Summary: Xander starts to pick up the pieces. That is, if other people don't start picking them up for him.
Crossover Berserk, minor reference to an anime series, and a minor references to a video game. There is a virtual cookie for the person who figures out the video game reference.
Disclaimer: I don't own what other people do.
Feedback: (I don't write this part -- you do! Think of it as the audience participation aspect.)
Co-author: Chandra Bridges
Pre-fic Comments:
Last time I checked, there were about 2,246 members to this group. I'm starting to think that 2,240 of them have me killfiled. I know I'm a pretty bad author, but am I that bad?
"There are those who think that life Has nothing left to chance With a host of holy horrors To direct our aimless dance A planet of playthings We dance on the strings Of powers we cannot perceive."
"Free Will" by Rush, from Permanent Waves
As Xander and Larry had their 'little' conversation regarding the sudden revision of the pecking order at SunnyHell High, another individual was observing the free entertainment.
'Well that was an interesting sight; it seems that another person kept a few extras from last night as well. His leftovers seem to be a bit more extreme than mine, though. The Major and I seem to fit together quite well in most respects, mind you. One thing I have to do is check over the finances at home, from the Major's memories it was an absolute nightmare getting everything taken care of after her parents death. Around here with all the animal attacks - who knows when my parents will be next. Besides knowing /my/ luck, daddy may have been a little creative in his income tax claims.'
She started to walk towards Xander to help him, but then she stopped herself.
'What am I doing? He's the class clown, the joke, the entertainment. I know it's just a mask, it's always been a mask. I doubt even Willow sees passed it, or that she knows it exists. But I guess it takes a player to know a player. The class princess - no let's be honest here - the class bitch is nothing more than a mask that her parents expect to see. A walking, talking status symbol - proving to everyone else that the Chase family is SunnyDale's elite.'
But was it really just the mask that bothered her, or was it the little voice belonging to the Major - saying 'Danger here, leave it alone'. Perhaps it would be better that way, better for him and better for her. She could keep her mask for awhile longer.
She turned and walked away, leaving Xander to deal with his demons.
A crash could be heard through one of the arcing halls of the Powers That Be.
"That insignificant little worm just screwed up over fifty years worth of planning. He dies now!"
"Take a step back for a moment. Don't do anything hastily. As the mortals say, there is more than one way how to skin a cat. If we can't kill him, we can remove him from play using another method."
"What method?"
"It's quite simple. We arrange for 'The One Who Sees' to see more than he should."
"Perfect. He reacts and the Slayer herself does the job for us. Let's get started with the arrangements."
"Hello, Brother. I hear you've been annoying the Pricks that Be again, can I help?"
"When did Mother let you out? I thought she was keeping you close to home after your last prank on the Old Man."
"I snuck out. Had to see what my favorite goody-goody brother was up to."
"Lovely."
"The new boy you picked up seems interesting enough. He's got a mean nasty streak to him, you gonna let him play a bit?"
"It's up to him. You know that, I don't work like the others. If he wants to do something - he can do it without me interfering all the time. I'm not a puppet master. Things work out so much better when the mortals make the choice for themselves, than just ending up drafted."
"Whatever works for you, Brother. Me I'm more partial to chaos and mayhem with a side order of bloodshed. Haven't had a good massacre in ages, everything is so boring now. You sure I can't borrow your boy for awhile, I'll be good I promise."
"No, Brother. The Pricks are enough of a problem as it is now, I don't need to add more fuel to the fire as it is."
"Alan, have today's exorcism for Summer Land cancelled. Also, contact the boys and have them collect the warding amulets prior to Miss Summer's rounds tonight. I have a little experiment I want to try with the Harris boy."
"I'll get right on it sir."
"Who's the broad playing with her dollies," a demon asked Willy.
Willy the proud owner/bartender/part-time punching bag of Willy's Bar looked over at the table in back corner, where what appeared to be a full blown tea party was taking place.
"You must be new in town," Willy commented, looking up from where he was cleaning a glass. The less he saw, the less people could pull out of him later.
"Just arrived last night, missed all the fun I heard you guys had. All those kiddies getting turned into their costumes would have been quite the sight to see."
"Where abouts you from originally then," Willy asked, conversationally. Shady deals were one thing, but general information was always good for a few bucks.
"South Ashfield, had to leave town in a bit of a hurry. It was getting a little to weird around there, and this is coming from a demon."
"What happened? As far as I know your breed can pretty much handle anything as long as you consider it to be interesting?"
"Besides a dead serial killer wandering around who thinks an apartment is his mother, plus several homicidal ghosts wandering around, a cult that gives me the shivers, and to top it all off some norm got locked up in his apartment!"
"Got locked in his apartment? What did he do, forget his keys?"
"Not quite, you know the freak who thought that apartment was his mother; the apartment the norm got locked into was that guy's mother! Trick is that cult and freak where trying to complete a ritual that would have brought forth a demon that would make the Master you lot had around here look like a saint. After that I pretty much got out while the getting was good."
"Couldn't blame you, I'd bail as well. As to your previous question, the hostess of the tea party in the corner is none other than Drusilla the Mad, childe of Angelus, and the last remaining member of the Scourge of Europe."
The demon whistled lowly, impressed.
"Wait a minute, the last remaining member?"
"Angelus pissed off a clan of gypsies who prompt cursed him with his soul, now he's running around calling himself Angel and chasing the local Slayer's skirts. As to Darla she got dusted last year by Angel himself," Willy said. The first hit was always free. "Well, Spike /was/ around until last night, one of the costumes was a little too much for him - needless to say he's dust."
"Spike as in William the Bloody got taken out by a kid in costume - you have to be shitting me!"
"Hardly. Information is my bread and butter here, if I don't know what's going on 'round here - no one does," Willy said proudly, hinting at one of his main sources of income besides cat pee masquerading as beer and cat blood passing as human blood. "Best I can tell the kid who got Spike dressed up as the Black Swordsman himself."
"What! He's a myth, a story to scare the cubs straight. You know clean up properly after yourself or the Black Swordsman will get you. He's the freaking demonic boogieman," the demon ranted, shocked by the fact he'd missed the Black Swordsman by a day or so. "I mean sure he's from a different dimension and all - but damn, you don't invite him over for dinner unless you want all your dinner guests dead, including yourself!"
"You don't have to tell me, it's bad for business if he's around," Willy said, pulling a face. "Thankfully that spell got ended last night and all traces of the Black Swordsman are gone. Hopefully the norm who dressed up as him didn't get the prize in the crackerjack box!"
"Prizes, pretty shiny baubles like my poor darling boy's eyes," interjected Drusilla, her singsong voice drifting on top of the faint noise of the bar. "The kitten's all broken now, bits and pieces all mixed together. The Stars are saying such nasty things about him, aren't they Miss Edith? Such nasty things in store for the kitten, it will be so much fun to watch won't it."
"Stars. Kitten. Yep we're definitely dealing with Drusilla the Mad here," Willy said, rolling his eyes. Her money was good, though. "Makes about as much sense as a fortune cookie - only this one's homicidal."
"Shhhh," Drusilla said soothingly to her doll, placing a fine bone china teacup in front of the toy. "You're a bad girl, Miss Edith, leaving leftovers like that."
"Leftovers," the demon asked. "Now what's she on about?"
"Left over long pork," Drusilla continued, pouring a steaming cup of black tea to her companion. "Naughty girl... if you don't hurry, then Slan will finish it off for you!"
"Slan," a nearby demon asked. He was ancient in appearance, with scaled flesh. "Godhand Slan?"
"She likes to play with other people's food," Drusilla said, waving a finger at the scaled demon. "She's a naughty girl too, you know."
"Long pork," the demon asked. He remembered when that had been a euphemism for human flesh intended for consumption. "You mean there's... /leftovers/ of the Black Swordsman in the norm's head!"
"Hey, mebbe it ain't that bad," Willy consoled him. "She said Slan might finish the long pork off."
"The cure then being as bad as the disease," the scaled demon muttered.
"I can't believe Giles is making me do the rounds," Buffy complained. "I mean, I'm still getting over the whole possession thing. Well at least this is the last one; this one should be as dead as the other four were. Not a baby vamp in sight, it was nice, boring but nice for a change."
"Well it's a good thing you've had your handsome sidekick to entertain you tonight then," Xander quipped as they strolled down the road.
"Here it is good old Summer Land," Buffy said. "Wonder what we'll find here."
"You know, we'd probably sound /so/ dodgy to anyone who didn't know what was going on," Xander said. "Graverobbers ahoy! Igor, fetch me a brain!"
"Yeth, mathter," Buffy lisped, dragging her right foot as she walked. Both teenagers laughed.
Xander stopped walking as he walked through the arch to the cemetery, eyes wide in panic.
"What's wrong," Buffy asked.
Spirits rose from where they clutched at their headstones, flying towards Xander. /-avenge us - avenge us - avenge us - avenge us-/
"Get the hell away from me," Xander whispered, stepping back a pace.
"What," Buffy asked, frowning. Talk about rude. "Xander, what are you trying to do now?"
The spirits curled around him, and he could feel the blood seeping from the Brand starting to saturate the band-aid in blood as they passed through him.
/- kill them - kill them - kill - kill those who stole our bodies-/
/-i can't feel anything anymore - it's all gone - stolen by that thing wearing my body-/
/-make them bleed-/
/-my baby - they killed my baby-/
/-make them suffer-/
/-my son - it tortured my son in front of me while I was forced to watch-/
/-make them beg-/
/-my wife - it raped my wife while she begged for mercy-/
/-vengeance-/
/-vengeance-/
/-vengeance-/
"AGGGH," Xander screamed, manliness be damned. With force of will, he stepped out past the graveyard back into the street. Now that his eyes were focusing again, he could clearly see the spirits that lingered, denied their final rest while their fleshly bodies still walked.
"Xander! Are you okay," Buffy asked, pulling his head down to look him in the eyes.
"I-I'm okay," Xander panted, rubbing at his eyes. "I guess I'm not all over the whole Halloween thing."
"Go home and get some rest," Buffy commanded. "Willow and I seem to be alright, you'll be fine by the morning."
"Yeah, you're right," Xander decided. "I... I'll see you in the morning."
Lying on his bed, Xander stared at the ceiling.
Normally sleep was refuge from the world, which was why he quite liked the act itself of sleeping. He got away from his normal life, escaping in dreams and le petite morte. (See? He knew some french!) Now, he didn't want to even think of dreams, not after last night's. That nightmare seemed a little too real, as if it were a memory instead.
Still he tried to sleep. Not getting any sleep would be far worse - he didn't want to make any mistakes simply because he's short on sleep. Around home making mistakes was a quick way to be introduced to one of his father's lessons - something he'd rather avoid.
Well that and may be just may be what ever the hell he saw in that cemetery was just some screwed up illusion. He could hope couldn't he, his father was an expert at lying to himself - he should be able to do the same. Right?
He turned over again, feeling incomplete somehow, as his eyes stared into the vast distance past his bedroom walls. Like something wasn't where it was supposed to be.
The black of night found a darkly clad young man sneaking into the Sunnydale High School Library, armed with a flash light. He shone it quickly around the large room before stealthily moving over to the office window, checking that too. Finding it empty as well, he walks casually over to the lightswitch and turned on the main lights. Pulling up his balaclava, the face of Billy Fordham was shown.
He pulled the first book from the stacks on the librarian's desk he came across that looked semi-mystical. "Behelit, behelit..."
A brief search revealed nothing. He checked again for the name 'Godhand'. Again, nothing. He threw the book carelessly to one side, leaving it open facedown on the floor before moving on to the next book in the stack. This one's cover was a vivid dark green with three razor-thin sticks of wooden veneer sticking out of the book.
This book was more definitely more promising than the first; a quick glance at the first marked page had a mention of a behelit. Rather than sit down and begin reading, he dumped the book into his bag and grabbed the next in the stack.
Looking at the clock on the wall, he cursed softly. Barely an hour left before the school staff would start showing up. He needed to move faster if he was to get through the books on the desk and those in the office. At least he had a hint as to which books where promising.
Sweat dripped down Xander's face as he regarded Nosferatu Zodd, who had wreaked havoc through the entirety of the Hundred Year War. If you could pay his fee, or offer him a challenge, he was yours till his contract was up. The rumors stated that Zodd appears to have hadn't aged a day in during the war.
/I could only block/ Xander thought. /That's already my limit. Hmmm... I can't even counter attack./
Even nude, naked of any armour, holding only a large blade in his hand, Xander had to admit that Zodd the Immortal was the best.
/He's far better than anyone I ever fought with/ Xander's thoughts continued, while attempting to find a weakness in Zodd's guard. /Even Griffith, who I thought was amazing... this guy is far better. The fighting ability of Zodd... is far beyond that of human./
/What should I do? I probably can't dodge that swing again. I could receive his swing because of this large sword. If it were a normal sword I would have been cut into two halves/ Xander mused. The bloody blade in Zodd's hands seemed to gleam as a realisation struck him. /If it's just a sword fight I might be able to rival him./
Time to bring a sword to a fist fight. Xander settled into a familiar stance, as if his six foot long greatsword were a baseball bat.
"Hoho," Zodd rumbled. "You thought you wouldn't be able to receive my swing anymore so you are just gonna gamble with a single exchange swing? You think you'll use your sword length to your advantage? Before your sword can slice me your brain will be smashed into pieces."
Xander trembled with both fear and rage. /Just one. That might be fun... we can play like that./
He brought the tip of his sword low as he launched himself towards the giant, bringing the edge of his weapon up. /Only one chance of winning./
Parrying blade to blade was highly frowned upon in both mercenary and army teaching, as it could result in swords that more resembled woodsaws, notched and barely capable of cutting. Parrying with the flat of the blade was much preferred to the edge, but catching it on armour or avoiding the enemy blade was better altogether.
Xander had no choice. He parried edge to edge, trusting in the superior metallurgy and geometry of his sword as he brought it up to slide along the edge of Zodd's weapon. His muscles flexed visibly as he brought his steel through the lesser sword, bisecting it with momentum aiding him. Finishing the cut, he firmly controlled the motion of his sword as the majority of Zodd's sword flew away, clattering onto the dungeon floor. Bringing his sword down, Zodd blocked it with his bare forearms, his shoulder and arm muscles stretching to keep the greatsword from forcing his arms down enough to cut down through his shoulder by his neck into his lungs. Zodd roared as the sword stopped, his right hand coming up to pull the blade away from his shoulder. It was not as easy as it would have been with a soldier's greatsword, as Xander's mercenary blade lacked defensive parrying hooks and a bound ricasso at the base of the blade for Zodd to safely grasp.
"Incredible," Zodd rumbled faintly. "Just now you were cornered, yet waited for a chance to break my sword. You are the first... the first human that can cut me open this deep."
An almost religious smile-grin painted the bestial Zodd's face, his long fangs bared in exhultation. Xander stared up, teeth gritted as the deeper stirrings of fear began to make themselves known.
The stirrings began to threaten to take over as Zodd transformed into a twelve foot tall monster that seemed a cross between a minotaur, a cat, and a great ape.
"Since three hundred years that I have been killing humans," the monster smiled. "I'm so pleased... I had almost forgotten the feel of bloodlust."
Xander's eyes were wide with panic and fear.
Buffy whistled as she entered the Library in the morning. Profuse cursing could be heard, with a distinctly British colour to the words.
"When I find the bleeding wanker who stole my flamin'--"
"Whoa, Giles, take a chill pill," Buffy said, taken aback.
Giles looked up from the checkout desk, and promptly turned bright red when he realised that Buffy had heard every word he had just said.
"Er, terribly sorry about all that. N-now what I can do f-for you?"
She blinked. "Okay, Grace, Lord's Blessing, Saint Paul's, Saint Andrew's were quiet. Not a vamp insight - it was kinda boring actually. Summer Land got a little entertaining, Xander had a major league freak out as soon as he stepped foot in it. What was with that anyways? I sent him home right afterwards. What was with the fit?"
"A... freak out? You mean some manner of panic attack," Giles asked, ignoring her question for the time being. Asking questions and piecing together the situation was his job, not hers.
"Yeah," Buffy said. "He set foot just inside, started screaming like I was kicking him in the nuts and made like a tree and got out into the street."
"That's make like a tree and leave, Buffy," Giles said absently. "My word. Did he say anything after this?"
"Yeah, something about not recovered from Halloween," Buffy shrugged. "I dunno why, me and Willow seem to be over it."
"Y-yes, well," Giles said. "Perhaps Mister Harris may benefit from helping me for a spell, rather than risk further episodes till we can discover why he acted the way he did."
"What was with the language," Buffy asked.
Stormclouds could almost be seen above the Briton's head. "Some wanker stole some of my books!"
"And by books you're meaning... Thomas the Tank Engine, right," Buffy asked hopefully. Something like that would mean less work for her.
"No, some of my rarer books pertaining to malicious, otherworldly entities," Giles explained.
"You mean like the Hand of God people?"
"That's 'Godhand', Buffy, and they were minimal in those books," Giles said. Minimal had been the best he had found. "Blast it all!"
Buffy shrugged, waving as she walked out the door. "Well, let me know how that works out for you."
"Sir, I just received word from one of our people watching Summer Land. Based on the Harris boy's actions your experiment was a resounding success."
"It seems our Mister Harris did retain a few things from his costume choice," Wilkins said, picking up his cup of tea delicately. "On a similar note, how goes the report I requested from you?"
"I should have it ready for you tomorrow, Sir."
"Thank you, Alan," Wilkins said. He put his cup down, adding half a teaspoon of sugar. "Darn, don't you hate it when it isn't quite right? That will be all for now."
Post-fic Comments:
Don't take the edge thing in the dream sequence as a failing of European swords in particular-- in an essay on buying katana, it sternly warns the reader not to let it touch the floor, or you've just bought a katana with a broken tip. Very little is perfect in this world.