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, including the baby duck I ran over while pondering the content of my next chapter.
Dedication: To all B/Xers, who know that B/S is simply that - BS.
Feedback: Thanks to all who have e-mailed asking for updates to this story. My evil muse has taken an inexplicable leave of absence of late, therefore my inspiration has been severely lacking.
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"When angry, count to four; when very angry swear." – Mark Twain
Chapter 8Sunnydale docks
August 31, 2002
0300 hrs
The vampire stepped gingerly over the remains of the now defunct sea captain, careful not to get any blood on his trademark black duster. He gazed down at the macabre mess he had created, smiling cruelly. Damn, he thought, his vampiric features receding back into his human visage. The bloody wanker was right after all – the man really did have the sea in his blood. Spike had the salty taste in his mouth to prove it. Spitting disdainfully on the blood-soaked floor, he kicked open the metal door and strode out of the ship's bridge, his coattails flying in the brisk coastal breeze, giving him the appearance of some sort of gothic superman. Foregoing the ladder, the vampire gracefully swung over the metal railing, opting to free fall the thirty feet to the main deck below. He landed with nary a sound, quickly righting himself and making for the gangplank connecting the vessel to the stone quay below. Halfway down the metal bridge the vampire stopped, turning to look at the vessel he had just left.
Twenty two, Spike thought to himself. He'd never killed that many before at one time. Mass murder had always seemed ostentatious to him, the trademark of one who had something to prove to the world. Spike had no such illusions He was once the big bad – William the fucking Bloody – and would be so again. He'd taken the first step tonight, tearing through the ship's crew like the wrath of God. He could still taste their fear, could still hear their pleas for mercy even as he ripped out their throats. He had only drunk from the first ten or so. Spike couldn't remember the exact number; In his frenzied state, he had lost count. The remainder had died solely for his amusement.
The corners of the Spike's mouth slowly twisted upwards as he took in the name of the ship. Mary Celeste. There was a certain karmic justice to it, Spike mused. Like its namesake, this vessel too was now truly a ghost ship. Adequately pleased with himself, Spike proceeded down the metal bridge and onto the darkened docks, quickly disappearing into the shadows.
Had he not been so preoccupied, he might have noticed the figure perched high atop the harbormaster's office, observing him with keen interest. The man, dressed completely in white, watched as the vampire melted into the darkness. Then he too turned, and became lost in the moonless Sunnydale night.
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Warehouse Loft, Sunnydale Industrial Park
Sunday, September 1
1000 hrs
Xander Harris didn't mind working on Sundays, though to be honest he'd never been a particularly big fan of the first day of the calendar week. To him, it was just a postponement of the inevitable: Monday always seemed to come, regardless of how he spent his Sundays.
On any given Sunday afternoon – until recently Xander hadn't been aware that there even was a Sunday a.m. – he would plant himself on the couch with a six pack of Killian's and a dozen of the Bronze's Inferno wings, watching whatever professional sport happened to be in season. Today would have been pre-season football; the Brown's were playing the Chiefs, and Xander Harris fancied himself something of a Cleveland fan. Maybe the fanatic loyalty of Dawg's fans had something to do with it, but Xander was fairly certain it was the Brown's perennial underdog status that had proven irresistible. That was a quality he could readily identify with. At any rate, Xander wouldn't be watching any football today. And with the overtime pay he would be getting for this job, he wasn't all that disappointed. That is, at least about the football.
Working weekends also gave Xander an opportunity for a little personal introspection, though he'd since come to realize that being alone with his thoughts wasn't necessarily a good thing. More than anything else, there was one thought that had occupied his every waking moment for the past month. Torment, thy name is Buffy.
If someone had told him six weeks ago that Buffy Summers was in love with him, he could have died a happy man. He'd waited six years to hear those words from her, and just when it seemed that the impossible might happen, it no longer mattered to him. Or did it? Therein lies the problem.
At a basic level, Xander knew he was in love with Buffy. He could feel it whenever she was near, the way that, for one brief moment, the rest of the world ceased to exist, and it was just he and Buffy. He tried to rationalize it, tried to ascribe his reactions to something as simple and mundane as lust. After all, Buffy was a beautiful woman; there was no denying that. But he knew it went far deeper. Xander had known lust in his life, quite a few times in fact. His ill-advised rendezvous with Faith had been just that. Xander had entertained no romantic feelings for Faith, other than those of a carnal nature. The story with Cordelia had been much the same, though unique in its own right. Cordy had represented the unachievable in the Sunnydale High social hierarchy: Every girl wanted to be her, every guy wanted to have her. Xander had accomplished the latter, if not in the Biblical sense, then at least in a practical sense. He hadn't sought out a relationship with Queen C; it was just one life's little cruel jokes: As the old adage said, opposites attract. He and Cordy had been living proof of that. Hindsight being what it was, Xander knew that his relationship with Cordy couldn't be attributed solely to the stirrings in his pants. Deep down inside, he knew that his motivation for dating her had been even more selfish than that. He had done it, at least in part, to spite Buffy.
And then of course, there was Anya. His relationship with Anya was one borne out of desperation and loneliness, not a solid foundation to base a relationship on, but a foundation nonetheless. Anya had been a work in progress, someone to occupy both his time and his bed. After a time, their relationship had grown, albeit slowly, to the point where they felt comfortable together. Comfortable enough for Xander to propose, just not enough to follow through on his promise.
That was it, the abridged version of Alexander Lavelle Harris' romantic life. Though Buffy had never actually been an active – or even willing – participant, she was the common thread that tied it all together. And for that reason he hated her. He hated her for sabotaging any chance he had at a normal life, hated her for ruining him for all other women; Most of all, he hated her for having the audacity to love him when he had finally gotten over her.
Willow was another problem entirely. He wasn't worried about their friendship; after the events of this summer – and the recent events in his bedroom – he knew that they could survive anything. The problem was that she was leaving. Giles had insisted, and Willow had agreed, that she needed proper training to learn to control her power. She couldn't just eschew the magic arts altogether; given her experiences, that was no longer an option. So come this Friday, Giles would accompany Willow to England, where she would study with a proper coven outside of Kent, wherever the hell that was. Xander didn't know how long she would be gone; he only knew that she would stay as long as it took. With Willow gone, Xander would no longer have a valid reason to avoid Buffy, at least not any reason that he could admit to. Willow had been his buffer; the shame she felt at her actions had placed a great deal of strain on her friendship with Buffy, and as result she was uncomfortable in the Slayer's presence. Buffy had respected her wishes; giving Willow the space and time she needed to heal. The awkward group dynamic had been a blessing for Xander, keeping Buffy at arm's length. That was about to change, and Xander was not looking forward to it.
God, when did I become so fucked up? It's not like my life has totally gone to shit. I have a good job, a nice apartment and a-a-a….a good job. Shit. For Xander, it was a bittersweet epiphany, to realize that he'd both succeeded and failed at the same time. He'd succeeded in that he had finally managed to make something of himself, at least career-wise. He was earning far more money than his drunken bastard of a father ever had, but if anything, his personal life had only regressed. In high school, at least he had known where he stood, even if he hadn't been altogether happy about his situation at the time. He'd had a solid core of friends, and the best years of his life still lie ahead of him. Now he wasn't so sure. His family (meaning the Scooby Gang – he seldom acknowledged his biological family) was fractured, and the outlook for his love life could only be described as bleak.
Negative much Xander? Well dammit; he had a right to be. If he wanted to be cynical, so be it. It was his prerogative. He'd tried to be optimistic, tried to take the nice guy route. But he knew better. In the real world, the nice guy didn't necessarily get the woman. In the real world, nice guys slept alone, or at best, with someone they didn't really love, or who didn't love them. Real life wasn't a TV show kids: You didn't resolve all your problems in under an hour, you didn't have a loving family, and the good guys didn't always win. And even when they did, the victory was always tempered by the knowledge that the next bad guy to come along would be even worse than the last. For Xander, that pretty much summed up his life. One step forward, two steps back.
At least he still had his work. Unlike relationships, construction was something Xander universally excelled at. He'd come a long way in just two years, rising from an entry-level puke to project supervisor. He'd done it on his own terms -- no patronage, no help from his friends. He had this job because he'd worked hard and exceeded expectations. That was something even the Hellmouth couldn't take from him. At least he hoped not. One could never be sure in this town.
Unfortunately for Xander, the sanctity of the workplace offered no respite from the forces of evil, even on a Sunday. Xander was by nature a suspicious person, and the circumstances surrounding his present assignment weren't helping matters in the least. In fact, they were giving him the wiggins. The client, whom Xander had never met, was ostensibly a dealer in rare antiquities, and needed a temporary facility to warehouse his collection until a more permanent location could be arranged. As far as Xander could see, there were two obvious problems with that story: 1) Sunnydale wasn't exactly a mecca for antique collectors (with the possible exception of one Rupert Giles); and 2) Unless NATO had taken up antiquities theft, the security specifications were obscenely excessive.
In testimony to the latter observation, the two visible entrances to the apartment had been outfitted with 3-inch reinforced titanium doors, the cost of each roughly equal to what Xander earned in six months' time; the security system wired to each had cost even more. Xander had been there when the alarms had been installed, and as project leader had spoken briefly to the men charged with the installation. Their demeanor had screamed ex-military, and their work did nothing to dispel that notion. Quick, professional, and precise; there had been no problem on that end.
Walking into the main living area, Xander always felt oddly like a rat in a ventilation shaft. Per customer specification, all interior walls had been finished with a full inch of gleaming stainless steel, as were all floors and ceilings. The overall effect was striking, if somewhat sterile in appearance. Being a man, Xander could appreciate the simplicity and atmosphere of the décor: At the very least, it would be easy to clean. Continuing his informal inspection, Xander unconsciously ran his hand over the impossibly smooth surface of the wall, his gaze unconsciously drifting upwards to the sprinkler system he had installed the previous day. Instead of the halide version popular with the commercial sector, this client had insisted on a traditional H2O sprinkler system. That facet of the job puzzled him. If the client planned on storing antiques, why risk the water damage? It didn't make any sense. Xander shrugged off his doubts. Few things in his life did make sense. Why should his job be any different?
Satisfied that things were in order, at least where the job was concerned, Xander walked over to the adjoining storage facility. Most of the work here had been sub-contracted out, to a vendor specified – not surprisingly – by the client. To call the storage room secure was an understatement of epic proportions. In keeping with the interior motif, these walls too had been covered in stainless steel, though the entrance was even more secure than the outer doors, looking as if it had been plucked straight from a government surplus bunker. Like the others, this door was constructed primarily of titanium, but had been additionally reinforced with horizontal fibersteel blast bars, 3-inch diameter cylinders that locked into place in recesses built into the door frame. The manufacturers specs called for the door to maintain its integrity against pressure of up to 40,000 lbs. per square inch. Xander had no doubt it would perform as expected; he just didn't want to be around when it was tested. The only way into the room, unless one happened to have a pound of Semtex handy, was through the retinal scanner embedded in the wall. The excessive security precautions had predictably prompted questions from Xander's crew, all of which had been politely and expertly brushed aside by his boss. This of course compelled Xander to wonder just who this mysterious client really was, and what the hell he was doing in Sunnydale. Six years of apocalypse and impending doom did not a trusting Xander make.
Hearing the front door swing open, Xander spun around in surprise. He had expected to be alone this morning, taking inventory of the job and seeing to a few last-minute details. Obviously, that was not the case.
He didn't recognize the figure framed in the doorway, though there was something vaguely familiar about the man that Xander could not place. Standing just a fraction under six foot and weighing no more than 200 pounds, the man was draped from head to toe in black, his expensive clothing more understated than it was ostentatious. The stranger clutched a large metal attaché case firmly in his left hand, his right hand resting on the steel door handle, as if unsure he was welcome.
Xander could only guess at the man's age, as his features gave no real indication. The high, symmetrical cheekbones and aristocratic nose gave the man an almost regal appearance, hinting at his British ancestry. He might have been described as handsome, if not for the scar originating near the top of his jaw line and extending to the corner of his mouth, a souvenir of a childhood wound that had never properly healed. The man's well tanned skin was deeply lined, whether from exposure to the elements or merely from aging one could not definitively tell. His jet black hair was cropped short, almost – but not quite – in a military style.
By far the most distinctive feature of the man was his unnaturally blue eyes. The deep cobalt blue seemed to extend beyond the iris, fading, but never quite disappearing, as it spread to the white of the eye. His gaze was penetrating, though not in a cold, unaffected manner. His eyes held an indescribable warmth, a mirth that never seemed to vanish, even when he was not smiling. Dark blue orbs locked with soft brown eyes as the man addressed Xander.
"I apologize for the interruption. I wasn't aware that anyone would be here today," the man said, with just a hint of an English accent.
"No problem. I was just finishing up," Xander assured his visitor. "Is there something I can do for you?" Although Xander had never seen the man before, he had a sneaking suspicion that the person standing before him was the mysterious client in question.
"You would be Alexander Harris," the man said confidently, more as an observation than a question.
Xander smiled wryly "Given the choice, probably not. Unfortunately, no one consulted me on the matter, so here I am."
The man gave Xander a knowing grin. "Life can be funny that way," he said, his gaze shifting from Xander to the interior of the nearly finished apartment.
And it just keeps getting funnier, Xander thought to himself, bending to pick up his clipboard. "I didn't catch your name."
The man continued his cursory inspection, ambling slowly along the far wall, running his hand over the smooth contours of the steel. "No, I don't suppose you did," he confirmed, turning to look at Xander, "I'm Danyael."
"You gotta a last name to go with that?"
"Just Danyael."
"Ahhh…so you're one of those," bemoaned Xander, studiously scanning the work order fastened to the clipboard.
"One of those?"
Xander looked up. "One-namers. You know, like Madonna, only without the cone-bra."
Danyael smiled . Whistler was right – he did like the kid. He gestured to their surroundings, implicitly changing the subject. "I see you're almost finished here, a full week ahead of schedule no less."
"I'm gonna go out on a limb and guess that you're the client I've been hearing so little about," Xander ventured, though he already knew the answer. Danyael confirmed his suspicions with a slight nod.
"Well, I have to admit, your little bonus clause was an effective incentive," Xander conceded, recalling the sizable down-payment he had made on his new Dodge. California air quality standards be damned, Xander's got himself a truck. "Though the boss breathing down my neck 24/7 for the past three weeks might have also played a small part."
"Your boss can be a most difficult man," Danyael empathized. Dealing with his own master wasn't exactly a walk in the park.
"I take it you've met him then?" Xander wouldn't wish that on his worst enemies. Well, maybe Spike…
"I've had the unique pleasure, yes," confirmed Danyael, observing the expression on Xander's face. "It could be worse, Alexander. You should meet my boss sometime." He knew that Xander wouldn't though, at least not in this lifetime.
"Please, call me Xander. Everybody else does…. except for my mother, and Willow when she's pissed at me."
"Willow? Your girlfriend?"
The look on Xander's face said it all. "We uh, went that route once or twice," he explained. "She's my best friend."
"There's a reason they call it the road less traveled, Xander."
Xander wasn't one to give in to convention – sometimes you just had to be different. "I like to think of myself as an intrepid trailblazer. Either that or resilient non-conformist. I haven't really settled on a theme yet."
"How about impulsive do-gooder?"
"That too." This guy certainly had him pegged. "You sure we've never met before?" .
"Positive. I'd remember if we had."
"Good point. So…where were we?"
"Your friend Willow?"
"Right. Willow. She's….well, she's Willow."
"She has an unusual name. Pretty, but unusual."
That's Willow in a nutshell. Xander shrugged. "Her parents were hippies – grew up in the sixties. I guess they never really got it out of their system."
"Are you referring to the drugs, or just the lifestyle?" asked Danyael.
"I wasn't aware there was a distinction," admitted Xander. "Anyway, they did the whole overcompensating parenting bit. Made Willow a little neurotic."
"But she turned out all right?"
"Better than all right." Except for the whole varicose vein, Wicked Witch of the West, I'm-gonna-end-the-world, bit. "She's the best thing to ever happen to me."
"Kinda throws the whole "bad childhood excuse out the window" doesn't it?"
"You're preachin' to the choir, brother."
"I take it your own childhood didn't exactly resemble an episode of the Brady Bunch."
"More like the Wild Bunch," lamented Xander. "My parents preferred their drugs in the liquid form."
"I don't mean to pry."
Xander smiled skeptically. "Nobody ever does. But, hey, don't worry about it. My life's an open book." One of those coffee-table books that no one ever bothers to read, but a book nonetheless.
"Really? No skeleton's in the closet? No demons in your past?"
"Nope – no skeletons anyway. The demon part's debatable. But enough about my life. You seem to know quite a bit about me, but I don't know the first thing about you."
"I'm afraid there's not much to tell. I've lived a long, unremarkable life." It wasn't exactly a lie; it just depended on one's definition of unremarkable.
"You don't really look that old," Xander observed, not intending his statement as a compliment.
"I get that a lot. I was born in the 60's; I just look young for my age." That too, was the truth…after a fashion. Danyael had been born in the 60's; he just hadn't bothered to specify which century or millennium. Why get bogged down in details?
"So what, that would make you ….old?"
"Didn't anybody ever teach you to respect your elders?"
"Obviously you've never met my parents," commented Xander, evoking a grin from Danyael.
The kid is funny, Danyael admitted to himself, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out an engraved silver cigarette case, opened it, and withdrew a single Marlboro. Putting the cigarette in his mouth, he reached into another pocket, producing his venerable Zippo. "You mind if I smoke?" he asked as he activated the lighter.
"They're your lungs," Xander shrugged. "Though it will cost you a question."
"Ask away," Danyael replied, taking a long drag on the menthol cigarette, not the least bit concerned about the potential health effects. He had no reason to be.
"Why Sunnydale?"
"Excuse me?" Danyael asked, not fully understanding the question.
"What brings you to Sunnydale? Wouldn't it make more sense for an antique dealer to locate to LA?"
"I suppose it would, if I were an antique dealer. I'm really just an avid collector. This is sort of an extended vacation for me."
"Let me get this straight," said Xander, the disbelief evident in his voice. "You came to Sunnydale, the armpit of California, for a vacation?" The Bureau of Tourism really needs to revise those brochures. "God, your travel agent must really hate you."
"Travel agent? This is the twenty-first century, Xander. Ever heard of the internet?"
"Touché," countered Xander, unperturbed. "So what then, you're in Sunnydale scoping out garage sales?" Not that Sunnydale didn't have its share of antiques. They just weren't the type you would want to collect, unless of course you happened to belong to the Initiative.
"Actually, I'm here to look up an old acquaintance."
"Visiting old friends is good."
"I didn't say he was a friend, Xander."
"Visiting old enemies can be good too. You know, cathartic and all."
"There's a little unfinished business between us," revealed Danyael. "You might say that I have a few demons to slay." Well, one in particular anyway.
"Then you came to the right place. If there's one thing Sunnydale has an abundance of, it's demons."
"Are we talking about the figurative variety, or the literal?"
"Take your pick." Xander knew both kinds.
"I'll assume you're talking about the former."
Xander smirked; Assumption is the mother of all fuck-ups. "If that's what you want to believe, far be it from me to rain on your parade."
"Judging by your response, I'm guessing there's more to this town than meets the eye."
"Mayberry it ain't," confirmed Xander. "A friendly word of advice: Watch your back. Sunnydale's bite is definitely worse than it's bark."
"I'll bear that in mind," promised Danyael. "All kidding aside, Xander, I like what you've done with the place." As if Xander had any choice in the matter.
"So it gets your stamp of approval?"
"There is a reason I specifically requested your services, Xander. Your work is first-rate.
Not accustomed to receiving accolades of any kind, Xander felt his skin turn a distinct shade of crimson. "I've embarrassed you," observed Danyael, somewhat amused. "I apologize. I should have known that you weren't the narcissistic type."
Xander recovered quickly from his momentary embarrassment; he had a lot of practice in that department. "My profound sense of humility aside, I don't suppose you'd care to share with me the reason for the mini Fort Knox over there?"
"Aahhh yes, the vault. I was wondering when you'd get to that. I don't suppose you have much demand for those."
"Not from antique collectors anyway," Xander divulged. "Exactly what kind of artifacts do you deal in, if you don't mind me asking?"
"A little bit of this; a little bit of that. Mostly I collect religious artifacts, occult pieces and the like."
That last statement set off an alarm in Xander's head. Religious artifacts, the occult, and the Hellmouth generally made for a volatile combination. "So, you're into the occult. You should fit right in here in Sunnydale." The apprehension in Xander's voice was palpable.
"It's more of an investment than a passion," Danyael assured Xander. "It's not like I worship the devil."
Xander cast a sidelong glance at Danyael. "That's a load off my mind. My friends and I burned down a Satanic temple last week. I wouldn't want to be accused of a hate crime."
"I promise not to alert the ACLU," assured Danyael. "And now that we've established our mutual dislike of Satan, maybe you could answer a question for me?"
"Shoot."
"What does one do for fun in these parts?"
"Fun?" repeated Xander, as if unfamiliar with the concept.
"Yeah, fun. You know – amusement, entertainment, enjoyment, pleasure. In other words, how's the nightlife in Sunnydale?"
Disturbing, thought Xander, though he did not voice that sentiment. "There's actually not a lot to do in Sunnydale. It gets kind of uh, dead after the sun goes down," he said, managing not to choke on his unintentional pun.
"I see. So what do you do to entertain yourself?"
Xander pondered the question. He wasn't ready to divulge his close personal relationship with Rosy Palmer and her four sisters just yet. "To tell you the truth, I haven't had much of a social life lately. I uh, recently went through an ugly breakup with my fiancée, and I don't think the dating scene's quite ready for me just yet."
"Really. I would think a successful young man like yourself would have to fight off the woman."
"It's not so much fighting them off as fighting with them. I kind of have relationship issues in general."
"Perhaps it's the women in your life that are the problem," offered Danyael.
Xander frowned as the implication of the question set in. "You're not coming on to me are you? Cause if you are, you should know that I don't swing that way. Not that I'm a homophobe or anything. I mean, my friend Willow's gay…that is, she was….or maybe she still is. I'm not really sure, but the point is I'm okay with it and I'm just babbling so I'm gonna shut up now."
Xander's response elicited a hearty laugh from Danyael. "You needn't worry Xander. Your manly virtue is in no danger of being compromised. I too play for the home team."
Embarrassed once more, Xander nodded. "Glad we got that cleared up. Look, if there's nothing else, I was just about to mosey on out of here."
"I think we covered the important things," Danyael assured him. "I don't want to keep you from enjoying the rest of your weekend."
"Not much chance of that."
"You should be more optimistic, Xander. Remember, the cup can be either half full, or half empty. It all depends on your perspective."
"Actually," Xander explained for Danyael's benefit, "it depends on whether you're pouring or drinking." Xander fully intended to be doing the latter as soon as possible, though in moderation. The lessons of his parents hadn't escaped him.
"That too," admitted Danyael with a knowing smile. He extended his hand to Xander. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Xander."
Xander shook the offered hand, noting the unusually firm grip of his new friend. "Likewise. Maybe I'll see you around."
Danyael nodded as Xander grabbed his clipboard and made his exit. "You can count on it."
As soon as the door closed behind Xander, Danyael reached into his trench coat, pulling out a small satellite phone. Punching the speed dial button followed by the number 1, he addressed the party on the other end of the encrypted line. "It's me. Phase 1 is complete. The key has been isolated and the appropriate safeguards are in place: I will engage the Slayer at a time and place of my choosing. Confirm that the enemy has accelerated the timetable. Their agents are in place as we speak. I await further instruction as to the disposition of the L.A. contingent and the ensouled vampire." Danyael hit the end button, stabbing out his cigarette on the steel countertop. The fun was about to begin.
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1606 Revello Drive
Sunday, September 1
1045 hrs
Sunday morning meant many things to many different people. To some, it meant spending time with the family; to others, it meant going to church; still others used the opportunity to sleep in. To Dawn Summers, it meant quality vegging time in front of the TV, a dubious habit she had acquired from a certain Xander-shaped friend.
Assuming her position on the couch, she ran down her checklist. "Ice cream…check. Cell phone…check. Caffeine…check. Remote…shit!" Cursing her sister, Dawn quickly scanned the living room. Unable to locate her quarry, she reluctantly plunged her hand between the sofa cushions, rooting around in the filth for the elusive clicker. Jackpot. Her fingers curled around the small plastic device, pulling it out, along with a potato chip well past its prime. "God Buffy," Dawn muttered, "I swear, if you weren't the Slayer…"
"If I weren't the Slayer…what?" Buffy asked nonchalantly, appearing unbidden from the kitchen.
Dawn ignored the question. "You think that just for once you could put the remote on the coffee table like a civilized person. I'm missing wrestling."
Buffy considered that. "Nope," she said, shaking her head apologetically. "I'm a primal warrior, sis; I predate civilization. Why do you bother to watch that crap, anyway. It's not exactly realistic."
"Realism's overrated. And, hey, sweaty buff men in underwear – not exactly a bad thing. Unless you're gay. You're not gay are you?"
"I am having inappropriate thoughts about a sixteen-year old girl," confessed the Slayer.
"Do these thoughts involve inflicting bodily harm on said sixteen-year old girl?"
"Yup."
"Does the girl's name happen to be Dawn?"
"Yup."
"Gotcha. Not gay."
"Glad we cleared that up," Buffy said, unusually cheerfully for a Sunday morning. "Judging by your ensemble, I take it your plans for the day don't actually involve leaving the house?"
"If by that you're asking if I intend to spend the entire day on the couch, then the answer is yes. But I take offense to the implication that my outfit is not worthy of public viewing."
"Dawn, you're wearing cutoffs and a tank top that's two sizes too small. Only prostitutes dress like that."
"Don't forget trailer-trash," added Dawn helpfully.
"You're neither of those things, at least not that I'm aware of."
"You're right," admitted Dawn. "But I'm comfortable, and I look cute in these shorts."
"You call those shorts? They barely cover your underwear."
"Underwear? Damn, I knew I forgot something."
That was a little too much information for Buffy. "I did not need to know that."
"Relax sis. I'm only kidding," Dawn assured her sister. "I'm wearing a thong." She truly enjoyed getting a rise out of Buffy. It was one of life's little pleasures.
"Dawn!" yelled a horrified Buffy. "For Christsake, you're only sixteen."
Advantage, Dawn. "Only sixteen? This coming from the girl, who, at the ripe old age of – what was it – sixteen, gave it up to a vampire? And need I bring up those leather pants you're so fond of? They don't exactly leave a lot to the imagination, if you know what I'm saying. We both know Riley wasn't the only one going "commando" around here."
Alright. Take a deep breath Buffy. Don't kill your sister. Just count to four…
Dawn wasn't finished. "And do I even need to point out the outfit you have on? If I'm not mistaken, that lace skirt you're wearing looks suspiciously like the one I bought last month. The same one that you said was too short for me. The one you said makes me look like a whore."
Buffy took a deep breath. One, she counted mentally.
"We both know that skirt looks soooo much better on me. Even Xander thought so. I mean, he was checking me out…."
Two…Three.
"Hey Buffy, did you know that when you get really upset that vein in your forehead sticks out? You've got that whole Frankenstein thing going. I gotta say; not a very flattering look for you."
….Four. Screw Slayer code – kill sister.
Fate, in the form of the doorbell, inexplicably intervened to spare Dawn Summer's life. Buffy reluctantly postponed her attack and went to answer the door. She was not expecting the person standing on the other side.
Xander blinked in surprise as the petite blonde Slayer swung open the door. He was not expecting her to be at home this morning. She was supposed to be visiting Giles.
For a moment, neither of them said anything. Xander was the first to find his voice.
"Hey," he greeted Buffy quietly, almost – but not quite – concealing the uncertainty he felt towards the Slayer.
"Hey yourself," she replied softly, her argument with Dawn forgotten for the moment.
Xander ventured a furtive glance inside, praying to whatever God was out there that Dawn was home. Spying the girl on the couch, he turned back to Buffy. "You mind if I come in?"
Yes, Buffy almost said, but stopped herself. "Uh, no, not at all. Dawn's inside watching TV." Buffy stepped aside, letting her [former?] friend inside. She glanced up at Xander as he passed, unable to meet his gaze. "I, uh, thought you'd be with Willow."
Xander looked to Dawn, trying to get a read on the situation. The look on her face was not encouraging. You're alone on this one, Xander.
He looked back to Buffy, who suddenly seemed to find the floor very interesting. "I got the impression she wanted to be alone for a while. I guess she needs a little Willow time."
"Oh. I just assumed that, you know, since you two were….together…'
"Together?"
For the first time that day, Buffy looked Xander in the eyes. Was he really going to make her say it?
Dawn chose that ill-timed moment to join the conversation. "Earth to Xander, she means that you're sleeping together."
Xander gritted his teeth. "Thanks Dawn. I got that."
"Glad to be of help," she said, already turning her attention back to the choreographed violence on the TV.
"Look, Buffy: Willow and I, we're not…"together" in the sense of being – well – together. It's kind of complicated."
Buffy's looked up at Xander, her green eyes somber, tears welling up and threatening to spill out. "It's okay Xander. You don't have to explain. I get it." Her tone said otherwise.
"Buffy, I don't think you…"
"No. I said it's fine. Really. I just, I'm sorry, I have to go." With that, she pushed past Xander, fairly running to the curb. She jumped into the Jeep, turned over the engine, and coated the asphalt with a fresh coat of rubber as she tore off down the street.
An incredulous Xander turned to Dawn, his frustration evident. "What the hell was that?"
With an exaggerated sigh Dawn shut off the TV, flashing Xander a sympathetic smile. "You want the short version or the long version?"
"The short version. Emphasis on short."
"Why don't you come over and sit by doctor Dawn. This could take a while."
"I thought I was getting the short version?"
"You are. The long version would take all day."
Xander obediently walked over to the couch and plopped down beside Dawn. "All right, let me have it Dawnster."
"Let me start by saying that you are without a doubt the most oblivious man in the world."
"Huh," was all Xander could manage.
"My point exactly. Xander, honey, you have a lot to learn about the female species."
"And you're going to show me?"
Oh yeah, I'd like to show you a few things. "Yes I am, but not here. We're going to the Bronze, and you're going to buy me lunch?"
"I am?"
"You are. That's my fee. Take it or leave it."
"Do I have a choice?"
"No."
"In that case, my chariot awaits. Lead on oh wise one."
"Not just yet grasshopper," Dawn intoned in her worst Asian accent, getting up from the couch and walking to the stairs. "I have to change first. Buffy says I look like a slut."
"You look fine to me."
"You bet your ass I do," smirked Dawn, bounding up the stairs. And what a sweet ass it is.
Xander glanced up at Dawn, watching as she disappeared up the staircase, admiring the fleeting view. Damn. When the hell did Dawn turn into such a little hottie? The little voice inside his head answered the question for him: About the same time you became a pervert Alexander. For God's sake, she's only sixteen. Stop thinking with your dick.
Xander shook his head violently, trying to quell his inner voice. Damn Conscience. Why don't you mind your own business?
A short moment later Dawn came flying down the stairs, suitably attired for public viewing. She took in the view with a measure of amusement. "Are you having a seizure, or is that just some weird guy thing?"
"A little from column A, a little from column B."
"Did anyone ever tell you that you're a very strange person?"
"I get that a lot."
"Just so you know. Anyway, let's go. I'm hungry." Dawn latched onto Xander's arm, forcibly dragging him through the door.
"Ouch," protested Xander. "You know, I'm kind of attached to that arm. You mind easing up there, Slayer Jr.?"
"Buffalo Wings wait for no one, Xander."
Xander managed to extricate himself from the exuberant teenager long enough to reach into his pocket and pull out his keys. Dawn, meanwhile, simply glanced around in confusion. "Uh, Xand; where's your rental car?" The Chrysler was nowhere in sight. In response, Xander hit the unlock button on his key fob, the lights on the jet-black Dodge Durango in front of them flashing once in recognition.
"That's yours," gasped Dawn in disbelief. "Damn; that is so pimpin'."
"Well you know," said Xander, opening the door for Dawn, "I thought if this whole construction thing didn't work out…"
"God Xand," Dawn said, sliding into the leather seat, "this must have set you back a few scoobies. How the hell can you afford this?"
"Someday I'll introduce you to the wonders of 0% financing Dawn. Besides, I made a killing on this last job." Xander started up the truck, the 8-cylinder engine roaring to life.
Dawn raised a suspicious eyebrow. "You didn't mean that in the literal sense did you?"
"Nope. No work-related killings to speak of," he confessed, pulling out onto the street.
"Sorry. I had to ask. It comes with the turf."
"Gotcha," Xander nodded. "So then, shall we commence with the lesson?"
"I don't work on an empty stomach."
"OK then; How goes things on the Summer's front?"
"You know, the usual. I go to school. I come home. Buffy bosses me around. I go out with friends. A pack of vampires tries to kill me. I get my ass saved by a pair of giant wolves. The usual."
"You care to run that last part by me again?"
"What? You mean the vampires and the wolves? You really had to be there."
"It does lose something in the translation," admitted Xander. "But humor me anyway."
"There's really not a lot to tell. Stacey and I were walking to the Bronze last night when a dozen overgrown mosquitoes mistook us for a Happy Meal. Cujo number 1 and Cujo number 2 appear out of nowhere and, voila', all-you-can-eat vampire buffet. Next thing you know, the vampires are all Kibbles N Bits and I have two new best friends with fleas."
"And strangely enough, no part of that story surprises me in the least. Does that make me jaded, or just Sunnydale pragmatic?"
"I think it means you spend too much time around my sister."
"That's not really an issue anymore," mumbled Xander, not intending his words for Dawn's consumption.
"I heard that. You do remember that I was made from Buffy, as disturbing as that may be."
"So what, you've got enhanced hearing now?" That was a troubling thought for Xander. Got to remember not to think out loud.
"Among other things. I think I may have gotten the whole package deal."
"Such as…?"
"Well for starters, I've got the whole Spidey-sense thing going on. I could sense those vampires coming before I ever saw them."
"But that's a good thing, right? I don't want my favorite Summer's girl getting drained by any vamp."
Favorite Summer's girl? Damn, this is getting serious. I've got my work cut out for me. Dawn let it slide for the time being. "I guess. I just wish I knew why it was happening now."
"I can't help you there. Have you told Giles yet?"
Dawn nodded. "Buffy was going to mention it today, provided there were no end-of-the-world crises on the horizon."
"I think we've pretty much met our quota on those," said Xander, pulling into the Bronze's nearly empty parking lot.
"Don't jinx us," warned Dawn, climbing out the door of the truck. "You are familiar with Murphy's Law?"
"I live my life by it, Dawn. But you forget, bad things only happen to us on Tuesdays. Today is Sunday"
"You know, Xand; I never really thought about it, but you're right. Bad things always seem to happen to us on Tuesdays. Why is that, do you think?"
Xander pondered that point as he held the Bronze's front door open for Dawn. "It's almost like we're on a TV show or something." Wouldn't that be funny; my life as a TV show. It'd have to air on CBS.
Dawn dismissed the issue with a wave of her hand. "I guess it's just one of those things."
"You're probably right. No sense in obsessing about it. We're paranoid enough the way it is." He pulled out a chair for Dawn, and then took a seat beside her.
"Agreed. We'll leave the paranoia to the conspiracy-theorists and the UFO geeks."
Xander didn't have the heart to remind her they qualified as both. Lunch was more important at any rate. "So what'll be Key girl? Dead cow on a bun, or nearly salmonella-free Buffalo wings?"
"Doublemeat burgers kind of cured me of my beef addiction, Xand."
"Sorry, I forgot. Wings it is." He gestured the lone waiter over to their table, a twenty two year-old who happened to double as both bartender and manager.
"Harris, you here again?"
"What can I say Tony, a man's gotta eat."
"No man eats as much as you do. You'd think someone with an appetite like yours would have learned how to cook by now."
"If I did that, you'd go out of business," reasoned Xander.
"Truer words have never been spoken. So tell me, who's your adorable friend?"
"Watch it Tony," warned Xander, "sixteen will get you twenty. This is Dawn summers, Buffy's younger sister."
"A Summer's girl, huh. I thought I recognized her. So, is she a chip off the old block or what?"
Dawn had heard about enough. "Hello; I'm sitting right here!"
"Sorry Dawn. Allow me to introduce you: Dawn Summers, meet Tony Curtis. Tony and I went to high school together."
Dawn shook the offered hand. "You knew Xander in high school and you still socialize with him? You are truly a brave man."
"I see you have your sister's sense of humor," remarked Tony. "What can I say Dawn, I like to help the less fortunate."
"Don't worry; I won't hold it against you," Dawn assured him. "After all, you did survive Sunnydale High, which says a lot about your place on the evolutionary scale, natural selection being what it is."
Tony nodded in agreement. "And here I thought I was just lucky. Anyway, what can I get for you guys…no, wait; let me guess. For you Xander: 2 dozen inferno wings with celery and ranch dressing, and a Black and Tan to wash it down."
"You never cease to amaze me Tony. How do you do it?"
"It helps that you lack imagination. And you Dawn, do you lack imagination as well."
"Guilty as charged. I'll have a dozen spicy wings with a diet coke."
Shaking his head in dismay at their lack of culinary appreciation, Tony strolled back to the kitchen to put in their orders, leaving the two Scoobies to their own devices. Satisfied that they were alone, Xander raised his eyes to Dawn, "So let me have it Dr. Laura."
"Please, Dr. Laura's a hack. You can't put a price on my services."
"So explain to me again why I'm buying you lunch?"
"Because you love and adore me. That, and I'm broke."
"Wait a second; I thought you were rich now?"
"Buffy's rich. I'm a destitute teenager. You do the math."
"All right; forget I asked. Just let me have it."
"Okay, let's start out by clarifying a few things."
"Shoot."
Dawn took a deep breath before continuing. "Number one; My sister is utterly and completely, head-over-heels, singing in the rain in, make me wanna vomit, in love with you." She paused, giving Xander a chance to digest that revelation.
As it turned out, he didn't need it. "Yeah, I've heard that version," he remarked, surprisingly unimpressed.
Momentarily surprised, Dawn took a moment to respond "And you're not buying it?"
Xander shook his head solemnly. "I believe there's a remote possibility that she thinks she's in love with me. But it isn't the same thing."
"And you know this how?"
Xander turned the tables on Dawn. "Do you want the short version or the long version?"
Dawn scowled. "I think you know the answer to that."
"Right then. Well, it goes something like this: We both know that Buffy's love life reads like a modern day Shakespearean tragedy, albeit with a few demons thrown in for flavor."
"I'm following you so far."
Xander continued. "She's been through a lot in the past few years, and her unstable personal life hasn't exactly helped matters. First there was Deadboy, then Riley, and finally…"
"You can say his name."
"…And finally Spike. At any rate, the men in her life have all either abandoned her or hurt her in some way."
"And this affects the present situation how?"
"I'm getting to that, Dawn," he replied. "Look, if I've learned one thing about your sister, it's that her biggest fear isn't dying or letting her friends down, or anything like that. Her biggest fear is being alone. If you think about it, all of her relationships have been short-term: Your father left, your mother's dead, boyfriends have come and gone, and even you haven't been there for the duration." Xander paused a moment, interpreting the look on Dawn's face. "I'm not saying this to dredge up bad memories, Dawn. I'm just trying to make a point."
"I know. It doesn't make it any easier though."
"I'm sorry. If there was another way…"
"It's alright Xander. I'm a big girl."
"Anyway, we're all aware that the life expectancy of a Slayer barely exceeds that of your average fruit fly. So far, Buffy's defied the odds, but she knows she's living on borrowed time, and that makes the time she has all the more important. Buffy realizes this. She wants somebody to be there for her, somebody that's safe, that won't bail on her at the first sign of trouble."
"And that's where you come in?"
Xander nodded in the affirmative. "Buffy knows that I care about her, that I was even in love with her, and that I would never leave her. But she's confusing her insecurities and loneliness for love. Buffy doesn't love me; not in that way. She may want to love me; she may need me; she may even think she loves me, but it's not the same thing as real love."
Dawn let that sink in before speaking. "Can I ask you a question?"
"Of course."
"Do you love Buffy?"
"You know I do."
"That's not what I meant. Are you in love with Buffy?"
"Why do I suddenly feel like I'm on the witness stand?"
"Why do I feel like you're stalling for time?"
"You have a suspicious nature."
"It's called survival instinct, Xander. And you're still avoiding the question."
"I was hoping your short attention span would kick in."
"Xander…."
"No."
"No, what?"
"No, I am not in love with Buffy."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that."
"Okay."
"Okay? You're not disappointed in me?"
Dawn shrugged indifferently. "Not any more than usual. Buffy had her chance. I can't blame you for moving on."
Xander was suitably impressed. "Wow. That's….very adult of you, Dawn."
"What can I say…I rationalize at a twelfth-grade level."
That one almost slipped by Xander. "Wait a second…"
Dawn cut him off mid-sentence. "You've had your say, Xand; it's my turn now."
"But…"
"Xander, sweetie, don't make me hurt you," threatened Dawn, the benign smile on her face is stark contrast to the tone of her voice. Xander wisely shut up. He knew better than to incur the wrath of the hormonal sixteen year-old. Dawn continued.
"I know things aren't exactly ideal between you two, and I know that's largely Buffy's fault. So I don't blame you for being angry with her."
"I'm not.…."
"You are. Admit it. Accept it. Move on. As long as you're hung up on the whole Buffy/Spike issue, you're never going to be able to move forward. And I'm not thrilled with the concept of having Buffy moping around the house for the next two years, pining away after you."
"So you want me to forget everything that's happened and hook up with your sister because it'll make your life easier."
"Yes…well, that and you two are retarded for each other."
"I resent the retarded connotation. Also, as sales pitches go – yours needs work."
"Sue me. Besides, it's the underlying truth that counts. You love Buffy. Buffy loves you. Am I the only one with any semblance of sanity in our dysfunctional little family?"
"When did you become so judgmental?"
"I'm not judgmental – just observant." Dawn spied movement out of the corner of her eye. "And I'd really love to continue this conversation, but our food's here."
The two grew silent as the waiter reappeared, a tray of food balanced precariously in each hand. "All right you two, soup's on." He placed the proper tray in front of each, enjoying the view of the young girl's décolletage as he glance down at her. Sixteen my ass, Tony thought to himself as he set their drinks in front of them. Tearing his eyes away from Dawn, Tony grinned wickedly at Xander. "You two enjoy yourselves today, all right?"
Rolling his eyes, Xander bid his friend farewell. "Thanks Tony, I think we can handle it from here."
Tony gave Xander a mock salute, retreating once again to the kitchen, but not before getting in the last word. Xander could just barely hear his reply: "I'll bet…"
He glanced at Dawn out of the corner of his eye, checking to see if Dawn had heard as well. She had.
"You know your friend was looking down my shirt?" Not that she wasn't at least a little flattered, but still, could he have been more obvious?
"What, do you expect an apology? He's a guy. We do that sort of thing."
"So you've checked me out too," asked Dawn, her voice silky smooth. She liked seeing Xander squirm. He gave good squirm.
Don't answer her. For the love of God, Xander, do not answer that question. "I'm not going to dignify that question with an answer."
"So you have. You've checked me out. Xander Harris has checked me out. As I live and breath…."
"Dawn," groaned Xander. "I have never checked you out. I might have glanced appreciatively once or twice, but I have never, ever, checked you out. You're like a sister to me."
Dawn arched her eyebrows. "A sister?"
"Okay, maybe a cousin. A second cousin…twice removed," relented Xander. "But that is so not the point."
Dawn held up her hands in surrender. "You're right Xand. We're getting off the subject. The point is my sister loves you, and I think you love her, too."
"Loved her," Xander corrected, "As in past tense. I waited long enough."
"Whatever happened to "good things come to those who wait"?"
Xander shook his head, wiping the spicy buffalo sauce from his mouth. "Old age comes to those who wait, Dawn. Love may be eternal, the Xandman is not."
"Are you really that stupid, or just that damn stubborn?"
"I've been accused of both. But I'm not the bad guy here, Dawn. And I'm not Buffy's consolation prize either."
"So that's how it's gonna be? You two are just going to keep on avoiding each other, pretending like nothing's wrong."
"Something's been wrong for a long time, Dawn. That's not going to change anytime son. And I know we can't avoid each other forever, but we both need some time to sort things out. It's easier this way."
This was not going exactly as Dawn had planned. It was time to cut her losses and regroup. This battle would be fought another day. "Fine. I can see you're not going to change your mind anytime soon. Just promise me one thing?"
"Name it."
"Talk to her…soon. She at least deserves to know where she stands."
"For you Dawn, I'll do that.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
New York City
Monday, September 22, 2202
0830
There are many words to describe the act of treason. Terms like treachery, subversion, duplicity, and sedition are often used to express this ultimate act of betrayal. But none of these words adequately convey the sheer magnitude of embarking on such a course of action as betraying one's country, or in extreme cases, mankind as a whole. More than most, Quentin Travers understood this.
He had arrived in town the previous day, ostensibly to attend a conference at the New York headquarters of the Watcher's North American Division (affectionately known to the new generation of American Watchers as NAD, as in gonad). His real purpose had lead him here, to the Library Hotel, an upscale, if somewhat obscure, Madison Avenue hotel. The hotel was itself an homage to the NY Public Library, each of its sixty suites arranged according to the Dewey decimal system, their decor based on a corresponding literary theme. Not surprisingly, Quentin had been booked in the Mythology room. He would have it no other way.
Presently, he sat in the hotel's library/reading room, thumbing through a 19th century edition of "The Prince" as he awaited his 8:30 meeting. He didn't have to wait long.
"Machiavelli," a baritone voice boomed in the nearly empty room "Why does that not surprise me?"
Quentin looked up from his perusal of the classical tome, an expression of unadulterated disgust evident on his face. He set down the book, but did not offer to shake the other man's hand. There was no need to, since neither man respected his contemporary. "I suppose you would prefer something else?"
The recent arrival smiled evilly, reminding Quentin of a serpent preparing to strike. "I've always been partial to "How to Win Friends and Influence people". Or maybe "Atlas Shrugged."
"You're quite the humanitarian," remarked Quentin, affixing the man with a cold stare. Being in the presence of the Wolfram and Hart senior partner mad his blood run cold.
"I'm just looking out for number one," his visitor admonished. "But that's why we're both here now, isn't it."
Quentin nodded his head slightly, gesturing for the lawyer to take a seat. "We can skip the formalities, Wexler. I don't like this any more than you do."
"Really, Quentin. I'm rather enjoying myself. It's not every day the head of the Watcher's council commits treason. I feel like a child on Christmas morning."
"You enjoy consorting with the enemy, do you?"
The lawyer shook his head disapprovingly. "We're not enemies, Quentin; In the end, we both want the same thing. We've just approached it from different perspectives."
Quentin furrowed his brow, taking a drink of his single-malt scotch. "You have a remarkable ability to boil down complex moral issues to the most basic elements. But then, I guess having no soul gives you an advantage in that department."
"Morality is an archaic notion, Mr. Travers. There is no right or wrong; no black or white. There are just different shades of gray. You may not want to admit it, but you've spent your entire life fighting a battle that was decided long ago. You did your best, Quentin. Now let it go. There's no shame in admitting defeat."
Quentin hung his head dejectedly, as a man who had lost everything. His entire life had lead him to this point. To the inescapable conclusion of what he must now do. He'd had misgivings for some time, had known that the tide of war had been shifting in the enemy's favor. He had seen the signs, interpreted the portents, even as he fervently prayed the he was mistaken. But it was to no avail; the appearance of Glorificus had only been a harbinger of things to come. The Slayer had succeeded in forestalling the coming war, but only for a short time. Soon they would appear in droves, hundreds, if not thousands of the Fallen, hellishly twisted angelic beasts each fully an order of magnitude worse than the so-called Hellgod had been. It was a war the Slayer could not, and would not, win. With a heavy heart, Quentin reached slowly into his tweed coat, producing a small magnetic disk, the contents of which represented a thousand years of knowledge and history. He handed the disk to Wexler, surrendering with it both the Watcher's Council and his eternal soul.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And so ends chapter 8. Sorry for the long wait – I've had a lot going on the past couple of months. As you may have noticed, still no big B/X heart-to-heart. We'll address that next chapter (I hope). As always, feedback is greatly appreciated, as is money. Feel free to send me either.
Till next time.
Your humble author,
Rabid Squirrel