Chapter II: The magic code.
They materialize in a large corridor. The walls that enclose it on opposite sides shine with white light. The corridor, however, seems eternal. The White Room is nothing but a gigantic vacuum. Spoken words, even breath, feel like they are being swallowed by the very walls that surround them. Momentarily mesmerized by their surroundings, they separate for moments, each walking unconsciously on a different direction.
Angel grips the hilt of his sword. "Man," he says looking suspiciously at his surroundings, "never really get used to the sight of this place."
"Do yourself a favor," Gunn says with a dark look in his face. "Don't."
"Alright, people," Angel says as they all pace themselves, awkwardly gripping their weapons, "keep your eyes peeled and stay focused."
"Sure's quiet in here," Lindsey says at no one in particular after a while. He wanders away from the group for a moment. "So this is the infamous White Room, uh?" he says with a chuckle. "Heard a lot of mind-blowing stories on this place in my time."
"Well," says Lorne with a sigh, "mind-blowing sounds about right. The vibes I'm getting out of this place make the Vatican seem a lot like Disney Land. And that's saying something."
"I hear ya," answers Lindsey.
They walk around in silence. Anxiety builds as they wait for an ambush that doesn't seem concerned to show by their sudden arrival.
"Um," bemuses Spike, "not that I appreciate the fact that there isn't a giant demon army here to turn the bunch of us into dust bins, but why are we alone?"
"Probably 'cause we're all too needy," says Angel sarcastically.
"Well, there's that," retorts a cold voice from behind them, "or maybe we're just not the savage animals you take us for." They all turn suddenly towards the direction of the voice's origin. They find Hamilton standing a couple of meters away from them, a smirk embedded tightly on his lips. "Anything we can do for you?"
Angel stares at him completely dumbfounded. "Hamilton?" he asks in a whisper.
Marcus looks down his well-tailored suit and wipes something passing for lint from his shoulder. He gives Angel a dubious smile. "You're the Conduit," Angel answers himself coolly. "But why do you--?"
"Its appearance is determined by its audience," answers Gunn.
"How right you are, Mr. Gunn," returns the Conduit. "Again, I digress to ask, how may we help you?"
"The Senior Partners," responds Angel.
"What about our Masters?"
"We fancy a meet." interjects Spike.
"The Wolf, Ram and Hart are insubstantial, Angel," answers the Conduit. "You know that. They cannot access the Home Office unless they transmutate. And you know just how easy that always is to manage. Plus, even if they could, why would they answer your plea?"
Angel chuckles. "I'm sorry," he says. "You seem to have misunderstood me. I'm not asking you to bring them here. Why would I want that?"
The Conduit stares blankly at Angel, who simply glares back at it with a smirk across his face. "I cannot take you to them," it answers him. "So, do not ask me of that."
"Hmm, I wonder, what gave you the impression I was asking?" responds Angel, his expression becoming cold.
The Conduit remains still. Its sneer slowly morphs into a smirk. "Mr. Gunn," it says without taking his eyes off Angel, "perhaps you could illustrate to this half-breed exactly what will happen to him if he continues to direct himself to me in this manner?"
"Angel?" says Gunn nervously.
"It's okay, Gunn," Angel says, halting him and the others with his hand. "It's alright."
Lorne chuckles nervously. "Um, Angelcake, I know I signed on to, well, die and all, but I'd love it if I could just maybe live a little bit longer and I'm looking at a big, finely-dressed, hulking mass of muscles nigh ten feet away from me that's thinking otherwise," he says through gritted teeth.
"I said it's okay, Lorne." sneers Angel.
"Angel," says Wesley in a sharp, perhaps even angry tone.
He grips his shotgun and raises it in anticipation. Angel turns towards him and the exchange looks then, facing the Conduit again he pulls from his coat pocket the tape recorder he used previously to tape Hamilton in the conference room.
"We know," says Angel moving closer to the Conduit, "I know that you can get us to them. I'm not here to ask you anything. I just want you to do your job. That's all."
The Conduit looks at each of their faces. For a mere moment it seems unsure of itself. Illyria circles the group from behind and stands a few feet ahead of Wesley and Gunn, right beside Spike. Her form exudes confidence; her head held high with determination. She eyes every inch of the Conduit as if her senses are perhaps noticing something the others are completely blind to.
Once more the creature before them locks eyes with Angel. "What's the access code?" it says.
"Gunn?" says Angel.
Charles walks a little bit ahead towards Angel and recites with rapid-fire confidence: "Access Code: 3471X-8KLJ011-3."
The Conduit looks back at Angel. He takes note of the tape recorder in his hand. "I can assume that you have vocal authorization from your liaison?" it says. Angel smirks once more then, raising his arm, he presses play on the tape recorder.
A crude booming voice erupts out of the small tape recorder, speaking in tongues so ancient they have never fallen on men's ears. A gush of rasping wind blows into the room from the speaker, as if the little contraption were a broken window of a sinking ship in the ocean. Angel's arm quivers violently from the shock. He fights its will to break away from his grip before its message is said. The others scramble away from Angel, desperately covering their ears in a vain attempt to protect themselves from the fury of the words' rage.
And then, just as it had begun, it's over. As soon as the last part of the message was spoken, the recorder shatters under the pressure of Angel's grip. Blood splatters from the gash on the palm of his hand and as he recovers from the sharp pain, he lets go of the recorder. It falls to the ground covered in blood and vanishes like a drop of water that falls into a still lake.
Angel looks over to the Conduit who seems unfazed by the entire event. It sighs and takes a second to fix its tie, then: "Very well," it says, then pointing towards the distance behind itself, "Walk in that direction until you reach a doorway. They're waiting for you."
"Good," says Angel. "Let's move, people."
"Ah-ah," interrupts the Conduit. "Only three people are allowed in."
"Three?" inquires Angel with a hint of anger.
"Yes," replies the Conduit, "three."
"That's not gonna happen. We all stay together."
"I'm sorry, Angel. But that's the rule. It's clearly stipulated in the company policy. As provided in the Executive Emergency Access Grant clause in your contract, Angel--"
"No more than three individuals are to be granted audience by the Senior Partners at any one time," interjects Gunn.
"Precisely," the Conduit replies with a smile.
"You knew this," says Angel in a low tone. "And you were planning on telling me when exactly?"
"It's okay, Angel," answers Wesley. "Nothing changes."
"I'm sorry," says Charles. "We'll hold down the fort here."
Angel exchanges looks with everyone. He turns towards the Conduit and with deep exasperation he says: "Fine. Spike. Wes. We're leaving. Gunn?"
"Don't worry," he responds. "Go."
Spike and Wesley follow Angel in the direction the Conduit pointed them to. Once they are nearly out of sight from the others, the Conduit turns towards them.
"Well," it says, "wasn't that interesting?"
The others look amongst themselves with uncertainty. They had come to this place expecting an ambush that would obliterate them. Instead they remain standing still in the same place they were when they first arrived.
"I've been told by the Senior Partners to provide you accommodations while you wait for Angel to return," it continues as it points behind them.
They all turn around to find what seems like a replica of an elegant nineteenth-century house's living room allocated right between the walls of the White Room. The furniture, richly textured, sits over a beautiful burgundy rug. A small table in front of the central couch has a large silver tray containing an appetizing variety of hors d'oeuvres. Beside the table a light-blue colored demon with a very thin moustache in a butler's suit is standing holding a metal tray containing a freshly made Seabreeze, a glass of Scotch on the rocks and a bottle of homemade German lager. They look at each other puzzled by this turn of events and then back in the direction of the Conduit but find that it has disappeared, leaving them frightened, alone and with nothing more than drinks, food and a light melody playing quaintly in the background.
"This is seriously messed up," muses Lindsey.
"Cheer up, buck-a-roo," says Lorne patting him on the back. "Beats dying, if you ask me."
Angel, Wesley and Spike walk along the path they were sent on by the Conduit for what seems like hours. As their pace slows so does their penchant for light conversation. Each one of them seems to be utterly lost for words when the reality of the task at hand settles in deeper within their thoughts with each cautious step in their gait.
After a long while they see an outline stretching along the lengths of the walls at the far end of the room. They hurry towards it until it becomes discernible: the end of the White Room. As they approach it they notice a small indentation in the surface of the wall. They hasten their pace and until they reach a set of double doors as lily-white as the rest of their surroundings. They stop before them.
"So?" says Wesley.
"So, indeed," says Spike.
Angel inches himself from the doorway and touches the surface while he examines it. "Huh," he scoffs.
"What?" asks Wesley.
"It's wood," he says as he knocks mockingly on the door.
Then suddenly the doors swing open. A loud, creaking noise fills their ears as they stare at the never-ending, roaring darkness that was concealed behind them.
"That can't be good," he says as he takes a few steps backwards.
Spike puts his head inside the doorway and then back out again. "Well," he says, "I guess we finally know what a howling abyss looks like."
"Great," says Angel annoyed.
"So," says Spike, clearing his throat, "down we go into the rabbit hole?"
"Guess so," says Wes. "There'd better be a tea party." Without further wait he steps into the doorway and disappears down the abyss. Angel and Spike look at each other incredulously.
"Huh," says Spike, thoroughly amazed, "Looks like Percy's got more balls than I ever gave him credit for. Good for him."
They stare at the doorway in silence.
"So?" quips Spike.
"So," responds Angel in kind.
"So, you wanna--?"
Angel shoots a dubious look at Spike.
"What? Oh, uh, yeah. Any minute now."
"Right."
Once again they both remain staring at the doorway in silence. A horribly uncomfortable silence.
"You do know that if by some measure of luck he managed to keep himself from becoming a permanent stain on the ground, he's very much alone down there, eh?" inquires Spike.
"You're right," concurs Angel, then without notice he slugs Spike in the back, pushing him into the doorway and down the howling abyss.
"Thanks for volunteering," he says with a snaky smile curling across his face.
He takes a step closer to the entryway then hesitates for a moment. "Just like swan-diving from a cliff into a bed of rocks, Angel," he muses. "Not at all painful." He exhales heavily then dives into the doorway and down the darkness inside.