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, the
untimely demise of cute little puppies and bunny rabbits, and quite possibly
the clubbing of baby seals. Sorry PETA, some animals were harmed in the writing
of this story. Now, where did that dolphin get to..?
Dedication: To all B/Xers, who know that B/S is simply that - BS.
Feedback: Thanks again to all who have read and reviewed, some of
you at length (this means you Lori - thanks for the advice). I appreciate the
continued feedback. Also, Erin - you're right about this story. This is all
about you! Alas, it will still probably be B/X in the end. But despair not, for
I promise Buffy will remain forever angst-ridden, at least in the Rabid
Squirrel Universe. I prefer the Slayer with a side order of issues.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter 6
St. Andrews Church
Sunnydale, CA
It is often said that
the majority of people truly turn to God only when confronted with their own
impending demise. It made perfect sense, given humanity's consciousness of
their own mortality and the morbid human fascination with death. Perhaps that's
the reason that there were so few empty pews in father Michael's church every
Sunday morning, given that the populace of Sunnydale was constantly confronted
with death, usually in its fanged, two-legged incarnation. Truth be known,
though, the priest didn't really care. The important thing was that the people
needed to be saved; why they came to seek salvation was not of any particular
concern to him. Contrary to popular belief, many people in Sunnydale did believe
in the bogeyman. Father Michael counted himself among their ranks. He had
faithfully administered to his troubled flock for nearly twenty years, first as
a deacon, and for the last decade as a fully ordained priest. He had never
married, had in fact never known the touch of a woman, except for a fleeting
and awkward experience at his senior prom. He had no time for such things, as
there were many in need in this small town, particularly after the sun went
down. He knew about vampires, demons and the like. He had personally been
confronted by them, saved only by his unwavering faith and a strategically
placed cross. The vial of holy water had probably helped as well. Like the
proprietor of that ghastly tavern downtown, the good Father was considered by
many to be a man in the know, though, unlike Willy, he universally abhorred
gossip-mongering. His purview was limited to preaching the divine truth and
interpreting God's word, though he could indeed tell some interesting stories
if he were so inclined. For instance, he knew a great deal about one Elizabeth
Anne Summers. He knew how the beautiful young woman occupied her nights, at
least when she was roaming the cemeteries and streets of Sunnydale. How she
spent the remaining hours was between her and God. She did not attend services,
at least not at his church. For all he knew, she had no religious affiliation
whatsoever. That didn't prevent her from doing the Lord's work, however. Father
Michael had encountered the young women on several occasions, mostly during his
infrequent nighttime sojourns through Restfield Cemetery. On those evenings
when he had both the energy and the mental fortitude to do so, he took time to
enjoy the peace and tranquility of the cemetery. He knew that the Summers girl
had often shadowed him during these nocturnal excursions. It wasn't so much
that he had seen or heard her, but he could swear that he sensed her presence,
especially during the past year. Perhaps she felt personally responsible for
his safety, or maybe she just liked stalking the clergy. Whatever the reason,
Father Michael was thankful for her presence. He wasn't exactly sure what she
was, but he was certain she wasn't human, at least not entirely. For, unlike
the rest of official Sunnydale, Father Michael knew that the Summers girl had
died. She had, after all, been buried not far from the church, and Father
Michael had been asked by that English gentleman to preside over the interment.
He had seen Buffy Summers buried, had prayed for her soul, and had seen her
rise again. He remembered that night with remarkable clarity, could still
picture in his mind the hellish brood of demons rampaging through the streets
and the carnage that ensued. But what he remembered most was the sight of a
small, pale hand thrusting upwards through the ground, the nails bloodied in
the struggle to escape the confines of the coffin. He had initially taken her
for a vampire, until he remembered that she had been in the ground for months.
He had watched unseen as she struggled to come to terms with her surroundings,
then haltingly made her way out of the cemetery, unsure of where, and possibly
who, she was. Father Michael had frequently heard the term "Slayer"
used in conjunction with the girl's name, more often than not preceded by some
variation of the word "damn" or "fucking". He hadn't been
able to trace the origin of the title, but it wasn't hard to put two and two
together. She killed the things that needed killing. The question still
remained, however: Just what was she now? The girl had climbed out of the grave
after four months, her flesh untouched by decomposition. He could logically
rule out any malevolent force as the source of her resurrection. If that girl
is a monster, then the Pope is Jewish. No, there was a more logical
explanation, one more commensurate with Catholic dogma: The girl had been sent
back.
As divine acts go, it was not without precedent, though the last occurrence -
according reputable sources - had been over 2000 years before. But this girl
hadn't been brought back as an example to instill faith in the masses. She was
back because she was needed. That was a good enough explanation for him. Since
Elizabeth's return (he detested the name Buffy), the good Father had made it a
point to keep tabs on the girl, regularly checking up on her through various
sources. Unbeknownst to her or her friends, he had intervened on her behalf
with Social Services regarding the custody of her sister. He had also convinced
the bank to delay foreclosing on the Summers' home, personally vouching for her
character. The Archbishop himself had recently assured him such action would no
longer be necessary. The Church had matters well in hand. Secure in that
knowledge, Father Michael took one last look at the Sacristy, convinced that
everything was as it should be.
Switching
off the lights, he strolled into the vestibule, then through the double doors
into the church proper. The church was relatively new, constructed during the
California building boom of the 1980's. Its design was modeled after a similar
church in Midwestern Ohio, one that radically deviated from traditional Roman
Catholic architecture. Instead of the tried-and-true red brick exterior, the
outer walls of the edifice were covered in mottled- gray stone near the
foundation, with a dark auburn brick encompassing the multitude of
stained-glass windows further up the walls. The church was not constructed
around a central bell tower, as in traditional designs. Instead the bell tower
was built as a separate structure, the carillon fully automated and run by
computer. Perhaps the most striking difference was found in the ceiling and
roof of the structure. Instead of the typical slanted roof, the church sported
a curving parabolic crown, framed on the interior by large arching oaken
timbers. The ceiling reached its apex directly over the open alter, behind
which stood a giant crucifix, fully thirty feet in height, and twenty across.
Father Michael had often joked to his parishioners that theirs was the
archetypal California church. Just as their home state did not often fit in
with the other 49, neither did this church mesh well with the usual form
expected of Catholic churches. Californians just had to be different, the
priest mused.
Chuckling to himself at that observation, the young priest gook one last glance
around the church, to assure himself that everything was in order for the
night. The last of the worshippers had left hours before, shortly before
sunset. He was alone in the church, save for the huge white wolf perched atop
the baptismal font, eagerly lapping up the holy water inside. Father Michael
did a double take, his jaw nearly dropping to the floor in astonishment. What
in the name of God.?
"I apologize for the intrusion, Father," a quiet voice spoke from
behind the priest. "It seems my friend has worked up quite a thirst
tonight." Father Michael spun in the direction of the voice, his heart
skipping a beat as he did so. A man clad wholly in black crouched atop the back
of a chair in front of the first row of pews, balancing entirely on the tips of
his toes, seemingly defying the laws of physics. At the sound of the man's
voice, the animal on the altar dismounted the font, trotting down the altar
steps and taking his place beside his master. He then sat perfectly still,
eyeing the priest intently with iridescent blue eyes.
Unconsciously fingering his silver crucifix, Father Michael took a step towards
the intruders, silently uttering a prayer for his safety. "M-My son, I am
sorry, but we do not allow animals in the church," he stammered.
The wolf whimpered mournfully, crouching down on his haunches, covering his
eyes with his gigantic paws as if in shame. The man in black turned toward his
"pet", whispering something inaudible to the creature. Turning again
toward Father Michael, he addressed the priest. "It seems you've hurt
Loki's feelings, Father. I'm afraid he's really rather sensitive."
The priest stared at the man dumbfounded, unsure of what to say. As it turned
out, he didn't have to say anything. The man in black hopped down from his
perch without a word. He silently approached the priest, adjusting his cloak as
he did so. "Don't worry about it, my friend, he'll get over it," the
man said, a wry grin on his face. "He always does."
For a reason he could not quite fathom, Father Michael suddenly felt at ease
with this strange man. His hand fell away from his cross as a feeling of
serenity washed over him. He did not think to ask how the man knew his name.
The visitor stopped directly in front of the priest, his hands folded in front
of him. He looked at Father Michael wistfully. "I must apologize father,
for what I'm about to do." Before the priest could react, the man's hand
shot out, his palm coming to rest on the priest's forehead. Father Michael's
eyes went wide, then closed quickly as the stranger spoke a single word.
"Sleep."
The man caught the priest's body as it fell, gently lowering him to the floor.
He checked the priest's pulse, just to be sure. Satisfied, he stood, glancing
over to the magnificent creature waiting patiently a few meters away.
"Go," he commanded the beast. Loki jumped to his feet, issuing a
single bark in response. He pivoted gracefully, gliding down the aisle towards
the exit, his great stride propelling him at an unnatural speed. Just as it
seemed he would collide with the heavy wooden doors, they swung open, seemingly
of their own volition, and the great white beast disappeared into the night.
Taking one last glance at the priest on the floor, the man walked back towards
the doors the priest had only recently passed through. Pulling a metal case
from within his cloak, he opened the doors, and walked through. The man strode
silently down the hallway, passing the Sacristy, and continuing on to a door
marked "private". Ripping the locked door off its hinges, he
proceeded down a flight of stairs, and into the bowels of the church.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Summers Residence The same time
For the first time in
a long time, Buffy Summers was not afraid to read the mail. There were still
bills, quite a few in fact, along with the usual assortment of advertisements
and other junk mail. But at least now she had the financial resources to pay
them. She quickly perused the bills, sorting them in order from longest overdue
to most recent. The majority had the words second, third, or final notice
printed in bold red type on the front of the envelope. One particular envelop
caught her eye, one with the words First National Bank of Sunnydale under the
return address. She ripped the envelop open, quickly scanning the enclosed
letter. Holy shit, she thought to herself. I guess lightning really does strike
twice.
"Hey Buffy, whatcha got there?" Dawn asked, walking into the kitchen
and taking a seat on the stool next to her sister.
"Would you believe the deed to the house?"
"I live on the Hellmouth. I'll believe just about anything. Except aliens,
I don't believe in little green men." Buffy's questioning look caused her
to reassess that position. "Oh...yeah..right. Never mind."
Buffy laughed at her sister's selective memory. It must be inherited.
"Don't sweat it Dawn. You were partially right. The only alien I've ever
seen wasn't exactly a little man, though he was green. And slimy. And
ugly."
"Thanks for the happy memory, Buff. You think maybe we could spare some of
our newfound wealth to pay for my therapy?"
The Slayer shook her head. "Therapy wouldn't help. You're not crazy, just
weird. Besides," she added, "After a few sessions with you, the
shrink would need to be committed."
"You would know. After all, you have spent time in a mental ward."
Sometimes Buffy just made it too easy.
"Touché," Buffy responded, waving the white flag.
"Glad you see it my way, sis. Oh, and before I forget, I was thinking
maybe we could have Willow do her little illegal hacking routine and break into
the bank's computer system There has to be some record of where the money came
from, right?"
"I don't know Dawn. I think this may be a little soon for Willow to be
jumping on the criminal bandwagon again. Her last little misadventure didn't
turn out too well."
"I think we can make a distinction between premeditated murder and
computer hacking, Buffy. I doubt she'll resort back to her homicidal
ways." Seeing the hesitant look on her sister's face she added,
"Don't worry, I'll talk to her about it. I wouldn't want to make things
between you two any more awkward than they already are."
Buffy said nothing, but acknowledged Dawn's offer with a nod.
The sound of the doorbell ringing interrupted their conversation. "I'll
get it," Dawn offered. "It's probably Stacy." She hopped off the
barstool and sped off to the living room. Moments later, Dawn's theory was
confirmed as Buffy heard the mindless chatter of two sixteen year old girls.
Buffy called out to her sister, "Dawn, are you going out?"
"Yeah, we're going to the Bronze. We thought maybe we'd have a few drinks,
do some drugs, and if we have time, prostitute ourselves. Why, is that a
problem?"
Buffy ignored the latter part of Dawn's facetious remark. "You do realize
it's dark out."
"Don't worry, my body is a lethal weapon. Besides the vamp, I mean, uh,
gang activity is way down lately. We'll be careful." Stacy shot Dawn a
quizzical look. Vamp? What in the hell is that girl talking about?
"Alright Dawn, just be home early."
"Sure thing. Later Buff," the younger Summer sister said, hustling
her friend out the door. She wasn't afraid of the dark. Buffy had taught her
some moves, and she was packing heat. No problem whatsoever.
Stacy was still staring at her friend, a confused look on her face. "Vamp?
What the hell were you talking about?"
"You know, vamp, tramp, it's all the same. Just a slip of the
tongue," Dawn assured her, hoping she had covered the slip-up adequately.
She hadn't yet told any of her friends about the Scooby Gang's nocturnal
activities, and she was in no hurry to do so. Besides, she was alert. She
wouldn't let anything happen to them. Nothing gets past me, she told herself as
she and Stacy made their way down the street.
She was dead wrong. Perhaps if she had been more observant, she would have noticed
the luminous blue eyes watching her attentively from across the street. Or
maybe not. As the two girls continued on their way to the Bronze, the unknown
stalker fell in behind them, pacing them silently, waiting patiently to make
his move. He was not alone. He could sense his brother nearby, leap-frogging
from roof to roof, trailing the pair of young girls by about 50 yards. Neither
had fed in quite some time, and tonight was looking to be a veritable banquet.
Soon, the blood would flow.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
That's all for now. I thought I'd leave you with a little cliff-hanger of
sorts. Will Dawn and Stacy become demon kibble? Even the Rabid Squirrel doesn't
know for sure (well, OK, I do, but I'm not telling). Look for chapter 7 soon.
The pace is going to pick up soon (and yes, I know I promise that with every
chapter, but this time I mean it..maybe). As always, keep the feedback coming,
and I'll keep feeding you more chapters.
Till next time,
Rabid Squirrel