. Rayne?" Middle said in a slow, ominous tone. "Suffice it to say, our anonymity at the current juncture is paramount."
Ethan simply nodded. "Understood."
"Excellent." Middle rapped the table enthusiastically. "I can sense your uncertainty as to your current capabilities. Within reason, take the time you need to readjust. We need you at your best, and allowance has been made for a few months of recuperation."
"Why me?" Ethan asked instinctively.
Middle laid his wrists and forearms upon the table and steepled his fingers. "You're an individual who is known for doing the job he's paid to do without skimming off the top and without succumbing to megalomaniacal aspirations." Middle's lips pursed in an expression of an annoyance. "Far too many conjurers believe they are destined to someday rule the world; it's an incredible nuisance in the hiring process."
Left and Right both nodded in agreement.
Middle gestured to Left. "My associate worked diligently to evaluate all candidates within a few thousand miles. Your name consistently came out at the top, even when we factored in your long captivity. And thus," Middle gestured toward Ethan with both his hands, "here you are."
"Again, my thanks."
"Your compensation package is outlined in the final tab," Middle said.
Ethan attempted to hide his eagerness while he flipped to the appropriate section, then upon reviewing the figures he whistled appreciatively.
"I trust the salary is more than adequate?" Middle asked. "Should you require any additional logistical support, such requests can be communicated through Ms. Hallett."
Ethan looked over at the woman in surprise. "She's coming with me?"
Middle nodded. "Ms. Hallett will, indeed, be accompanying you and acting as our liaison should you accept our proposal."
Left pushed a briefcase across the table; Ethan glanced at it speculatively.
"What's in there?" he asked. "I could use some clothes or a pair of shoes."
"You'll find several wardrobe selections within the case, Mr. Rayne," Middle assured him. "Along with encrypted satellite phones, new identification, and a few odds and ends you likely will consider useful."
Ethan unlatched and opened the briefcase. In addition to the more mundane items, such as an exceedingly welcome change of clothes, there were a number of neatly labeled glass vials tucked within small pouches set in rectangular leather dividers. Ethan reverently ran his hands along the various spell components and sundry items.
Eye of newt, phoenix feathers, virgin's blood … I've missed you, my friends.
Middle cleared his throat. "I believe you've now had a chance to consider the opportunity we are offering. All that remains is your decision, Mr. Rayne." Middle drummed his fingers across the table before he continued. "This is a business proposal, but I'd also note that this task might be one of personal interest to you. You worship chaos, Mr. Rayne, or at least you once did. The conflict between the natural order and magic, the dynamic that forms the wellspring of much of our reality, requires a certain amount of chaos to maintain the balance. Magic has been steadily disappearing from this world for nearly two decades and this dimension finds itself in need of a re-balancing."
I very much doubt that's the only reason, or even the main one.
"You'll also have a chance for vengeance," Robin whispered behind Ethan.
Middle's eyes briefly flashed in irritation at the interruption, then the calm expression settled over his face once more.
"Decision time, Mr. Rayne," Middle said. "Yes, or no?"
I wonder what they would do if I said no? Pretty sure whatever it is, I'd wish I was back in that cell.
The question was academic as he had no intention of rejecting the lifeline that had just been thrown to him."I accept."
All three men smiled.
Middle beamed at him. "Excellent, I thought you might."
Left placed a large document on the table that Ethan surmised was a contract of some sort.
"Should I look through this?" Ethan asked somewhat rhetorically.
"You can if you'd like, but the terms are non-negotiable in all aspects," Middle informed him.
Ethan shook his head. "No need. Can I borrow a pen?"
"While I'm not usually one to engage in what might be perceived as cheap theatrics, I am afraid for this particular transaction ink will not suffice," Middle replied. He gestured to Left, who proceeded to obligingly draw a gold-plated, finely honed knife from within his jacket. The jagged hilt appeared to be carved from a single chunk of obsidian.
"Is that really necessary?" Ethan asked as he frowned at the sight of the blade.
"For you, no," Middle replied. "We know where to retrieve you or your soul if need be." Middle gestured with his hand towards the man holding the blade. "My associate, on the other hand, has vouched for you personally. I insist that he stand by his work product."
A dripping line of crimson bloomed beneath the overhead lights as Left unflinchingly drew the blade across his palm. A small, feathered quill was produced, the tip duly dipped into the bleeding palm, and the writing implement was then proffered to Ethan.
With a quick scrawl of nib to paper the deal was done. Middle folded the contract and tucked in neatly into a drawer on the desk.
"Thank you, Mr. Rayne," Middle said. "I hope that when we meet again it will be to congratulate you on a job well done." Middle raised his hand and motioned towards the front of the truck, likely to whoever was driving the vehicle.
While Ethan was relatively certain that the room didn't actually move, his inner compass nevertheless informed him that the truck had shifted direction. Shortly thereafter, Robin tapped him on the shoulder, then led him back towards the doors at the rear of the truck when he arose from his chair.
As Robin began to swing the doors open, Middle addressed Ethan a final time. "Any assistance you need in managing the more truculent of your support staff, or if any difficulties present themselves in Moonridge … such as the Sunnydale Slayer … Ms. Hallett will assist you."
"The Sunnydale Slayer?" Ethan asked in surprise. "You mean, Buffy Summers?" He fixed Robin with a puzzled stare. "If the Slayer is here, with us, doesn't that mean Buffy Summers is dead?"
Middle shook his head. "You'll need to be brought up to speed on certain topics. Perhaps the state of the world as it pertains to slayers should be one of the first subjects of discussion between you and Ms. Hallett."
Middle stood up while his two associates remained seated.
"I wish you the best of luck, Mr. Rayne," Middle said. "We will be monitoring the situation closely."
Ethan summoned some semblance of his former bravado. "I will not fail."
"I certainly hope not, Mr. Rayne," Middle replied. "Goodbye for now."
Grabbing the binder and briefcase, Ethan followed Robin through the rear doors of the truck. Unexpectedly, he stepped down into a sunlit morning.
We weren't driving long enough for the sun to rise, were we?
He shielded his eyes from the glare as Robin closed the door behind them. In short order the truck pulled away and left them standing in a gas station parking lot. Ethan surveyed his surroundings and noted several truck stops, a few fast food restaurants, and rows of lights that probably represented some variety of dilapidated housing.
He glanced over to see Robin holding a small phone. The screen set in the front of the device illuminated her face as she energetically stabbed her finger at it.
"They couldn't have dropped us off a little closer to civilization?" Ethan asked. Robin ignored him as she continued poking at her phone. When Ethan realized she wasn't going to respond, he continued, "I hope whatever it is you're doing involves calling us a taxi."
She looked up at him disdainfully. "A taxi? No, I went ahead and ordered us an uber. It's on its way."
"I'm sorry, you ordered a what?"
Robin closed her eyes and sighed.