Part Forty-six
Buenos Aires, Argentina. July 3, 2001
It was a day that would be long remembered, in the shadowy world of black ops and espionage.
The day that Operation Reciprocity was *finally* put into effect.
The creature known as Loken leaned back on the couch in his plush apartment, which took up the entire fourth floor of his building. Life was good for this demon.
In his not-so-humble opinion, being invited to join the Order of Taraka was the best thing to have ever happened to him. He enjoyed getting well paid to kill his targets; indeed, like all his fellow assassins, his bounty was all that he truly cared about. And if Loken's targets had to die, well...human or demon, that was of no real concern to the professional killer.
He reached over to the table next to the couch and picked up the remote control for the idiot box. He then flicked on the TV and was rewarded with the sight of a soccer match. {May as well relax, till the next assignment comes in.}
The ringing of the telephone instantly interrupted his getting too involved in the game. Biting down a curse, Loken answered the phone, "Hello!?" the demon demanded.
"Shalom," the accented voice said in response.
"What the hell-? Who is this?" Loken demanded. Because as far as he knew, only his immediate superior in the Order and a total of three other people knew this number, due to the cell network that the Tarakans operated within - just like every other long-lasting terrorist organization did.
But any further questions from the demon assassin were moot, as the entire apartment exploded.
Down below on the street, a man in a phone booth watched the fourth floor go up in flames, as the shattered glass plummeted to the street below and the onlookers started to scream.
He quickly hung up the phone. Walking down the street, the Israeli took out a cell phone and dialed a number.
"It's done."
New Delhi, India. Later that day
The young assassin had to admit, this was a strange assignment. Not that he wasn't up to the challenge, of course. He was an excellent shot: it was just that his mark was someone who normally wouldn't exactly be a target of the organization.
Still, he was getting paid to kill, and that was all what fundamentally mattered.
He leaned into the rifle and peered down the scope as the door opened. A few seconds later, the professional killer squeezed the trigger on his sniper rifle. The recoil caused his shoulder to jerk back, but not before he saw his target crumple to the ground - dead.
He then quickly disassembled the weapon and fled his sniper's nest. The young killer knew that taking an assignment against a member of the Order of Taraka was a hazardous thing to do, but the contract and promise of more work to come had been too good to pass up.
And besides, you couldn't easily say 'no' to the people who had hired his organization.
Luxembourg City, Luxembourg. Half an hour later
The mid-level banking official made his way through the suite of offices in a panicked hurry. No one liked to be the bearer of bad news, granted. However, being the one who delayed news of *this* magnitude would be definitely something much worse.
He arrived at the desk of a young attractive secretary. She just nodded at him, "He's expecting you. Go right in."
The middle management official took a deep breath, and calmed himself down. He then entered into the spacious office. Next to a window with an impressive view of the city, was the bank's president sitting behind an ornate desk.
"Why did you ask for this meeting?" the big cheese asked without preamble.
"Uh, sir, I was doing a review today of the accounts in the black section," the official started to stammer, wondering if he was going to be terminated for this, in every sense of the word.
The bank president instantly looked worried at that. "I hope you didn't find anything to reflect poorly on our institution? Our clients who use that particular service would look *very* unfavorably upon any problems!"
"Sir, I...it involves the Order of Taraka's accounts. I'm sorry, I..."
The bank president blanched at that news. "How bad is it?" Maybe he could explain it away as the bumblings of his subordinate, and save his own life at least.
"The damage to those accounts is total. They're, they're gone-"
"What do you mean? There were billions of dollars, pounds, yen, and euros in there, if I recall correctly. And you don't just lose accounts of that size!"
The official swallowed hard before explaining. "Sir, the accounts are still there, it's just that all the money is gone, transferred out somehow. The remaining account balance is, is zero. The Order's accounts are empty."
The President leaned back in terror, his face white. "You're sure? They didn't just transfer the money out to another bank?"
The official just mutely shook his head.
The President ran a hand through his hair. "The Order will kill all of us, and every single member of our families as well, for this...this...debacle!" He fell forward, reaching for the telephone. "I'm getting out of here. If you want to live, I suggest you do the same!"
Fort Meade, Maryland. The same time
The young Air Force lieutenant leaned back from his computer console with a huge smile on his face. "And here I thought this was going to be hard," he joked.
Behind him, a Navy commander walked up and down the line of computer consoles, all occupied by military personnel. "Natchez, it's only easy for you. Those of us with lives, found it hard to dedicate 70 hours straight to cracking the damn codes!" the commander joked.
The lieutenant leaned forward, as some more numbers flashed across the screen. "Just as I thought, they're freaking out. Checking the accounts again, I guess they're hoping it's all a mistake!"
"No mistake," the Navy commander said, as he started to walk down the line.
"Hey, while I'm at it, want me to add some money to your retirement fund?" the Air Force officer asked jovially.
The commander chuckled. "Well, ordinarily I would, but there's really no place in the world to hide from the wrath of the higher-ups if we did that. This little operation has the attention of...those who should not be angered."
"Interesting nickname," the lieutenant commented, as he turned his attention to the next computer target.
"Yeah, and the poor souls on the receiving end of our visits today are learning the reasons behind that nickname."
Tokyo, Japan. Later that night
The police inspector made his way up the narrow staircase. The police officers either already on it or coming the other way, scrunched up against the wall to allow the inspector to pass. The cop arrived at the top of the stairs and made his way through the crowded hallway until he reached an apartment door surrounded by uniformed police officers, which he entered.
"What have you learned?" the inspector named Miyamoto Koji asked the most senior police officer in the apartment, after having been shown proper respect. All around him, various officers examined and photographed the crime scene.
"There are five victims, Koji-san, at least - we believe so. A couple of them seemed to have been horribly deformed by whatever happened. It appears that the criminals entered the apartment through the front door and two of the windows. They rappelled down from the roof, and they were armed with military-level firearms. Two of the victims, clearly, were killed almost immediately by gunshots to the head. The others appeared to have resisted, although only one of them had a firearm. Oddly enough, swords or axes were their weapon of choice."
The inspector made his way further into the apartment as the officer continued his narrative. "The man with the handgun fired one shot, with no indication that he hit anything. The other two were quickly dispatched. The criminals appear to have remained long enough to ensure their targets were dead, and remove any shell casings."
Koji nodded at his subordinate's report. "Hai. Have you identified the victims yet?"
"Only two. One of the first to be shot is a New Zealand national by the name of Steve Clark. The one with the firearm who managed to get a shot off was named Matsube Namushia. The others we hope to identify soon, as they are...well, unique."
"Show me!" Inspector Koji commanded his junior.
"Hai, tono!" The officer nodded and led his senior to the small kitchenette. There slumped against the wall was a large blanket-covered body. "We believe that this was the last one to die, the battleaxe nearby was his." The officer nodded at an axe lying in the floor. He then reached down and pulled back the blanket.
The police inspector's eyes widened, as he had never seen anything like this before. "Was this done to him after death?"
The officer shook his head. "No, Ogawa-sensei said that other than the gunshots, nothing was done to him. How he looks...well, Koji-san, that is how he looked on a normal day."
"Ridiculous! There is nothing normal about how he appears," the inspector said roughly. "Still, an operation this violent must surely have attracted attention. I'm sure that questioning the neighbors will turn up something, after all the criminals did not just vanish into thin air-"
"Sir?" another officer approached, clearly flustered.
"What?" Inspector Koji said absent-mindedly.
"Mushie-mushie, Koji-san, there are several officials here to see you."
Now this was unusual. Perhaps the victims had had some sort of high-level connections? {Unlikely, but considering the appearance of the last murder victim, not impossible.} Quickly the inspector made his way to the entryway into the apartment. And there waiting for him was a trio of middle-aged men in business suits.
Koji made a perfunctory bow in the manner of the sons of the Land of the Rising Sun, and then said, "Konichiwa. I do not wish to be rude, but this is a crime scene and I am very busy. Therefore I must ask, what do you want here?"
The middle of the three men stepped forward and presented his credentials. "Public Security Investigation Agency, Inspector Koji. We have reason to believe that this event is terrorism-related."
The inspector frowned. "I have only been here a short while, but I have seen no evidence of anything other than ordinary homicide. My men have the investigation well in hand."
"Nevertheless, we are assuming jurisdiction due to the delicate nature of the events here," the middle one said. "You will need to have your men leave this place, at once. And then remove yourself as well."
The inspector was instantly angry. According to the strict code of protocol and tradition, the man's words were automatically almost an unforgivable insult. {He has spent far too much time amongst Westerners, no doubt. But that is not how we do things here in *my* city! } "According to my information, this is a crime scene and the metropolitan police has jurisdiction over it. And you must follow procedure, as we all know," Koji said in a pissed tone - one that only a fellow Japanese could detect, though.
"Hai, Koji-san. But there are circumstances here affecting the safety of the country, and that gives us jurisdiction. Believe me, this matter has already been addressed at the highest levels," the man on the far right said, apparently trying to play peacemaker.
Koji frowned. "What does that mean?" was his response.
But just as the inspector finished speaking, a uniformed police officer came hurrying up to him. "Sir, there's an urgent phone call for you."
Inspector Koji shook his head. "Not now-"
"Sir, it is the Minister of Justice," the junior cop said with an awed tone to his voice.
"What?" Koji whirled around in disbelief. But he saw no evidence of his subordinate trying to lie to him.
The inspector then looked at the three men in front of him, a sinking feeling in his stomach. Koji *knew* then that he was about to have his investigation completely short-circuited, and that this trio was the cause of that. {This is not right. This is not procedure. This is...this is a cover-up, as the Americans put it! }
He hated it, but he was a good soldier who obeyed orders; and so the inspector accepted the unacceptable from the Minister, and efficiently organized a hasty retreat of all his people from the murder scene of the Tarakan assassins.
Marseilles, France. The same time
That night during the summer of 2001 the city was a swamp of near-depravity, as was expected for one of Europe's greatest ports of call. Because take a walk down the main section of La Canebière, idle around the waterfront, or wander the lurid side streets - and you'll find that no place does sordid quite like Marseilles.
It was a strange kind of town; rough and ready, and yet also cheap and accommodating, if you know where to go to get what you want. And as far as the tourists were concerned? The mangy cats all along the Boulevard Andre Aune, the overwhelming fish smell wafting from the direction of Quai des Belges, even the couscous and falafel from the African and Arab stalls around the Belsunce area - all of it was part of this city, which was historically infamous for crime and vice.
Which was only one of the reasons why the vampires known as Spike and Drusilla were present, of course. On account of not only was the ancient metropolis a good temporary bolthole, France *was* the traditional land of exile for the English. Plus, Spike knew that Dru couldn't stand Paris for some reason, and so this particular burg would have to do.
It had been a while since they had gotten safely out of Canada, and the undead duo had been thinking they had now *finally* shaken off their pursuers. Well, Spike had anyway, as they'd ventured out along Cours Jean Ballard tonight and entered Bar Canete, a dive that oddly enough had been full of Algerians...
"What's this all about then, luv?" William the Bloody asked in confusion, as an agitated Drusilla dragged him out of the bar. "I was fancyin' having meself a quick snack 'n all-"
"Death comes on bright and fast wings, it does. The stars aren't happy no more, Spoike, they whisper such 'orribly wicked things to Miss Edith! And oh, there'll be tea and cake! But red like overripe cherries, they are..."
Unfortunately, there was no chance for Spike to reply to her ravings; as Bar Canete suddenly exploded into a huge fireball not far behind them.
The flames reached skyward, as the blast wave lifted up and carried the two vamps down the boulevard and slammed them directly against a wall, showering them with the burning debris. If they'd been human, most likely Spike and Dru would have been killed instantly; but they were what they were, and so were only briefly stunned by the terrible act of violence.
"Bloody hell," Spike cursed, finally getting up and brushing away at himself to be sure of removing any flammable material before doing the same to Dru. He then said to his paramour, "Come on then, ducks, I'd say we'd best be moving on from this city; the natives look like they're gettin' a mite too restless for our taste."
But as William dragged his sire away, he had no way to know that he and Drusilla *hadn't* been the primary targets of that deadly attack. The fact was, their injuries and situation were just collateral damage; as the man responsible for the explosion barely gave them a moment's notice upon seeing them depart.
That swarthy individual just settled his gaze back onto the burning building, as the screams started to echo in the night and the howl of sirens from the arriving local police and ambulance began to be heard. The guy then moved back into the shadows, cursing the fact that he couldn't stay to enjoy the spectacle any longer. {Sales flics.}
The Capu of the Union, one of the most entrenched French crime syndicates around then shook his head. Such thoughts were beneath him, at least to his warped way of thinking. His target, a police informer, was dead; which was all that mattered to the Corsican.
And even though he didn't know it, the evil mass-murdering criminal had inadvertently helped out the good guys tonight - by also killing a member of the Order of Taraka, who'd been present at the wrong place at the wrong time...
Headquarters of Federal Security Service, Moscow, Russia. A while later
Late that evening, the elderly man leaned back in his chair, smiling as he read the reports just handed to him by his secretary, who was a very attractive young woman. He silently gave thanks that in Mother Russia, certain things had not changed as they had in the West.
Because at his age, it did an old man the world of good to have such a pretty young thing in the office.
"We are receiving many more reports like these, sir. The local police in Volgograd have reported a murder which is probably also connected."
The old man, Colonel General Vladimir Nosenko, looked up at the secretary. "Da, I have no doubt of it. The Americans and their Jewish allies have been busy today, even within our own borders."
"But Comrade General, surely we cannot tolerate their actions when they are clearly violating our sovereignty this way?" the young woman asked, somewhat confused.
Nosenko smiled. "Nyet, Irina. But it would be most difficult for us to complain, when we actually helped set the whole thing up! Project Rasputin is paying great dividends for us, by all the discredited Czars. And our diplomats are gifted in their abilities only so far. Besides, they are justified in their actions."
"The diplomats?" the brunette secretary asked, wondering if she really wanted to know what was going on here.
Nosenko shook his head. "No, the Americans. I mean, trying to assassinate a child - what in the name of Lenin's mother was the Order thinking? That's something the Nazis made a habit out of. Despite our past association with them - these days the Order is obviously no better than Hitler's bootlickers."
The secretary remained silent, as she was well aware of her superior's opinions of the Nazis. All Russians of his age had strong feelings when it came to the former rulers of Germany over 60 years ago.
A knock on the door caused the secretary to break off her conversation for a few seconds. She then quickly returned to her boss carrying a package in her arms.
"What is that, Irina?"
"I do not know. But it was just delivered by courier from the U.S. embassy." She handed it over to the General. And he already knew it would have been checked for anything dangerous, not that the Americans were likely to try anything like that in this day and age.
After all, the Cold War was over and a new version of Satan was in the American public eye, nowadays.
Vladimir opened up the package and discovered a bottle sealed with red wax inside. He carefully pulled it out and placed it on his desk.
"Maker's Mark Bourbon," he commented, as he picked it up again and closely inspected the label. Then the old man smiled, "Ach, it's not vodka, but it's still a good gift. Did you know, Irina, that this is also a favorite of Castro's." Nosenko then looked down and saw a piece of paper on the bottom of the box. He pulled it out and read it aloud.
"Your help is greatly appreciated, tovarisch. I imagine by now, you know what we have been up to. Consider this just a minor token of our thanks. We owe you."
Nosenko chuckled as he put the paper down, "Da, da, I like them owing us a favor, it helps us to stay in the game. And considering what I hear from the Pripet Marshes, we may need their help before too long."
Chicago, Illinois. Later that evening
"Coming through, coming through!" the elderly red-haired man said as he made his way through a crowd of reporters milling around outside a restaurant. This particular establishment had a reputation with certain elements in the colorful history of the Windy City, and when news came of something happening there, well, every media organization in Chicago knew to send someone.
Which had led to Carl Kolchak not wanting to disturb his daughter on her night off, and taking the call himself. Kolchak looked around, and suddenly noticed a lone police officer standing off to the side. He knew better than to try barging in through the front door, the others would have tried that and failed. So he made his way over to the officer, using the same technique that he'd found worked back in the Seventies.
"Carl Kolchak, Independent News Service. So what happened here, Officer...Perkins?" Kolchak asked as he quickly read the nametag.
"Hey, I don't know anything!" the officer replied quickly.
"Well, surely, you must know something. I mean, the brass couldn't make someone in your position remain completely in the dark like that, could they?" Kolchak tried buttering up his target.
It worked. Taking a quick look around, the cop asked, "Well, you know Vincente Punchinello?"
Kolchak nodded. "Yeah, the man who turned down joining the Mafia because he said it wasn't big enough for him?"
"That's the one. No one gave him of odds of getting away with it, but he lived," the police officer explained. "Well, tonight his number finally came up."
Kolchak was writing furiously, as well as switching on his tape recorder. "What happened? And don't worry about the anonymity thing; you'll just be an 'informed source'."
Perkins again looked around to make sure no one was watching. "Right, okay, and looks like someone poisoned him."
"You don't say?"
"Yeah, and you shoulda seen his face; man, from the look on his features, it *really* wasn't a pleasant way to go. His face fell down on his hand, see, and his ring made a huge gash in his forehead. Big honking ring too, you should see it. Bunch of FBI types were looking at it not long ago."
Kolchak checked to make sure his tape recorder was still running, as something somewhere in the back of his mind was starting to ring a very faint bell.
Somewhere in the Black Forest, Germany. July 4, 2001
"This is unacceptable!" the elderly man said in an angry tone. As the clock passed midnight and he learned the latest regarding the hundreds of murders of his assassins throughout the world. "We are the Order of Taraka. We are the hunters, not the hunted!"
The assistant's eyes looked at the floor. "I have no explanation for what has happened, sir. But the reports are very clear, for the first time ever - we are under direct attack."
The leader of the Order glared at the assistant, as if he was to blame for all that was going on. "For 3,000 years we have been sowing discord and killing the unwary. Three thousand years! And now, now...*this*? How, how do they know where to attack? We are a secret society, we are secretiveness personified, yet whoever is behind this seems to know *exactly* where to strike! Are you telling me we have no idea who is behind this?"
The assistant shook his head. "No, some of the attacks are clearly the work of mercenaries. However, other attacks are clearly the work of professionals, and those are the ones we have the least information about. No survivors are available to give us any information. Still, the amount of co-ordination is incredible. There was no warning, only a blitzkrieg attack against us all..."
"What assets of the organization are left?" the leader asked.
"In terms of equipment, we are relatively unscathed. But our personnel numbers have been decimated, and we're having trouble contacting our remaining members. We can't find any operative at all still in place within North or South America."
The leader thought for a second, wondering what was the best course given this news. As neither he nor any of his predecessors had ever faced a situation such as this before. Obviously the top assassin was rattled, and in such a state - any decent psychologist could tell you that he was bound to make mistakes.
"We need to marshal our strength, contact whoever you can. Order them to assemble here so we can prepare to strike back!"
"Sir, strike where?" the assistant had a puzzled look on his face.
The leader's temper was getting more and more frayed. "Fool, that's what the seers are for! We have enough of them, they can tell us who is attacking us and how to hit back at them. The seers will be protected here with all our forces surrounding them. Nothing less than an army could touch us here!"
Little did the head of the Order realize that shortly, he would remember those exact words with great bitterness and fury for the rest of his short and miserable life.
Fort Meade, Maryland. Thirty minutes later
The Air Force Major read through the summaries of the various intercepts from the last half-hour. He smiled, it still amazed him how the Siberians seemed able to guess precisely what their opponents were going to do next.
He reached over and picked up the phone. The man then quickly dialed the number that he had been calling more or less continuously for the last couple of days. He waited for an answer, and then spoke quickly, "This is Puzzle Palace. Yeah, you guys called it right. They're calling in everyone to play Fort Apache in the Black Forest."
He listened for a few seconds, "I'd say by the end of the day. All the major assets they can reach, or have left really, are in Europe. Elsewhere, it's only bits and pieces."
A few moments later, the Major nodded. "You're welcome. Good hunting."
1630 Revello Drive, Sunnydale California. The same time
"Let me tell you something, when it's dark and I'm all alone and I'm scared or freaked out or whatever, I always think, 'What would Buffy do?'"
Buffy bolted upright in the bed looking freaked, as she rubbed her eyes. "Xander-? Where the heck did that come from?" she muttered, as the young man's statement rang in her head. "He never said that to me."
Buffy lay down again back in the bed, and thought about her dream. She'd been at the Bronze, and somehow she had known it had been right after that vampire Sunday had bested her and stolen her stuff from her old college dorm room.
However, that had been *months* after Xander had been killed by that explosion during Graduation. He hadn't been around when Buffy had started college. Also, he definitely would not have spoken like that to her.
After the whole you-missed-that-vampire-who-ripped-my neck-open incident, Xander Harris had not been in the least bit complimentary towards his former hero. He hadn't cared anymore about what Buffy would do when he was scared. The whole thing just didn't make any sense. So it had to be just make-believe, in the blonde woman's hesitant opinion.
"And yet it seemed, like, so real - almost like a...Slayer dream?" Buffy muttered to herself. She shifted in bed and leaned over to grab the phone on her nightstand. A quick dial and short pause got the party she wanted to talk to.
"Giles, it's Buffy here. I just had the weirdest dream! Nope, wasn't an end of the world thing, but it was kinda strange and it didn't make any sense to me. It was like dreaming about the past, only it happened differently to what took place in real life."
Buffy listened for a few moments before saying, "Yeah. I know, I told you it doesn't make any sense! Look, I'll come by the Magic Box first thing in the morning and you can do the whole Watcher...okay, ex-Watcher thing to decipher it. I'll tell you everything. Yes, if there is another dream or a Slayer vision I'll call you immediately! Yeesh, could you get your mind out of the Hellmouth for a second? Go back to sleep, Giles!"
The Chosen One then hung up the phone. Silently thankful that Rupert had answered his cell at his own apartment, and not within her mother's bedroom.
Munich International Airport, Munich, Germany. Later that morning
"Sir, your car is waiting," the airport official said to the well-dressed man who kept to the shadows in the airport lobby.
"Ja, ja, danke schön. Have it pull up to the front," the man said hurriedly as he turned the collars of his coat up. He moved to the lobby door as the car, with its black tinted windows, did precisely as ordered.
After a few moments, when the car was positioned just a few meters from the building and the car door held open by the driver, the man quickly exited and almost sprinted to the vehicle.
A very observant person would have noticed that smoke seemed to come from the 'man' as he ran to the automobile, and before he managed to get in and close the door.
And as the car drove off, such a person picked up the cell phone he had been holding. "It's leaving now."
Rhine Main Air Base, Frankfurt, Germany. A few minutes later
If there was one thing that Xander Harris liked about this particular European nation, it was the autobahns they had here.
After arriving at Ramstein AFB on a military flight from the U.S., that air base itself bringing back a few bittersweet memories of the previous year, the traveling party had quickly departed Wiesbaden and headed for their new destination. And Harris had been allowed to drive himself, Oz and Graham Miller to Frankfurt, albeit under Mother Hen's watchful eye of course.
Now, the autobahn network is the world's second largest superhighway system after the U.S. Interstate system. And according to Germany's tourist bureau, it is the pinnacle of the German driving experience, perhaps the ultimate in driving altogether. That virtually all of the world's serious drivers have heard of it, and have longed to take their shot at conquering it.
Well, Harris hadn't minded taking his shot at all.
No stop signs, no speed limits (apart from the government's 'suggestions') and a bunch of civilians in Porsches and BMWs who were more dangerous to themselves and each other than Buffy on her worst driving day *ever* - it was like being on the road to Hell, or the one leading back from there.
You just had to love it.
Right now though Xander sat in the air base's lounge, reading. It helped to take his mind off what was coming, given that Fred wasn't here to help distract him. Oddly enough, the brunette physicist was with the one and only Dr. Irving Hollins right now - and those two geniuses were comparing notes on the proposed Initiative blasters that Xander had recently mentioned had been around in the original history, but had yet to be constructed here.
But still, thoughts of the Order of Taraka kept invading the former slave's mind. And *that* had led to the old memory banks recalling the events of late 1997.
As Willow had once speculated, that had been the era when the original Scooby gang had been fully united as one and as happy as they could be. Angelus had yet to show up, Jenny Calendar was still alive, and apart from Spike the only Big Bad the group had ever encountered was the Master; who had ended up a pile of shattered bone fragments under Buffy's sledgehammer, a couple of months before.
But then,William the Bloody had summoned the Order as a 'distraction' while he tried to heal Drusilla from the unspeakable things that Prague mob had done to her, with the du Lac cross Dalton had obtained. Which had led to Xander encountering Norman the Bug Man, and entering into a so-called relationship with Cordelia Chase.
Most days the former Scooby preferred not to think about her or those other two women, except in the line of duty, because even though he didn't hate them anymore - as far as he was concerned, Alexander Lavelle Harris was dead to them in more ways than one. But now, he just couldn't help it and thoughts of his brunette ex, the former redhead best friend and the blonde Slayer came to the fore of Xander's thoughts.
Especially that drug-induced conversation with the dream Cordelia, whilst he'd been held prisoner in Pylea.
Ever since Gwen had inherited the visions and left to join Angel Investigations, Xander had constantly been wondering about that situation. {Was everything she said true? And if so, just how far back did the manipulation start? }
Putting down his book, Xander frowned in deep thought. {Okay, if my subconscious was right about something big and bad wanting Cordy in LA after high school, and if we'd still been together after Graduation she might not have gone, what does that actually mean in terms of an overall enemy strategy? }
Harris compared both timelines in his head. {In this world, Queen C broke up with me about six months earlier than she otherwise would have. But what difference does that really make? Okay, so there was no clothes fluke, and no rebar incident, oh hang on. Cordelia never became the object of ridicule in this world like she did in the original history, so Ahn never showed up when she was supposed to. And yet, Anya showed up eventually anyway? Just like Spike did, that day I got sent to Hell...arrgh, crap, I don't get it.}
Indeed, it was pointless for Xander to try to figure out Jasmine's plans at this point in time, as he simply didn't have enough data.
As to the First and Xander's worries over potential events in Sunnydale, he felt somewhat better as he knew the First had its plans delayed. As long as Buffy didn't get killed and brought back to life, the Slayer line should be safe. Still, Xander knew the enemy just wasn't going to give up and no doubt was trying a different approach for the victory of the dark forces. The problem, here as with Jasmine, was Xander did not have enough data to make anything more than a guess.
So eventually the young man gave up and went back to his reading.
The Wizard had kept the homework coming this whole time, after all. And all around the lounge various other soldiers were killing time, more than a few of them going over maps and photographs of their target.
"What's so engrossing?"
Xander looked up at the sound of Red's voice. {So, you've come to join this party? Wow. Cleburne must have had to pry you away from Ametila with a crowbar! }
The Navy SEAL was standing in front of him looking down, as he examined the book Xander was reading. "Decline and fall of the Roman Empire? Doesn't seem like your style of light reading, pal."
Xander shook his head. "Yeah, but the Wizard's got me researching ancient civilizations and what causes them to prosper and fall. Wants a paper on it, and I think the regular term paper this time ain't gonna meet his expectations. He wants something more."
Red chuckled at that. "He always does. He's actually worse than the professors I had at the Academy!" Red sat down next to Xander. "So what do you want to talk about?"
Xander shook his head. "Nothing, Red. I'm just killing time until we get a go-code on the mission."
Red looked at his younger companion. "Xander? There's killing time, and there's killing time. I'm not going to insult you by asking how you're doing."
"Good. Then don't," Xander said shortly.
Red continued on, "But, I am going to comment that you want to be careful. Getting too much into the fight can cause you to lose sight of the terrorist with the RPG hanging out the window down the street."
"I've earned the right to be here. Even Cleburne says so," Xander said without looking up.
"Yeah, but remember - this is not the end point of the mission. This Spike character," Red's voice carried the disgust he felt for the British vampire clearly. "He's the real prize. And you want to be there when we finally run that walking corpse into the ground, not somewhere else recovering from another gunshot wound."
Xander stopped reading. "Okay, that I get. Don't get killed until the last battle."
Red smiled. "Well, the ideal thing would be not to get killed at all, but you've got the basic idea I'm sure." He stood up. "When the call comes, stick close to either me or Gunny. We'll get to where you need to be. Also, we're going to try and grab the Order's files."
"I'm assuming there's a reason for that, apart from the increased intel factor?" Xander asked simply.
"Yeah. I mean, he worked for them, so odds are they've had to keep track of Spike somehow, right?" Red replied, to which Xander just smiled.
The Magic Box, Sunnydale, California. Later that day
"Buffy, dreams are not supposed to make sense."
The Summers woman shook her head at Giles' statement. "I know that. However, this dream wasn't a normal one. I can tell the difference, y'know, believe me. What?" Buffy said in response to the stare she was getting from Dawn.
"However, you said 'however'. That's so, um, Watcher-y," Dawn said with a smirk.
Buffy got an exasperated look. "Okay, *but* this dream wasn't a normal one. Happy now?"
Dawn nodded, a big grin on her face after finally having accepted her true status in life - after all those upheavals two months ago. "Oh, yeah, now that's my big sister talking!"
Giles sighed at the female antics, resisting the urge to polish his glasses. "If I may, Buffy, the dreaming mind works in, uh, mysterious ways. That's why I'm not surprised you inserted Xander into one of your dreams. After all, he-he meant quite a lot to you."
"But that's just it - Giles, I've had dreams with Xander in them before. Normal dreams, I mean - like the day we first met. The day I rejected his invitation to Spring Fling. The day he helped me escape from those swim team fish monsters! But this one was different, it was like a Slayer dream - kinda like the one six months ago, when we were making my bed together and then there was a big party with dead people in my house! Those other dreams, they were high school type dreams. I've never before dreamed of Xander in college."
"You've dreamed about Xander a lot, huh?" Dawn asked knowingly, to which Buffy started blushing.
"Of course she has, so have I! I betcha that all of us who knew him one way or another have dreamed about him. He was a large part of our lives," Willow declared from the table she was sharing with Tara.
"That's absolutely right. I dream of Xander's tongue fairly often," Anya volunteered from behind the cash register. That comment caused everyone else in the store to look over at the former demon. "What? I'm a healthy young human female, with a normal sex drive that-"
"Anyway!" Buffy semi-shouted, heading off whatever Anya was about to say with a nervous glance at Dawn. "Something about this dream has gotten my Slayer radar going all red alert, Watcher mine. I mean, why would I dream up him saying such nice things about me? The first part of senior year at Sunnydale High, Xander could barely even stand to be on the same campus as I was!"
Giles put down the clipboard he had been using to take inventory with. "If it makes you feel better, I'll do some research, call some people I know on the Council who might still talk to me."
Buffy smiled at that. "Great, you do that and maybe I can go back to normal dreams."
"About Xander in high school?" Dawn piped up helpfully.
"Dawn!" Buffy and Giles said in unison.
Headquarters of the Order of Taraka, Black Forest, Germany. Later that evening
"Damn it, I don't want excuses!" the leader of the Order shouted as the seer slinked away from his desk, nursing a bleeding nose. "You're supposed to be the best seers in the Order, so damn well act like it! What the hell can you tell me?" he snapped at his lieutenant as the psychic fled out the door.
"All of the seers report they are having problems obtaining information, more so than normal. Sir, granted that even at the best of times the seers are not the most exact bunch of individuals, but now they are being even more obscure than usual. It is clear that someone or something is blocking them."
"What? Or who?" was the angry question in response.
"Unknown. However, it could only be other seers or mages of incredible power. And that narrows the list of candidates down considerably," the lieutenant replied.
The leader frowned and leaned back. "Wolfram & Hart?"
His underling nodded his head once with a frown. "They could do it, but that begs the question; why? We've always had a good relationship with them, and the same is true for most of the demon armies out there."
"What about the Nutrcats clan?"
The Order's number two hesitated for a moment. "They *do* have reason to dislike us after we assassinated their chief warlord last year, sir. However, as far as I know they do not have the resources for something like this. At best, they have 3,000 ordinary soldiers. That's not enough for a world-wide assault of the type we've seen, and - they have no seers to speak of. The Watchers Council could muster together the power to block our seers, but not enough resources for the mundane assault on us."
The underling paused for a second. "If I may be so bold, sir?"
"Your predecessor was bold, once!" the leader snarled back.
There was an almost-hidden gulp. "Yes sir, but given all that we know - I think we may want to concentrate our attention on a less...*exotic* explanation. There are others whom we have had dealings with, besides those connected to the demon world. If that's the case, an obvious candidate for all this comes to mind."
The elderly gentleman stood up, instantly seeing where his minion was going with this. "The Americans? I remember them from the war. This seems somewhat excessive for them. After all, they defeated the Nazis, then turned around and gave the Germans the means to rebuild their country!"
"No doubt to assuage the guilt over the violence they undertook. Perhaps Spike wasn't as careful as we thought in covering his connection to us, with regard to that contract two months ago," was the response from the subordinate.
"Hmmm, if you're right? Remind me later to torture that vampire, in order to properly explain his failings to him," the leader said in a menacing tone.
"Yes sir," was the response. However before he could say more, the beeper on his belt signalled the need for attention to be paid to it. The lieutenant looked down and read the text message. "Uh, sir, there's been a development. The seers are now reporting something definite."
"About damn time! Well, what is it?" the head of the Order growled.
"It's not good news..."
Outside the castle. Ten minutes later
The sunlight from the afternoon sun danced along the walls of the castle HQ of the Order of Taraka, shadows playing all along its side. The shadows seemed...menacing.
This was even more so clear when one looked out from the castle towards the source of the shadows. A flight of Apache helicopters approached the castle in an attack formation. Well away from the castle, they stopped and hovered above the ground, before a salvo of rockets shot out from their missile emplacements.
Like fiery angels of death, the rockets flew unerringly with hazy smoke trails behind them until they impacted on the upper parts of the castle walls. Said walls were then instantly blasted apart like they were made of tissue paper.
The helicopters then flew out of the way of another flight of Apache choppers, who attacked as well; and the next round of missiles hit the interior of the castle. The parapets, the courtyard, even the main building all went up in a gout of flame and destruction, as the first wave of aircraft headed for the terrorist HQ to take out any lesser targets. As the helicopters moved out of the way, artillery started impacting on the burning castle.
Nearby, Joshua and Red watched the scene through binoculars. "Payback is a bitch," Cleburne commented with a great deal of obvious pleasure.
"Remind me to stay on your good side," Red said, noting all the damage done to the enemy. "And this is only the first punch, after all."
"Hey, overkill is generally a good thing in this line of work!" the senior Siberian riposted.
A few feet away, Oz and Xander stared at the burning castle as well, the thousand-year-old building nothing but wreckage now - a gutted monument to the evil it had once housed. "We're not gonna have any trouble with the local cops, are we?" the werewolf suddenly asked.
"Denial ain't just a river in Egypt, buddy. And if anyone *does* ask awkward questions, well, what the hell - we're Americans, and what's the Fourth of July without some fireworks?" Xander commented.
All three men turned to stare at him. "What?" Xander defended himself. "At least I'm not blaming it all on gangs high on PCP."
Cleburne shook his head. "You two must have had a *really* weird childhood in that hellpit of a town."
Under the burning castle. The same time
"I am going to *skewer* that damned vampire, preferably right through his privates!" the leader of the Order of Taraka hissed, as the ground shook above his head from another artillery strike on the castle. He, his chief lieutenant and several bodyguards made their way through the escape tunnel underneath the old castle that had until a few minutes ago, been their secure fortress headquarters.
The screaming of one seer about fire from the sky had been enough warning for some preparation to be made for an assault. However, never in their experience had the Order dealt with an air strike or artillery barrage with themselves as targets, therefore the brief preparations they had made had been woefully inadequate.
After all, when a mage heard about fire from the sky, he thought of a fireball spell and how to counter it. Not an Apache gunship helicopter attacking him.
"It does appear that it is in fact the Americans who are the architects of our troubles. With this knowledge we should now be able to prepare a proper counterstrike," the lieutenant said as he tried to avoid stumbling.
"You pathetic fool, with what? Most of our remaining operatives lie above us, either dead or dying. Our resources are gone and our communication network is destroyed. Our security has clearly been compromised, otherwise how would they know where to attack? How can we strike back if they already know our every move!?" the leader turned and shouted at his flunky.
Then he stopped dead. "As a matter of fact - that is a question I think I can now answer. After all, who *was* the Judas among us? It had to be someone high up in the organization. And who better to tip off our enemies than the one who is always at my side? Listening to and seeing everything." He advanced, his anger and despair overcoming common sense and reasoning. "It's perfect, almost. You leak the secrets, eliminate me, and then you and your Yankee allies take over the Order. However, I see you. I see you..."
The lieutenant's eyes were wide now in fear, he knew what had happened to his predecessor - and that was when the leader had been fully rational and calm. "No, no, sir, you know me, I would never betray the Order-" he stammered out.
"I should have known something was up. Your recommendations were too good, too complimentary. You were the worm in the apple..." The elderly gentleman raised his hands and shouted a Latin phrase. A line of white lights shot out from his hands and surrounded the flunky.
The lieutenant looked around in horror as the light contracted around him. He started to scream in agony as the lights moved quickly. Nearby, the bodyguards looked on in (perfectly hidden) terror. The flunky fell to his knees, and then slumped over onto the floor with a thud, his eyes wide open and his face frozen in pain.
"Traitor," was the hissed benediction from the Tarakan leader. Death being the only reward for nearly a lifetime's faithful service, from his second-in-command.
Suddenly from the direction they'd come from, there was heard screams and gunfire. "Come!" the leader said hurriedly, as he started down the tunnel away from the sounds. The bodyguards hurried after him, to a man.
The senior bodyguard caught up to his superior. "Sir, how do we know he didn't also betray the existence of this escape tunnel?"
"Because he didn't know about it. This tunnel was previously known only to me and my predecessors," was the answer. Of course, this was true enough and would have been grounds for optimism if the suspicions of the old man regarding his former lieutenant had been right. Sadly for him, they were not.
The old man opened the hatch leading to the outside. "We can get to the road from here. And once we're clear, we head for the emergency safehouse in Frankfurt," he said. However anything else the old assassin might have added was lost as suddenly he and his party were lit up by a searchlight.
"Handehoch! SCHNELL!" was shouted out in a strangely guttural tone, as the owner of the voice commanded the Tarakans in German to get their hands up PDQ.
"Hell first! Der Aufbau oder tod!" was the shouted reply. The old man raised his hands. However, before he got them all the way up, gunfire rang out. He staggered a bit as bullets could be seen bouncing off his person. The gunfire quickly worked its way up the body until it reached his shoulders, and those bullets did not bounce off.
The bodyguards returned fire, however they were clearly outgunned and caught out in the open. Within a couple of minutes, they were overwhelmed and their souls started roasting down where they belonged.
After a silent minute or so, several soldiers emerged from the darkness and approached the bodies cautiously. Leading them was Cyrus, wearing his trademark floppy bush hat. He headed straight to the old man. He then bent down and examined the leader of the Order, as the target of his examination wheezed his last breaths.
"Naand, meneer," Cyrus said calmly in his native tongue.
The eyes opened wide, defying medical science as the dying man recognized the Siberian in front of him. "You?" he hissed, clearly in agony.
"Kevlar. I was wondering why the bullets bounced off. I initially thought it was magic," the South African said neutrally. He may as well have been commenting about the weather.
"You could have been one of us-" the Tarakan said with his last breath.
"And had I accepted your offer back then, I would be dead right now or about to die. No, thank you, but I've had enough of lost causes for one lifetime."
Back at the castle. The same time
The gargoyle jumped down from its perch on the rubble and slashed at Xander. He only just managed to jump back to avoid its claws. Next to him, Oz took the opportunity to calmly swing a battleaxe into the chest of the gargoyle.
The creature looked down at the embedded axe. He then looked up at Oz, and reached down to effortlessly pull the axe out. "Not good," the werewolf said as an understatement.
"On it," Xander said, as he fired in full auto mode with his M4A1 carbine. The gargoyle just glared at Xander for a few seconds before swinging the axe at Oz, who had by then moved out of the way. "Or maybe not," Xander commented as he moved back also.
Xander and Oz started running away from the gargoyle, who as the mystical guardian of the castle and its inhabitants was clearly not giving up his pursuit of them anytime soon. It flapped its wings and took to the sky. It overflew its quarry and sat down in front of them.
"Hey, come on Goliath, that's not exactly fair! We can't fly!" Xander shouted as he fired some more rounds from his weapon, the bullets again only chipping away at the target, not exactly hurting it or anything. The two humans quickly proceeded back in the direction they had just come from, Xander fumbling with the equipment harness he was wearing.
"Here it is!" Harris finally declared in triumph, as the gargoyle again attacked them; this time, no longer playing games. "Here, catch!" the one-time PFC yelled as he tossed the object he had just retrieved to the monster chasing them.
"Run!" the former Slayerette then shouted at Oz.
The gargoyle, admittedly not the smartest creature around, looked down at the small round thing in his hand with mild curiosity. A hand grenade with the pin pulled. The resulting explosion knocked the castle guardian down to the ground, with the arm holding the grenade going in the other direction.
The gargoyle lay on the ground, dazed and unable to comprehend what had just happened, as its knowledge base was still stuck in the Middle Ages. Given that that was the last time it had unfrozen before today, from its sleeping stone form. Xander took advantage of the opportunity and tossed two more hand grenades right onto his attacker. Two loud explosions a few seconds later, and little more than dust and powder filled the area as the gargoyle was literally blown to bits.
"I *love* blowing things up," Xander wisecracked, briefly thinking about the high school graduation ceremony of both timelines.
"You seem to have a talent for it," Oz commented.
"You have no idea!" Xander joked in response. "Come on." The two former residents of Sunnydale started running further into the ruins. "The vaults are probably this way. I just hope they survived the pounding."
Xander looked up and saw another gargoyle fly over their heads, however this one spared them no thought at all. A few seconds later, an Apache helicopter flashed by in pursuit. Xander just smiled to himself, as he and Oz made their way through the remains of the castle.
All around they heard sounds of battle, both mundane and magical. The Order of Taraka might have been going down, but they were not going down without a fight. The two former Scoobies made their way to a cluster of Siberians led by Red who were firing at a pile of rubble about thirty yards away.
"Damn it, the sun hasn't gone down yet! Just blow up enough of the rubble and the sunlight will take care of the rest!" the man said as he pulled a grenade from his harness. "Vampires," Byrne explained to Xander and Oz as an aside.
"Fire in the hole!" the Navy officer shouted as he tossed the grenade onto the rubble. A few seconds later, the massive explosion blew rubble into the air and the screams of the damned were heard as they burned from the deadly daylight.
"Come on!" Red shouted as they advanced on their target. "I don't want to live forever, and neither do you."
{Got that right} Xander shrugged and followed in the attack.
Fifteen minutes later
Gunny rapped on the vault door in front of him with his knuckles. "Hello, Avon calling."
"Gunny, don't mock the bad guys after they're dead," Cleburne said from nearby as he examined a control panel.
"You do it," Gunny responded as he moved away from the door.
"Well, I do it with more style. That was just...tacky," Joshua responded as he pushed one of the buttons. The two Marines looked at the door, hoping it would open. But instantly they were disappointed when the door didn't move.
"Oh well, guess we'll just have to try something else," Cleburne muttered.
The two of them, along with several other Siberians were in an underground chamber. The chamber had been the site of the last stand of the castle defenders. There were still a few isolated members of the Order running around, but nothing organized any longer and it was only a matter of time before the mopping up was complete.
At the entrance of chamber, Red, Oz and Xander entered. "What's the sitch?" Xander asked.
"This is what really made the castle so valuable for us," Cleburne explained with a gesture. "The records vault of the Order of Taraka. Lots of goodies for us in there."
"Including how to catch up with Spike," Xander said as he strode purposefully to the control panel. "Open it up."
"That's what I'm trying to do, kid. But the bad guys managed to lock it before we liberated the room. Now I'm just randomly pushing buttons to see if it opens," was the response from the Marine colonel.
"Ah, might not be a good idea. Booby traps and everything," Oz commented in his laidback way.
"He makes a valid point," Gunny commented.
Cleburne made a face, but he didn't press any more buttons. "Alright, so how *do* we get in?" he asked.
"Open Sesame," Red said suddenly. "Well, it would have been cool if it worked," he said in response to the looks he got.
"Yeah, maybe. Get the experts over here, both normal and the spooks," Cleburne said as he keyed his radio.
Shortly afterwards, a small group clustered at the end of the chamber, discussing amongst themselves how to open the door. "Explosives?" said one of the officers.
"No, we're liable to blow up what we want," Cleburne immediately vetoed that idea. "How about using a jackhammer on the wall next to the door?"
That received a shake of the head from another officer. "No, we tried a drill to get a core sample for analysis, but there's something magical stopping the drilling process. Probably would do the same for a jackhammer."
"So we have both the normal and paranormal to deal with. Anyone else here missing the good old days, dealing with the terrorists?" Red asked. There were several nods of heads in response.
Suddenly a noise pinged from the control panel, as all heads turned to see one of the experts grinning. "I got it! Jury-rigged a bypass on the lock, after I figured out the combination to the vault! Now we can..." Then he frowned. "Uh-oh."
"Uh-oh? I don't like it when I hear the word 'uh-oh'!" Cleburne declared. "What have you done?"
"Like I said, got around the lock the bad guys put on the mechanism opening the vault," the officer reported. "But the computer's requesting a verbal password for final verification, something to prove that you're a legitimate user of the system before it unlocks the door. Problem is, this function is hard-wired into the machinery and not something we can bypass. And I don't know what'll happen if we guess wrong, but odds are it'll be nothing good..."
Instantly, there was a barrage of questions and semi-recriminations, till Xander yelled "QUIET!" They all shut up, looking at the so-called Timetripper, who slowly walked up to the vault and said loudly and clearly to a grille about halfway up the door, "Our credo is to sow discord, and kill the unwary."
Instantly, the outer door swung open, and the Siberians noticed a series of inner doors swing open as well; they then glimpsed a huge cavern full of paper files, which was the Order's standard operating procedure to reduce the risk of electronic snooping into their affairs. It was like the treasure trove within Aladdin's cave, if you were looking for the modern-day corporate version of gold and jewels.
"How did you know?" Cleburne asked Xander suspiciously, as all this felt just a little too convenient for comfort.
But Harris just smiled, a sublime and turtle-ish smile as he remembered a long-ago briefing on the Order by Rupert Giles. "Lucky guess, plus I used to be a good bowler. And not only did these guys fail to beat the Elks in the Sunnydale adult bowling league championships during 1996, bowling is one vicious game!"
All the others, including Oz, just stared at their time-displaced colleague in confusion upon hearing that. Before they shook away the cobwebs and then progressed deep into the heart of the vault, to start plundering the secret treasures of the Order of Taraka.
"We're going to talk later," Cleburne said as he cautiously advanced into the vault. "In the meantime, I'm sure there's a lot we can learn here."
"Spike," Xander murmured simply under his breath.
The Pentagon, Arlington, Virginia. July 5, 2001
"So, are they done with that little cowboy vendetta?"
Esther Marcum raised an eyebrow at Secretary of Defense Rumsfeld's mixing of metaphors, however she still answered the question. "For the time being, I'd say so. There are still two entities out there Cleburne and Howard very much want to exact justice from, but for now the main threat has been removed."
Rumsfeld grunted. "Good. As much as those bastards needed to pay for what happened that night, we have bigger fish to worry about. Have you seen the watch list?"
Esther nodded. "Yes, several names have popped up recently that have caused concern-"
"Atta has left the country. Most probably setting up the final plans for the attack. We could snatch him when he comes back here, you know," Rumsfeld commented. "Matter of fact, Ashcroft has been bugging me about wanting to do that. Letting the FBI flex their muscles and all."
"Sir, we've discussed this before. Not to put too fine a point on it, but that is a Very Bad Idea. We would lose control very quickly in such a situation, and not know for sure how al-Qaeda would react."
Rumsfeld frowned. "And yet, it would be an equally big risk to just let them roam around when we know what's coming, wouldn't it?"
The Marcum woman tried not to sigh. {It's always like this with men like him, the desire to Do Something.} "The Wizard has been quite clear on this, Mr. Secretary. If we move too soon, we foul up the consecutive chain of events described to us by Mr. Howard, and then we really *are* operating in the dark. We're liable to be very surprised, when September 11 finally rolls around. And this time around, we won't be able to claim that the whole thing caught us completely unaware! We retain our inside knowledge advantage this way," Esther explained.
"Well, you better hope so. Look, I want to talk to the principals on this as soon as they all get back from wherever they are on their revenge trip. On account of the whole Committee needs to make this decision, not them."
Esther gave up and sighed. Well, okay, Rumsfeld *was* right in that this kind of decision needed to be made at the highest levels. "I'll make the arrangements to get everyone assembled as soon as possible."
Somewhere in Afghanistan. July 7, 2001
"The Order is dead and gone, you say?" the tall, bearded man asked.
"Yes, the destruction was complete. The Americans and the Zionists attacked them wherever they could be found, and wiped the Order of Taraka off the face of the earth," the younger man responded. "Clearly, revenge was the motive."
"So they're blinded. Good," was the response of the first man who'd spoken.
"Perhaps we can take further advantage of this," was the comment from a heavyset bearded man.
"I would recommend caution, however," the younger man insisted. "The Great Satan is currently angry, and thirsting for blood. And the strike on the four pagan symbols of the infidels is too close now to risk anything going wrong, at this late stage."
"Have faith in the Koran, specifically book four," the first man replied. "Still, you may be right. And just in case, I say we should prepare for a mighty blow against four other symbols of the Great Satan, if our initial attack in Allah's name is somehow thwarted."
Los Angeles, California. July 9, 2001
Cordelia Chase was feeling *psyched*.
Because things were finally going her way, it seemed. Both professionally and personally. At long last, after the past six weeks or so.
There had been that night where Chuck had found her high school yearbook and souvenirs. Her former boyfriend Xander figured prominently in her collection. Chuck had caught her looking at one of the pictures wistfully. Cordelia had to explain to Chuck about Xander was, well an edited version of the truth. Chuck had wondered if Cordelia's feelings for Xander had been more than a high school infatuation. He had actually asked why she had kept those items. Cordelia had explained as best as she about the nature of the relationship and how it ended.
But this wasn't high school anymore. And she was involved in a serious adult relationship with a decent guy - one that Ms. Chase was pretty lucky to have, actually. And finally, *finally*, with the help of every ounce of charm and beauty that the good Lord had blessed her with, Cordelia had been able to make her boyfriend understand.
And as for the day job, well, no major surprises there - Wolfram & Hart were still proving to be a major headache for Angel Investigations.
That Asian guy, Gavin Park, was proving to be even more of a devious weasel than Lindsey MacDonald had ever been. The Chase woman was *sure* that she was constantly being followed thanks to Gavin's orders, even if she couldn't prove it. And even Gwen had complained that the pickings had grown mighty slim lately, in terms of finding a decent place to rob! The only consolation was that Lilah Morgan was obviously having as miserable a time of it as Angel's Avengers
But as for her budding career in the movie and entertainment industry...well, things were definitely looking up.
Unlike what would have happened in the history Xander remembered, Cordelia's star had been rising lately thanks to that lotion commercial that had been a big success after it had been professionally redone. And now, it had led the young woman to a top-three audition for a guest-starring role on 'ALIAS'.
And about damn time too, in Cordelia's opinion. After all, it was (shudder) only another six months till her 21st birthday!
If she didn't make it in this business within another three to four years, Cordy knew that she may as well just quit the whole acting gig, and resign herself to being Angel's assistant/secretary for the rest of her days.
But right at this moment, as said, Cordelia was psyched. She was in the zone. And she was about to score, big-time. { I'm doing it! I really am! Oh, God - Hollywood, here I come! } And as she said her lines, Cordy *knew* she had the part nailed-
When Fate kicked her right where it hurt the most.
A vision blasted through Cordelia's brain for the first time in nearly two months, a river of agony cascading through her consciousness. Making her blind and deaf to everyone and everything around her, as the young woman screamed in pain and the images played out in her visual cortex.
Very soon, a day or so. Hancock Park. Nester demons. The starving creatures attacking a couple of joggers, willing to risk detection by the human world in order to overcome the debilitating hunger.
Cordelia hadn't noticed falling to the ground, but as the hurt faded and she was able to open her eyes once more, she saw the scared eyes of her male audition partner looking down at her. "Uh, did I receive the wrong script? 'Cause that wasn't part of the scene, was it? I'm pretty sure, anyway. So, um, are you okay?"
Cordelia groaned, as the actor helped her up. Then she winced in realization, { Oh no! The audition! NO! }
Indeed, the brass was looking at her strangely. "Miss Chase, are you feeling all right?" one of the assistant directors asked her.
"Yeah, I'm sorry about that - I, uh, just had sort of an...an episode," Cordelia made her pretty lame excuses.
"Episode? What sort of episode? Your agent never mentioned anything about a medical condition!" another big shot looked at her in annoyance.
"It's nothing!" Cordelia insisted, even though she was obviously sweating. "Really, I promise you, it's a non-issue! It, it almost never happens anymore-"
"You mean, it's happened before in the past!?" one of the producers demanded.
"All right, that's it. Everyone, take five," the casting director said to the audience at large. Then the head honcho glanced at his personal assistant, before walking away and the gathered assembly started to break up.
Cordelia had a horrible feeling in the pit of her stomach, as the PA soon got her alone. "That was *quite* a performance, I have to say," the blond woman said archly.
"Look, if you just give me another chance-" the seer started to say desperately.
"Let me ask you something, Miss Chase - what's your motivation?"
The question took the former Queen C by surprise, as the assistant went on, "Because on *this* show, we demand nothing but the best. And quite frankly, you obviously seem to have problems delivering."
Cordelia's dream of red carpets, expensive limousines and flashing light bulbs began to fade away. "Is this the part where you say 'don't call us, we'll call you'?"
"Not quite. Two things first; one, acting lessons. You need *lots* of them. And two, the way you're dressed, don't ever be afraid to sleep with the director if you really want to get ahead in this business."
Instantly, that raised the Queen of Mean's rage and ire. { Who the hell does this bitch in heels think she is? Because I'm Cordelia Chase. The nastiest girl in Sunnydale's history. I take crap from no one, and nobody talks that way to me! NOBODY! }
Instinctively drawing herself up to her full height, Cordelia glared down at her shorter companion. "If you're done? Well, I have two things to say to you as well. One, if you can't appreciate my talents for what they are, then that's your loss. And two, given all the interest in my sex life? Maybe you ought to consider getting one yourself that doesn't need batteries!"
Cordelia Chase, head held high, then turned around and imperiously strode away without looking back once. And thus, she failed to see the other woman's face contort into a mask of seething fury and hatred.
There was a reason why this somewhat heated exchange had occurred, actually. And it was one whose roots lay in the past of this brave new world, back on the Hellmouth of late 1998.
Less than a week after Xander had disappeared into that hell dimension and was missing presumed killed, Cordelia had *finally* learned the big news about her ex-boyfriend. And that was on the same day she had encountered a jock in the hallway known as John Lee Walker, who was another of her ex's.
Unlike what would have happened in the original timeline, their meeting had not gone well. Upset, Cordy had unleashed her razor-sharp tongue on the guy, instead of trying to make Xander jealous; and that boy, who had been demoted to second string on the football team and feeling the peer pressure a lot, had borne the brunt of it in shock and pain.
And later that night...John Lee had wrapped his car around an electrical pole. His death had been mercifully quick and relatively painless, at least according to the coroner.
But his aunt, the blond woman who now watched Cordelia depart with such savage loathing and disgust, hadn't seen it that way. The darling boy who had been the light of his parents' eyes had died because what that...bitch had done, and she had to pay for that.
Somehow.
And today had provided the perfect opportunity for her to get revenge.
Karma. What goes around, comes around as they used to say.
"For you, John," the woman named April Thompson muttered, suddenly feeling empty and yet also in weary pain, as Cordelia Chase vanished from her sight.
And somewhere up above, Jasmine smiled at how all her options were still fully open here.
TBC...