Betterment - Act 1
Niki took a big bite of the hamburger, chewing thoughtfully, then swallowing. She repeated this several times then set the remainder down to take a swig of her beer. Secretly, she hoped by reducing her alcohol consumption to beer she might head off her Slayer visions and have a good dream for once.
In the two weeks since she had put that FBI officer in the coma, Niki had managed to avoid going back on her deal with the Goths and had actually dodged the cops' black market bust on the stolen silver she had just sold. She allowed herself a little smile. It had been a good couple of weeks. She took another bite of the pub's questionably quasi-famous burger.
"I won't tell the police if you don't," a grim voice said from just behind and to the left of her.
Niki slowly lowered the dripping burger to the paper basket in had come in. Her mouth was empty but she swallowed anyway. The owner of the voice slowly rounded the table and sat down across from the Slayer.
Niki blinked. The woman looked to be in her mid fifties, hazel hair streaked with grey and pulled back in a severe bun. She wore an unsettlingly old-fashioned dress which was dark red with small white flowers and lace. The woman said nothing as Niki hesitantly reached for her beer and took another swig.
"Can I help you?" The Slayer said uneasily, her face betraying her confusion. "Tell the police what?"
The woman appraised Niki for a moment, then a warm smile spread across her face. It looked very comfortable there.
"Who you really are, Niki Valtaine." She steepled her fingers on the table top and would have looked happier if she were lashing the back of a truant's hand with a wooden ruler.
The Slayer's eyes shifted. And who am I? she was about to say, but stopped herself. This woman must be the seer Whistler had spoken about. "Well good. Then I won't have to kill you, will I?"
The woman's face cracked into a broad grin. "Whistler told me you were amusing."
Niki's face was blank. "I'm a laugh riot." She tipped the beer bottle back and let the last of it pour down her throat. With a satisfied sigh she set it back down and wiped her mouth on a crumpled napkin. "Is there something I can do for you," Niki asked, her patience thin, "besides not turn myself in?"
The woman raised a thin grey eyebrow. "You were told to seek me, weren't you?"
Niki shrugged. "To discuss the Deceivers. But I haven't ever seen them and I'm beginning to think they're just a figment of my imagination."
The woman tilted her head. "But that would mean you killed Megan Brandon by yourself. Are you willing to accept that?"
Niki's expression grew sullen and her tone sour. "Everyone makes mistakes."
"But you are not everyone, Niki Valtaine, Vampire Slayer." The woman's voice was strong and clear, such that Niki frowned and held a finger to her lips.
"You wanna say that a bit louder?" Niki hissed, "I don't think the guy in the coma heard you."
The severe woman nodded gravely. "Yes. The man in the coma. Not a vampire, not a demon. Not even an evil man. A detective you had shot to protect yourself from your mistakes."
Niki shrugged innocently. "What, I'm not allowed more than one mistake?"
"Do you think it was a mistake?" the woman said evenly. "Look at yourself." Niki did. The woman continued. "Look at who you are! You've carried on an affair with a married man. You've raised your own army of demons and vampires! And won! You make allies of demons, deals with vampires and enemies of humans. You are a fugitive in the daylight world. What are you?"
Niki winced. "Complicated?"
"How man vampires have you slain in the past month?" the woman demanded.
Niki's gaze dropped. Few enough. Considering the number she had been in contact with: The dealers at the airport. The junkie on the subway. The numerous Goths. "What's your point?"
The woman's face took on an air of complete astonishment at the Slayer's reply. What's my point? "You're on the wrong side, Niki," the woman hissed. "You're more an asset to evil than you are to good!"
Niki scoffed. "That's bullshit. I could shower this city in dust if I wanted to. I'm just taking a break."
The woman shook her head with disgust and stood, pointedly leaning in to focus her glare. "Don't presume to deceive a seer with the lies you use on yourself." And she stalked off leaving the Slayer staring angrily at her unfinished hamburger.
--
The grin wouldn't leave him alone. It tugged at the corner of his mouth and he was sure it made him look like a fool. He couldn't help it. Full partnership.
The letter lay innocently on the coffee table in the Kilpatrick's living room. Full partnership.
"I'm so proud of you honey," she said in his mind. "You've worked so hard for this, now your job is secure for the merger." He blinked. That's what she would say. Full partnership.
"Are you seeing someone else?" she stood with her hands on her hips, her eyes cold. He looked up from where he sat in the living room to her glowering form in the front hall. His smile melted. She took his moment of shocked silence for a denial. "Where did you get this?" She let the silver IXI bracelet dangle from her hand. She draped his coat over the back of one of the easy chairs facing him.
Logan's brow creased. "It's, uh... Medic Alert bracelet. The firm's nurse gave it to me. Apparently I'm allergic to something called haloperidol." He kicked himself immediately for having lied about that. She was studying for her nursing degree. He braced himself.
With a frown she examined the silver tag and its inscription. "It doesn't look like any medic alert bracelet I've ever seen," she said skeptically. "What's I.X.I.?" He shrugged. Eventually, however, she dropped it onto the coffee table. "You're supposed to wear it," she said at last, distractedly picking up the open letter to scrutinize it as well.
"I got promoted," Logan's smile reappeared as quickly as it had vanished. "Full partnership."
After a moment, his smile spread to her. "That's great honey," she seemed genuinely happy. All her former suspicion and distrust had evaporated. "Let's celebrate."
Logan raised an eyebrow. He knew what that meant. His grin widened. He stood and took her hand following her up the stairs to the hallway. At the end was their bedroom.
He looked to the left as they passed Hanna's bedroom. "Hold on," he said absently, letting go of his wife's hand to gently knock on his daughter's door. "Let me just say goodnight to Hanna."
When he got no answer from inside her room he opened the door and tiptoed into the darkness. In the wedge of light from the hallway, he could see her pretending to be asleep under her covers. She had likely been writing in her diary by flashlight when he had knocked. Now she lay with her eyes closed, the very picture of an angel.
"Hey," he said gently, sitting down on the edge of her bed. He couldn't remember the last time he had sat at the edge of her bed. She wasn't the child she had been then. Wasn't his baby. He swallowed. With everything that had happened these past few years... he feared he had missed her grow up. "I know you're awake," he said bluntly, "am I magic or not?"
Her eyes finally opened, a wry smile on her face. "Yeah, I guess..." Then she perked up. "Sing me to sleep," she said with finality.
Logan did a mock double take. "Sing you to sleep?" he said with a quizzical frown. "I haven't sung you to sleep in... years. Besides," he added with a twinkle, "I have a date with this totally hot chick in the other room—"
"Dad, that's gross," she scrunched her face and gagged. "C'mon. Mom'll be around forever. I'll be moving out of the house in, like..." she thought about it, "five years."
Logan heard her sarcastic tone, but shared none of her amusement. "Are you trying to break your poor father's heart?" he said weakly. It was closer to the truth than he could even admit to himself. "Who said you could grow up so fast, huh?" She smiled sweetly, batting her eyelashes. "Alright," he sighed at last, shuffling his bum on the edge of her bed to get more comfortable. "What d'you want to hear?"
"Boxer," she said contentedly, closing her eyes and snuggling under the covers.
Logan took a deep breath and cleared his throat, swallowing and trying to hear the key in his head.
"I am just a poor boy,
though my story's seldom told.
I have squandered my resistance
For a pocketful of mumbles, such are promises, all lies and jest
Still a man hears what he wants to hear and disregards the rest,
hmmm..."
Hanna felt asleep with no expression on her face.
--
Addison slowly poured the stuff into the coffee mug. It wasn't tea and it wasn't a teacup. It was depressing, that's what it was. Lukewarm, liquid depression.
The Watcher winced as he brought the stuff to his lips. Nope. Not tea. He'd heard some rather depressing things about Niki since he'd gotten back from London. He was getting too old for this sort of thing. All he wanted was to go back to his estate and write a book. Write his memoirs. Oh, no one would read them of course. His life contained more sensitive details than an MI 5 agent. The only people who would even believe any of it were the stodgy old farts on the Council. And they were too boring to read something exciting like "Richard J. Addison; The Chronology of a Warrior." Yes, he was too old for this.
The door opened and Niki strolled in, tossing her black leather jacket on the kitchen table, tossing her blond hair and tossing a glace to the old man who was again living in her apartment. "Evening."
"Sit down," Addison said quietly, taking another sip of the stuff which continued to fail to be tea.
"Aren't you a little old for this?" Niki said, marching into her room to change. Addison stood and followed her as far as the door which she closed in his face. "I thought we established I can handle myself. I don't need you anymore."
The old Watcher blinked wearily. "Logan only calls me when things are really out of control. I'm not here because you can't handle yourself. It is abundantly clear you are handling things. I hear you've become quite the negotiator. I'm here to make sure peace doesn't break out in New York City."
"Funny," she replied dryly. "I'm just taking a little time off. Entrepreneurs are allowed to do that."
"Funny," he answered curtly. "Remember the war didn't end on Atlantic Avenue: you cannot just stop fighting."
The door opened and Niki emerged wearing a clean white T-shirt and slightly more faded blue jeans. "You know there's a whole school of thought which says violence doesn't solve anything."
Addison nodded. "Yes, you burnt that school down as I recall. Making peace with vampires is all well and good, except you've given them the privilege of feeding whenever they want. Need I remind you... they're inherently evil?" He turned and followed her as she made her way towards the bathroom. Again the door was closed in his face. "You have a very simple job. If it lacks a pulse and yet still walks around: put a stake in it."
"It sounds very simple when you put it that way," Niki agreed from behind the closed door. "Now let's jump to the part where you con one of the walking pulse-less to be my Watcher. Then he tries to kill me. That's my favorite part." The toilet flushed and there was the sound of running water. The door then opened and Niki strolled out. "And don't forget that the magical little bracelet was your idea."
Addison took a deep breath. "I know that—"
"You want to know what I know?" Niki interrupted, on a roll. "I know that I have given up absolutely everything for you." Her tone implied she could say a whole lot more, but she simply held his gaze, daring him to criticize her.
After a long moment, the old man conceded. "You're right," he sat down on the couch in the living room, setting his mug on the only coaster in sight. "It's just... how many have you slain—"
"Is that what this is about?" she demanded, crossing her arms. "My quota?" She laughed hollowly. "Fine. I'll go kill some vampires. I'll go right now. Bracelet or not."
"Niki–"
"No," she snatched her jacket off the table, "I thought I could have one fucking night off, but if you want numbers, I'll give you your damn numbers. I'll give you twenty— Hell, I'll give you twenty five. Fitting number." She slammed the door behind her.
Addison scowled. Twenty five?
--
Betterment - Act 2
Logan got up the next morning with the renewed glow of Full Partnership. The quality that words had when you repeated them enough seemed to have abandoned these two: Full... Partnership... Same as the first time, he mused. A little giddy, he pulled back the covers and quickly replaced them so as not to allow the cool air to disturb his wife's nakedness. He himself shivered as the cool morning caressed his naked form. Some of the giddiness, he admitted, wasn't job related. Something most employers know is that promotion improved performance.
He showered and dressed and wandered down stairs to have some coffee. He stepped out of the kitchen to hear the subdued sounds of the television. Sipping his coffee he watched Hanna sitting cross-legged before the TV. She hadn't watched Saturday morning cartoons in years. He shook his head. Without disturbing her, he finished his coffee and donned his khaki blazer, giving the house one last glance before starting for work as Logan Kilpatrick, Criminal Defense Lawyer.
The drive was uneventful, giving him time to think about the things he would buy with the extra money he would be bringing in. He rode the elevator in silence, his briefcase changing hands several times. Finally the door opened and he found himself on an unfamiliar floor. He strode down the unfamiliar corridor to a small, unfamiliar office set between two others whose occupants he had never met. Looking up at the door, however, told him he was right where he belonged. His name was stenciled onto the glass.
He opened the door and found a new desk and high backed chair, his workspace still clear of mess, though that would soon change, he assumed. He was still considering this when the thin, unimposing file landed on his desk. He looked up, expecting to see Eric Quinlan's grinning face, but it was instead one of the prosecutors from across the hall
"Got dumped on my desk by mistake," she said tonelessly, turning to go with something like disdain. Logan smiled. He was now back at the bottom of the ladder: the newbie. He took a deep breath, feeling ten years younger.
Flipping the file open, his eyes were immediately drawn to the photograph attached to the top left with a paperclip. An elderly woman, African-American with sky grey hair and a kind face stared at him out of the folder.
She was charged with assault. Logan blinked. He looked up again at the picture. Then the name, Mira Washington. Date of birth: 12/08/16. Logan blinked again. So a seventy one year old woman assaulted someone with a deadly weapon? Interesting. She had apparently stashed a small fortune away which was the means by which she had made bail and had now been assigned to him. Logan blinked a third time. East 143rd Street, Bronx. If this woman had enough money to pay for the services of Morgan, Lewis & Bockius, why didn't find a better place to live? The neighborhood in the South Bronx was one of the poorest quarters in the all of New York – in the whole country, Logan guessed. Assault had a completely different meaning in this woman's neighborhood than it did in Queens. Sad but true.
Logan sighed. He would need to go and interview her. It was perfectly legitimate to inform her that she would need to come to his office, but it was common practice to visit the home of elderly clients, a courtesy he had learned from the senior partners. He closed the folder and stood. There were some things he would like to go over with Eric before he did the preliminary interview. Riding the elevator down to his old floor, he couldn't have imagined what he saw when he got there.
Half a dozen large men were carrying the cubicle desks to one end of the room while a small pile of cardboard boxes was the subject of much sullen attention at the other end. He saw some people he knew carrying their possessions back towards the elevator, various degrees of resentment and anger on their faces.
Logan stood in shocked silence for a moment inside the elevator before the doors began to close again. He quickly jumped out, looking up to the wall above the main receptionists desk. The desk was built into the floor, so it was not being moved, but it was bare now and the sign which had been hanging above it, reading Morgan, Lewis & Bockius was sitting on the floor against the wall.
Another, larger and more impressive sign was carefully being put in place by two men. Wolfram & Hart Attorneys at Law it read.
"Eric," Logan spotted Quinlan who was digging his box from the pile. The prosecutor found a small plant, which had tipped over and spilled some of its dirt onto the floor, and placed it carefully on top of his box.
"Morning, Logan," Eric replied with a good approximation of chipper. "Everything running smoothly upstairs?"
"Eric, what the hell is going on?" Logan demanded, looking around at the corporate destruction all around.
"Streamlining," Quinlan replied, carrying his box to the elevator. "I expect I'll get home and find they've stolen my stapler or something like that. Bastards."
"You've all been fired?" Logan asked incredulously. "Have you spoken to the senior partners about this? They wouldn't allow this!"
"They were the first to go," Eric informed him. "Apparently they were offered severance packages they couldn't refuse."
"So what are you supposed to do now?" Logan seemed angrier that Eric was losing his job than Eric himself.
"Legal aid," Quinlan said with a hint of sourness. "For some reason there's a shortness of court appointed attorneys." Eric tapped the down arrow on the elevator keypad.
"Cause the pay's shit," Logan replied as the prosecutor waited calmly for the doors to open. "This is ridiculous!" But Eric didn't seem to react. He waited calmly and then stepped into the elevator, turning to Logan who now felt guilty and angry not holding his own desk's contents in his hand. He knew he wasn't going on this elevator: he wasn't going down.
"Win one for me," Quinlan said with fabricated happiness, then gave a wink and the doors closed.
Logan was left standing with the slow dismantling of his old floor going on around him. He realized then just how precarious his position was. He was a newbie, but not a welcome one, or a particularly gracious one. If they could let Eric Quinlan go, his own office could be a storage closet overnight if he wasn't careful.
--
The door burst inward and a very resentful Slayer marched in, raising her crossbow and delivering a fatal bolt to the heart. The vampire collapsed into a pile of his own ashes. Discarding the crossbow, Niki drew a stake and ducked the swing of the second vamp. He vamped out and grabbed her in a bear hug, pulling her to the floor in the darkness.
With a yell of pent up anger, Niki drove the stake so hard into the creature's chest that the tip of the wood splintered on the cement floor. The cloud of ash rose up to greet her like an exhaled breath.
She was breathing hard, not from exertion but from anger. She normally took pleasure in the hunt, the kill. Not today. Today was supposed to be her day off. Nothing methodical. Nothing strategic. She knew where they were, she could smell it, and she killed each and every one of them she found. She had been working her way North up Park Avenue all night, she was tired, but the anger forced her on. She knew Addison would be back at her apartment. She knew all he wanted was to know how many she had killed. How many tonight? How many last night?
Eleven, she scowled, stalking back up the stairs to the front of the shop, then out onto the street again. Niki grimaced as the midmorning sunshine fell across her face. Fourteen to go, she thought angrily, 'cause I'm a fucking jolly good fellow.
--
Betterment - Act 3
Logan held his hands firmly on the steering wheel of his car. Looking with a frown at the street signs he passed, he watched as the pleasant looking grass median was replaced by highway dividers and the not so pleasant rust-red railroad tracks of the IRT line which came to the surface North of 96th Street on Park Avenue.
Soon Park Avenue itself came to the river and Logan found himself crossing out of Manhattan into the South Bronx. It wasn't long before he had found 143rd street East and pulled his car to a halt by the curb.
The sun was setting and Logan opened his door so the car light would come on. He read the address again and locked his car door, taking his briefcase with him. He had called ahead to inform her he was coming this evening, but hadn't gotten an answer. He had decided to come anyway. He couldn't win this case if he wasn't willing to meet his client. And if he didn't win this case, Logan had a feeling he would soon be carrying his possessions in a cardboard box.
He got to the steps of the apartment building when, in the dim light, he saw someone blocking the door.
The boy was maybe sixteen, slouching yet watchful. One glance at Logan's suit and briefcase told him he wasn't here to buy anything. Logan tried to squeeze past him but the boy, surprisingly tall for his age, put his shoulder in the lawyer's path.
"You the building inspector?" he asked, his stance firm enough to block Logan effectively. "Took your goddamn time, didn't you?" Without a moment's hesitation the boy took his arm and pulled him into the building, straight to the elevator doors.
Logan wanted to protest, but he was caught off-guard by the elevator doors, standing ajar and leading to the empty elevator shaft. Somewhere above a light was flickering desperately, trying to light the shaft but failing. Logan frowned.
"You see this?" the boy asked angrily. "My little brother nearly died playing in the hall outside out apartment." Logan opened his mouth again to protest, but the boy grabbed his arm again and hauled him a little ways down the hall to the stairwell. Logan looked up and could see nothing, just a gaping void rising into the distance.
"The circuit blew," the boy said with annoyance, "and nobody's bothered to fix it. All we need is a new fuse — but the landlord doesn't care enough to buy one: Use the elevator, he said." The boy was clearly very angry and Logan could understand it, he realized as he looked up the stairs cloaked in darkness: he would have to climb those stairs to the top. Going up might be challenging, but coming down could be deadly.
Logan seriously considered teleporting, but a side-glance at the boy told him he wasn't likely to be alone any time soon.
"Aren't you going to write any of this down?" he demanded, relinquishing Logan's arm and deepening his frown.
Logan set his briefcase down at the base of the stairs and pulled a small notepad from his jacket pocket. "Uh, actually, I'm not the building inspector." He flipped a page in his notebook. "I'm here to see a Mrs. Mira Washington..."
The boy's anger shifted to suspicion. "You with the tax people?"
Logan paused uncertainly. "No... I'm her lawyer. I'm here to conduct an interview so I can give her adequate representation in court."
"Why's she going to court?" the boy demanded, crossing his arms.
Logan's eyes shifted uncomfortably. Lawyer-Client privilege. "I actually can't tell you that. If she chooses to discuss the matter–"
"What's this about," an accented voice said from behind the stairwell. Out of the darkness into the dim light offered by the lobby, a sleek looking Puerto Rican wandered cooly, discarding his glowing cigarette and stepping on it in silence.
Logan's body tensed. He had been around enough vampires to know them when they were near. Human witness or not, if this vamp attacked, Logan was going to defend himself.
"This man says he's a lawyer," the boy explained, as if the vamp hadn't been listening to the entire conversation.
"We don't need no lawyers here," the man stepped further into the light, closer than Logan was comfortable with, and tapped another cigarette from a pack. He held it between his lips and looked up and down Logan's khaki suit. "The law," he said emphatically, looking all around them into the darkness, "doesn't see this place. Go home."
Logan watched him for a moment as he lit his cigarette and let his breath cover the lawyer's face. Logan ground his teeth. "Well, unfortunately, it can't be helped. Mrs. Washington has been charged with a crime and is in need of expert defense." He picked up his briefcase and started up the stairs, regardless of the darkness.
With a sudden snarl, the Puerto Rican vamped out and snatched Logan by the back of his blazer, pulling him from the stairwell and throwing him to the floor. "You stay away from Momma Love, you hear me?"
Logan fought his instinct to vaporize the vamp and composed himself, slowly getting to his feet and brushing himself off as if he had merely tripped. The vamp, he realized, had his game face on and yet the boy didn't seem to care. Logan pondered momentarily whether he too was a vampire, but decided against it.
After a moment of standoff, the vamp pulled his cigarette from his mouth and bared his teeth, drawing closer to Logan in the dim light, emphasizing his vampiric features with a growl. Logan stood his ground.
"You're not afraid?" the vamp asked mockingly, his yellow eyes glaring at the human from beneath a contorted brow.
Logan shrugged. "I've seen scarier things in my daughter's diary."
The vamp hissed, his breath smelling like death. His face returned to human form and he drove his fist into Logan's gut, then drove his knee into the lawyer, grabbing him by the collar and shoving him from the stairwell into the lobby.
Logan held onto his briefcase and his balance, keeping on his feet and managing not to show signs of pain. He had resolved himself not to expose his magic here. Don't mix business and... other business. The two worlds must remain as separate as he could keep them, even if the vampires didn't feel the same way. If a normal human lawyer couldn't get past this guard, his firm couldn't expect him to either.
With one last metaphorically burning glance at the vamp and the boy standing beside him, Logan strode out of the apartment and got back into his car. This was going to be more challenging than he had thought. And he had thought he had been generous.
--
Tawnie's hand scribbled her signature over the line, then found the space for the date, scribbled that in, then initialed in half a dozen places. She turned the page and found a whole new array of spaces and empty boxes. Soon her signature filled them all. She harbored no resentment for the long bureaucratic process: it was the engine which kept the whole machine moving. Even if people didn't know it, bureaucracy was the real intention. The real goal. It was the truth behind all the silly notions of happiness and freedom. A society could accomplish anything it wanted, absolutely anything, so long as there was enough paperwork to sign.
The Requerimiento, the notification to all indigenous peoples that they had been conquered by Spain, was read in Spanish to each native village before the Conquistadors took Mesoamerica in the fifteenth century.
A complete and notarized correspondence was kept between Auschwitz Administrator Karl Bischoff and the furnace maker Topf, detailing the need to increase the number of crematoria to five.
Tawnie's hand scribbled her signature rapidly and with care. History showed that evil was only criminal if there was improper paperwork filed. With the last page signed, the hand came down to collect the pages. The white-suited figure stacked the pages and pumped a staple into the top left corner.
Tawnie admired the simple demon. He wasn't all concerned with fear and death and destruction. He had the patience which was lacking in so many of the Ancient Ones. He knew that a job well done was worth ten failed apocalypses. And his methods paid off, having successfully crashed the market only a few weeks ago.
"Thanks Tory," Tawnie smiled, folding the contract into its dossier and sliding it back into the appropriate drawer. The figure in the white suit and boater hat nodded gratefully and touched the end of his cane to his hat's brim. He turned and left the new reception desk of Wolfram and Hart's new New York office.
There wasn't really a call for much business here. Since the devastating Civil War almost two years ago, demon and vampire clientele were hard to come by in the city that never sleeps. But there was one thing that New York had that Los Angeles didn't.
Tawnie glanced to the clock on the wall behind her desk and then to the elevator doors. As one set closed on the corporate corruption demon, finished now with his business of dissolving Morgan, Lewis and Bockius, the other set opened. Out strolled a sober looking Logan Kilpatrick.
Logan looked around at the lounge chairs and potted plants which were being placed around the room. There was artwork hanging on the far wall and the receptionist was already looking quite at home.
He looked her up and down, unable to hide his disapproval of the entire situation. Tawnie, her name tag said. She looked to be in her mid fifties, her hazel hair sporting a few tasteful greys, hanging about her shoulders. She wore an odd dark red blouse with small white flowers and a white lace collar. She was busily shifting papers from one pile to another, adding her signature and pressing a date stamp to each one.
"Mr. Kilpatrick," she said without looking up, "is there something I can do for you?"
"I wasn't able to actually get into the building to see my client," he said with irritation. It was embarrassing, but hopefully it would draw some much needed attention to such a problem. If he hadn't already been aware of vampires, that encounter could have gone very differently.
"You're not going to let one little vampire scare you off, are you?" she said, still not looking up. She jammed her stamp down onto the paper and slid it over into the next pile. Logan stood with his jaw hanging open. He finally blinked once his eyes began to sting.
"Uh... what?" he managed.
Tawnie finally looked up. She frowned then looked back down at a master sheet she had off to one side. "Mrs. Washington – she lives in a part of the Bronx with quite a few vampires. You may have to use your powers to get in." Her tone was nonchalant and somewhat disinterested, as if she had an infinitely tall stack of things more worth her time than Logan Kilpatrick. Again Logan was stunned.
"You... you know—" he let the statement hang for a moment, "...about that?" he finished with confusion.
Tawnie sighed and stood, setting her pen down with deliberation. "Mr. Kilpatrick, let me introduce myself. I am Tawnie Fischer. From now on I'm your liaison to the Senior Partners. You have any questions and concerns which you might ordinarily bring to them, you will now bring them to me. Understood?"
Logan's eyes shifted uncertainly. "The Senior Partners... of Wolfram and Hart, I expect you mean?"
Tawnie nodded with irritation. "Of course." She opened the bottom drawer of the cabinet behind her. From it she drew a large plastic container. "Your old senior partners were offered severance packages they couldn't refuse."
Logan slowly looked down to the contents of the plastic container. It wasn't clear for a moment what he was looking at and his expression conveyed this. Tawnie was kind enough to rephrase. "They couldn't refuse to have no more than these severed."
Heartbeat. Logan recoiled from the container as the forms of three human ears became clear. He bared his teeth in disgust and looked to Tawnie with revulsion. Holy fuck! his mind screamed. His stomach turned.
Tawnie smiled, sitting back down. "Welcome to Wolfram and Hart."
--
Betterment - Act 4
Logan's eyes were still wide open, despite the lateness of the hour, as he drove back through the Bronx to where his client lived.
Behind his eyes circled his mind, spinning around and around in a panicked circle, around his collapsing sense of reality. They know, they know, they know. Unable to control it, he burst out laughing. He had to swerve the car to avoid hopping the curb, nearly doubled over as he was from laughing: Full Partnership. The words had briefly crossed his mind, the cosmic joke of the moment making his sides ache. He had been so close. On the very threshold of a normal life when the firm of which he had been granted full partnership had been... severed. He continued to laugh, his life laughing with him.
The life he left behind had swallowed him up completely. This could work, a small part of his mind told him. You could work with this. His laughter continued as he pulled the car to the side of the road, got out and lifted his briefcase from the passenger seat.
The light in the lobby was still lit and the boy was still standing in the doorway. He held up a hand as he recognized the car and the man with the briefcase, but Logan brushed past him without a second glance.
He strode with a broad smile through the lobby to the stairwell where the Puerto Rican vampire was waiting, smoking another cigarette.
"I thought I told you, you're not–" but his words were cut off as Logan held out a hand and an invisible fist took hold of his throat. Logan's smile was still there as the vamp's eyes grew wide, the fist tightening.
Lifted completely off the floor, the vamp couldn't stop Logan from approaching the stairwell. Taking one look up at the dark void into which he would have to go, Logan closed his eyes and disappeared in a twist of light. The vamp fell to the floor, massaging his throat. The boy looked from him to the place where the lawyer had been a moment ago, distant amusement on his face.
Logan reappeared outside room 605, straightening his collar before politely knocking on the door. He knew it was well after midnight, but he now had a good idea why his call earlier today hadn't been answered. Mrs. Washington was the sort of person who was most active during the night.
The door opened a crack and a pair of eyes peered out under the chain which held the door from opening any further. "Yes?" a voice croaked.
"Mrs. Washington?" Logan said happily, "I'm Logan Kilpatrick, representing Wolfram and Hart. I'm here to represent you."
--
Niki drove the shank of the crossbow into the vamp's throat, knocking her off balance. Niki's fist connected firmly with the creature's sternum and sent her over backwards into the street. Niki knelt down and picked the vamp up by the collar to bring her face closer.
"You know what yesterday was?" she shouted into the inhuman face. With a grimace, she smashed the butt of the crossbow into the vamp's face. The vamp's head snapped back and then came forward again, hissing. Niki struck her again and again. "Do you know?" she demanded furiously.
The vamp finally scowled. "No!" the vampire shouted, struggling free of Niki's grip. She grabbed the Slayer's shoulders and smashed her face into Niki's own.
Niki staggered to her feet and raised the crossbow, letting a bolt fly into the vamp's shoulder. The vamp screamed and ripped the wood from her flesh. The bolt missed her heart and the vamp charged.
Niki swung her arm and took the vamp hard in the throat, knocking her again to the ground, this time jamming a stake into her heart as she tried to rise. The dust blew away in the cool autumn wind. "Of course you don't," she said bitterly. "Nobody does." She brushed off her jeans and loaded another bolt into her crossbow. Twenty One.
--
Logan sat with his hands folded staring at the vampire before him. She was much older than seventy one. It hadn't taken much money back in the thirties to alter her records. Back then she had been Mira Love and the name had translated to her new life. She was known as Mama Love around the South Bronx and as far as Harlem and Manhattan.
She looked relatively harmless, though Logan knew as elderly as she looked, she could inflict severe damage if she wished. So he sat with his hands folded on an antique chair staring at the elderly one who also sat staring at him.
"So, Mrs. Washington," Logan began cordially, "you're aware of the charges of assault leveled against you?"
Mama Love nodded. She reached over and with a steady hand took a teacup to drink. Logan didn't want to know what was in it.
"Do you know for a class A misdemeanor you could do up to one year in prison?"
Mama Love's eyes lifted to meet Logan. "It's all been one big misunderstanding," she said slowly, sipping her tea, or what might have been tea.
"How so?" Logan asked, pulling the small notepad from his suit pocket.
The elderly woman, for that is how Logan had begun to see her, set the teacup down. "I was only tryin' to help him. But he wouldn't let me and got scared. I don't hold it against him."
Logan frowned. "He's charged you with second degree assault. I expect the only way you could have inflicted serious physical injury on a thirty seven year old man was if you were trying to... feed off of him." The words felt odd to say. He was defending her, he repeated over and over in his mind. How had it come to this?
Mama Love was slow to respond, rolling the words around in her head before speaking them. "You ain't never been to this end of town, have you?"
Logan shrugged. "Not true. I was here earlier this evening."
Mama Love seemed to ignore this. "Most folks here... they ain't got many friends with the power to help them." She looked slowly from her teacup to her lawyer. "The rest of you rich folk are content to pretend we don't exist, living your busy lives while we rot."
Logan's expression was becoming grim. "What does this have to do with the assault?" He hadn't looked too closely at the file, but he hoped she didn't have a vendetta against the entire middle class. He'd already seen the destruction of one vampire war. He'd hate to see the city turned inside out because of economic imbalance.
"Marta," the vampire said kindly, looking at the door. "She lives next door. Her husband died of AIDS just last month. She's got it too. Same as her two kids. They call it the skinny disease." She was quiet for a moment, then slowly turned her head to the window. "She used to have three little ones. Jeremiah, the youngest, died last year from tuberculosis."
Logan frowned. "They have treatments for that. There's no excuse—"
"Their family doctor was over booked for months. They didn't know what he had until it was much too late." Her voice was slow and tired. She continued to stare out the window.
Logan glanced down briefly, then pressed his point. "I still don't see what this has to do with-"
"He used to play with Timothy, who lives across the street. They didn't play together for eight months before Jeremy got TB." The statement hung like fishing bait in crystal water.
"Why not?" Logan asked patiently.
"Timothy was shot behind the ear in a drug deal gone wrong. He died instantly." she said gently.
Logan frowned. "Timothy was a drug dealer?"
Mama Love slowly shook her head. "No. He was just sitting by the window and caught a stray bullet."
Logan took a deep breath and sighed. It was tragic, he admitted to himself, but he still didn't see—
"But young Josh," a distant smile crossed Mama Love's face, "he will never know sickness." She turned from the window to gaze contemplatively into Logan Kilpatrick's face. "He is completely cured of the skinny disease given to him by the dirty needles he used to use. He'll never have to worry about gunshots or about getting enough to eat."
Logan slowly nodded in understanding, lowering his pad. "He's a vampire."
Mama Love didn't acknowledge this, but continued as if Logan wasn't there, turning back to the window and the starless night. "Hernando, he lives on the first floor. He will never spread sickness to his lovely wife, and she will never catch it. They are free from the pain of having lost their two children."
Logan took another deep breath and accepted the novelty of writing this down. He lifted his pad, his pen at the ready. "And you sired them?"
Mama Love looked at him curiously. "I saved them. No one else bothers to try. There is so much paperwork between the rich and the poor. It is easier to bring us all together where we can be ignored. Disease, despair and crime are the result of this neglect. I am the result."
"And this man who claims you assaulted him?" Logan was busily scribbling down her testimony. Each time he came to something any 'normal' court would scoff at, he paused. 'V' for vampire. 'S' for sired. This was going to be one interesting case.
"I told you it was a misunderstanding." Mama Love suddenly looked a little agitated, shifting uncomfortably in the chair. She stared out the window as if she wanted to be out there, prowling the streets.
"He came to you for help but didn't know what it entailed?" Logan glanced up from his pad to watch her response. There was none. "Do you ever consider what you're doing as wrong?" She slowly turned to face him again. Her gaze made his question feel unwelcome. "I mean, you're effectively killing these people. You're robbing them of their day lives. Sure they're free of disease and virtually immune to gunshots... but they've also lost their souls. Are you still able to convince yourself you're saving them?"
Mama Love slowly looked down before taking a deep, clear breath. "You don't live here," was her response. "I used to be able to guarantee them safety from the Slayer," she said quietly. She gently touched the hint of something silver hanging from her wrist. "But not anymore. Nothing is sure anymore."
Logan acknowledged this and lifted his pen to make a point. Suddenly Mama Love stood, lifting herself easily from the chair and letting her teacup fall to the floor. Logan frowned as the vampire stared at the door for several seconds. Finally Mama Love vamped out —a truly frightening thing, Logan discovered— as the door burst inward.
Niki Valtaine strode in, looking very pissed off and aiming her crossbow confidently. The old woman raised her left hand, her sleeve sliding back to reveal something silver, but the bolt flew nonetheless. "Twenty-five," Niki spat.
Logan opened his mouth to protest but, in an instant, his client collapsed into a small pile of dust on the already filthy carpet. His mouth continued to hang open.
Niki turned to him, stake in hand, and it took her several seconds to actually recognize him in the deceiving yellow light thrown by the room's floor lamp. She slowly lowered her stake, confusion registering on her face. There was a long moment when mixed feelings passed between the former lovers.
Finally Logan closed his notepad and put it back in his pocket. He pulled the cap off the end of his pen and replaced it over the head. With care and determination, he stood and took hold of his briefcase, working his jaw and trying to avoid feeling resentment for Niki having done her job. He realized the hypocrisy of his position. That didn't make the small pile of ashes go away though, he thought bitterly.
With his hand gripping tightly the handle of his briefcase, he stared at Niki from across the room. She stared back, confusion and the slightest hint of betrayal in her eyes. Logan blinked once and was gone in a twist of light.
--
Niki caught a cab home, her rampage complete. She found Addison asleep in the spare room and she collapsed on her bed fully clothed.
Sometime around noon the next day she awoke with one thing in mind. She strode past the old Watcher sitting at the kitchen table, brushing her knotted hair with her fingers. "Twenty fucking five," she said calmly, walking out the door. His gaze followed her with a frown.
The taxi dropped her outside Hudson Mall. Whistler had said that seer read palms here. What did that old headmistress have to say about which side she was on now? Niki thought with cold composure. Twenty five vampires in one day. A personal best in peace-times.
Niki walked between the shops looking for a palm-reader's kiosk, looking for a woman in a dark red dress with little white flowers and lace. She almost missed it.
"Read your palm, miss? Tell your future?"
Niki turned and her brow creased. A young woman sat at the palm reader's table. It was a cheap folding table with a cheap tablecloth covered in stereotypical occult symbols. A model hand sat on the table with the word palmistry written in calligraphy on its wrist.
Niki stared fixedly at the woman behind the table. She was no older than Niki herself, bright red hair and a Guns N' Roses shirt proudly stretched across her broad shoulders. She had a bright smile and bright blue eyes.
"You just filling in?" Niki asked uncertainly, sitting at the table across from the reader.
The girl made an odd face. "Filling in? No. This is serious stuff. Ten bucks for your life story, twenty five for your future." She was chewing gum and reached out with a heavily ornamented hand to take Niki's palm.
Niki allowed her hand to be examined without taking her eyes off the young woman. She wasn't sure what this was or what was going on, but this wasn't the woman who had come to see her in the—
Jessica, the palm reader, smiled. "You know, if it were anyone else, I'd have to make up something vague and comforting." She flashed perfect white teeth. "You know, like 'you've had a troubled childhood' or 'you will find happiness in travel.'" She leaned in closer and her smile broadened. "But for a vampire slayer I can be specific without causing suspicion."
Niki instinctively pulled her hand back and frowned. This was no joke.
Jessica shrugged. "I don't really need your palm. People are just more comfortable with hocus-pocus where they think they know what's going on. We both know it doesn't work that way."
Niki held her hands in her lap, the situation beginning to congeal in her mind. "You can tell me about the Deceivers?"
Jessica shrugged again. "Sure Knicks— you don't mind if I call you Knicks, do you?" She continued, regardless. "The Deceivers aren't a specific set of people or demons... that's why you'll never find anything telling you how to kill them. They're anyone who's possessed by the Deception. Now the Deception apparently is something demonic – conjured by a demon or sorcerer and it acts on a targeted person how ever the person who summoned it wants it to: subtly and usually seamlessly. That's why it's so insidious: you may not even know it's there."
Jessica indicated a young man in a denim jacket walking with his arm around a young woman. She was bright eyed but seemed to be profoundly worried and hiding it. "He got her pregnant. She just told him this morning. He told her he'd stay with her, but he's taking her shopping to get her everything his simple mind thinks she'll need, then he's going to ditch her."
Niki looked from the couple and the bags they already carried to Jessica who was observing them with a distant sadness. "You can tell all that?"
Jessica nodded vigorously. "And more. But I can't let them know I know — it would look suspicious. But I do what I can."
"Any advice for me?" Niki said distantly, realizing the deception which was following her had managed to make her do things... to what end, she didn't know. And she found she was scared to know. "Can I end the Deception somehow?"
"Not unless you kill the one who conjured it," Jessica answered matter-of-factly. "And there's really no way of determining that. Until then, the Deceivers will follow you around, trying to get you to do what they want using lies and misdirection."
"What am I supposed to do?" Niki stood, her face worried.
Jessica stood as well. "If you can't trust yourself, find someone you can trust. Try not to be alone — the Deception can only possess one person at a time, so if someone can watch you, you can at least be sure you won't do anything too crazy."
The Slayer nodded, feeling somewhat reassured. Finally she cracked a grateful smile. "Thanks," she said at last, offering her hand to the seer.
Jessica smiled broadly, taking Niki's hand and shaking it. "No problem. Oh, and Knicks," she said with a glint in her eye, "happy birthday."