Did I Dream?
Going back to Sunnydale had never been part of their long-range plans. He'd dismissed it as his past; long gone and buried with no possible motivation for return. There was nothing there for him except a few memories that weren't exactly pleasant, although he was surprised to note that the memories of Maggie Walsh and the Initiative hurt worse than the memories of Buffy. The Slayer had broken Riley Finn's heart, but it had been Maggie who had broken his trust and his blind faith in their government with her lies and her monstrous creation.
Sam's loving voice brought a smile to his face. "Penny for your thoughts."
"Nothing important." Riley stood up and took his three year old son, Aaron, from her arms, cradling him gently against his chest. "What are you up to, soldier?"
"Cookie." Chubby fingers held out a mashed chocolate chip cookie roughly the shape of Australia.
"Mmm." Riley took a bite, careful to avoid the fingers. "Did you make them yourself?"
"Mommy helped." Warm brown eyes ringed with heavy lashes gazed up at his mother adoringly.
"Just a little." Sam brushed at the flour patterns on her t-shirt, coaxing their son away from his father with the promise of the great outdoors. "Mommy and daddy need to talk for a few minutes. You be careful." Planting a quick kiss on the boy's dark hair, she ushered him through the patio door and pulled Riley toward the deck chairs so that she could keep one eye on Aaron.
"They grow up so fast." Riley mused as he settled onto the loveseat, wrapping his arms around Sam and holding her tightly.
"Too fast. Before you know it, he'll be fighting his own vampires." Snuggling against him, she took a deep breath. "When do we leave?"
"You don't have to come with me."
"What? You'll commute from here to Sunnydale, come home on weekends and holidays? Negative. No way."
"I know how much you love it here." He motioned to the lake in the distance and Mt. Shasta rising up into the blue sky several miles away.
"I could help with training, you know that. General Pascal knows that. He's offered to find a place for me."
"Sam. Please." Riley shook his head, trying to find the words to explain the myriad reasons he wanted her a few hundred miles from Sunnydale. The Hellmouth topped that list. It was the last place on Earth he would ever want to raise a family. Sam's first pregnancy had been hard enough for her and the doctors doubted it would get any easier this time around. Sick and miserable meant vulnerable and he wanted her safely tucked away from demons and monsters. Naturally, he didn't want to make the commute every weekend but it would be worth knowing that his family wasn't in danger.
"I'm not made of glass, Finn." The determined spark in her eyes told him that he wasn't going to convince her to back down on this. "Besides, if it's Operation Slayer Babies, you'll need a woman's input. One who knows the road through hell, so to speak." When he didn't respond she kept going. "Trust me when I tell you that Buffy and Faith are going to feel a lot better knowing that there's a woman on the inside working for them."
"I have no doubt you'd be an asset, Sam. Just worried about you and Aaron." He kissed her gently, pulling her head down to his shoulder and pretending just for a moment that they didn't have to leave the quiet town where they had built a home.
"Personally, I don't think there's a better place to raise him. In a town with a Slayer or two? There isn't a safer place in the world, Riley Finn." She smiled against his chest, hugging him tightly. "Now that we've settled it, I'm coming whether or not you like it, fill me in on the details."
"Sam." He groaned as he rubbed her shoulder affectionately.
"Come on. I'll give you the female perspective. All that testosterone? I'm sure you and the boys have no idea at all what to offer the Slayers."
"How could we possibly understand the female mind?" Riley grinned. "All right. The Head Watcher and General Pascal have spent weeks going over details and long-range plans but I think they've finally reached a compromise. The government wants more Slayers now. Yesterday would be better."
"That bothers you." Sam looked up at him with her patented therapist gaze.
"Of course it does. If it were up to Pascal, they'd set up a production line and clone Slayers. Rumor mill says that the President wants to place potential Slayers into Special Forces and the Secret Service." He shook his head tiredly, following his son as the boy enthusiastically but awkwardly kicked a ball back and forth across the grass. "But they haven't forgotten the Initiative and they don't want to go too far into untested technology without guaranteed results."
"Just speed things up a little. What do the Watchers think?"
"They want to give the Slayer lines a chance to regenerate naturally. Give Buffy, Faith, and the other one, time enough to have children."
"That bothers you too."
"Slayers don't exactly have the longest lifespan, Sam."
"But if they had help?"
"They could still die. Why do you think there are three of them? Both Buffy and Faith have died at least once." He leaned against the cushions with a heavy sigh. "It sounds heartless and cruel but maybe it's better if the next generation of Slayers were raised in non-slaying homes."
"You mean they want to take their children away from them?" She made no attempt to disguise the outrage in her voice.
"They don't want them to have children at all. Remove the ovaries, harvest the eggs. Fertilize and implant them into surrogate mothers so they could be raised as normal as possible."
"Normal?" Sam gave him a skeptical look. "You mean they'll just give them away to good homes and forget about them?"
"Of course not."
"My point exactly. They're going to be under a government microscope even before conception. What does it matter if they're away from their biological parents if they'll be treated the same?"
"Well," Riley squirmed a little. "If it was done artificially there would be other benefits."
Her eyes widened with horrified understanding. "They want to choose the fathers. Of course."
"You're surprised?"
"I shouldn't be. I should have known they'd turn it into a super-soldier breeding project. That is what they're aiming for, isn't it?"
"That would be the best option for Pascal." Riley brushed her hair back and kissed her forehead softly in an attempt to calm her. "But Iverson has convinced him that working with Slayers isn't the easiest thing in the world and I've backed him up on that aspect. Pascal thinks he's just as likely to get his four starred ass kicked if he pushes the wrong buttons. Especially with Faith."
"What are they going to do then?"
"With Iverson's help, we've arranged options for each Slayer individually. A little take and a little give on each side."
"I'm the Sunnydale liaison." He chuckled at the irony. "Since I have the most experience with Slayers and Sunnydale itself. Rupert Giles will be the Council's end and they'll be setting up a training circuit in the old Initiative facilities. The offer for Buffy is that she gets free rein to work with the men, train them about demons and the Hellmouth, teach them how to fight more effectively. It's a pretty package. Good money, good benefits. Especially maternity."
"What does she have to do?"
"Have as many children as she wants to naturally with considerable child rearing support from us and help keeping the Hellmouth safe and sound for the kids. As soon as she's ready, they'll remove the ovaries and get her the hormone replacement therapy she needs. If she's willing, of course. The surplus eggs will be implanted into pre-selected mothers and families."
Sam pulled a face. "That's disgusting."
"I know. But it's a good deal for Buffy and it may be the only way she'll live long enough to even have children."
"What about Faith?"
"They're not sure what to do with her. Considering her criminal record and history of mental instability, they want to observe her for a few years before they decide if they even want her in the gene pool." Riley ignored the tightening in his throat that seemed to accompany talking or thinking about Faith. "First, they're going to offer her a new identity and a job in one of our hunting squads. Iverson felt that was best suited to her temperament. The idea is to give her the opportunity to move around, taking out identified targets and doing some good in the world. Very well paid. If she's stable, they'll give her the same offer. As many children as she wants naturally."
"Before handing over her eggs."
"Sounds pretty callous when you say it that way."
"It is callous. It's ripping out the heart and soul of what it means to be a woman." She scowled out over the yard, taking deep breaths to calm down. "And the third?"
"The third is a bit of an enigma. No one knows what to offer her so they'll probably just ask her straight out if she'll do it."
"What?"
"She's been reconditioned." Riley loosened his grip on her arms, waiting for the inevitable explosion. "Class D behavioral modification."
Sam pulled away sharply. "Did we do that?" Her eyes flashed furiously and her knuckles whitened as she gripped the edge of the loveseat.
"The Council did."
"Bastards."
"Relax. We're hoping that once we get her in and run a few tests, we'll be able to reverse some of the conditioning. Then Pascal will draft a proposal for her offer. It will probably follow the same theme song as the other two. There's no rush with her though. She's barely eighteen." He pulled her gently back into his embrace and rocked her easily.
"I thought Slayers were younger than that when they were called?"
"Faith has lived a lot longer than most Slayers, so has Buffy, actually. Gave some of the potential Slayers a few years to grow up." The details of how a Slayer was called was a mystery even to the experts on Slayers and Iverson hadn't been able to explain why the third Slayer was one of the few to be called after their sixteenth birthday. It was still too young in Riley's mind.
"At least I was right about one thing."
"What's that?"
"You need me there. Someone has to make sure they're treated fairly and Pascal obviously has no idea how to deal with women."
"You don't think they'll take the deal?"
"They should throw it back in Pascal's face." She sighed before shaking her head and grudgingly admitting, "But you're right. It's probably their best option for having family at all."
"That's about where I stopped thinking too," he agreed sadly.
"We're really lucky, aren't we? To be normal, have a normal family."
"I know I'm the luckiest man in the world." Smiling, he held her tight and breathed in the comforting scent of the fabric softener she used. Despite his reservations, knowing that his family would be with him had taken a weight off of his shoulders. He would still worry about their safety but there was no reassurance, no solace, like coming home to his wife and child. Part of him hoped that the Slayers would take the deal so that they could know for themselves what it meant to be a parent, to hold a child and stare in wonder at such a miracle.
Running helped swallow up the pain in a burning that was physical and somehow, more bearable. Faith hadn't ever been into the track and field aspect of training before. Balance, power, precision. She'd done all that with her Watcher and used the weight room in prison. But it was nothing like the feel of the wind against her face and the sound of her shoes hitting the pavement, pounding out the stiffness and tension from her nightmares while it soothed the aching void inside her. Even though it was completely futile to run and run and never leave Sunnydale, it felt like progress and that was enough to get her out of bed in the morning and into her running shoes.
It also calmed her enough to be around people other than Buffy and Dawn, something she needed if they were going to hold a full Scooby meeting as soon as Giles arrived. Glancing at her borrowed watch, she decided that he would probably be tucked into the couch at the Summers home with a cup of tea by now and waiting for the rest of the gang to arrive. She slowed to a walk, giving herself more time too cool down and a few blocks to collect her thoughts.
Things were going to change. Faith didn't need Slayer senses to know something was brewing. The dark green army trucks and sleek black sedans with tinted windows might as well have lit up the military's arrival in neon. They were here and they weren't going to hide this time. It was strangely comforting that even though the boots and guns had set up shop in the old Initiative headquarters, they were cutting holes in the ground for new skylights and the entrances, although well guarded, were in plain sight of the entire town of Sunnydale. Under the campus had been closed off and construction had begun deeper into the hills and tunnels toward the outskirts of the city. Less risk of a curious student setting foot where they shouldn't be that way.
The Watchers were starting to arrive in rented cars and Faith knew that in two days time, she would be facing the New Council. What she wanted was to leave town and never look back. What she needed was a pair of strong hands to hold her and tell her it would be all right. Neither was really an option and Faith was pretty sure that despite Xander's new woman's diminutive size, she wouldn't take too kindly to any move Faith might make. Not that she wanted anything from Xander. She shuddered a little at the memory. She was still avoiding him. Maybe she always would. It was just too weird, him having a front row seat to Faith Gone Evil and having a shovel wielding vampire to thank for living long enough to tell about it. Ugly times, ugly memories. She tried to avoid thinking about it and ended up avoiding him.
Sunlight bounced brightly off of the top of Xander's silver sedan, parked at the curb behind Willow's Nissan. Giles would already be inside with the others. Her step slowed again until she was nearly crawling down the sidewalk. Buffy had left a flat of pink flowers waiting next to the front walk, her tools and gloves sitting patiently beside them until she returned to her gardening. Faith wondered if taking up a hobby would help her deal with the insanity of her life but the image of trying to crochet or plant flowers didn't seem relaxing. Frustrating as hell but not relaxing.
Finally unable to prolong the agony any longer, Faith took a deep, fortifying breath and started up the steps. The front door opened to the sound of voices and laughter, pulling at something sad and painful deep inside her. As hard as they tried to pull her into their world, she would never belong and it hurt just a little to know she'd always be outside looking in.
"Faith! How was your run?" Buffy smiled cheerfully, waving her into the living room where the rest were sitting with fresh tea, coffee, and what looked like a box of bagels.
"Hey y'all." Faith managed a twisted smile, noting the flash of unease in Giles' eyes and the strangely sad look from the man next to him.
"This is Clair Iverson. He's the Head Watcher. Have a bagel. We even have cream cheese, many flavors." Buffy was in full chipper mode and Faith caught the sympathetic smile from Willow as she winced, reaching for a poppy seed bagel.
"Since I don't have to buy donuts to talk to Jane anymore and Willow was complaining about her hips." Xander grinned as Willow smacked his shoulder playfully. "Besides, load up on the spread and it's twice as fattening anyway."
"Glad to know you're thinking of our figures." Faith was pleased that her voice didn't sound as strangled as it had for the past weeks. Tucking herself into one of the armchairs, she turned to Iverson and eyed him suspiciously. "You're not here to kill me this time, right?"
"Of course not." Iverson didn't seem ruffled by the question and reached out to shake her hand firmly. "Pleased to finally meet you, Faith. I had the pleasure of meeting a friend of yours just before I left England."
She frowned, trying to think of anyone she knew in England. Actually, trying to think of anyone she considered a friend was easier since it was pretty short list.
"Goes by the name of Verek. I don't suppose you know what type of demon he is." His smile was a little more calculated this time and Faith recognized the subtle maneuverings of the game.
"Peaceful. That's all he told me. Works with portals and books. Well, before they blew up his bookstore anyhow." Faith shrugged and picked at her bagel absently. "Haven't had much luck with trusting humans so a demon's no problem in my book."
"Yes, I can see where you would be wary."
"You would." Faith turned her head to the side and smiled mockingly. "Seeing as how you sent Psycho Slayer here to kill everyone."
"Faith, that was the former Head Watcher." Giles intervened carefully.
"It's all right, Rupert. She wasn't here for my previous visit and I expected her to desire an explanation of sorts." Iverson relaxed into the couch, holding his teacup level. "Our goal, or at least my goal, with Cara and the other potentials was to prevent them from feeling the pain and the abandonment that you felt growing up. Some of them were pulled out of atrocious situations. Homes where they were neglected, abused, all but destroyed. We just wanted to help."
"Help," Faith parroted with disbelief, shaking his words away with a shrug. "Can't really say much. I haven't met her. But it doesn't sound like your plan worked."
"Do they ever?" There was a twinkle of humor in the man's eyes. "The best laid plans are simply that, plans. We couldn't know that Spike would kill you and bring you back to life. We couldn't know that he would beat Cara and that Buffy would send her home. And we couldn't know that she wouldn't come home. As for the wisdom of our plans. Perhaps we were wrong but we had to try. We always have to try."
"Whatever." She turned away, focusing on chewing the heavy bread.
"Well. Now that everyone's clear that no one's here to kill anyone." Xander stood up with a smile. "Willow and I have a surprise for everyone. Will?"
"Yeah. A surprise." Willow nodded, standing up at his side. "Cause you know that when vampires go poof...they...well, they go poof. All dusty and nothing left."
"Actually," Buffy interrupted, bagel halfway to her lips. "Vampire dust is great fertilizer. I put it on the flower beds." Surprised eyes stared at her and she laughed a little nervously. "Just so you know."
"I'm not gonna ask how you get vamp dust for the flower beds."
"She takes a tarp on patrol." Dawn spoke up with a mischievous grin. "I think she gets them to stand on it and then she stakes them. What? I've seen you coming home with it. Oh, and when there's a nest, she takes a bucket and a broom."
Xander was trying hard not to laugh. "The point we were trying to make is that they don't exactly leave behind something to bury and granted, there aren't a lot of vampires you'd want to remember at all but there's an exception to every rule, right? So Will and I have been trying to come up with the perfect memorial for a particular vamp and we finally decided on this one." With a flourish, he motioned to Willow and she pulled out a photograph of a large stone urn. "I had it put in next to Joyce's headstone and I figured we could take a scenic tour next if everyone's up to it."
Faith stayed back, waiting for the ohhs and ahhs to calm down before she uncurled enough to take the photograph from Willow's hands. It was almost two feet tall in cream and black marble, a classic hourglass shape. The top opening was barely covered by the beginning of what was probably a lush, flowering plant. In the bright light of the photograph, she could see the engraving on the wide center of the urn. William. Forever In Our Hearts.
"It's a little cheesy." Willow gnawed at her lower lip nervously. "It was pretty late when Xander and I were looking through the listings. But we figured everyone who saves the world should have something other than dust to show for it."
Almost choking on a piece of her bagel, Faith coughed and climbed out of the chair, handing the photo back to Willow and heading for the front door. "I'll meet you there," she called over her shoulder.
"Don't you want a ride?" Buffy asked her, a step behind.
"I'll walk." What she meant was that she would run.
Taking off across the lawn, Faith pushed herself into a hard sprint, trying to leave the aching in her heart behind at the Summers house. It meant something that they had done it. It meant everything that they had done it. She wasn't sure what hurt the most, the reminder of him or that they cared enough to do something like this. Tearing down the sidewalk, she lept garbage cans and hedges as she twisted through the streets to the cemetery where Joyce was laid to rest. She'd only been there once on patrol with Buffy but she remembered it.
Sure enough, she recognized the familiar headstone and next to it was the urn. Heart pounding and gasping for air, she sunk to the lawn in front of the urn and stared at it for a long time. The flowers were closed tightly despite the bright sun but looked as though they would be white when they unfurled among the thick, dark leaves. Plucking a small plastic flag from the dirt, she smiled as she read that it was a night blooming plant. Xander and Willow had outdone themselves. With a smile, she noted that the Is were shaped like railroad spikes and as soon as she had caught her breath she began to laugh. They would probably think she'd lost her mind when they arrived to find her rolling on the grass with laughter.
The stone was cold beneath her fingers. He had never been cold. Cool, yes. Cold, never. Here it was. A monument to Spike. The only physical reminder except for the twin leather jackets belonging to Buffy and Dawn and a few photographs. This was it. All that was left. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Tracing his name again, she wondered what would be left of her after she was gone. Would she even warrant an urn with her name on it? Would there be anyone left behind to mourn her?
Faith stretched out on the freshly dewed lawn, fingers trailing over the base of the urn as she watched a ladybug crawl through the grass. The morning sunlight was warm on her shoulders and legs, comforting. She wondered if it would feel strange to have a human lover again. Startled, she shook away the thought. Not ready. Not yet. Maybe she would never be ready to find another man. To let go of the past long enough to move on. It was one of the reasons she'd been so adamant about the government not getting any children from her. She wasn't ready for the sex. Maybe not for a very long time. Maybe not ever.
Her breath caught in her throat and she closed her eyes tightly against the sudden pricking of tears. For the first time since she'd gotten back, they refused to acknowledge her attempts to quell them and she turned her face toward the earth as they flooded her eyes and trickled down her cheeks. Shuddering, sobbing with both pain and relief, she tightened into a ball and willed the sun to melt the ice inside her heart. She didn't want to be alone forever.
Glass sparkled, the marble floor sparkled, the woman her Watcher hated sparkled. Cara followed them, keeping quiet and letting her eyes roam around the spacious lobby of the building. Cameras, guards. She picked out at least two plain-clothes guards, one of which was only questionably human and took note of the nervous glances directed at Lilah Morgan. The casual banter between Lilah and Wesley had fallen on confused ears as she tried to straighten out the twisted synopsis of their history that Fred had given her. It was clear that whatever electricity had been between the two hadn't ceased to sizzle even after Lilah's death and Wesley's return to the dating circuit. Cara hadn't asked what a dating circuit was, she felt ridiculous enough with all of the questions she had already posed to the physicist.
She knew that something had happened to make Wesley hate Lilah passionately and he had warned Cara not to trust anyone within the walls of Wolfram and Hart's main office. If they attempted to do anything she wasn't comfortable with, he gave her complete permission to break bones and even kill if she had to. Just get out, he had said. He would be waiting for her in the third floor library. Since Lilah wanted to know what the Watchers had done almost as much as Wesley did, it was possible that Cara wasn't in any danger but he had cautioned her to stay sharp.
"Alright." Lilah's polished voice cut into Cara's study of the lobby. "We'll just get you down to observation and see what we can do about helping you."
Wesley's eyes warned her silently and his fingers brushed against her arm as he motioned for her to follow the woman into an elevator. "Good luck."
Cara watched him until the doors had closed, memorizing the tension in his shoulders and the concerned set of his jaw. Once alone with the strange woman who was dead but not a ghost, she straightened her shoulders and took note of the elevator's construction. There were two columns of buttons and more floors than she had remembered counting outside the building. Frowning, she touched the empty space at the top of the columns and wondered if there was supposed to be another button to maintain the symmetry of the column design.
"Good instincts." Lilah was smiling. "How does it feel being one of the three remaining Slayers?"
"The same," Cara answered simply. Nothing had changed for her.
"Must be terrible knowing that your family is dead. Since they carried the Slayer genes as well."
She tipped her head slightly to the right, as though it would make more sense if she looked at Lilah sideways. "My family."
"Two sisters and a brother." Lilah opened the folder in her hands and held out a picture of a smiling family.
Cara stared down at the photograph, almost not recognizing her own face in the scene. A tall man stood at her side, one hand on her shoulder and another around a younger girl. To the right was an elegant woman with dark brown eyes and a touch of gray in her dark hair. Cara herself was in the center, her hair long and falling over her shoulders in waves. The two girls looked very similar and the boy, while quite a bit younger, had a thick mop of chestnut hair that matched the rest of the family. Her fingers trembled a little as she touched the face on the piece of paper. She had a family. Like Buffy, like the family in Ohio. She had two sisters and a brother. Had. They were dead. She hadn't been able to save them, hadn't know to even try. Handing the photo back to Lilah, she focused on the display above her, watching as it ticked away numbers on their journey.
"You probably don't remember much about them." Lilah looked pleased with herself. "Or anything at all if Lorne was right about you."
"It doesn't matter," Cara answered, her voice sharp and biting in spite of her attempts to keep control. She didn't remember and it seemed strange for a Slayer to have a family. If Buffy wasn't unusual, if all Slayers had families then how could she be sure the rest of the Council's training wasn't a lie?
"You're right. It doesn't matter. Nothing in this world really does. But mankind keeps holding on." She paused for a moment, searching through her handbag. "I'll let you in on a secret, just between us girls. Life may not matter when you're alive but it can look pretty damn good after you're dead."
Cara felt a sting in left her arm and instinctively reached for the wound. Muscles began to seize almost immediately and she felt the numbness spread through her body as her heart pumped the toxin through her arteries. Stumbling, she tried to steady herself against the wall as her knees buckled. Crumpled on the elevator floor, she stared up at Lilah hatefully. With each passing second, she could feel all strength draining from her limbs until they were heavier than lead and entirely unresponsive.
"Just a really good muscle relaxant, Slayer." Lilah tucked the injection gun back into her bag. "You'll be wide awake the whole time but unable to move or call out. We couldn't risk not having your complete cooperation for such a sensitive procedure."
The doors whispered as they opened and Cara watched two men in white lab coats roll a gurney into the elevator. They picked her up roughly and strapped her down at her wrists, ankles, chest, and thighs. She could only stare upward as rows of fluorescent lights passed through her line of sight. Fighting against the chemicals in her blood, she tried to move. Anything. Her eyelids got heavier and finally closed, blocking out the light and leaving her dependent on her remaining senses. The fabric was rough against her skin and she could hear the wheels slipping against the floor. When the motion stopped, she could feel people around her accompanied by the soft click of metal against metal. Voices in the background and the hum of electrical equipment.
"It's for your own good, of course. Angel's the boss and when he says jump, we say how high." Lilah's bitter voice caught her undivided attention. "And we've got to do something about those scars and the butch haircut. Aren't you lucky to have such influential friends?"
Cara's skin began to tingle with the feeling of a thousand crawling insects and her scalp burned. A low, rasping voice was muttering in a language she recognized as demonic but didn't understand. Something tugged her hair and she wished her eyes would open so that she could see her attacker. Wished she could move her hands and break loose from the straps. Wished she knew how to kill Lilah Morgan. Fred had mentioned a contract, binding even after death. The tingling continued, spreading down her arms and legs until her whole body felt as though she'd been struck by lightning.
"Let's see what's in that brain of yours." A new voice. Male. Nasal. Metal clamped over her forehead and circled her skull. She could vaguely feel the prick and pressure on her arm that could have been an IV similar to the one she'd had in the hospital in Ohio. Cold plastic circles were pressed against her temples and chest beneath the t-shirt, sticking to her skin. More voices, more chanting, more whispers she didn't understand. Was she supposed to be frightened? Was this part of the deal to help her? When should she get worried? Slayer instinct had kicked into overdrive and regardless of her languid muscles, she was beginning to feel the tension. She couldn't move, couldn't fight back. All she could do was listen and wait.
"You were right, Ms. Morgan. She's almost a clean slate."
"What about past memories?"
"They're completely submerged and disassociated. I can extract them entirely or I can leave them undisturbed."
"Extract them. I don't want to take any chances."
"Very well. Do you want to keep the rest?"
"I've been told she's not all that different from me." Lilah was nearly purring with excitement. "Resourceful. Ruthless."
"Abstract concepts like mercy and compassion are typically the last to be learned. I don't think she's reached that point yet. You want to keep the groundwork then?"
"Of course. I'll need her training if I'm going to be a Slayer." The woman's laughter sent a shiver of fear through Cara.
"I'll get started then. Removing her old memories will probably take an hour."
"What do you need from me?"
"We've got everything we need. Congratulations, Ms. Morgan. I think you'll be very happy with our work."
"I'm sure I will." A cold hand closed around Cara's arm, stroking her skin softly. "Before I leave you in the capable hands of the doctors, I'll explain what's going to happen. I'm sure you'll feel much better. Actually, you won't feel anything at all after we're done because, well, you won't be you anymore. You'll be me. But I'm getting ahead of myself." Metal sliding against ceramic tile screeched up from the floor and Cara felt Lilah move closer, sitting beside her. "Miss Burkle, Fred as you know her, designed this program as a treatment for Alzheimer's. The idea is to store memories, emotions, knowledge, everything that makes a person who they are; and when the brain starts to degrade, it can be rewired. Neural pathways reburned and memory restored. What was lost is now found. We've had amazing results in the trial phase. Congratulations on being our first patient in for a complete overhaul."
There was a long pause, Cara strained to hear what was happening around her. When Lilah began to speak again, her voice was soft and almost sad. "It used to be different, you know. Wesley and I. He tried so hard to save me, to give me peace. Again and again he tried. Always failed, of course, or I wouldn't still be here. A glorified secretary for Angel and the rest of them. I run their errands, make sure everything is working smoothly so that they can operate Wolfram and Hart from that pathetic warehouse. When they need equipment, security, anything at all. Lilah comes running. New windows, help with a case. They still love all that detective work and demon hunting." Cara wanted to pull away from the woman's touch, away from her cold, dead fingers.
"It was perfect before Cordelia woke up. I think it might have worked out between Wes and I, well, if it weren't for the being dead part. But I know he loved me. I don't know when he stopped." More silence. "But it can be perfect again. I've seen the way he looks at you. You're precious to him. You're his Slayer. I can work with that, turn it into something more. In time. Not as Lilah Morgan because he's convinced himself that she stands for all of his past failures. But what he admires in you is what he used to admire in me. I know him and he may fret and worry about your lack of mercy or whatever it is but when he looks at you he sees someone strong, powerful. I can see it. And when your body is mine, I'll see it again."
Cara heard Lilah retreat and felt the man brush past her, adjusting the probes around her head and attaching a few more. She could hear the faint sound of cables brushing together and a series of beeps. More whispering in the unknown language. In her mind's eye, she saw the woman from the photograph smiling and laughing as she waved. Images flashed by her as she tried to grab hold of them, tried to understand why something inside her cried out against losing them. Why it hurt to have them ripped from the depths of her mind where they had been buried. Faces, names, voices came floating back and then they were gone. Paul, Maria, Julie. Brother, sisters. There had been a golden retriever name Bitty because she'd been the runt of the litter. The first day she'd come to the Academy and met the other girls just like her. The first day she'd known that she wasn't alone in the world. She'd had long hair then and had been anxious to learn everything they could teach her about the terrifying new world she had seen. Training sessions where the past had gradually faded away into the dark and the letters from home had become meaningless before they stopped altogether.
Impotently, she raged against the destruction of the past she hadn't known and the family she would never see again. Hot tears slipped from the corner of her eyes as she realized that she could have been like Buffy, could have belonged and understood the world. Everything she had been trying so hard to make fit, to find the pieces and finish the puzzle. A sister to braid her hair and make brownies with. Her mother made banana cream pies. She'd had a mother. A mother who had loved her. Breath caught in her throat and the soft whimper reached her ears.
"Even the demons cry. They cling to the past so fiercely," the man said softly to whoever else was in the room and a clammy hand stroked her cheek.
"Every last one. She will be you, Ms. Morgan. The last step is to merge your essence, your consciousness with her body."
Cara felt the man fiddle with some of the probes, tensed with anticipation and fear of the unknown. It started slowly. Memories that weren't hers unfolded behind her eyelids like a movie playing through her mind. She pulled away from them, horrified and fascinated as she saw herself through Lilah's eyes. Yesterday. Felt the strange mixture of regret, anger, and longing as Wesley bent his head over a book and the flash of jealousy as he smiled toward Cara. The day before. She watched as Lilah moved through the offices and hallways of Wolfram and Hart, filed memos, arranged for the window installation at Angel Investigations, and stared long and hard out the window at the city around her. Cara saw it as though it was through her own eyes, but held fast to the conviction that they weren't her memories. No more real than a dream.
A younger voice, also male, thundered through the darkness. "Something's wrong."
"It doesn't take root instantly. Like a donated organ, the mind fights against memories that don't belong but eventually it will give up and accept the change." The doctor's voice sounded hollow, as if it was bouncing through a tube somewhere that led to the outside world.
She noticed that she had regained some control over her eyelids, enough to close them tightly against the chaos in her mind. Fingers stretched just slightly and she felt the pull of the IV needle against the back of her hand. Conjuring up the images of Sunnydale, of Buffy and Xander, she focused on those and ignored the parade of Lilah. In her mind's eye, she traced the pattern etched on her Xander Harris Special, so intimate with the twists and curves that she could reproduce it without effort. If she concentrated hard enough, she could feel the grooved wood beneath her fingertip.
"It's not taking." The doctor sounded puzzled. "She's fighting it."
"That's not possible."
"Increase the dosage."
Twisting her wrist was the most movement she could obtain but it was enough to jostle the needle loose, surgical tape giving millimeter by millimeter as she rocked her hand from side to side almost imperceptibly. Her skin stung as the needle slipped out of the vein, dripping onto her hand as the medication continued to flow. The muttering had increased to a constant buzz in her ears and she struggled to keep focused on her own memories, on what was real. Forcing down the images of Angel, of Wesley, and the seemingly endless stream of information about Wolfram and Hart, she pulled out one of the vague memories of her training at the Academy. It was hazy and fragmented, one of the last that had been deemed valuable enough to keep, but it held the information she needed about pushing all thought out of her mind. Anything but the fight. Everything but the Slayer.
Her thumb caught against the wrist restraint. She kept pulling. They weren't as tight as they should have been to hold a Slayer. Idiots. Vaguely she recognized that some of the rage and hate seeping into her wasn't her own but she didn't care. Anger was power when there was nothing else left. Leather slipped over her skin, muscles stiff and heavy. Testing her eyelids, she found that she could open them just enough to let the light in. There was movement behind her and to the left. Someone was typing. Lilah was on the right, silk stockings whispering as one leg bounced restlessly. For a moment, the new memories crashed to the forefront as Cara watched her relationship with Wesley turn sour, fascinated as time sped backwards and she saw the group join Wolfram and Hart. Wesley's attempt to break her contract, her decapitation and her death. Cordelia had killed Lilah? That didn't make any sense. Rain of fire. The memories before were strangely happy. Witty banter, sex, Wesley. Something new for Lilah. Emotion. Cara struggled to push them away again and turned her focus back to freeing herself.
Energy trickled into her limbs and Lilah started humming. Killing the bitch for good was definitely a future goal. The doctors were whispering something in the background and she heard Lilah's shoes click as the woman got to her feet.
"What do you mean, it's not working?" Lilah demanded.
"It may take longer than we thought," the doctor soothed. "Since she's been conditioned before she has a greater resistance to any sort of neural transfer. It will work but we don't want to take up too much of your valuable time."
Lilah sighed. "You're right. Call me when she's ready."
"Very well."
Cara inched her hand out of the restraint, able to open her eyes almost completely for brief periods of time before they became too heavy again. Everything was white and gray, with heavy hatch marks between the ceiling tiles and the gleam of polished glass and flooring. Without the constant stream of chemicals pouring into her blood, the effects of the muscle relaxant were fading away. She ignored Lilah's rise through the corporate ladder of the law firm, her encounters with Angel, and the excitement over being accepted into one of the most prestigious firms in the dimension. Footsteps sounded from several feet away and she pulled her other hand through the restraint carefully. Glancing down, she watched her hands move shakily over her stomach toward the buckle of the strap across her chest. Fabric slipped, caught, and tugged free as she unhooked the metal clasp. She sat up and reached for the headband simultaneously. Fumbling with the strap over her thighs, she yanked on the probes around her skull with her right hand, wincing as she pulled the needles out of the skin at her temples. The flood of memories stopped.
"Hey!" One of the men behind her shouted as she reached for her ankles.
A hand clamped down on her shoulder, trying to push her down again. Grabbing hold of the IV needle that had been in her hand, she twisted around and sunk it into soft flesh under his chin. Screaming and clutching his neck, the doctor stumbled away and she finished unbuckling the restraints on her ankles. Her knees almost gave way as she swung her legs off of the gurney and cautiously stood up. The second man was scrambling away from her, avoiding the trio of demons in long maroon cloaks who were chanting in the corner. Blood was dripping down the sides of her face but she ignored it as she staggered toward the escaping man, grabbing his shoulders and hurling him awkwardly back toward the demons. The muttering faded away as the demon trio disappeared and he crashed to the floor, staring up at her with wide, terrified eyes.
Leaving him cowering in the corner, she kept one hand on the wall as she limped through the white hallways to the elevator. She knew where to go. Knew every nook and cranny of Wolfram and Hart, every room, every floor, where to look for the escape tunnels, and where to find all its dirtiest secrets. All she wanted was the third floor supply closet. Almost sinking to the floor as the elevator doors closed, she concentrated on her breathing and tried to sort through the disorder in her brain. Numbly, she wondered if it would have been better to let Lilah take her body. Had stopping the transfer midway caused more damage? Was she broken even more rather than fixed? The world didn't seem to make any more sense now than it had before. As the memories began to take root, she noticed that they were distant, dream-like. Someone else's life. Someone else's history. But the emotions felt real. Hate, pain, love, fear, anger. They were all real and they all had names.
Gripping the doorway, she blinked against the change of lighting as the elevator dinged her arrival on the third floor. The first time she had staked a vampire; fear and excitement at the same time. The strange fuzzy feeling at the Welcome party Buffy and Dawn had given her was pleasure. Tracking the vampire packs was determination. Realization of her near murder of Xander Harris and the rest of the Sunnydale group. Guilt. Anger toward the Council. She almost laughed as the pieces finally began to fall into place and she understood. For the first time in her own memory, she understood.
It wasn't pretty.
The world was bright and harsh and painful. People were cruel and vicious. They lied, cheated, stole, murdered. Staggering under the weight of Lilah's sins, Cara pulled herself down the hallway into the storage closet, searching out the passageway to the escape tunnels. Just get out. Just go. Out and away from the screaming in her head before her own voice joined the chorus of guilt and pain. Down into the darkness, the belly of the beast, into the shadow land where atrocities were buried and ignored. Where mankind hid behind justice and twisted the law to suit their own purposes, to further themselves and those who lived in the darkness with them.
Clutching at her head, as though it would stop the endless parade of wrong and worse, she was startled to see long dark hair fall down to frame her face. In the dim light, she stared at her arms and the smooth, unscarred skin that had been marred with demon souvenirs hours earlier. Lilah had taken her past. The bitch had taken her trophies, her only record of battles won and demons killed. The only thing that had been real to Cara. Her feet kept moving because they didn't know what else to do. She didn't know what to do. Everywhere she turned, she saw Lilah. And Wesley. Wesley's face, his eyes, burning and hard with pain and fury. She knew. Knew what he had done, what Angel had tried to do. She knew it all. The last seven years since Angel had set foot in Los Angeles and rewrote the age-old game between good and evil. She knew about Darla and Connor. And Jasmine. She could see it. All of it.
It made her sick.
The lies. The pain. The world around her that she had never understood and now that she did, she wanted to go back, crawl into blissful ignorance where she was just a Slayer and all that mattered was the death toll she left behind. Concrete cracked, splintered, and screeched as her fist plowed into the wall of the tunnel. She'd believed that were people worth protecting, that there was such a thing as innocents. No such creature lived on this planet, breathed the air, and walked on two human legs. There was no innocence. Only lies. Only rage and hate. It was all they deserved.
She didn't recognize the anguished screaming as her own until she ran out of breath and had to inhale, raging into the tunnel for the teeming, ugly, grubby little insects called human beings. How had she thought they were worth saving? One girl or three against the evil, undead things that never stopped coming. It had seemed strangely futile before and now that she had the depths of Wolfram and Hart's depravity in her head, she knew it was worse than that. Futile didn't come close to describing the irony of one Slayer against untold numbers, untold evil. She was holding the tide at low, turning back time, the weight of the world on her shoulders and it would only get heavier with every monster she killed.
Trembling with exhaustion and the after effects of the chemicals in her blood, she fumbled through the darkness with blank, unseeing eyes. Memories flitted through her mind's eye and she struggled to label them. Hers. Not hers. Cara's. Lilah's. Real. Illusion. She couldn't tell them apart, they blurred and spread together until she couldn't tell where one ended and the next began. Moving was better than standing still, fighting was better than letting go.
Light burned into her eyes painfully as she pulled herself out of the tunnels and into the sun. The whole world was bathed in sunlight, in the warm comfort of energy as though it deserved to flaunt its hypocrisy to the heavens themselves. For long, quiet minutes, she watched the cars rolling down the street at the end of the alley she had crawled up into. Cars full of people oblivious to the world that crept around them when the night came and unaware of the pain they caused each other. Trapped in their own minds, their own worlds. They worried about the neighbor's dog. They worried about bushes dropping berries.
Envy hung heavy in her chest and filled her throat with bitterness. But it wasn't hers. It was Lilah's. Envy for every living being who didn't know the truth, who didn't see the monsters under the bed, for every soul that wasn't bound to a contract by blood and power. Trapped forever in an existence that was one more vicious cycle of have and have not. Coming back from the Hell had cost Lilah everything she had never dared hope for and all she had valued. She signed the contract because she thought Wolfram and Hart could give her the world, but she hadn't realized until it was too late that the world around her didn't contain a clause for the one thing she wanted. To be with him. The attachment had been unexpected and undesirable at first, just a job, just a roll in the hay to sway Wesley over to the dark side. She tried to taint him only to find herself contaminated and even after it was long over and she was dead, it hurt to see the disdain and the bitterness in his eyes.
Cara shook the thoughts away, concentrating on taking one step at a time. The roar of engines was deafening in her already ringing ears, the world a constant writhing mass of colors and shapes. She kept walking, holding back, afraid that any moment she would break into a run and never stop, never look back until she reached the ends of the world. For the first time, she really looked at the people around her. Really saw them. Faces, eyes, hands, arms, feet. She recognized shoes, handbags. Knew the names of the designers and could guess income ranges for every person she saw. No longer just innocents. They had names, families, bank accounts, homes, and goldfish. They took their children to day care centers and parents to nursing homes. They wept, bled, bruised, and laughed just like every other human being on the planet. Except her. What was left for her now?
She could be a Slayer. Spend endless nights and endless days fighting a battle that could never be won. Or she could return to Wolfram and Hart to finish the neural transfer and cease to be Cara. She could allow Lilah to take over her body and her life entirely. Disappear into the crowd around her and find her own way. Wesley and the others would be looking for her. Lilah and the entirety of Wolfram and Hart would be searching as well. It was only a matter of time before one of them found her and she didn't know what would happen then. Would they take her back and try to undo what Lilah had done or would they try to finish it?
Blinking against the light, she retreated to the alley again, curling up against the wall behind a pile of crates to hide from passing glances. Lilah wouldn't give up. Wesley would be furious. And they would all be afraid of her because now her mind held all of their darkest secrets and she knew that they already considered her on the short side of sanity. For all their kindness and all their attempts to help her, they were still afraid of what would happen if she turned against them. Wolfram and Hart couldn't let her just slip away with Lilah's knowledge. The world was falling apart and there was nothing Cara could do to stop it.
She closed her eyes tightly to block out the colors and lights of a world in which she belonged less and less with every passing day. It was all she could to do to huddle against the brick of the building next to her and wait for them to find her. They would drag her out of the alley and finish what they had started. Eventually there would be nothing of Cara Sewell left but a face and a name in Lilah's desk drawer. Her hair, now miraculously long, spilled over her bare arms and down her back. From Lilah's memories, she knew that the Council had stripped away her family and they had been dead to Cara long before being murdered. She could see the pictures in her mind, the bits and pieces and random facts that Lilah had been able to discover about the third Slayer. It was all that was left of her. The real her. Whoever that was.
She didn't know who she was. Hadn't even known to ask the question until Buffy had untied her and let her go. Her head rose with a snap and her eyes flew open. Mercy. Buffy Summers had shown her mercy. The definition of mercy had always been filed away in her brain but she had never felt it before, never really understood what it meant. Slayers weren't built for pity or compassion and she had heard Wesley tell Angel that she had none, that she didn't even understand what it was. Lilah didn't have the capacity for mercy but she knew what it was and she could see through Lilah's eyes, watching as Angel and Wesley fought for their friends and each other. As Angel tried to save his son, only to be too late. The whole drama of humanity had played out for Lilah again and again in the microcosm of a souled vampire's world. If she didn't think too hard, if she just let the memories circle and land in her mind, she could almost piece them together and push them into a meaningful pattern.
Rubbing the heels of her palms against her eyes, she fought back the confusion. It had to make sense. She had to make it make sense. All the pieces were there plus a few more compliments of Ms. Morgan and now she just had to fit them together into a coherent picture. Somehow. Head aching with the Herculean effort of forcing conflicting timelines and memories into a semblance of order, she buried her face in her arms again, letting the drape of her hair shield her from the outside world. Deep down, she knew she was lost and she knew that the damage done to her psyche was irreversible and probably more than she could handle. But she had to fight. She was a Slayer, a warrior, and war was all that was real in this world.
"Crime scene here yet?" The latex gloves snapped as Spike pulled them on, stepping under the yellow tape and following the younger officer into the warehouse.
"Photographer's here. Rest of the unit is about fifteen minutes out." He was tall, thin as a reed, and a little green around the edges.
"Where's your partner?" Gage glanced around the dark rooms.
"Out back. Throwing up," the officer answered softly, motioned them toward the back room. "We haven't touched anything but the light switch. I'll let you know when crime scene gets here."
"Thanks." Spike raised one eyebrow toward his partner and headed to the only lighted room in the building. Occasionally, the bright flash of the photographer's camera spilled out through the doors and windows of the inner office.
"Took in a load of furniture this afternoon." Gage frowned at the shipping log in his hands. "Who called it in?"
"Night manager coming to lock up." Spike pulled out the notes he'd gotten from the arriving officer, amazed that the rookie had been with it enough to do that. "They've got him holed up for us when we're ready." They stepped through the doorway and Spike heard Gage nearly loose his grip on the heavy binder.
"My God," Gage breathed.
Spike was rooted to the spot, unable to move his legs. Three bodies lay spread out on the floor funeral style, their hands clasped over their chests and eyes staring upward peacefully. Blood spattered their clothing and the right side of their necks had been ripped open in two jagged wounds. He could hear the blood pounding in his chest as he finally jerked his feet from the floor and stepped around the first body. It always took him once around the room to actually look at the faces of the dead.
"Hey guys. I've found six so far." The photographer was a petite woman with gunmetal gray hair and a cast iron stomach. She was gravely chewing her gum as she continued to snap pictures of the room. "Two more in the back and one between the desks."
Nodding, Spike motioned for Gage to take the right side of the room while he took the left. Careful not to touch anything, he slowly began the sweep of the room looking for anything that could potentially help them discover who had killed these people. He was almost too dazed by the sight and the nagging feeling of familiarity tugging at the back of his mind to actually see the world around him. Forcing himself to focus, he jotted down anything that seemed out of place, taking notes of the items covering the desktops and where the furniture was situated. Drawing a diagram quickly, he marked each garbage can and made a note to sift through the contents.
"Guy in a suit. Woman dressed like a cheap hooker." Gage shook his head, bending over one of the bodies and checking the suit's pockets with the tip of a pen. "What are they all doing here? Can't imagine them all knowin' each other."
Spike knelt at the threshold to the second door of the office, noting a trail of blood on the doorframe and a few drops outside the office. Scuff marks on the wooden walkway. Perhaps something or someone being dragged. "Maybe dumped here. Back door was forced. Dead bolt ripped clear through the wood." Motioning to the damaged door, he tested the hinges and found them barely hanging on. He moved back into the office and started his second walk through. This time he would have to look at the bodies.
The first face sent adrenaline rocketing through his veins and he felt his face pale in spite of the racing of his heart. He knew that face. Had seen it in his dreams night after night. It was always the same, the man pleading for his life before he sunk his teeth into the man's throat and drained him dry. Clenching his teeth tightly, Spike checked the man's neck. He almost passed out when he saw what could have been bite marks in the man's flesh. Next victim. Same memories, a woman this time, trying to run away and sobbing. Her mascara was smeared down her cheeks and he couldn't bring himself to look at her neck. He knew what he would find.
"Davis? You alright?" Gage whispered softly at his side.
Spike shook his head slowly, hands shaking as he stood up, searching the room again. "There's one more. A little girl about ten. Brown hair."
"How do you know?"
"I just know." Spike pulled away and continued canvassing the room.
Gage touched his arm gently, motioning upward. "Spike."
The little girl had been tied to one of the overhead support beams, her head angling unnaturally to the side and a small porcelain doll strapped to her chest with a blind fold over its eyes. They were all there. Every victim from his dreams the past week was in that office. Dead. And he couldn't say for sure that he hadn't killed them.
Miss Edith speaks out of turn. She's a bad example and will have no cakes today.
"Spike? Spike? You okay, man?"
Spike shook the voice away, still transfixed by the sight above them. "We'll have to take her down last."
"Who's Miss Edith?" Gage was watching him with concern.
"No one. It's nothing." Spike shook it away.
"You said, Miss Edith. Is that the girl? How did you know there was a little girl?"
"Now you're smoking?" Gage shut the door behind him.
"Sound like my mum." Spike turned toward the bay, staring out over the glistening dark waters.
"Who's Miss Edith?"
"It's the fucking doll." Spike shook his head. "I knew there was a little girl because I've seen her. Seen every last one of 'em. Every one. Watched 'em die in my goddamn dreams for a week now."
"And the doll? Where does that fit in?"
"I don't know." They were silent, Spike coughing only slightly as he raised the cigarette to his lips and breathed in the smoke. He watched it curl and rise as he exhaled, feeling a lifetime worth of deja vu.
"Maybe you've got some sort of psychic connection to the killer."
"Maybe I am the bloody killer." Spike shook his head and ground the cigarette out with the toe of his boot. "They weren't killed here. Dragged and dumped. I can tell you where each one of them was killed though. The street names, everything. I can hear them in my head and see them every time I close my eyes."
"Davis." Gage put one hand on Spike's shoulder. "You're my partner and you're my friend. I can't believe you killed those people. I know you and you're not a killer. Not like that. I don't care how crazy it sounds, there has to be another explanation. Just don't crack up on me now."
"I don't know who I am anymore, Gage. What I'm doing, why I'm here. I'm so fucking lost." Spike clenched his fists tightly and shook his head. "It's like I'm trapped in a dream. Only this is the dream and the world where I kill people is what's real. I don't know what's real."
"Talk to Dr. Coleman."
"Alright." Spike took a deep breath.
"I've got your back, man. You know that."
"I know. Thanks." Spike tried to smile, still shaken and horrified by the carnage inside the warehouse. The dead bodies that he couldn't prove to himself hadn't been dragged there by his own two hands. Only the doll, Miss Edith, didn't make any sense. It was a message, he knew that much, and he wondered if it was meant for him alone. Maybe he was connected to the killer, seeing through his dreams what they were doing. Maybe it wasn't impossible. Dr. Coleman would probably pull him from the case and put him under observation. If there was evidence that he had killed those people, Crime Scene would find it and he'd be just another cautionary tale of the cop who let the pressure drive him mad. Gage would fight for him because he would never believe Spike had done it.
"Stop." Gage's usually playful voice was harsh. "I know what you're doing, so stop it. You're not the judge, jury, and executioner. I won't let you blame yourself for this."
"Even if it wasn't me." Spike turned back to the warehouse, smiling at his partner's insight. "If it is something as crazy as having a psychic connection to the killer. I should have tried to find out, I should have tried to save them."
"You're going to try now. We're going to stop them before this happens again. But I need you with me." He stopped Spike and took hold of his shoulders firmly. "We're going to go in there and process this scene just like we do every other one and we're going to catch the son of a bitch who did this. Freaky visions or whatever, this is just another case. Only this time, it stays at work. You go home at night, kick up your feet, and have a beer. You've got to relax, Davis."
"Fine. Let's just get it over with. Gonna be three in the bloody morning before we get out of here anyway."