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: Bad guys, good guys, Armageddon. 'Nuff said.
Spoilers: Thru season 6, though my selective memory allows me to edit out or rewrite certain unsavory aspects.
Rating: R, for violence, occasional strong language, limited sexual content, cliché abuse, and character assassination.
Dedication: To all B/Xers, who know that B/S is simply that - BS. BTW "Sam": If you want to personally insult me, you're welcome to do so: Just have the cojones to at least sign the review. For your information, my IQ tests well above 75; therefore, I do not fall into the idiot classification. Just thought you should know:)
Feedback: Thanks to Lori, Bill, Jane, Ghostrider, Brandywine421, Zathraas, RobClark, eckles71, and all others for the positive feedback. I appreciate you guys sticking with the story, and I hope it lives up to your expectations. And Brandywine, you were right; lack of nicotine is the #1 cause of writers' block. Jerry Lewis, Phillip Morris and I are organizing a telethon as I write this. Smokers of the world unite!
"Guns don't kill people; bullets kill people...but seldom the right ones" author unknown
Chapter 9 - They Kill Lawyers...Don't They?
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100 miles off the California Coast
Monday, September 2
2400 hrs
CVN 74 had stood out to sea the previous night, accompanied by the usual complement of escorts - guided missile destroyers, cruisers, frigates, and the like. The ninety-seven thousand ton vessel and its attendants had quietly slipped out of port, cruising westward at just under 30 knots; plying the dark Pacific waters in an almost eerie silence. The warships themselves were darkened, their presence betrayed only by the revolutions of the ships' massive propellers, their passage through the water stirring up millions of tiny phytoplankton aft of the powerful flotilla, creating an oddly beautiful luminescent green trail in its wake. At departure + 2 hours, the USS John Stennis had heeled sharply to starboard, bearing north by northwest as the remainder of the carrier battle group maintained its original heading. The Jonnie Reb, as the Stennis was affectionately known to her crew (at least those hailing from south of the Mason-Dixon Line), continued on alone, with the exception of the single fast-attack submarine patrolling 38 nautical miles off her windward stern.
The official press release regarding the carrier's mission had been purposefully vague, declaring only her intention to conduct work-ups for the deployment of the newest squadron of F/A-18E Super Hornets, the US Navy's most recent version of the agile carrier-borne fighter-bomber - or at least that's what the Navy had claimed. It was not the first time the government had lied to the American people, and it wouldn't be the last.
Shortly after separating from her escorts, the nuclear-powered vessel assumed an oval-shaped patrol pattern, circling off the California coast like a vulture in some dark, featureless desert. As far as the majority of the nearly 6000 crewmembers aboard were concerned, this was just a routine shakedown cruise for their newest toys. There were a few on board, however, who knew differently. They knew they were about to embark on a course of action that had not been undertaken by a US naval warship in nearly 150 years. They were going to launch a military attack against the continental United States.
Precisely at 0001 hrs, 2 September, 2002 Pacific time, the Stennis turned into the wind, putting a 15 knot breeze over its flight deck in order to commence air operations. Shortly thereafter, a lone F/A-18C leapt off the steel flight deck, propelled forward by twin turbofan engines and a nuclear-powered steam catapult. The CAG - Commander, Air Group in naval parlance - had drawn the mission himself, partly due to security precautions, but mostly out of concern for the mental well-being of the aviators under his command. He wasn't about to order some 25 year-old kid to bomb the good old US of A. That might just have a negative effect on morale.
As he lifted off the carrier, the pilot accelerated his aircraft, pulling the hornet's nose up twenty degrees, utilizing the airplane's high thrust-to-weight ratio to quickly climb through ten thousand feet. The old man cherished moments like these, flying alone at night, only him, his "plastic bug", and a vast expanse of ocean with which to share his thoughts. It did wonders for his sanity; at the same time keeping him up to date on his flight quals, which itself was a prerequisite for his continued mental well being. If a man couldn't fly, he reckoned, he might as well be dead. Unfortunately for the seasoned aviator, the moment wasn't long to last, as the lights of the California coast too soon came into view on the clear summer night. He wondered fleetingly if this mission might someday make its way into a recruiting brochure: Join the Navy. See the world. Blow up Los Angeles. In retrospect, retirement didn't seem quite so bad a prospect.
The CAG glanced down at his radar screen, wary of drifting into the path of some hapless 747 jockey; you could never be too careful around civilian pilots, after all. Taking care to avoid the nearby commercial air traffic routes, he flew his aircraft ever closer to the city of angels, unconsciously checking to make sure his payload was safed. For this mission, the Hornet carried only two weapons - 2 satellite-guided Joint Direct Attack Munitions, or JDAMS. The mission parameters called for the use of only one of the weapons; the other was solely for insurance. As far as the Navy was concerned, he wasn't carrying any weapons at all, only two practice munitions, similar in appearance and weight to the genuine article, but lacking the spectacular visual results. As his aircraft approached the Initial Point, the CAG activated the weapon, its guidance package going active immediately. The unit began receiving signals from the constellation of geosynchronous global positioning satellites orbiting the earth, locking on to no fewer than eight signals. Satisfied that it knew exactly where on the planet it was (and where it needed to go), the unit went green, giving the go-ahead to commence the attack run.
The pilot verified his position, using both GPS and the aircraft's Inertial Navigation System. Satisfied that he too was in the right place, The CAG uttered a silent prayer to the Lord (for forgiveness, not luck), and "pickled" the weapon off, forever ensuring his place in infamy. He verified that the explosive squibs had indeed jettisoned the bomb free, assured himself that it was tracking properly, then peeled off, turning the jet back toward the coast, egressing the Los Angeles airspace at high subsonic speed.
For its part, the bomb fell true. It accelerated downward at the speed of gravity, tiny actuators making minute adjustments to the guidance fins, maintaining the proper glide path, per instruction of the onboard computer. The time-to-impact decreased rapidly, the weapon descending on the unsuspecting populace below like a modern-day angel of death. Twenty...Nineteen...eighteen...
The people in the high rise office below didn't know they were about to die. They were simply going about their usual routine, staying one step ahead of the competition. That they had fewer than 30 seconds to live did not cross their minds, though had they known, they wouldn't have been able to save themselves anyway. The time to impact diminished rapidly as the bomb approached its terminal velocity, creating a slight whistling noise as it plummeted through the polluted Los Angeles air, finally impacting on a ventilation shaft near the center of the building's roof. At first nothing happened...at least for about 1/100 of a second. Witnesses would later report seeing a blinding flash, followed soon thereafter by a deafening roar and a terrifying shower of glass and steel. Miraculously, outside of the casualties suffered inside the immediate structure, (which would ultimately number nearly 100 dead) only a dozen people were killed, just four of who would be considered "collateral damage". All in all, it was not a very strange way to start a war.
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Restfield Cemetery, Sunnydale
Monday, September 2
0100 hrs
Buffy Summers was tired. She had been so for a long time, though not in the physical sense of the word. Stalking through the seemingly endless rows of granite and marble headstones, Buffy felt as though the entire weight of the world rested upon her shoulders. She wasn't exactly a student of history, at least not the mainstream genre they attempted to teach in school, but she couldn't help but wonder if this was how the mythical Atlas had felt, bearing the world, literally, upon his shoulders. It wasn't the first time she had felt this way; as a matter of fact, it was almost a daily occurrence. But now it was different.
On the surface, things had gotten better over the past few months. Willow was beginning to heal, both from her grief over the loss of Tara, and the fact that she had very nearly succeeded in ending the world. Will's relationship with Buffy and the others was still strained, to say the least, but that was something they could all deal with. It just took time. That was something they had plenty of at the present. As for Dawn and Buffy, well, they still fought, even more often than before if that was possible, but it wasn't out of anger or hatred; It was just your basic run-of-the-mill sibling rivalry. Nothing more. And Xander...well, that was something else, but even that situation wasn't exactly end-of-the-world dire, though it was becoming exceedingly uncomfortable. Even her financial situation had somehow been resolved, due in no small part to her mysterious benefactor. Try as she may, she hadn't managed to find out who was behind her newfound wealth. The bank had stonewalled her completely, hiding behind some alleged securities regulations. It didn't really bother her all that much, but still, it would be nice to know.
No, the pressure she was feeling didn't stem from difficulties in her personal life. The genesis of her problems lie in her nocturnal alter-ego. Since her resurrection the previous year, Buffy had begun to notice certain changes within herself, aside from the obvious fact that Spike could once again hurt her. She was stronger now. She could feel it in every battle she fought: The way the victories seemed to come easier, they way her opponents' counterattacks lacked anything remotely resembling efficacy. She seldom broke a sweat, even when on the wrong side of 5 to 1 odds. And as great as that seemed on the surface, Buffy couldn't help but feel a sense of foreboding about it all. If there was one thing she had learned on the Hellmouth, it was that everything came with a price.
These awakened abilities had a purpose, Buffy admitted to herself, and she was fairly certain that it wasn't just to make her life easier. If she was stronger, faster, more prescient than before, then it was because she needed to be. And that meant something was coming. Something bad. It wasn't just her keen deductive reasoning that had lead her to this conclusion. Her dreams were telling her the same thing.
Buffy hadn't experienced a prophetic dream since her untimely demise, at least, that is, until the past few days. It was like watching a rerun in her head - the same dream, the same visions, every night. In them she saw unspeakable acts of depravity, human suffering on so great a scale as to defy description. Buffy had dealt with impending apocalypse before; this was something more. Something infinitely worse. Somewhere inside her, Buffy knew the truth. She had been to Hell. Now Hell was coming to her.
As disconcerting as that revelation was, Buffy did have one small consolation - she wasn't afraid of whatever was coming. If there was one benefit in coming back from the dead, it was that a lot of questions were answered, a lot of blanks filled in. Facing death was a lot easier when you knew what awaited you on the other side, unless of course you happened to be facing an eternity in somewhere other than an ethereal paradise. Buffy had no such worries. She'd been to heaven - or at least what she assumed to be heaven (it wasn't as if there was a sign that said Welcome to Heaven - We Hope You Have a Nice Stay) - and she had every intention of going back. Just not any time soon.
In the meantime, Buffy had other matters to attend to. She turned her focus back to the matter at hand. Shifting into Slayer mode, she ventured deeper into the seemingly endless cemetery, her pace quickening as she reached out with her enhanced senses, searching among the memorials for her unusually elusive quarry. The endless sea of headstones in this particular cemetery did not make her mission any easier, nor did the similar number in the 11 other graveyards within the Sunnydale corporation limits. Buffy often wondered how many of the graves in Sunnydale actually contained bodies, though she had long since conceded that the truth would probably do very little to put her mind at ease. Some questions, she reckoned, just weren't meant to be answered.
Picking up the faint trace of a distant vampire, Buffy instinctively slid her right hand inside her leather coat, unconsciously fingering the hilt of the samurai sword concealed within. The blade had been given to her by Giles on the occasion of her 21st birthday, and had quickly supplanted Mr. Pointy as her weapon of choice. Like its predecessor, this weapon had its own history, though the blood it had spilled had not been of the demon variety. Sixty years earlier, the magnificent double-edged blade had been carried by an officer in the Japanese army. The sword had served the officer well, though ultimately had proven no match for the .25 caliber Browning that had nearly cut him in half. Subsequently, the sword had been taken from its owner's dead hand by a young British lieutenant and future Watcher, [Sir] William Giles, who years later had passed it on to his son, Rupert. Lacking any children of his own (at least, given his misspent youth, any that he knew about), Rupert had in turn given it to his Slayer. It was only fitting, he had explained when presenting the weapon to Buffy, given that the word samurai translated literally as one who serves. If there was one thing Buffy did, it was serve. Exactly who or what she served was open to interpretation. Of course, she had no idea that question would soon be answered, along with a few others that hadn't even been asked.
Buffy wasn't alone in the cemetery that night. She knew that somewhere in the vicinity of the cemetery, at least one of her two "canine" friends was shadowing her, picking off any stragglers that managed to elude the Slayer, enjoying a not-so-tasty treat in the process. She hadn't actually seen either of them, at least not with her eyes, but she could sense their distinct presence nearby, as she had patrolling every night since their unexpected arrival. Unfortunately, it wasn't the only thing she was sensing.
Something else had recently taken up residence in Sunnydale, a sinister something, primeval in nature. Buffy could sense it, could taste it with every breath, the way it blanketed the entire town, choking the warm summer air. There was always a certain darkness about Sunnydale, a pervasive sense of gloom and despair that, though it occasionally wavered, never completely lifted. This was something else entirely. This wasn't just some residual Hellmouth mojo working its magic, it was infinitely worse. Of her would-be nemesis, Buffy was certain of only one thing: It was evil; pure, relentless, evil...and if history was any precedent, it didn't intend on leaving town anytime soon. The big evil, for some reason, had a nasty habit of sticking around in Sunnydale.
Great, grumbled Buffy, unsheathing her sword, wishing desperately for something - anything - undead to kill. I can't even pay a man to stick around, but the evil, it just can't seem to get enough of Buffy. I must be defective. That's it...I'm Buffy, the chronically defective vampire slayer. I wonder if I came with a warrantee? She'd have to check with Giles on that. For damned sure somebody deserved a refund.
Slowing her pace, she hefted the sword in her right hand, testing the blade's balance, giving it a few twirls for good measure. So preoccupied was the Slayer that she didn't notice the person whose head she nearly sliced off.
"I'm guessing a simple hello is out of the question," moaned a familiar voice, drawing Buffy's attention away from her problems and to the figure slumped on the boulder below and to the left of her. A gangly human form lay sprawled out on its back, in obvious discomfort, arms and legs spread akimbo.
It took Buffy a moment to recognize the person from that angle. "Xander?"
"Alive and in the flesh," he winced through gritted teeth, "and if it's all the same to you, I'd prefer to keep it that way."
Buffy frowned at him, suspicious of her friend's unexpected appearance. "What are you doing here?" She asked.
"Apparently my impersonation of a human shish kabob. Oh, and in case I forgot to mention it...Ouch! Damn, Buff - didn't anybody ever teach you not to play with sharp objects?"
Buffy rolled her eyes. "I'm a Slayer. In case you haven't noticed, I only play with objects of the sharp variety," she deadpanned. "Besides, you should know better than to sneak up on me in a cemetery. That's a really good way to get yourself killed."
"So I've noticed," conceded Xander, trying - and failing miserably - to casually upright himself.
"Not that I mind - that much - but why exactly are you sneaking around in a cemetery in the middle of the night?" asked Buffy, reaching down to give Xander a hand off of the rock.
"Not so much with the sneaking," Xander acknowledged, taking the proffered hand, awkwardly managing to right himself with the Slayer's assistance. "More like hanging out. And since when is it a crime to pay a visit to my favorite Slayer?"
"Your favorite Slayer? Wow; I rank ahead of Faith. Color me impressed." The tone of her voice suggested otherwise.
Xander grimaced at Buffy's response. "You know, I didn't exactly mean it like that."
"Right." Buffy replied curtly. "I'm sure there was a compliment buried somewhere inside there."
Xander could read the signs on the wall as well as the next guy, which in any case wasn't very well. "You're gonna have to help me out here, Buff. I'm not so good with the reading between the lines bit. Have I done something to offend you, hurt your feelings, or otherwise piss you off in the past couple of days that I'm not aware of?"
"You're right," Buffy said acidly. "You're not very good at it."
"Then help me out. Throw me a bone here, Buffy. Exactly what is it I've done to hurt you? Is it the whole thing with Willow?"
"The whole thing with Willow? God, is that what it is to you? Just a thing?" If Xander could see in the dark, he might have been surprised at the expression on her face.
"Well...yeah. I mean, It is - was - just a thing. As in something that happened between two consenting adults. And since when do I have to explain myself to you? Weren't you the one who told me your personal life was none of my business? C'mon Buff, you slept with Spike; let's get some perspective here."
Buffy couldn't argue with logic, at least not this time. So she chose to ignore it. "Don't try to turn this around. It isn't about me, and it sure the hell isn't about Spike!"
Xander knew better. "Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?"
"God, Xander! Do you try to be this exasperating, or does it just come naturally?"
Both, thought Xander, though he wisely kept that thought to himself. "I'm trying to find out what the hell's going on in your head." he pleaded, running a hand through his hair in abject frustration. He softened his voice a bit, taking a breath before continuing. "Buffy, please, talk to me. Tell me what's going on. Tell me I'm a hypocritical, self-righteous prick. Tell me to mind my own fucking business. Just tell me something."
Buffy did just that. "All right. You're a hypocritical, self-righteous prick, and you should mind your own fucking business," she replied without missing a beat.
Xander hadn't quite expected that, even if he had deserved it. He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Yeah. Alright," he conceded, "Guilty as charged. But you know what they say about people who live in glass houses?"
Buffy shrugged indifferently. "They shouldn't walk around in the nude?"
"Ok, you are familiar with the concept of the rhetorical question? In polite circles, people don't answer the rhetorical question."
"Sorry, I was absent the day they taught etiquette in school." Buffy said, her voice lacking anything remotely resembling conviction. "But, hey, look on the bright side: Maybe now you can actually grow a pair and accuse me of being a hypocrite instead of just insinuating it all the time."
Xander took the insult to his manhood in stride. "Actually, I find it's much safer to be intentionally ambiguous when insulting members of the female sex. Even more so if they happen to be carrying objects of the pointy variety. But if it makes you feel any better, I can personally vouch for your hypocrisy."
"And I can vouch for the fact that you're a complete asshole." Buffy replied evenly.
"I can't deny that," Xander admitted graciously, "though I do exercise my God-given right to invoke the Y-chromosome defense. However, I believe we were discussing your less-than-positive attributes, not mine."
"No, Xander. We weren't talking about me. You were talking about me. You seem to be doing a lot of that lately."
Xander shrugged off the accusation. "What can I say, Buff, you 're a popular subject these days."
Buffy felt her heart skip a beat as the implication of Xander's comment sunk in. What did he know? For that matter, what was there to know? There was only one way to find out. "What's that supposed to mean?" she demanded.
"Oh, nothin' much," Xander replied casually. "It's just that over the past couple of days I had remarkably similar conversations with both Dawn and Willow. Care to guess what the subject was?"
Buffy suddenly found the sleeve of her jacket remarkably fascinating, conspicuously avoiding Xander's gaze as she contemplated her inexplicable reversal of fortune. So this is what the view was like from the other side, she lamented. No wonder Xander hated it so damn much.
Her silence was not lost on Xander, who for once interpreted his friend's reaction correctly. "You're not even going to try and deny it, are you?"
Buffy was slow to respond, leveling her gaze at Xander, her tremulous voice quietly confirming his suspicions. "Would you believe me if I did?"
"At this point - probably not. But I still want to hear the truth from you. I think you owe me that much."
Buffy shook her head resolutely. "That's not going to happen, Xander. Not in this lifetime."
That eventuality wasn't exactly a revelation to Xander, but it didn't lessen the blow any. "Why?" He pleaded angrily with Buffy. "Is it that bad? Is it so hard to admit that you just might have feelings for me?"
The question elicited a short, bitter laugh from Buffy. "Is it that bad?" She mused sarcastically. "Well, let's see. You accuse me of being a hypocrite. You avoid me like the plague, ostracizing me for sleeping with spike, all the while tacitly implying that I'm some kind of whore, and then to top it all off, you sleep with my best friend. Why don't you ask me again why I have a problem with this?"
Realizing that he had effectively lost control of the conversation, Xander did they only thing he could think of - he opened his mouth and made things worse. "Now wait just a damn minute! I may have called you a hypocrite, but I never accused you of the other things.
"Oh no, of course you didn't. Because that would have required that you actually talk to me. No," Buffy spat at him, "you didn't say those things, you just insinuated them.
Xander stared at his friend in utter incredulity. "What the hell did you expect me to do? Congratulate you on the wonderful choices you made? Pat you on the back for living an exemplary life? I can't just pretend that nothing happened. You screwed up, Buffy. You had to know there would be consequences."
"And you've taken great pains to remind me of that, haven't you?" she shot back at him. "God, Xander, all you do is attack. Do you get some perverse satisfaction out of seeing me in pain? Does it make you feel better to beat me down, to put me in my place?"
Xander shook his head emphatically. "I'm not saying these things for my benefit, Buffy. I'm just trying to be honest with you." Something, he didn't add, that she had singularly failed to do.
"So you're saying this for my benefit? Then by all means, don't hold back on my account. Is there anything else you'd like to say? Maybe you have an opinion on how I'm raising my sister, or perhaps you'd like to comment on my lack of anything resembling a real career. Hey, I know, maybe we can talk about my history of screwed up relationships? Whaddaya say, Xand? You game?"
Xander was treading on thin ice, and he knew it. Backpedaling, he tried to head off the impending storm. "I came here to talk, Buffy. Not to fight."
Buffy snorted derisively. "Then by all means, talk. Don't let my feelings get in the way. It's not like that ever stopped you before. Tell me what a bitch I'm being. Tell me what a whore I am for sleeping with Spike. Please, I really need to hear this."
"Buffy, I don't..."
"Don't what? Don't want to hurt me? Don't want to make me feel like shit? You could've fooled me, Xand, cause you've sure been doing a bang-up job the past couple of months."
"I never meant to hurt you, Buffy. You know that was never my intention."
"Then what is it, Xander? Why do you do it?" Pleaded Buffy, her accusing eyes now awash in tears. "Why can't you even stand to look at me? I thought you were my friend."
For her part, Buffy was right. Xander couldn't bear to look her in the eyes, though not necessarily for the reasons she believed. He tentatively stepped toward his friend, stopping abruptly as she visibly recoiled from him. "Buffy, please. You have to believe me; I don't want things to be like this between us. I don't want to lose you. I don't want to lose us."
"Then why? Why are you treating me like this? God Xander, don't you think I know what I did was wrong? I know that what I did hurt you. I know how you feel about vampires. You made your feelings on that matter abundantly clear when I was with Angel."
Xander shook his head in disbelief. "If you think the problems between us have anything to do with jealousy, then you don't know me as half as well as you think you do."
Buffy stood her ground, folding her arms defiantly in front of her. "I know what you're going to say, Xand, so don't bother. I've heard this story before."
"You may have heard the story, Buff" corrected Xander, "but you missed the point entirely. You think I'm angry with you because you gave yourself to Spike. Well, hey - big shock - I am, and I won't even try to deny it. But there's a lot more to it than that. And the fact that you can't grasp that makes it all the worse."
"You don't think I've considered that? Not a day goes by that I don't regret what I did, Xander. Not because of what it did to you and Wills, but what it did to me. I'm not proud of what happened, and if I could go back and change it, I would, but I'm sure-as-hell not going to apologize for it. You couldn't possibly understand what I was going through at the time, so don't you dare presume to judge me!"
When it came to Buffy, Xander had never been one to back down, and he wasn't going to start now. "Of course we couldn't understand! You wouldn't talk to us, Buffy. You wouldn't tell us what was going on. We were your best friends, the people who loved you and knew you best, and instead of confiding in us you turned to a soulless demon with a persistent habit of trying to kill us all. You'll forgive me if I have a little trouble accepting that."
"That's not fair," Buffy shot back. "I was trying to protect you!"
"Protect us? Exactly how were you doing that? By lying to us? By screwing a monster behind our backs? If that's your idea of protection, Buffy, I think I'll pass."
"Don't you dare try to put this all on me, Xander! Be honest - if I had come to you and told you the truth, how would you have taken it? Would you have understood? Would you have been the supportive friend? What would you have done?"
"You know damn well what I would have done! I would have done your job. I would have staked the sonofabitch and been done with it!"
"And you think that would have been the right thing to do? Just kill him? After everything he's done for me and Dawn?"
Xander could not believe his ears. "You just don't get it, do you? You talk about him like he's a person, like he's one of us. Earth to Buffy: HE'S NOT HUMAN! HE HAS NO FUCKING SOUL! Why can't you get that through your thick skull?"
"I'm well aware of what he is and what he's done, Xander. I'm also aware that he did a lot to help us, to help Dawn. That has to count for something."
"Not in my book it doesn't. Spike didn't choose to help us out of the goodness of his unbeating heart. He had to pick a side, and he couldn't kill humans. You do the math. Do you believe even for a minute that he would have helped us if it weren't for that chip in his head?"
"Maybe not. But that still doesn't give us the right to kill him."
"And the fact that he tried to rape you doesn't matter?"
Buffy stared in utter shock at her friend, the betrayal evident on her face. "How...could you....say that," she whispered haltingly, the pain in her voice coming through much louder than her words could. "Of course it matters," she hissed, her voice growing steadier with every word. "Don't you think I remember every single moment like it happened yesterday? Do you want to hear how every night when I close my eyes, I can still see him on top of me, feeling his hands all over me? How...how could you possibly think that it doesn't matter?"
It hurt Xander to do this to Buffy, to dredge up these memories, but he'd come this far, and he couldn't turn back now. It was too late for that. He steeled himself and continued. "Then why? Why are you trying to protect him after what he did?"
"Because," she said faintly, barely loud enough to be heard. "It wasn't the man, it was the demon. He deserves a chance to make things right."
"He tried to rape you." Xander repeated again, a hint of uncertainty creeping into his voice.
Buffy peered intently at Xander, tired green eyes meeting defiant brown ones. "He's not the only one." She reminded him softly.
Her allegation took Xander by surprise. "What are you..." He started, even as the memories came flooding back to him. He'd managed to suppress it for so long, he'd almost succeeded in forgetting completely. Almost. Xander quickly averted his gaze, desperately wishing he somewhere - anywhere - else.
"You knew." Buffy whispered as the realization dawned on her. "All this time... you never said anything."
Xander turned away instinctively, partly because he couldn't bear the way Buffy was looking at him, partly to hide the tears of shame that were now forming in his eyes as well. "I didn't...." he stammered haltingly. "I couldn't..."
"You couldn't what? Buffy asked quietly, consciously checking her emotions. "Couldn't stand the shame? Couldn't bear to look at me, knowing what you did...what you tried to do?" She reached out to him slowly, hesitantly placing her hand gently on his back. "Xander, please, look at me."
He wavered for a moment, then slowly acquiesced, turning toward her, his eyes closed, yet unable to meet her gaze. Xander's pulse quickened as a small, deceptively delicate hand reached up, cupping his chin, raising his head slowly. It seemed an eternity before he found the strength to will his eyes to open. When he finally did so, he found himself staring into unnaturally green, incomprehensibly understanding eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but Buffy stopped him, placing a gentle finger to his lips. "It's OK. You don't need to say anything," she assured him. "I understand. More than you could ever know, I understand."
He looked at her for a long moment, taking the opportunity to compose himself. It was true that he wore his emotions on his sleeve, but still, some habits died hard; after all, real men don't cry. Xander opened his mouth deliberately, struggling to find the right words. "I-uh, I managed to forget for so long. I guess...I guess somehow I convinced myself that it never really happened."
"Understand this, Xander. I never forgave you for what you did - not because I still blame you or hold you responsible - but because you were never to blame in the first place. You didn't try to rape me; it was the demon, the animal inside of you. What you don't understand - what you have to understand - is that it wasn't any different with Spike. What he did was wrong, but it wasn't his fault. Just like it wasn't yours."
Buffy held Xander's gaze, refusing to let him pull away. She drew her hand hesitantly across his unshaven cheek, lightly tracing a line down his rugged jaw line. Her breath hitched in her throat as she slowly tilted her head upwards, bringing her mouth agonizingly close to his. Buffy could hear him breathing, could feel his warm breath on her face. For one glorious moment, time ceased to exist, the whole of the known universe compressing until there were but two people left in all of the world, two people standing together in a dark cemetery, on the brink of something wonderful. Buffy felt herself drawn imperceptibly towards Xander, leaning ever closer as her eyes closed of their own volition. She felt her lips brush lightly against his, reveling in the sensation...
And then it happened.
For the first time in his life - prior magically inspired events notwithstanding - Xander Harris did the unthinkable: He rejected Buffy Summers. Without hesitation, and with minimal remorse, Xander broke the tender embrace, pulling back from one very confused, one very upset Slayer.
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That same time
A darkened street
Sunnydale California
The two men waited in silence, concealed behind the Town Car's darkly tinted windows, watching as a lone, middle aged man exited a red BMW convertible, tightly clutching a tattered briefcase as he hurried up the sidewalk to the entrance of his flat. The man fumbled with the door lock, nervously dropping his keys twice in the process, before finally gaining entrance to his home.
His clumsiness did not go unnoticed by the two inside the car, though it did not compel them to act any sooner than their mission parameters dictated. Patience, after all, was a virtue, one which the man sitting behind the steering wheel had acquired years before as a 2nd Directorate man at Moscow Centre. And though it seemed a lifetime ago, he still retained the formidable skills he had honed as a counterintelligence officer at #2 Dzerzhinskiy Square, the headquarters for the former Committee for State Security. At least, that's what he was counting on. The coming days would either bear him out, or would be his last.
He glanced briefly at the small photograph taped to the console, then turned to his "colleague" and nodded slightly, confirming for both the target's identity. It was time.
The man sitting next to him reached a gloved hand into the metal attaché case balanced on his lap, grasping the small, finely machined aluminum cylinder nestled snugly in the foam interior. He removed it from the case, expertly lining up the threaded end with the barrel of the 9mm Beretta he held in his right hand. Once the suppressor was properly attached, the man reached again into the case, removed a pre-loaded ammunition clip and inserted it into the firearm, working the action to ensure a round was chambered. The man thumbed the safety, ensuring it was in the "off" position, then turned and handed the weapon butt first to the man occupying the driver's seat, who accepted it without comment. He proceeded to reach into his overcoat, producing a similarly outfitted weapon from a loop concealed within.
The passenger was a man not unaccustomed to murder. Mr. Kovacs, as he was currently known to his associates, had spent a number of years in the service of the Dirzhavna Sugurnost, the now defunct Bulgarian equivalent of the Soviet-era Committee for State Security, the KGB. And while it was true that the KGB had not really been in the business of killing people (unless of course, you were talking about Soviet citizens), the Bulgarian intelligence service had no such qualms. When it became necessary to eliminate a foreign national, the "Sword and the Shield" of the Soviet Communist Party invariably turned to intermediaries, contracting the work out to the various intelligence apparatuses of vassal nations, usually the Bulgarian DS. For that reason, he had the blood of fully a dozen men and women on his hands, two of them citizens of the country in which he now plied his trade.
Nodding to his counterpart, Kovacs turned, reaching for the car door. If all went well, in fifteen minutes Rupert Giles would be dead and he would be back in his room at the Holiday Inn, enjoying a bottle of Starka, his vodka of choice. Unfortunately for Mr. Kovacs, he would never get that opportunity. As he moved to open his door, the man sitting opposite him leveled his pistol, firing two rounds into the Bulgar's back, perforating both his left ventricle and lung. Kovacs' body jerked once, then slumped limply against the door, a look of sheer astonishment forever preserved on his face.
Placing both weapons in the attaché case, the man in the driver's seat turned the key in the ignition, started the Town Car, and - squealing the tires - raced off into the night, insulated from the nuisance of the Sunnydale Police Department by the diplomatic tags adorning the license plate. As he glanced disdainfully over at the mortal remains of the former Mr. Kovacs, he had but one thought. Score one for the good guys.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Same Time
Inside Rupert Giles' House
Rupert Giles was not a man routinely given to overt displays of emotion, save for the occasional paroxysm of rage inspired by his thankless role as Watcher. There were, however, those occasions on which he was willing to set aside his professional stoicism in favor of a more animated response. By his calculation, this qualified as one of those occasions.
The initial telephone call had come as a bit of a shock. Over the years, Giles had cultivated a number of useful contacts, many of them during his time at Oxford, where he had been known for his unruly disposition both on and off the Rugby field. It was there that he had first crossed paths with a like-minded individual, an Italian-bred troublemaker by the name of Arturo Pantonini. The two had instantly hit it off, and while Arturo hadn't shown any genuine interest in the occult as Ethan and the others had, they still managed to raise a little hell together in the local pubs.
The years had passed by quickly, and in the time since both had graduated university, they had largely lost contact, though the occasional letter had been exchanged. Giles had found it difficult to believe that Arturo had actually attended - much less graduated - law school, and had gone to work for the Catholic Church as a Vatican Legal Counsel. If there was such a thing as karmic justice, Giles reckoned, this was surely it.
But the career path Arturo had chosen hadn't been the most shocking revelation from his old friend. Arturo had phoned the previous night, requesting an urgent meeting with his old friend. He had hung up before Giles could press him for details, but the tone of the man's voice had hinted at the import of the call. In all of his life, Giles had never known a more even-tempered person - with the possible exception of one Daniel Osborne - than his old friend. However, on the previous night, the poor telephone connection had succeeded in effectively conveying both Arturo's excitement and his fear, if not his actual words. Needless to say, Rupert had shown at the designated meeting place precisely on the stroke of midnight, the pre-arranged meet time. To Giles' surprise, Arturo had not shown, though he had left Rupert a little something to remember him by.
It had been some time since Giles had set foot in any house of worship, let alone a Catholic Church. Raised an Anglican, an "independent" by choice, Giles had precious little use for organized religion. It wasn't that the concept of God was anathema to his belief system; indeed, Giles had more crosses in his house than could be found in most any church. It was just that he found better uses for them than as wall ornaments. In spite of this, as the carillon struck midnight, Giles had found himself sitting in a wooden pew, anxiously awaiting the arrival of his friend. When thirty minutes had passed with no sign of his friend, Giles assumed the man would not show, and had decided to leave. He almost didn't see the package Arturo had left him.
As Giles had made his exit, a shimmer of light caught his attention. Tracing it to its source, Giles found a thick manila envelope perched atop a rickety wooden stand. A flattened nickel lie atop the package, its highly polished surface reflecting the candlelight from the church nave. Smiling despite himself, Giles took the oblong coin in his hand, recognizing his old chum's calling card. He peered around cautiously, ensuring he was alone in the church, then surreptitiously tucked the envelope into his tweed sport coat and quickly proceeded to make his way out of the church.
Back inside the safety of his car, Giles had eagerly ripped open the envelope, spilling out its contents. A small piece of stationary, along with a well worn leather-bound volume, dropped onto the passenger seat. He picked up the sheet of paper, instantly recognizing the author's flowing script. It read simply:
R,
My sincerest apologies for the exaggerated cloak-and-dagger routine; unfortunately, such precautions are now the order of the day. There are things you need to know, things you must understand, if you are to survive what is coming. Foremost among these, you should know that the Council has been compromised, and that your life is in grave danger. As I write this letter, the enemy's agents are among us, working to neutralize those who would stand against them. For your own good, you must trust no one.
Do you hear that sound, Rupert? It's the sound of the clock ticking. Time is running short, and unless we can stop what is coming, it will run out for all time. A word of advice: Remember your theology, old man; it will serve you well in the days to come.
We are at war, my friend. Make no mistake. The enemy has the upper hand, but we have struck the first blow. Know that you are not alone in this battle. There are others...some you know, some you do not. When the time is right, they will make themselves known to you.
Unfortunately, I do not have the time to tell you everything you need to know. Many of the answers you seek can be found within the gift that I leave you now; others can only be found within yourselves. I must leave you now, as there is much yet to be done.
Be well Rupert Giles. May God be with you and yours in the days ahead.
Until again our paths cross,
Arturo
If Giles hands were shaking as he read the note, they were absolutely trembling as he took in the title of the tome resting on the leather bucket seat. Visibly perspiring, he started the car and tore out of the church parking lot, pushing the German engine to the limits of its capabilities.
He sped recklessly through the streets of Sunnydale, his mind racing, trying in vain to contemplate the significance of Arturo's words. Remember your theology, he had written. What did that mean? Giles asked himself. Was it a vague warning about some impending evil, or a reference to some specific religious prophecy. He suspected, not incorrectly, that the answer would be found in the pages of the book he now clutched tightly in his hand.
Downshifting, he swerved onto his street, pulling expertly into an open spot out front of his flat. He engaged the parking brake, shut off the engine, and hurriedly shoved the book and letter into his tattered old briefcase. He climbed out, pausing just long enough to engage the remote locks, then trotted up the sidewalk to the front door, where, in his excitement, he managed to drop the keys twice before unlocking the door. He finally gained entrance, never having taken notice of the Lincoln parked nearby.
Once inside, he shed his jacket, not bothering to hang it up. He strode over to the well-worn couch, a veteran of too many late-night Scooby sessions, and plopped down unceremoniously. He placed the book gently on the coffee table, finding his eyes drawn once more to the raised letters gracing its cover. Panopticon. The word was Greek in origin, though the alleged author was not.
Giles had studied a great deal of both history and mythology during his tenure at Oxford and ensuing postgraduate studies at the Watcher's Academy. In his line of work, there was really no distinction made between the two. During the course of those studies, there had been the recurring mention of a quasi-religious prophetical text, reputed to have been written by an agent of God himself. Of course, these claims, like many others, had always been taken with a grain of salt. Vampires were one thing. Angels were something else entirely.
And now here Giles sat, the object of legend in his possession, a work reputed to contain first hand accounts of the history (and future?) of both the mortal and ethereal worlds. To say he was overwhelmed would be an understatement of cosmic proportions. Should he open it? Talk about the million dollar question. Giles glanced at the clock, noting the time was now past one o'clock. Deciding the matter could wait until morning - a more civilized hour of morning, that is - he picked up the remote control, intending to catch an hour or so of BBC news (thank God for satellites) to help clear his mind. There was no way he would be sleeping anytime soon. He clicked on the ancient television, impatiently waiting as the picture came into focus. As it did, Giles was taken aback by what he saw.
It might have been a picture from WWII, were it not for the multitude of helicopters, both military and civilian, hovering overhead. Even with the sound muted, Giles could discern that the rubble he was seeing had once been a high-rise office building. Intrigued, he turned up the volume, just in time to hear the voice-over.
"Tonight, Los Angeles has joined an international brotherhood, one whose soul criteria for membership is to fall victim to terrorist attack. At approximately 12:21 Pacific Time, the building housing the Los Angeles offices of the law firm Wolfram & Hart was torn asunder by a powerful blast. Authorities on the scene have declined to speculate on the cause of the explosion, though they have ruled out any accidental causes."
Ashen faced, Giles hit the mute button on the remote. Wolfram & Hart. He had heard that name before. But where? Though he was both mentally and physically exhausted, the answer came quickly enough...Angel. They were the ones giving Angel and his crew such a hard time. But Angel and the others would never have done something so callous, so indiscriminate. This was a calculated act, an act of outright war. Arturo's written warning suddenly came back to him "But we have struck the first blow." Giles felt the sudden need for a good, stiff drink. Several of them, in fact.
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That's all for now. Sorry for the long wait. I swear, writer's block is a more insidious disease than syphilis...uh, I mean somebody told me that. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this latest installment. As always, feedback is much appreciated and desperately craved, though personal insults will be dealt with accordingly (you know who you are you little punk-ass bitch).
Till next time,
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: Bad guys, good guys, Armageddon. 'Nuff said.
Spoilers: Thru season 6, though my selective memory allows me to edit out or rewrite certain unsavory aspects.
Rating: R, for violence, occasional strong language, limited sexual content, cliché abuse, and character assassination.
Dedication: To all B/Xers, who know that B/S is simply that - BS. BTW "Sam": If you want to personally insult me, you're welcome to do so: Just have the cojones to at least sign the review. For your information, my IQ tests well above 75; therefore, I do not fall into the idiot classification. Just thought you should know:)
Feedback: Thanks to Lori, Bill, Jane, Ghostrider, Brandywine421, Zathraas, RobClark, eckles71, and all others for the positive feedback. I appreciate you guys sticking with the story, and I hope it lives up to your expectations. And Brandywine, you were right; lack of nicotine is the #1 cause of writers' block. Jerry Lewis, Phillip Morris and I are organizing a telethon as I write this. Smokers of the world unite!
"Guns don't kill people; bullets kill people...but seldom the right ones" author unknown
Chapter 9 - They Kill Lawyers...Don't They?
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100 miles off the California Coast
Monday, September 2
2400 hrs
CVN 74 had stood out to sea the previous night, accompanied by the usual complement of escorts - guided missile destroyers, cruisers, frigates, and the like. The ninety-seven thousand ton vessel and its attendants had quietly slipped out of port, cruising westward at just under 30 knots; plying the dark Pacific waters in an almost eerie silence. The warships themselves were darkened, their presence betrayed only by the revolutions of the ships' massive propellers, their passage through the water stirring up millions of tiny phytoplankton aft of the powerful flotilla, creating an oddly beautiful luminescent green trail in its wake. At departure + 2 hours, the USS John Stennis had heeled sharply to starboard, bearing north by northwest as the remainder of the carrier battle group maintained its original heading. The Jonnie Reb, as the Stennis was affectionately known to her crew (at least those hailing from south of the Mason-Dixon Line), continued on alone, with the exception of the single fast-attack submarine patrolling 38 nautical miles off her windward stern.
The official press release regarding the carrier's mission had been purposefully vague, declaring only her intention to conduct work-ups for the deployment of the newest squadron of F/A-18E Super Hornets, the US Navy's most recent version of the agile carrier-borne fighter-bomber - or at least that's what the Navy had claimed. It was not the first time the government had lied to the American people, and it wouldn't be the last.
Shortly after separating from her escorts, the nuclear-powered vessel assumed an oval-shaped patrol pattern, circling off the California coast like a vulture in some dark, featureless desert. As far as the majority of the nearly 6000 crewmembers aboard were concerned, this was just a routine shakedown cruise for their newest toys. There were a few on board, however, who knew differently. They knew they were about to embark on a course of action that had not been undertaken by a US naval warship in nearly 150 years. They were going to launch a military attack against the continental United States.
Precisely at 0001 hrs, 2 September, 2002 Pacific time, the Stennis turned into the wind, putting a 15 knot breeze over its flight deck in order to commence air operations. Shortly thereafter, a lone F/A-18C leapt off the steel flight deck, propelled forward by twin turbofan engines and a nuclear-powered steam catapult. The CAG - Commander, Air Group in naval parlance - had drawn the mission himself, partly due to security precautions, but mostly out of concern for the mental well-being of the aviators under his command. He wasn't about to order some 25 year-old kid to bomb the good old US of A. That might just have a negative effect on morale.
As he lifted off the carrier, the pilot accelerated his aircraft, pulling the hornet's nose up twenty degrees, utilizing the airplane's high thrust-to-weight ratio to quickly climb through ten thousand feet. The old man cherished moments like these, flying alone at night, only him, his "plastic bug", and a vast expanse of ocean with which to share his thoughts. It did wonders for his sanity; at the same time keeping him up to date on his flight quals, which itself was a prerequisite for his continued mental well being. If a man couldn't fly, he reckoned, he might as well be dead. Unfortunately for the seasoned aviator, the moment wasn't long to last, as the lights of the California coast too soon came into view on the clear summer night. He wondered fleetingly if this mission might someday make its way into a recruiting brochure: Join the Navy. See the world. Blow up Los Angeles. In retrospect, retirement didn't seem quite so bad a prospect.
The CAG glanced down at his radar screen, wary of drifting into the path of some hapless 747 jockey; you could never be too careful around civilian pilots, after all. Taking care to avoid the nearby commercial air traffic routes, he flew his aircraft ever closer to the city of angels, unconsciously checking to make sure his payload was safed. For this mission, the Hornet carried only two weapons - 2 satellite-guided Joint Direct Attack Munitions, or JDAMS. The mission parameters called for the use of only one of the weapons; the other was solely for insurance. As far as the Navy was concerned, he wasn't carrying any weapons at all, only two practice munitions, similar in appearance and weight to the genuine article, but lacking the spectacular visual results. As his aircraft approached the Initial Point, the CAG activated the weapon, its guidance package going active immediately. The unit began receiving signals from the constellation of geosynchronous global positioning satellites orbiting the earth, locking on to no fewer than eight signals. Satisfied that it knew exactly where on the planet it was (and where it needed to go), the unit went green, giving the go-ahead to commence the attack run.
The pilot verified his position, using both GPS and the aircraft's Inertial Navigation System. Satisfied that he too was in the right place, The CAG uttered a silent prayer to the Lord (for forgiveness, not luck), and "pickled" the weapon off, forever ensuring his place in infamy. He verified that the explosive squibs had indeed jettisoned the bomb free, assured himself that it was tracking properly, then peeled off, turning the jet back toward the coast, egressing the Los Angeles airspace at high subsonic speed.
For its part, the bomb fell true. It accelerated downward at the speed of gravity, tiny actuators making minute adjustments to the guidance fins, maintaining the proper glide path, per instruction of the onboard computer. The time-to-impact decreased rapidly, the weapon descending on the unsuspecting populace below like a modern-day angel of death. Twenty...Nineteen...eighteen...
The people in the high rise office below didn't know they were about to die. They were simply going about their usual routine, staying one step ahead of the competition. That they had fewer than 30 seconds to live did not cross their minds, though had they known, they wouldn't have been able to save themselves anyway. The time to impact diminished rapidly as the bomb approached its terminal velocity, creating a slight whistling noise as it plummeted through the polluted Los Angeles air, finally impacting on a ventilation shaft near the center of the building's roof. At first nothing happened...at least for about 1/100 of a second. Witnesses would later report seeing a blinding flash, followed soon thereafter by a deafening roar and a terrifying shower of glass and steel. Miraculously, outside of the casualties suffered inside the immediate structure, (which would ultimately number nearly 100 dead) only a dozen people were killed, just four of who would be considered "collateral damage". All in all, it was not a very strange way to start a war.
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Restfield Cemetery, Sunnydale
Monday, September 2
0100 hrs
Buffy Summers was tired. She had been so for a long time, though not in the physical sense of the word. Stalking through the seemingly endless rows of granite and marble headstones, Buffy felt as though the entire weight of the world rested upon her shoulders. She wasn't exactly a student of history, at least not the mainstream genre they attempted to teach in school, but she couldn't help but wonder if this was how the mythical Atlas had felt, bearing the world, literally, upon his shoulders. It wasn't the first time she had felt this way; as a matter of fact, it was almost a daily occurrence. But now it was different.
On the surface, things had gotten better over the past few months. Willow was beginning to heal, both from her grief over the loss of Tara, and the fact that she had very nearly succeeded in ending the world. Will's relationship with Buffy and the others was still strained, to say the least, but that was something they could all deal with. It just took time. That was something they had plenty of at the present. As for Dawn and Buffy, well, they still fought, even more often than before if that was possible, but it wasn't out of anger or hatred; It was just your basic run-of-the-mill sibling rivalry. Nothing more. And Xander...well, that was something else, but even that situation wasn't exactly end-of-the-world dire, though it was becoming exceedingly uncomfortable. Even her financial situation had somehow been resolved, due in no small part to her mysterious benefactor. Try as she may, she hadn't managed to find out who was behind her newfound wealth. The bank had stonewalled her completely, hiding behind some alleged securities regulations. It didn't really bother her all that much, but still, it would be nice to know.
No, the pressure she was feeling didn't stem from difficulties in her personal life. The genesis of her problems lie in her nocturnal alter-ego. Since her resurrection the previous year, Buffy had begun to notice certain changes within herself, aside from the obvious fact that Spike could once again hurt her. She was stronger now. She could feel it in every battle she fought: The way the victories seemed to come easier, they way her opponents' counterattacks lacked anything remotely resembling efficacy. She seldom broke a sweat, even when on the wrong side of 5 to 1 odds. And as great as that seemed on the surface, Buffy couldn't help but feel a sense of foreboding about it all. If there was one thing she had learned on the Hellmouth, it was that everything came with a price.
These awakened abilities had a purpose, Buffy admitted to herself, and she was fairly certain that it wasn't just to make her life easier. If she was stronger, faster, more prescient than before, then it was because she needed to be. And that meant something was coming. Something bad. It wasn't just her keen deductive reasoning that had lead her to this conclusion. Her dreams were telling her the same thing.
Buffy hadn't experienced a prophetic dream since her untimely demise, at least, that is, until the past few days. It was like watching a rerun in her head - the same dream, the same visions, every night. In them she saw unspeakable acts of depravity, human suffering on so great a scale as to defy description. Buffy had dealt with impending apocalypse before; this was something more. Something infinitely worse. Somewhere inside her, Buffy knew the truth. She had been to Hell. Now Hell was coming to her.
As disconcerting as that revelation was, Buffy did have one small consolation - she wasn't afraid of whatever was coming. If there was one benefit in coming back from the dead, it was that a lot of questions were answered, a lot of blanks filled in. Facing death was a lot easier when you knew what awaited you on the other side, unless of course you happened to be facing an eternity in somewhere other than an ethereal paradise. Buffy had no such worries. She'd been to heaven - or at least what she assumed to be heaven (it wasn't as if there was a sign that said Welcome to Heaven - We Hope You Have a Nice Stay) - and she had every intention of going back. Just not any time soon.
In the meantime, Buffy had other matters to attend to. She turned her focus back to the matter at hand. Shifting into Slayer mode, she ventured deeper into the seemingly endless cemetery, her pace quickening as she reached out with her enhanced senses, searching among the memorials for her unusually elusive quarry. The endless sea of headstones in this particular cemetery did not make her mission any easier, nor did the similar number in the 11 other graveyards within the Sunnydale corporation limits. Buffy often wondered how many of the graves in Sunnydale actually contained bodies, though she had long since conceded that the truth would probably do very little to put her mind at ease. Some questions, she reckoned, just weren't meant to be answered.
Picking up the faint trace of a distant vampire, Buffy instinctively slid her right hand inside her leather coat, unconsciously fingering the hilt of the samurai sword concealed within. The blade had been given to her by Giles on the occasion of her 21st birthday, and had quickly supplanted Mr. Pointy as her weapon of choice. Like its predecessor, this weapon had its own history, though the blood it had spilled had not been of the demon variety. Sixty years earlier, the magnificent double-edged blade had been carried by an officer in the Japanese army. The sword had served the officer well, though ultimately had proven no match for the .25 caliber Browning that had nearly cut him in half. Subsequently, the sword had been taken from its owner's dead hand by a young British lieutenant and future Watcher, [Sir] William Giles, who years later had passed it on to his son, Rupert. Lacking any children of his own (at least, given his misspent youth, any that he knew about), Rupert had in turn given it to his Slayer. It was only fitting, he had explained when presenting the weapon to Buffy, given that the word samurai translated literally as one who serves. If there was one thing Buffy did, it was serve. Exactly who or what she served was open to interpretation. Of course, she had no idea that question would soon be answered, along with a few others that hadn't even been asked.
Buffy wasn't alone in the cemetery that night. She knew that somewhere in the vicinity of the cemetery, at least one of her two "canine" friends was shadowing her, picking off any stragglers that managed to elude the Slayer, enjoying a not-so-tasty treat in the process. She hadn't actually seen either of them, at least not with her eyes, but she could sense their distinct presence nearby, as she had patrolling every night since their unexpected arrival. Unfortunately, it wasn't the only thing she was sensing.
Something else had recently taken up residence in Sunnydale, a sinister something, primeval in nature. Buffy could sense it, could taste it with every breath, the way it blanketed the entire town, choking the warm summer air. There was always a certain darkness about Sunnydale, a pervasive sense of gloom and despair that, though it occasionally wavered, never completely lifted. This was something else entirely. This wasn't just some residual Hellmouth mojo working its magic, it was infinitely worse. Of her would-be nemesis, Buffy was certain of only one thing: It was evil; pure, relentless, evil...and if history was any precedent, it didn't intend on leaving town anytime soon. The big evil, for some reason, had a nasty habit of sticking around in Sunnydale.
Great, grumbled Buffy, unsheathing her sword, wishing desperately for something - anything - undead to kill. I can't even pay a man to stick around, but the evil, it just can't seem to get enough of Buffy. I must be defective. That's it...I'm Buffy, the chronically defective vampire slayer. I wonder if I came with a warrantee? She'd have to check with Giles on that. For damned sure somebody deserved a refund.
Slowing her pace, she hefted the sword in her right hand, testing the blade's balance, giving it a few twirls for good measure. So preoccupied was the Slayer that she didn't notice the person whose head she nearly sliced off.
"I'm guessing a simple hello is out of the question," moaned a familiar voice, drawing Buffy's attention away from her problems and to the figure slumped on the boulder below and to the left of her. A gangly human form lay sprawled out on its back, in obvious discomfort, arms and legs spread akimbo.
It took Buffy a moment to recognize the person from that angle. "Xander?"
"Alive and in the flesh," he winced through gritted teeth, "and if it's all the same to you, I'd prefer to keep it that way."
Buffy frowned at him, suspicious of her friend's unexpected appearance. "What are you doing here?" She asked.
"Apparently my impersonation of a human shish kabob. Oh, and in case I forgot to mention it...Ouch! Damn, Buff - didn't anybody ever teach you not to play with sharp objects?"
Buffy rolled her eyes. "I'm a Slayer. In case you haven't noticed, I only play with objects of the sharp variety," she deadpanned. "Besides, you should know better than to sneak up on me in a cemetery. That's a really good way to get yourself killed."
"So I've noticed," conceded Xander, trying - and failing miserably - to casually upright himself.
"Not that I mind - that much - but why exactly are you sneaking around in a cemetery in the middle of the night?" asked Buffy, reaching down to give Xander a hand off of the rock.
"Not so much with the sneaking," Xander acknowledged, taking the proffered hand, awkwardly managing to right himself with the Slayer's assistance. "More like hanging out. And since when is it a crime to pay a visit to my favorite Slayer?"
"Your favorite Slayer? Wow; I rank ahead of Faith. Color me impressed." The tone of her voice suggested otherwise.
Xander grimaced at Buffy's response. "You know, I didn't exactly mean it like that."
"Right." Buffy replied curtly. "I'm sure there was a compliment buried somewhere inside there."
Xander could read the signs on the wall as well as the next guy, which in any case wasn't very well. "You're gonna have to help me out here, Buff. I'm not so good with the reading between the lines bit. Have I done something to offend you, hurt your feelings, or otherwise piss you off in the past couple of days that I'm not aware of?"
"You're right," Buffy said acidly. "You're not very good at it."
"Then help me out. Throw me a bone here, Buffy. Exactly what is it I've done to hurt you? Is it the whole thing with Willow?"
"The whole thing with Willow? God, is that what it is to you? Just a thing?" If Xander could see in the dark, he might have been surprised at the expression on her face.
"Well...yeah. I mean, It is - was - just a thing. As in something that happened between two consenting adults. And since when do I have to explain myself to you? Weren't you the one who told me your personal life was none of my business? C'mon Buff, you slept with Spike; let's get some perspective here."
Buffy couldn't argue with logic, at least not this time. So she chose to ignore it. "Don't try to turn this around. It isn't about me, and it sure the hell isn't about Spike!"
Xander knew better. "Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?"
"God, Xander! Do you try to be this exasperating, or does it just come naturally?"
Both, thought Xander, though he wisely kept that thought to himself. "I'm trying to find out what the hell's going on in your head." he pleaded, running a hand through his hair in abject frustration. He softened his voice a bit, taking a breath before continuing. "Buffy, please, talk to me. Tell me what's going on. Tell me I'm a hypocritical, self-righteous prick. Tell me to mind my own fucking business. Just tell me something."
Buffy did just that. "All right. You're a hypocritical, self-righteous prick, and you should mind your own fucking business," she replied without missing a beat.
Xander hadn't quite expected that, even if he had deserved it. He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Yeah. Alright," he conceded, "Guilty as charged. But you know what they say about people who live in glass houses?"
Buffy shrugged indifferently. "They shouldn't walk around in the nude?"
"Ok, you are familiar with the concept of the rhetorical question? In polite circles, people don't answer the rhetorical question."
"Sorry, I was absent the day they taught etiquette in school." Buffy said, her voice lacking anything remotely resembling conviction. "But, hey, look on the bright side: Maybe now you can actually grow a pair and accuse me of being a hypocrite instead of just insinuating it all the time."
Xander took the insult to his manhood in stride. "Actually, I find it's much safer to be intentionally ambiguous when insulting members of the female sex. Even more so if they happen to be carrying objects of the pointy variety. But if it makes you feel any better, I can personally vouch for your hypocrisy."
"And I can vouch for the fact that you're a complete asshole." Buffy replied evenly.
"I can't deny that," Xander admitted graciously, "though I do exercise my God-given right to invoke the Y-chromosome defense. However, I believe we were discussing your less-than-positive attributes, not mine."
"No, Xander. We weren't talking about me. You were talking about me. You seem to be doing a lot of that lately."
Xander shrugged off the accusation. "What can I say, Buff, you 're a popular subject these days."
Buffy felt her heart skip a beat as the implication of Xander's comment sunk in. What did he know? For that matter, what was there to know? There was only one way to find out. "What's that supposed to mean?" she demanded.
"Oh, nothin' much," Xander replied casually. "It's just that over the past couple of days I had remarkably similar conversations with both Dawn and Willow. Care to guess what the subject was?"
Buffy suddenly found the sleeve of her jacket remarkably fascinating, conspicuously avoiding Xander's gaze as she contemplated her inexplicable reversal of fortune. So this is what the view was like from the other side, she lamented. No wonder Xander hated it so damn much.
Her silence was not lost on Xander, who for once interpreted his friend's reaction correctly. "You're not even going to try and deny it, are you?"
Buffy was slow to respond, leveling her gaze at Xander, her tremulous voice quietly confirming his suspicions. "Would you believe me if I did?"
"At this point - probably not. But I still want to hear the truth from you. I think you owe me that much."
Buffy shook her head resolutely. "That's not going to happen, Xander. Not in this lifetime."
That eventuality wasn't exactly a revelation to Xander, but it didn't lessen the blow any. "Why?" He pleaded angrily with Buffy. "Is it that bad? Is it so hard to admit that you just might have feelings for me?"
The question elicited a short, bitter laugh from Buffy. "Is it that bad?" She mused sarcastically. "Well, let's see. You accuse me of being a hypocrite. You avoid me like the plague, ostracizing me for sleeping with spike, all the while tacitly implying that I'm some kind of whore, and then to top it all off, you sleep with my best friend. Why don't you ask me again why I have a problem with this?"
Realizing that he had effectively lost control of the conversation, Xander did they only thing he could think of - he opened his mouth and made things worse. "Now wait just a damn minute! I may have called you a hypocrite, but I never accused you of the other things.
"Oh no, of course you didn't. Because that would have required that you actually talk to me. No," Buffy spat at him, "you didn't say those things, you just insinuated them.
Xander stared at his friend in utter incredulity. "What the hell did you expect me to do? Congratulate you on the wonderful choices you made? Pat you on the back for living an exemplary life? I can't just pretend that nothing happened. You screwed up, Buffy. You had to know there would be consequences."
"And you've taken great pains to remind me of that, haven't you?" she shot back at him. "God, Xander, all you do is attack. Do you get some perverse satisfaction out of seeing me in pain? Does it make you feel better to beat me down, to put me in my place?"
Xander shook his head emphatically. "I'm not saying these things for my benefit, Buffy. I'm just trying to be honest with you." Something, he didn't add, that she had singularly failed to do.
"So you're saying this for my benefit? Then by all means, don't hold back on my account. Is there anything else you'd like to say? Maybe you have an opinion on how I'm raising my sister, or perhaps you'd like to comment on my lack of anything resembling a real career. Hey, I know, maybe we can talk about my history of screwed up relationships? Whaddaya say, Xand? You game?"
Xander was treading on thin ice, and he knew it. Backpedaling, he tried to head off the impending storm. "I came here to talk, Buffy. Not to fight."
Buffy snorted derisively. "Then by all means, talk. Don't let my feelings get in the way. It's not like that ever stopped you before. Tell me what a bitch I'm being. Tell me what a whore I am for sleeping with Spike. Please, I really need to hear this."
"Buffy, I don't..."
"Don't what? Don't want to hurt me? Don't want to make me feel like shit? You could've fooled me, Xand, cause you've sure been doing a bang-up job the past couple of months."
"I never meant to hurt you, Buffy. You know that was never my intention."
"Then what is it, Xander? Why do you do it?" Pleaded Buffy, her accusing eyes now awash in tears. "Why can't you even stand to look at me? I thought you were my friend."
For her part, Buffy was right. Xander couldn't bear to look her in the eyes, though not necessarily for the reasons she believed. He tentatively stepped toward his friend, stopping abruptly as she visibly recoiled from him. "Buffy, please. You have to believe me; I don't want things to be like this between us. I don't want to lose you. I don't want to lose us."
"Then why? Why are you treating me like this? God Xander, don't you think I know what I did was wrong? I know that what I did hurt you. I know how you feel about vampires. You made your feelings on that matter abundantly clear when I was with Angel."
Xander shook his head in disbelief. "If you think the problems between us have anything to do with jealousy, then you don't know me as half as well as you think you do."
Buffy stood her ground, folding her arms defiantly in front of her. "I know what you're going to say, Xand, so don't bother. I've heard this story before."
"You may have heard the story, Buff" corrected Xander, "but you missed the point entirely. You think I'm angry with you because you gave yourself to Spike. Well, hey - big shock - I am, and I won't even try to deny it. But there's a lot more to it than that. And the fact that you can't grasp that makes it all the worse."
"You don't think I've considered that? Not a day goes by that I don't regret what I did, Xander. Not because of what it did to you and Wills, but what it did to me. I'm not proud of what happened, and if I could go back and change it, I would, but I'm sure-as-hell not going to apologize for it. You couldn't possibly understand what I was going through at the time, so don't you dare presume to judge me!"
When it came to Buffy, Xander had never been one to back down, and he wasn't going to start now. "Of course we couldn't understand! You wouldn't talk to us, Buffy. You wouldn't tell us what was going on. We were your best friends, the people who loved you and knew you best, and instead of confiding in us you turned to a soulless demon with a persistent habit of trying to kill us all. You'll forgive me if I have a little trouble accepting that."
"That's not fair," Buffy shot back. "I was trying to protect you!"
"Protect us? Exactly how were you doing that? By lying to us? By screwing a monster behind our backs? If that's your idea of protection, Buffy, I think I'll pass."
"Don't you dare try to put this all on me, Xander! Be honest - if I had come to you and told you the truth, how would you have taken it? Would you have understood? Would you have been the supportive friend? What would you have done?"
"You know damn well what I would have done! I would have done your job. I would have staked the sonofabitch and been done with it!"
"And you think that would have been the right thing to do? Just kill him? After everything he's done for me and Dawn?"
Xander could not believe his ears. "You just don't get it, do you? You talk about him like he's a person, like he's one of us. Earth to Buffy: HE'S NOT HUMAN! HE HAS NO FUCKING SOUL! Why can't you get that through your thick skull?"
"I'm well aware of what he is and what he's done, Xander. I'm also aware that he did a lot to help us, to help Dawn. That has to count for something."
"Not in my book it doesn't. Spike didn't choose to help us out of the goodness of his unbeating heart. He had to pick a side, and he couldn't kill humans. You do the math. Do you believe even for a minute that he would have helped us if it weren't for that chip in his head?"
"Maybe not. But that still doesn't give us the right to kill him."
"And the fact that he tried to rape you doesn't matter?"
Buffy stared in utter shock at her friend, the betrayal evident on her face. "How...could you....say that," she whispered haltingly, the pain in her voice coming through much louder than her words could. "Of course it matters," she hissed, her voice growing steadier with every word. "Don't you think I remember every single moment like it happened yesterday? Do you want to hear how every night when I close my eyes, I can still see him on top of me, feeling his hands all over me? How...how could you possibly think that it doesn't matter?"
It hurt Xander to do this to Buffy, to dredge up these memories, but he'd come this far, and he couldn't turn back now. It was too late for that. He steeled himself and continued. "Then why? Why are you trying to protect him after what he did?"
"Because," she said faintly, barely loud enough to be heard. "It wasn't the man, it was the demon. He deserves a chance to make things right."
"He tried to rape you." Xander repeated again, a hint of uncertainty creeping into his voice.
Buffy peered intently at Xander, tired green eyes meeting defiant brown ones. "He's not the only one." She reminded him softly.
Her allegation took Xander by surprise. "What are you..." He started, even as the memories came flooding back to him. He'd managed to suppress it for so long, he'd almost succeeded in forgetting completely. Almost. Xander quickly averted his gaze, desperately wishing he somewhere - anywhere - else.
"You knew." Buffy whispered as the realization dawned on her. "All this time... you never said anything."
Xander turned away instinctively, partly because he couldn't bear the way Buffy was looking at him, partly to hide the tears of shame that were now forming in his eyes as well. "I didn't...." he stammered haltingly. "I couldn't..."
"You couldn't what? Buffy asked quietly, consciously checking her emotions. "Couldn't stand the shame? Couldn't bear to look at me, knowing what you did...what you tried to do?" She reached out to him slowly, hesitantly placing her hand gently on his back. "Xander, please, look at me."
He wavered for a moment, then slowly acquiesced, turning toward her, his eyes closed, yet unable to meet her gaze. Xander's pulse quickened as a small, deceptively delicate hand reached up, cupping his chin, raising his head slowly. It seemed an eternity before he found the strength to will his eyes to open. When he finally did so, he found himself staring into unnaturally green, incomprehensibly understanding eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but Buffy stopped him, placing a gentle finger to his lips. "It's OK. You don't need to say anything," she assured him. "I understand. More than you could ever know, I understand."
He looked at her for a long moment, taking the opportunity to compose himself. It was true that he wore his emotions on his sleeve, but still, some habits died hard; after all, real men don't cry. Xander opened his mouth deliberately, struggling to find the right words. "I-uh, I managed to forget for so long. I guess...I guess somehow I convinced myself that it never really happened."
"Understand this, Xander. I never forgave you for what you did - not because I still blame you or hold you responsible - but because you were never to blame in the first place. You didn't try to rape me; it was the demon, the animal inside of you. What you don't understand - what you have to understand - is that it wasn't any different with Spike. What he did was wrong, but it wasn't his fault. Just like it wasn't yours."
Buffy held Xander's gaze, refusing to let him pull away. She drew her hand hesitantly across his unshaven cheek, lightly tracing a line down his rugged jaw line. Her breath hitched in her throat as she slowly tilted her head upwards, bringing her mouth agonizingly close to his. Buffy could hear him breathing, could feel his warm breath on her face. For one glorious moment, time ceased to exist, the whole of the known universe compressing until there were but two people left in all of the world, two people standing together in a dark cemetery, on the brink of something wonderful. Buffy felt herself drawn imperceptibly towards Xander, leaning ever closer as her eyes closed of their own volition. She felt her lips brush lightly against his, reveling in the sensation...
And then it happened.
For the first time in his life - prior magically inspired events notwithstanding - Xander Harris did the unthinkable: He rejected Buffy Summers. Without hesitation, and with minimal remorse, Xander broke the tender embrace, pulling back from one very confused, one very upset Slayer.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
That same time
A darkened street
Sunnydale California
The two men waited in silence, concealed behind the Town Car's darkly tinted windows, watching as a lone, middle aged man exited a red BMW convertible, tightly clutching a tattered briefcase as he hurried up the sidewalk to the entrance of his flat. The man fumbled with the door lock, nervously dropping his keys twice in the process, before finally gaining entrance to his home.
His clumsiness did not go unnoticed by the two inside the car, though it did not compel them to act any sooner than their mission parameters dictated. Patience, after all, was a virtue, one which the man sitting behind the steering wheel had acquired years before as a 2nd Directorate man at Moscow Centre. And though it seemed a lifetime ago, he still retained the formidable skills he had honed as a counterintelligence officer at #2 Dzerzhinskiy Square, the headquarters for the former Committee for State Security. At least, that's what he was counting on. The coming days would either bear him out, or would be his last.
He glanced briefly at the small photograph taped to the console, then turned to his "colleague" and nodded slightly, confirming for both the target's identity. It was time.
The man sitting next to him reached a gloved hand into the metal attaché case balanced on his lap, grasping the small, finely machined aluminum cylinder nestled snugly in the foam interior. He removed it from the case, expertly lining up the threaded end with the barrel of the 9mm Beretta he held in his right hand. Once the suppressor was properly attached, the man reached again into the case, removed a pre-loaded ammunition clip and inserted it into the firearm, working the action to ensure a round was chambered. The man thumbed the safety, ensuring it was in the "off" position, then turned and handed the weapon butt first to the man occupying the driver's seat, who accepted it without comment. He proceeded to reach into his overcoat, producing a similarly outfitted weapon from a loop concealed within.
The passenger was a man not unaccustomed to murder. Mr. Kovacs, as he was currently known to his associates, had spent a number of years in the service of the Dirzhavna Sugurnost, the now defunct Bulgarian equivalent of the Soviet-era Committee for State Security, the KGB. And while it was true that the KGB had not really been in the business of killing people (unless of course, you were talking about Soviet citizens), the Bulgarian intelligence service had no such qualms. When it became necessary to eliminate a foreign national, the "Sword and the Shield" of the Soviet Communist Party invariably turned to intermediaries, contracting the work out to the various intelligence apparatuses of vassal nations, usually the Bulgarian DS. For that reason, he had the blood of fully a dozen men and women on his hands, two of them citizens of the country in which he now plied his trade.
Nodding to his counterpart, Kovacs turned, reaching for the car door. If all went well, in fifteen minutes Rupert Giles would be dead and he would be back in his room at the Holiday Inn, enjoying a bottle of Starka, his vodka of choice. Unfortunately for Mr. Kovacs, he would never get that opportunity. As he moved to open his door, the man sitting opposite him leveled his pistol, firing two rounds into the Bulgar's back, perforating both his left ventricle and lung. Kovacs' body jerked once, then slumped limply against the door, a look of sheer astonishment forever preserved on his face.
Placing both weapons in the attaché case, the man in the driver's seat turned the key in the ignition, started the Town Car, and - squealing the tires - raced off into the night, insulated from the nuisance of the Sunnydale Police Department by the diplomatic tags adorning the license plate. As he glanced disdainfully over at the mortal remains of the former Mr. Kovacs, he had but one thought. Score one for the good guys.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Same Time
Inside Rupert Giles' House
Rupert Giles was not a man routinely given to overt displays of emotion, save for the occasional paroxysm of rage inspired by his thankless role as Watcher. There were, however, those occasions on which he was willing to set aside his professional stoicism in favor of a more animated response. By his calculation, this qualified as one of those occasions.
The initial telephone call had come as a bit of a shock. Over the years, Giles had cultivated a number of useful contacts, many of them during his time at Oxford, where he had been known for his unruly disposition both on and off the Rugby field. It was there that he had first crossed paths with a like-minded individual, an Italian-bred troublemaker by the name of Arturo Pantonini. The two had instantly hit it off, and while Arturo hadn't shown any genuine interest in the occult as Ethan and the others had, they still managed to raise a little hell together in the local pubs.
The years had passed by quickly, and in the time since both had graduated university, they had largely lost contact, though the occasional letter had been exchanged. Giles had found it difficult to believe that Arturo had actually attended - much less graduated - law school, and had gone to work for the Catholic Church as a Vatican Legal Counsel. If there was such a thing as karmic justice, Giles reckoned, this was surely it.
But the career path Arturo had chosen hadn't been the most shocking revelation from his old friend. Arturo had phoned the previous night, requesting an urgent meeting with his old friend. He had hung up before Giles could press him for details, but the tone of the man's voice had hinted at the import of the call. In all of his life, Giles had never known a more even-tempered person - with the possible exception of one Daniel Osborne - than his old friend. However, on the previous night, the poor telephone connection had succeeded in effectively conveying both Arturo's excitement and his fear, if not his actual words. Needless to say, Rupert had shown at the designated meeting place precisely on the stroke of midnight, the pre-arranged meet time. To Giles' surprise, Arturo had not shown, though he had left Rupert a little something to remember him by.
It had been some time since Giles had set foot in any house of worship, let alone a Catholic Church. Raised an Anglican, an "independent" by choice, Giles had precious little use for organized religion. It wasn't that the concept of God was anathema to his belief system; indeed, Giles had more crosses in his house than could be found in most any church. It was just that he found better uses for them than as wall ornaments. In spite of this, as the carillon struck midnight, Giles had found himself sitting in a wooden pew, anxiously awaiting the arrival of his friend. When thirty minutes had passed with no sign of his friend, Giles assumed the man would not show, and had decided to leave. He almost didn't see the package Arturo had left him.
As Giles had made his exit, a shimmer of light caught his attention. Tracing it to its source, Giles found a thick manila envelope perched atop a rickety wooden stand. A flattened nickel lie atop the package, its highly polished surface reflecting the candlelight from the church nave. Smiling despite himself, Giles took the oblong coin in his hand, recognizing his old chum's calling card. He peered around cautiously, ensuring he was alone in the church, then surreptitiously tucked the envelope into his tweed sport coat and quickly proceeded to make his way out of the church.
Back inside the safety of his car, Giles had eagerly ripped open the envelope, spilling out its contents. A small piece of stationary, along with a well worn leather-bound volume, dropped onto the passenger seat. He picked up the sheet of paper, instantly recognizing the author's flowing script. It read simply:
R,
My sincerest apologies for the exaggerated cloak-and-dagger routine; unfortunately, such precautions are now the order of the day. There are things you need to know, things you must understand, if you are to survive what is coming. Foremost among these, you should know that the Council has been compromised, and that your life is in grave danger. As I write this letter, the enemy's agents are among us, working to neutralize those who would stand against them. For your own good, you must trust no one.
Do you hear that sound, Rupert? It's the sound of the clock ticking. Time is running short, and unless we can stop what is coming, it will run out for all time. A word of advice: Remember your theology, old man; it will serve you well in the days to come.
We are at war, my friend. Make no mistake. The enemy has the upper hand, but we have struck the first blow. Know that you are not alone in this battle. There are others...some you know, some you do not. When the time is right, they will make themselves known to you.
Unfortunately, I do not have the time to tell you everything you need to know. Many of the answers you seek can be found within the gift that I leave you now; others can only be found within yourselves. I must leave you now, as there is much yet to be done.
Be well Rupert Giles. May God be with you and yours in the days ahead.
Until again our paths cross,
Arturo
If Giles hands were shaking as he read the note, they were absolutely trembling as he took in the title of the tome resting on the leather bucket seat. Visibly perspiring, he started the car and tore out of the church parking lot, pushing the German engine to the limits of its capabilities.
He sped recklessly through the streets of Sunnydale, his mind racing, trying in vain to contemplate the significance of Arturo's words. Remember your theology, he had written. What did that mean? Giles asked himself. Was it a vague warning about some impending evil, or a reference to some specific religious prophecy. He suspected, not incorrectly, that the answer would be found in the pages of the book he now clutched tightly in his hand.
Downshifting, he swerved onto his street, pulling expertly into an open spot out front of his flat. He engaged the parking brake, shut off the engine, and hurriedly shoved the book and letter into his tattered old briefcase. He climbed out, pausing just long enough to engage the remote locks, then trotted up the sidewalk to the front door, where, in his excitement, he managed to drop the keys twice before unlocking the door. He finally gained entrance, never having taken notice of the Lincoln parked nearby.
Once inside, he shed his jacket, not bothering to hang it up. He strode over to the well-worn couch, a veteran of too many late-night Scooby sessions, and plopped down unceremoniously. He placed the book gently on the coffee table, finding his eyes drawn once more to the raised letters gracing its cover. Panopticon. The word was Greek in origin, though the alleged author was not.
Giles had studied a great deal of both history and mythology during his tenure at Oxford and ensuing postgraduate studies at the Watcher's Academy. In his line of work, there was really no distinction made between the two. During the course of those studies, there had been the recurring mention of a quasi-religious prophetical text, reputed to have been written by an agent of God himself. Of course, these claims, like many others, had always been taken with a grain of salt. Vampires were one thing. Angels were something else entirely.
And now here Giles sat, the object of legend in his possession, a work reputed to contain first hand accounts of the history (and future?) of both the mortal and ethereal worlds. To say he was overwhelmed would be an understatement of cosmic proportions. Should he open it? Talk about the million dollar question. Giles glanced at the clock, noting the time was now past one o'clock. Deciding the matter could wait until morning - a more civilized hour of morning, that is - he picked up the remote control, intending to catch an hour or so of BBC news (thank God for satellites) to help clear his mind. There was no way he would be sleeping anytime soon. He clicked on the ancient television, impatiently waiting as the picture came into focus. As it did, Giles was taken aback by what he saw.
It might have been a picture from WWII, were it not for the multitude of helicopters, both military and civilian, hovering overhead. Even with the sound muted, Giles could discern that the rubble he was seeing had once been a high-rise office building. Intrigued, he turned up the volume, just in time to hear the voice-over.
"Tonight, Los Angeles has joined an international brotherhood, one whose soul criteria for membership is to fall victim to terrorist attack. At approximately 12:21 Pacific Time, the building housing the Los Angeles offices of the law firm Wolfram & Hart was torn asunder by a powerful blast. Authorities on the scene have declined to speculate on the cause of the explosion, though they have ruled out any accidental causes."
Ashen faced, Giles hit the mute button on the remote. Wolfram & Hart. He had heard that name before. But where? Though he was both mentally and physically exhausted, the answer came quickly enough...Angel. They were the ones giving Angel and his crew such a hard time. But Angel and the others would never have done something so callous, so indiscriminate. This was a calculated act, an act of outright war. Arturo's written warning suddenly came back to him "But we have struck the first blow." Giles felt the sudden need for a good, stiff drink. Several of them, in fact.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
That's all for now. Sorry for the long wait. I swear, writer's block is a more insidious disease than syphilis...uh, I mean somebody told me that. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this latest installment. As always, feedback is much appreciated and desperately craved, though personal insults will be dealt with accordingly (you know who you are you little punk-ass bitch).
Till next time,
Rabid Squirrel