Author: Rabid Squirrel
Title: "Murphy's Law"
Disclaimer: If I actually owned BTVS, would I bother to write fanfiction? Seriously, Buffy and co. are owned by Joss Whedon, Kazui Productions, 20th Century Fox, and UPN, sick bastards all of them.
Summary: Follow-up to the travesty that was season 6. Answers questions such as: Why Spike is able to hit Buffy; why did Xander really leave Anya at the alter; where does Whistler get his wardrobe; and just what really is in a hot dog. (Just kidding about the hot dog – nobody knows what they hell they put in those)
Spoilers: Thru season 6, though my selective memory allows me to edit out or rewrite certain unsavory aspects. Also, this may be a crossover at some point, though I make no guarantees.
Rating: R, for violence, strong language, sexual content, and the untimely demise of cute little puppies and bunny rabbits
Dedication: To all B/Xers, who know that B/S is simply that - BS.
Note 1: This fic will be primarily action/drama oriented, with just a smidgeon of social introspection thrown in for flavor. Will also at least hint at being a B/X and X/W shipper, though will ultimately lean towards B/X . I don't write romance folks, so probably no smut (well, not much), unless the Gods intervene, at which point I'm powerless to resist. Also, I'm a fanfic virgin…so please be gentle!
Note 2: To any B/S fans who may endeavor to read this story: Fully expect Spike to die a painful death. Let's face it, he stopped being even mildly cool after season 4, and I fully intend to put him out of his misery and into the nearest ashtray.
Note 3: I apologize for any abuse of the Latin language. I haven't used it since high school, most of which I spent in a drunken stupor.
Note 4: All text appearing in italics reflects a character's thoughts.
Note 5: Let me apologize in advance for the way this story jumps around. I'm trying to introduce all the relevant players up front, though I'm not really sure in what direction this story is going at this point. I'm open to suggestions, though I can't guarantee they'll be incorporated in this story. A warning to anyone reading this; if you are offended by organized religion, or religious concepts in general, this story is probably not for you. I will be exploring the religious overtones implied in BTVS, though never explicitly touched on. I feel this is an area that has been largely ignored, and I feel compelled to address it. I'm not a zealot, I'm just open-minded (at least I think I am; many have accused me of having completely lost my mind, but I digress…).
Note 6: Don't you hate it when people ramble on and on and the size of their story notes comes to rival the length of the story itself. I mean , it's annoying and egomaniacal, and…oh shit, I'm sorry. I'm doing it again aren't I?
Feedback: Thanks to RobClark, Finn Mac Cool, lwbush (your work is an inspiration to all B/Xers), de profuundis, and all others who have taken the time to read and review this little work of fiction. I'm glad you came along for the ride. Your feedback is greatly appreciated (have no fear FMC, I think it's safe to assume Spike will unleash a certain degree of carnage and mayhem before his demise. He wouldn't be Spike otherwise). As always, constructive criticism and positive feedback are more than welcome. I also accept flames; I use them to light my cigarettes. Since you're so fond of them, I'll smoke one for you Shell Lee.Chapter 3
First National Bank of Sunnydale
The previous day
August 23, 2002
J. Elton Marshall usually worked banker's hours. It was a logical assumption, given that he was a banker. It meant that on most days, he was able to make it home in time for dinner with the wife and kids. Today would be an exception, though he wasn't bothered in the least. After all, it wasn't every day that a Podunk little bank like his gained a client of this stature.
The man seated opposite him certainly looked the part. Alligator shoes, an Armani suit, and a haircut that probably cost more that Elton's last trip to the dentist all screamed lawyer, though the banker doubted this man was as unethical as most. He did, after all, represent an historic and (somewhat) respected institution, and he had the credentials to prove it.
"Let me get this straight," J. Elton began again, "You want to deposit one and a half million dollars in this girl's account, but you don't want her to know where the money came from?"
"That is correct," the man in the Armani suit replied in a heavy Italian accent.
"I must tell you, this is a highly unusual request."
"If you are uncomfortable with this request, Mr. Marshall , we could take our business elsewhere. I'm sure there are other financial institutions in Sunnydale that would be more than happy to accommodate us."
"Please don't take offense, sir. I just feel obligated to inform you that Ms. Summers has accumulated a substantial amount of debt, and would likely spend a significant amount of your deposit to pay off her outstanding loans. As it is, she's barely paying the interest on the principal."
The lawyer, one Arturo Pantonini, was not deterred. "That will not be a problem. My employer will be retiring those obligations. The requisite funds will be wired from the First Swiss Bank of Geneva within the hour. Henceforth, we will be making a monthly wire transfer to her account in the amount of $10,000.00 American. We would also appreciate it if your bank were to extend to her a line of credit in the amount of, say $50,000.00?"
With visions of dollar signs pushing all doubts from his head, Mr. Marshall was now in a very agreeable mood. "I don't think that will be a problem. I'll oversee the electronic funds transfer personally. But I do have one question sir."
"And what would that question be, Mr. Marshall?"
"Why this girl? Why on earth would you want to give so much money to such a young girl?"
"Don't you know," Arturo said, rising to leave, "the Catholic Church is a charitable organization."
Bletchley Park
50 miles northwest of London
24 August 2002
0800 hrs GMT
To the untrained eye, Bletchley Park was just another rambling country home, worn down by the ravages of time and the changing seasons, yet possessing of a certain understated elegance and charm that was uniquely British. There are, however, those old enough to know that it was once much more than that.
Sixty years earlier, the estate had been the home of the British Government Code & Cipher School, later renamed Government Communications Headquarters. GC&CS had been tasked with the Herculean effort of decoding communications originating from the German Cipher Machine E, more popularly known as the Enigma machine. Dozens of the world's best cryptanalysts, using electro-mechanic scanners known as "bombes", worked night and day to crack the German random-cipher codes. Their success in doing so was largely credited for turning the tide in the Atlantic naval campaign during WWII.
Though the estate had been largely abandoned in the intervening years, today its proud heritage would be restored, for an even more important purpose.
The distinguished guests had begun arriving the previous night, some of them cordial acquaintances, others complete strangers, though all cognizant of the relative import of the assembled council. They mostly huddled in small groups, their hushed tones bearing witness to the historic significance of the gathering. Among their number were heads of state and religious figureheads, though the overwhelming majority bore the various uniforms and rank insignia of their respective nations' armed forces. This was not a political summit; no treaty or covenants would be signed here. For the first time, politicians and warriors alike would be taken at their word. For an occasion such as this, it had to be that way.
Surprisingly, the Minister of Defense was the last to arrive. Waltzing into the foyer, his trusted advisors in tow, F. Spencer Montgomery immediately sought out his friend and confidant, General of the Army Walter J. Sherman, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. General Sherman, his immaculately pressed uniform bearing no less than four rows of combat ribbons and sporting an unheard of -- at least since the second World War -- five gleaming stars on the shoulder-boards, disengaged himself from his current company and embraced his old friend warmly.
"Frederick, you old dog, it's good to see you again," the General exclaimed, his booming voice violating the relative silence in the room. He had never been accused of being soft-spoken. "What's it been, two years?"
The Minister smiled warmly, genuinely happy to see his compatriot, even under circumstances such as these. "Since the Baghdad summit, old chum. I see you made out fairly well in the interim." The addition of the fifth star on the General's epaulets had not gone unnoticed. "One could surmise that your President was duly impressed by your performance in the Gulf."
"Just doing my job, Minister," the general replied graciously, the humility obvious in his response. "I've noticed that our associates from the Vatican have already arrived. May I assume that the conference will begin ahead of schedule?"
Nodding in confirmation, the Minister replied, "Unfortunately, our enemies have seen fit to accelerate their schedule. We have little time to waste as it is. The Papal Representative will be addressing the conference shortly."
As if on cue, the British Home Office liaison stepped up to the podium and called the assembled multitude to attention. "Ladies and gentleman, on behalf of my country, I would like to welcome you to Britain." The man paused, surveying the crowd, attempting to gauge their collective mood. As the head of MI5, it was his duty to read people's minds, a skill he continually excelled at. The man collected his thoughts and resumed his address to the crowd. "We have come here today for a noble purpose, a purpose that transcends our individual national interests. For the collective good, we have put aside our petty differences to stand before an enemy the likes of which we have never before comprehended. Many assembled in this room have met before on the field of battle as enemies. Today, for the first time, we stand united, a single voice shouting out in the darkness: We will not go gently into the night. We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight on the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall NEVER surrender." Echoes of the most famous of British statesmen reverberated throughout the hall, compelling the assembled men to once again take up arms in defense of all they held dear, though this time the price of failure would be far greater indeed. Nonetheless, the applause rang loud and true, men and women of all faith and nationalities united in a common cause. It was enough to bring tears to one's eyes, though none in attendance would shed any this particular morning. It was a sign of weakness after all, and weakness was a trait that had no place in this forum.
As the applause died down, the Brit yielded the podium to his Italian counterpart, the venerable Archbishop of Rome. The elderly gentleman, himself only five years younger than the current head of the Catholic Church, comported himself in the manner of a man half his age, though he lacked the delivery and panache of the previous speaker. Nonetheless, the sprightly old man bounded up to the podium, his faith almost contagious. A man who himself had experienced the horrors of evil first-hand administering to the needy in a place called Buchenwald, he had learned that there was no evil wrought by man or beast that could not be overcome by the human spirit.
The priest smiled at the crowd, uttering a silent prayer to his Savior. "Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for coming today. May the Lord bestow his blessing upon this gathering and see us through our time of need. My friends, I stand before you today not as a representative of the Vatican, but as a fellow human being. I am here to apprise you of our current situation and to inform you of the steps the Church has taken in response to the current threat." He paused, taking a sip of bottled water. "Now, if you will all turn your attention to the monitor, we will begin our briefing."
The oversized plasma screen came to life, an image of a ruined building occupying the majority of the screen, the letters SHS clearly visible on the portion of the front promenade still standing. "We believe this area will be the staging point for the initial incursion. Analysis of the archives from the abortive American military presence in Sunnydale, California indicates that beneath this collapsed structure exists a portal, a hellmouth, if you will." The priest again surveyed the crowd, locking eyes with the Archbishop of Canterbury, the head of the Anglican Church. Nodding once to his colleague, he continued: "Recent signs have borne witness to certain prophesized events. You are all familiar with the occurrences of the past week. No doubt you have seen the reports regarding the current status of the Tigris and Euphrates." The crowd silently nodded its assent. They had all seen the overhead imagery of the Middle-Eastern rivers, a portion of their waters turned to blood, killing all life it touched, human included. Great pains had been taken to conceal this fact from the general public; cover stories concerning industrial contamination had been generated to conceal the true nature of the affliction.
The Archbishop continued on. "It has been decided by closed session of the U.N. Security Council that overt military action at this point would be counterproductive. To take this course of action would incite widespread panic and result in needless death and suffering. Therefore, the Vatican has taken the initiative of sending an emissary to Sunnydale to assess the situation firsthand." The priest did not elaborate on the nature of the emissary's mission, nor did he reveal the identity of their man. Best not to needlessly expose either their representative or the Slayer at this juncture, at least until it was absolutely necessary. He continued, "Pending the initial assessment, we will coordinate with representatives of the world's armed forces to formulate a course of action. When engagement becomes imminent, it has been agreed that combined surgical military strikes will be utilized in order to limit civilian casualties. As we speak, representatives of the Watcher's Council are working closely with our own scholars in the hope of finding a means to avert the coming battle. If we can succeed in binding the hellmouth, that is to say close it for good, then we will be able to stem the flow of the Fallen Ones into this world, and fight them on our own terms. If we are not successful in closing the hellmouth, then our forces shall engage them in Sunnydale. For practical reasons, the United States Department of Defense will be in overall military command during the initial phases. If the enemy cannot be contained, then the Security Council shall reassess the situation at the appropriate time. Ladies and gentleman, we have much work to do and precious little time to do it. I need not remind you that we are the last line of defense. If the Slayer and her team are unsuccessful, we are all that stands between the world and Armageddon. Good luck to all of you, and may God have mercy on our souls."
The Archbishop stepped down to polite applause, pausing to shake a few hands and exchange pleasantries. He quickly excused himself from the gathering, slipping through an ornate pair of oaken double doors. He walked quickly for a man of his age, and presently found himself in a spacious drawing room. Here he found the his Anglican counterpart deep in thought, puffing away determinedly on a large Cuban cigar.
"I apologize for the delay, Edward. It appears that even in times of peril one must observe certain protocols."
"It's quite alright, my friend. I needed I few moments of reflection."
Both men fell silent for a short while, in spite of the fact that they had much to discuss. The Italian was the first to break the silence. "I am concerned, of course, about the Slayer. She is but a young girl, and she has literally had the weight of the world thrust on her shoulders. There is only so much a person can take."
Edward nodded in agreement. "I understand your concern Michael. We must remind ourselves that she is not alone in this fight. She has her friends to help her, and she will have our support, even if she is not aware of it. I should think that your man in Sunnydale will be of invaluable assistance as well."
"As always, Edward, you are the voice of reason. However, I still entertain doubts about our present situation. I worry that there are those in our coalition who are wavering, those who, if the outcome were to appear unfavorable, might feel compelled to seek an armistice with the enemy. We mustn't forget that our will to prevail is only as strong as that of our weakest member. Already there are rumblings of dissent within the ranks. It would appear that some of our Asian brethren would rather go it alone."
"We have little choice in the matter, Michael. It is written: "…and the various races shall stand as one." You have read the scrolls as thoroughly as I. As it is written, so it shall be. We must accept this and do our best. At any rate, we have other matters to attend to."
The Italian sighed deeply. "You know Edward, that the Vatican does not desire to become embroiled in internal political affairs. The leadership agrees that the Council Elders have been grossly derelict in their duties, especially in regard to the Slayers. But the Vatican has lost much of its influence due to our current "difficulties" in America. We can ill afford to further damage our reputation with what could be perceived as a power grab."
"We understand the Pope's reticence in this matter, Michael. The bottom line is that the Watchers' Council has divided loyalties, and cannot be allowed to compromise the integrity of our mission. We only require the Vatican's tacit approval to effect the removal of Travers and the others. The political machinations will of course be handled internally."
Michael nodded his resignation. "Then I am authorized to tell you that you will have the full support of the Vatican when you make your move. I trust that you have already hand-picked Quentin's successor?"
The Englishman nodded. "Yes I have, provided he survives the coming battle. I have no doubt he will insist on fighting alongside his Slayer. Mr. Giles can be quite stubborn that way."
End of Chapter 3. Thanks again to all who have read and reviewed. I hope you're enjoying my little vision of BTVS. The action should pick up in the next few chapters, as Buffy and Xander finally have it out, the Scoobies have an encounter with the man in black, and that pesky overgrown mosquito known as Spike crawls back into Sunnydale. The storm clouds are gathering folks, and it's gonna get ugly. You've been warned.
As always, please keep the feedback coming. I'm fast becoming a junkie, and I need my fix.
That's it for now.
Until next time,
Rabid Squirrel