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. Get the picture?
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 the men and women of the United States armed forces, and all those engaged in the struggle against tyranny and terrorism worldwide: Kick a few, take a few, and come home safe.
Feedback: Constructive criticism, advice, and words of encouragement are all accepted. Flames will be turned back on their originator. Kentucky fried crispy critter anyone?
Note 1: I'd like to take the opportunity here to individually address some of the feedback I've gotten from various readers…
Lori B: First and foremost, thanks for the continued feedback and words of encouragement…I'm glad to see you're writing again. As for the public nature of the strike against W&H, I can only say that there were compelling reasons for it, reasons I will address in upcoming chapters.
Ghostrider: Thanks for the kind words, and yes, we will be seeing a lot more of Buffy in the coming chapters. As for Whistler, he will do what needs to be done; nothing more, nothing less. That's the nature of the beast.
WBH21C: Wow! That's quite an endorsement, especially the allusion to Clancy (who is light-years beyond anyone else, especially a first-time fanfic hack like myself). I'll keep writing, you keep supplying the feedback. Gracias.
Calen: You do have it in for Buffy, don't you man? I can't say that I blame you, though I'm a firm believer in redemption. When all is said and done, I believe that Xander still has feelings for Buffy. As for Spike, he'll do what he was meant to do – wreak havoc and spill blood. And yes, he'll probably give our resident Slayer some shit for getting turned down by X. That's just Spike.
Mad Minute: Glad to see you approve of my tactics. After all, what's the point in having toys if you don't get to play with them? As for where this story is going next, just like the AIM-9, it's going right up somebody's six… with a vengeance. Oh, and Matryoshka…I love it. I'm not a big fan of the "bad-ass Xander" theme per say, (after all, it doesn't take courage to be Superman when you are Superman) but the story is first-rate none-the-less. To anybody who enjoys "Murphy's Law", I highly recommend checking out Mad Minute's "Matryoshka". It's definitely worth a read.
RobClark: You're right…good catch; there hasn't been any prior interplay between Xander and Whistler in this story, though that's not to say that they haven't met prior to the beginning of the story. More will be revealed in this chapter about a connection between the two.
BaileyTC: Thanks for giving the story a chance, even if you're not into conspiracies or military themes. You'll be seeing a lot more of Danyael in the coming chapters, as a link between him and the Slayer is revealed. You're right about the prophecy (isn't there always one…damn clichés). And thanks for the compliment. I really enjoy writing the Buffy and Xander characters, not in spite of their issues, but because of them. It makes them more real.
WyseQuack: I appreciate the words of encouragement. I agree with you and Ghostrider about Buffy; I believe that her character does blame herself for the latter occurrences of season six, at least to a certain extent, and I will be delving into that even more as certain revelations are made concerning Buffy's resurrection. Stay tuned.Bolo: Truth be known, I like W/X too (also D/X), just not as much as I enjoy B/X. I hope you won't give up on the story, though I understand that it's hard to invest time in a fic when it doesn't adhere to your ship of choice. At the very least, thanks for taking the time to share.
RRahl: Finally, somebody heard my pleas. Thanks for the compliment, and I'll try to keep the updates flowing.
Steve: I'm not a big fan of Faith, though I think she did add a spark to the show. People often make the argument that she's had a rough time, and was badly mistreated by the Scooby Gang. The way I see it, she's both a traitor and a slut, which gives Buffy a slight edge on the Xander scorecard. Let's face it, she wanted to jump Angel's bones just as much as Buffy, and slept with just about anything on two legs. I would like to see her redeem herself, and word has it she will be coming back to BTVS at the end of the season. I guess we'll have to wait and see. Just for you, though, Faith will likely make a guest appearance sometime in this story, just don't ask me when.
Note 2: The lyrics from chapter 9 were from OAR's (Of a Revolution) "That Was A Crazy game of Poker", from the album "The Wanderer". If you get the chance, give them a listen sometime.
And now, in the words of the immortal Paul Harvey, "Back to our story…"
Chapter 11: "The History of Things to Come"~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Xander's Apartment
Early Monday MorningThe balance demon raised the remote control, reluctantly muting the television as he turned to face the young man who's beer he'd been drinking for the past thirty minutes. "Ya know kid, another five minutes, and I was gonna give up on you."
Damn – always with the bad timing. "If you'd like, I could leave and come back later." Despite Xander's reputation, the suggestion was not made entirely in jest.
"Glad to see you've still got that sense of humor, kid. You're gonna need it."
Xander ignored the implicit warning, his thoughts turning to the firearm he still clutched in his right hand. He allowed himself to fantasize, however briefly, about putting just one of the .45 caliber rounds between Whistler's eyes. Unfortunately, that fantasy, like others before it, would not be acted on anytime soon.
Xander walked further into the apartment, placing the firearm, sans clip, on the countertop, slowly making his way to the living room. He flipped on the overhead light, glaring at the pale-skinned demon with obvious contempt. "And to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"
The demon smiled broadly, reminding Xander very much of a Cheshire cat. "You know, that's what I like about you Harris. You always get right to the point, never lose sight of what's important."
"What's important, Whistler, is getting you out of my apartment, and out of my life, as quickly as possible. Anything I can do to speed the process, I will."
Whistler arched an eyebrow, looking dubiously at the would-be hero. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you didn't like me."
Xander took a seat opposite him, already tiring of the conversation. "You don't know better, Whistler. That's what makes you so utterly reprehensible. And I've had a long day, so say your piece, then get the hell out."
Whistler took a long swig of his pilfered brew, draining the last of the stout from the can. "Stow the hostility, kid. We're all on the same side here."
Ever the cynic, Xander wasn't swayed. "Last time I checked, Balance Demons weren't real big on taking sides."
Whistler shook his head, more amused than irritated. "You never were one for doing your homework. But I guess I should have expected that."
"Please tell me you're planning on getting to the point sometime soon?" Xander begged. Being in close proximity to Whistler always gave him a splitting headache.
"Patience is a virtue, kid. You might wanna check into it sometime."
Xander's gaze wandered back to the countertop, and to the weapon lying on it. "Sorry, Whistler – I'm fresh out, though by chance I do seem to have an abundance of .45 hollow-points…"
Whistler responded by choking on his beer, coughing up a stream of dark liquid in the process "All right kid – I get the point," he sputtered, wiping the alcohol from his pants. "And subtlety…definitely not your strong point. But you're wrong about my kind not taking sides. We always take sides, just not always the one you happen to be on."
"And surprisingly, my opinion of you just keeps getting better and better."
"You don't have to like me, Harris. You just have to accept that I'm doing what needs to be done."
"And what exactly is that?" Xander demanded. "Balancing the forces of good and evil? Take a good look around Whistler – how much balance do you see? Cause from my vantage point, the scale's not exactly tipping in the right direction."
The demon was unfazed. "That's why I'm here, and that's why you're here. To tip the balance back in the other direction, until the equilibrium's restored."
"And what then? What happens when the world tilts in favor of the right side?"
Whistler fell silent, contemplating how best to answer the question. As always, directness was the preferred approach. "You already know the answer to that."
And he did. Xander never entertained any misconceptions about what Whistler really was, but he had allowed himself to forget that there were two sides to the equation. He knew there would come a point when Whistler would stand against them. He just hoped, for his sake as well as Whistler's, that he wasn't there when it came to pass. "Have you ever considered that maybe an equal balance isn't really the best way?"
Whistler smile to himself at the thought. "I've been doing this since long before you were even an itch in your old man's pants, kid. I've been there, and I once felt the way you do. But with age comes wisdom – at least that's what they tell me – and you start to see things a little differently. I've seen what happens when the power shifts too far to one side. Even the good aren't infallible, kid. Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. If you remember one thing, remember that."
"Thanks for the philosophy lesson." Xander remarked sarcastically. "Need I remind you that we're sitting atop the Hellmouth? C'mon, give me a break Whistler. Most of the time, we're lucky if we can hold our own. I don't think the big bad's in any dire need of affirmative action."
You have no idea how right you are kid. Whistler nodded his agreement, remembering exactly why he was in Sunnyhell in the first place. "Which is why I'm here talking to you, and not out plotting the Slayer's demise."
"And you were about to tell me exactly why that is…?" Xander's headache greatly outweighed his patience at this point.
Whistler leaned forward, examining Xander intently. "Do you remember what I said to you when we first met?"
This time it was Xander who lapsed into silence, nodding his head absently as his thoughts wandering back to that regrettable day. "There's one thing you never told me," he reminded the demon.
Whistler smiled mischievously. "I thought you would have figured that out by now."
Xander hadn't. "Why don't you humor me."
"All right kid. You wanna know why I chose you? It's simple, really. I picked you because I knew that you wouldn't say no, not where the Slayer was concerned."
"You mean you used me."
Whistler dismissed the accusation with a shake of the head. "It's called free will, kid. Nobody made you do anything. You volunteered."
A snort. A curse. A mumbled threat "As if I really had a choice in the matter."
Whistler shrugged. "What can I say? Love makes you do the wacky. In the end, it all works out for the best."
"And what makes you so sure I did this out of love?"
"Well, I'd like to think you did it for more altruistic reasons, but I we both know better, don't we?"
"You might be surprised."
Whistler wasn't about to fall for that one. "Don't try to bullshit an old bullshitter, my friend. When I came to you, when I warned you this day would come, you stepped up to the plate because you didn't trust anybody else to do it. You can lie to your friends, you can lie to the Slayer, and maybe you can even lie to yourself, but at the end of the day, when all is said and done, I know why you did it. And it's not such a bad thing."
"You were spying on me?" Xander asked incredulously, realizing he and Buffy hadn't been alone in the cemetery.
Whistler shrugged again. "I lurk. It's part of the job description. Don't worry, you'll get used to it…eventually."
"And until then?"
Whistler smiled, pulling himself up off the leather couch and heading toward the door, pausing to grab his hat from the coat hook. He looked back at Xander. "Until then you keep your promise. You keep an eye on her; you prepare her for what's to come."
"And afterwards?"
The demon opened the door. "That's up to you. But remember this, all martyrs have one thing in common." He looked soberly at Xander, giving him one last warning. "It's not your battle kid, not anymore. It's her time now; everything has lead to this point. All you need to do is steer her in the right direction, so don't get any ideas about playing the hero. Do us all a favor and have the White Knight sit this one out. 'Cause, unlike the Slayer, you only have one life to lose." With that, the demon turned once again to leave, only to be stopped in mid-stride.
"Hey Whistler?"
He paused, halfway out the door. "Yeah?"
"You know what you said about restoring the balance, about serving both sides?"
"Yeah. I remember."
"If that day ever comes…"
Whistler turned back one more time, more convinced than ever that he'd made the right choice. "Yeah, kid. I know you will."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Desert
100 miles East of Sunnydale
Monday, September 2nd
0550 hrs
The man in white stood opposite his counterpart, still firmly clasping the other man's hand in his own. He wished he had the time to savor the moment, to bask in his estranged brother's anguish, and by default his own impending redemption, but with reality being what it was, time was a commodity in short supply these days. He took one last look at the man before him, preserving the sight for posterity, and then reluctantly released his grip. "That was quite the impressive entrance, Danyael. So serene, so symbolic, so evocative. It almost brought me to tears."
"It was probably just the dust in your eyes," Danyael assured him. "Which would cease to be a problem if you pulled your head out of the sand every now and then."
"Well. Well. Well. Look at little brother," the man admonished him. "He's spent so much time with the little soul-monkeys he's started to speak like one of them."
"I see the years have managed to temper neither your jealousy nor your vanity," Danyael observed acidly. "I guess it was naïve of me to hope that you would have used the time for a little personal introspection."
"Oh, but I have," his brother countered earnestly. "I've spent eons doing nothing but."
"There's a distinct difference between reflecting and plotting, my brother, but then you've always confused the two, haven't you."
The man in white chuckled quietly, almost benignly. "Still clinging to the old ways, Danyael? You can't bring yourself to say my name, can you, even after all this time."
Danyael turned slightly, away from the other man, looking first toward, then past the ascending sun, as if searching for something obscured by the brilliance of the distant star. "You know I can't," he half whispered, his voice straining to be heard above the sound of the shifting sands. "Neither above, nor below, until the end of time…"
"Spoken so eloquently, Danyael. But then, you always did have a way with words. That's why he favored you so."
"And yet here I stand." Danyael lamented wistfully.
"Yes, here you stand," conceded the other man, "Not as a man, but an outcast, forsaken for all eternity, the bastard child of an uncaring father. And still, you throw yourself at his feet in supplication, begging his forgiveness; all the while he sits there looking down on you in judgment, mocking you for your supposed sins. You're his whipping boy, my brother, an enduring morality tale for the masses. He abandoned you a long time ago. He cast you down, banished you for all eternity, your name cursed as surely as mine, would that it were spoken in anything other than hushed whispers. You and I are brothers, Danyael, born not of blood but of destiny, and yet you cling to the false hope of redemption. Let me tell something, my friend: Forgiveness is for the monkeys, for those he loves best. For you and I there is nothing, save the promise of spending eternity on the outside looking in, bearing witness as his ill-conceived experiments claim what is rightfully ours. Our salvation lies down the same path, Danyael, and that is the path of righteousness. You betrayed me once. Join me now, brother. Join me and save yourself."
Danyael waited patiently, allowing the other his say, though he had heard it all before. He found himself laughing in spite of the situation. "Ten thousand years, and you still haven't tired of listening to your own voice. And they accused me of being self-absorbed."
His companion did not find the humor in his statement. "Still the comedian, I see. Do you really find your exile that appealing?"
"It beats the alternative," Danyael countered. "Besides, it's not all bad. You've got Buffalo wings, rugby, Rhythm and Blues, Major League Baseball, and the History Channel. And you've never really lived till you've played 18 rounds at St. Andrews."
"You're not one of them," his brother reminded him harshly. "You can surround yourself with their trappings, you can dress like them, speak like them, but you will never be one of them. Because of what you are, they can never accept you."
"You underestimate them," chided Danyael. "You always have."
"And you? Where did this newfound respect for the little monkeys come from? When the trumpets of war last sounded, did you rise to their defense? Did you side with our master, flocking to his banner to defend his legacy?"
"I did not," Danyael conceded calmly. "Neither did I join your little insurrection."
"You were a coward."
"I was a conscientious objector to a war that should never have been. A war that was forced upon me by one I called friend."
"You made your choice, Danyael. You could have fought by his side, fought for them. You chose to lay down your sword, to refuse to fight. You alone are to blame for your damnation, not I."
"I've never blamed you for my own failings, brother; my sins were my own. But I accepted responsibility for my actions a long time ago, and I am at peace with them."
"And yet you still harbor this hatred for me, still entertain the belief that I have somehow wronged you."
"It was by your hand that my fate was chosen. You knew well that I could not take up arms against our master, and you knew equally well that I would not stand against you. I chose the path of least resistance, and for that I have suffered. But I do not hate you. I feel only pity for you."
"So you have made your choice then? You will stand with the humans? You will stand against me, doing what you could not bring yourself to do so many years ago?"
Danyael shook his head solemnly. "We are only at war if you decide that it should be so. If you desire it, then yes, the second war will commence, and I will oppose you, whatever the cost."
"You cannot defeat me. You will be destroyed, you and all who stand with you." Of that he was certain.
"Whatever shall come to pass, so be it. I am no warrior, brother, but neither am I coward. If I should fall, there will be another to take my place."
His brother wagged a disparaging finger at him. "You believe a mortal will succeed where you would fail? I knew you were a bit obtuse, but I did not take you for a complete fool."
"I have no intention of failing. Though should the situation arise, I have made alternate arrangements."
The beginnings of a smile crept into the other man's features, his thin, taut lips pulling back to reveal a set of impossibly perfect teeth. "Ahhh…yes. The mongrel; I almost forgot about your little pet project. How's that working out for you?"
Danyael looked at his brother evenly, his face betraying none of the anxiety he was feeling at the moment. "How eager are you to find out?"
"You never were a good poker player, Danyael."
"And you, brother, are predictable as ever. When the time comes, she will be ready for you."
"And what makes you think she has the luxury of time?"
"Because I know you, maybe better than you know yourself. For all of your arrogance and hatred, you still have a sense of honor – a misplaced interpretation to be sure, but honor nonetheless. You won't touch her until the hour is upon us, and we both know it."
"Perhaps," admitted the other man, "but there are others who would."
It was Danyael's turn to smile. "I'm counting on that."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue
Situation Room
The Texan looked over the page briefly, affixing his signature at the bottom with the engraved Mont Blanc pen. He handed the sheet to the nearby aide, who nodded curtly, tucked the paper carefully into a labeled folder, and quickly left the room.
The document was officially classified as Presidential Determination No. 2202-30, though to the public at-large the document would be considered just another Presidential Finding, a convenient way to circumvent the laborious process of Congressional approval and Judicial Review. The finding said that – pursuant to law and in the interest of national security – the Chief Executive Officer of the United States had pronounced that the Air Force's operating location at Groom Lake, Nevada was not bound by certain federal environmental regulations. Simply put, it meant that the law said whatever the President understood it to say – in this case that the EPA had no jurisdiction over Groom Lake.
Such findings had been issued in the past; the previous administration had issued a similar executive order concerning Groom Lake only four years earlier. This particular finding, however, was of far more strategic importance.
It had been an accident, really. The Department of Agriculture had been researching alternative forms of pest control, in this case employing intensive ultra-high frequency sound waves as a deterrent to crop-destroying insects. The initial results had proved promising, and an innocuous memo had "inadvertently" made its way to Arlington, landing on the desk of the Deputy Director, Operations. And the rest, as they say, is history.
"Dubya", as he was known to the wags and pundits, had been fully briefed on the project, and though he had a number of reservations about its possible effects on the human population, had signed off on its use. These were, after all, unusual times. Bleary-eyed, he looked over to the Three-Star seated directly across from him. "General Hayden, what happened in Los Angeles?"
"Sir," the 33 year Air Force veteran and current NSA Director began, "Our SigInt assets intercepted a number of enemy communications, from which we were able to ascertain that their senior leadership was meeting in the Los Angeles area earlier this morning."
"But we didn't take them out," pointed out POTUS.
"That is correct, Mr. President. As you know, ECHELON intercepts approximately 3 billion pieces of data daily. Our data processing systems were able to fingerprint the relevant intel, but not in time to coordinate a precision strike. Needless to say, we are currently in the process of upgrading our data-mining capabilities."
"Very well. What now?"
"Mr. President," piped in a new voice, this one belonging to SecDef, "Project Screamer is now fully mission capable. Limited testing will be conducted at Groom Lake to explore potential side effects, but we are satisfied with its results on the sub-terrestrial species."
"And what of the others…these "Fallen" ones?"
The balding Secretary shook his head. "We haven't encountered any as of yet, though we do have confirmation of their presence in California, and we know that an alliance has been made with Wolfram & Hart. Whether or not Screamer will prove effective against them we cannot ascertain"
"And the strike this morning?"
SecDef nodded. "The operation was a tactical success; civilian casualties were minimal, and the public has no reason to suspect that it was anything other than a terrorist strike. The investigation will be directed in-house, and reliable elements of the FBI will handle the "crime scene" aspect, so we retain full control at both ends. In addition, NorthCom has dispatched security forces in and around Los Angeles to "lend" assistance to law enforcement, so the movements of our primary strike forces should not garner any unwarranted attention from the press."
"Whose idea was it?" the President wanted to know.
"We crafted the operational plan several years back," the DDO informed him. "The initial concept was to justify internal military operations against a perceived domestic threat. It was easily adapted to the current scenario."
"And our friends in Sunnydale?"
"There's been no significant activity to speak of sir. The Vatican has operatives in place to assist them, and we have a pipeline to a member of the Slayer's internal circle."
"He's trustworthy? Asked POTUS. Loyalty was a quality he both admired and demanded of his people.
"He's a bit unorthodox, but he has some knowledge of military operations, and is utterly loyal to the Slayer. We are confident he will do as we ask, provided it does not unnecessarily endanger his friends."
"You don't plan to tell her, then?"
"No, sir. Her experience with the military has made her wary of our intentions, and the Vatican believes it best that she not know what is in store for her until absolutely necessary."
"She's a human being," POTUS reminded them, "Not some kind of animal."
"That's not exactly true, Mr. President," the FBI Director asserted. "Since her last death, the girl's physiological structure has been significantly altered at the cellular level, according to our tests. I'm told by our friends at the Vatican that this is due to the manner of her reanimation, as well as continuing changes associated with the natural aging process of Slayers."
"What do you mean by "continuing changes", the President asked of the Director.
"According to our contacts within the Watcher's Council, the innate power of each Slayer grows as she ages, leading to greater sensory perception, increased physical prowess and diminished emotional capacity. The Summers girl is already the second longest surviving Slayer on record."
"Wait just a damn minute," the President interjected. "You're telling me that this girl is becoming an animal." He wasn't as dumb as he was rumored to be.
The Director nodded reluctantly. "In essence, yes. She should continue to regress emotionally, even as her instincts and abilities become more acute. There is a documented case of a Slayer living to the age of twenty six. According to the extant Watcher's journals, by that age, she had retained little semblance of her former self."
"But what of the other influence? Might that mitigate the effects."?
The Director nodded again. "It is possible, though we cannot be certain of its long-term effects. We must remember that her reincarnation was not effected by scientific, or even Para-scientific, means."
"But the Sunnydale contingent still believes that it was due to their magical intervention?" the President's Chief of Staff asked.
"That is correct," the Director confirmed. "Except for the boy. It is in our best interests to perpetuate that belief for the time being"
"And what is the situation with the Watcher's Council?"
"We are continuing to closely monitor the situation, Mr. President. That operation is being run by MI-5, with the blessing of the Home Office. We are confident "regime change" will occur within the week."
"What will happen to those that are…deposed?" the President wondered aloud.
The DDO put on his best politician's face. "I believe the appropriate term is disappeared. They know too much, sir."
"And this Travers character?"
"He will be dealt with in the same manner, once we pin down his location. It seems Mr. Travers has taken an unscheduled leave of absence from his duties, and has absconded to Los Angeles with a significant portion of the Council archives."
"There's no question then?" the President posited. He wasn't one given to believe in coincidence.
"None at all sir."
"All right," POTUS concluded, changing the subject. "What's our next step, then?"
"Sir," the DDO piped in. "We will continue to identify and target the human aspect of the conspiracy, and work to contain the sub-terrestrial threat, but the next major step will be taken by the Vatican's agent-in-place."
"Who is this man?" the President demanded to know.
"As I understand it, sir, he's not a man," SecDef informed him. "As to his true nature, the Vatican advised me only that I didn't want to know, and not to press the issue."
"Do we at least know what his plans are?" asked the Chief of Staff.
"We know that he will work to effect some transformation within the Slayer. They did not tell us what mechanism he plans to employ."
"But we have some idea." POTUS observed suspiciously.
The Attorney General, silent until now, fielded that one. "Sir, have you ever seen Indiana Jones…?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Shady Hill Cemetery
The same morning
The rising sun cast long shadows over the endless rows of tombstones, the stray rays of light revealing a scene of utter carnage and death interspersed among the stone memorials. The bodies lie mostly where they had fallen, their grotesque forms stretched out in congealed pools of demon blood, the faces forever frozen in a mask of horror and shock. It seemed, at least for one night, the predators had become the prey.
And yet, the one responsible for the destruction was not yet satisfied. Clutching a blood-stained sword in hand, the hunter strode purposefully through the cemetery, searching out any who had eluded her wrath. A stone crypt stood before her, the otherworldly essence emanating from within extending an unspoken invitation, begging her to come inside and unleash her vengeance. She quickly closed the distance to the entrance, ignoring the handle as she struck out with her fist in rage, tearing the heavy steel door from its hinges and hurtling it to the darkness inside. She sheathed the blade as she stepped across the threshold, flexing her fingers as she checked for any injuries to her seemingly delicate hands. Of course, there were none.
The interior of the crypt remained dark, though with her enhanced vision, the difference between night and day was almost negligible. She could hear them scattering before she saw them, their feet scuffling in the thick dust as they took cover from the early morning sun. She almost hoped they would try to run…almost. Buffy stepped out of the light, walking into the shadows to give them a chance, making a sport of their imminent death.
Predictably, the first attacker lunged at her from behind, its claws reaching for her arms, fangs extended in search of a quick breakfast. The Slayer instinctively spun to the right, her left arm reaching across her chest and extending over her right shoulder, grasping the forearm of her attacker. Simultaneously, her right hand snapped back, grasping the upper arm of the vampire, clamping on with such force as to make the female bloodsucker scream out in pain. Buffy shifted her weight, dropping to her left knee as she flipped the vampire over her shoulder and into the stone wall ten feet in front of her. The creature's skull impacted on stone, rewarding the Slayer with a satisfying crunch. Immediately, Buffy dropped to the floor, spinning around and catching the next attacker with a well-placed sweep of the leg. The vampire dropped like dead weight, stunned by the sheer speed of the attack. He quickly jumped back to his feet as the Slayer lashed out again, crushing his trachea with a lightning quick snap-kick. The bloodsucker stumbled backwards, instinctively clawing at his throat, his indignant scream of protest registering as only a muted hiss.
She fought the urge to finish him off quickly. Buffy waited as the vamp struggled to his feet, then slowly stalked toward him, deliberately dropping her stake in the process. Her opponent lashed out clumsily, his desperate roundhouse easily batted aside by the Slayer, who quickly countered with a punch of her own. What happened next surprised them both.
Buffy followed through with her punch, putting all of her considerable strength behind it. Her fist exploded into the vampire's chest, instantly shattering several of its ribs. It didn't stop there. Propelled forward by its own momentum, her balled hand tore into the vamp's chest cavity, the kinetic force transferring to the demon's unbeating heart, propelling the dead organ through the back of the rib cage. Buffy stared in utter shock as the mass of necrotic tissue erupted from the demon's back, splattering grotesquely against the stone wall, before slowly sliding to the cement floor, leaving a stream of entrails in its wake. The recently-eviscerated monster gaped at the Slayer in disbelief, looking in mute amazement at the tiny arm on which he was now impaled.
Regaining her senses, Buffy withdrew her arm, recoiling in semi-disgust at the decayed blood now coating her arm. No longer supported by the Slayer, the demon's body momentarily hung in midair, its lifeless eyes still affixed on the young girl, before it crashed unceremoniously to the floor, and lie unmoving. Almost as an afterthought, Buffy toed the discarded heart, kicking it out the front door and into the waiting sunlight, turning it – and its previous owner – to dust. One down. One to go.
Buffy turned back to the female vamp, glaring at the mass of blond tresses cowering in the corner. A glimmer of recognition flashed over the Slayer's face as she got a better look at her nemesis. Harmony. It almost brought a smile to her face.
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For her part, Harmony wasn't having a much better time than the Slayer. What had started as a routine night for the intellectually-challenged vampiress had quickly devolved into a desperate struggle for survival. In all honesty, she hadn't been surprised that he'd come back – with his track record it had only been a matter of time – or even that he'd once again resorted to killing his own kind. But the fact that Spike had nearly incinerated her entire pack had come as a rude awakening.
She'd survived of course, partially flambéed and reeking of lighter fluid, but on the whole, none the worse for wear. It was in her haste to escape that she'd erred, failing to recognize the telltale signs of a textbook case of Slayer rage, namely the vast number of demon corpses littering the otherwise meticulous cemetery grounds. She'd only known that sun was about to rise, and that getting a suntan was not on her list of things to do. Seeking refuge in a crypt with the sole remainder of her brood – his name had escaped her at the time – she'd sensed the Slayer's presence just a little too late, and in doing so, had sealed her fate.
Now, lying prone on the floor, Harmony stole a furtive glance at the Slayer. Her vision blurred, both from the skull fracture she'd just sustained and the blood flowing freely from the scalp laceration, she could barely discern a pair of black leather boots striding across the cement floor in her direction. Her last thought, before mercifully succumbing to unconsciousness, was that they were nice boots. Really nice boots.
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Buffy paced restlessly around the shattered body of the comatose vamp, her hands clasped behind her back as she surveyed the damage she'd inflicted, contemplating her course of action. She knew she should just stake Harmony and be done with it, but somehow, it just didn't seem right. Given their mutual history, Harmony deserved something a little more inspired. Something a little more painful…actually, a lot more painful. Buffy glanced back to the open doorway, and then again to where the vampire lie. Eastern exposure, her mind registered. That had definite possibilities. To be honest, Harmony was looking a little pallid. Maybe a little sunlight would take care of that.
Reaching down, Buffy grabbed a handful of Harmony's hair with her left hand, easily lifting the limp vampire from the floor. Raising the bloodied head to shoulder height, she reached inside her coat, drawing the sword from the sheath inside. Smiling for the first time that night, the Slayer thrust the steel blade through Harmony's stomach, effectively impaling her against the wall. For good measure, she grasped each of the vampire's arms in turn, breaking them both for good measure.
Satisfied, Buffy stepped back, positioning herself between the door and Harmony, effectively blocking the path down which the sunlight would soon be traveling. And then she waited.
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The first thing Harmony noticed upon regaining consciousness was that her stomach hurt. A lot. That realization was soon followed by an acute awareness that there was a long, slender object protruding from her belly, and that, for some reason, she couldn't move her arms very well. On the bright side, at least now she couldn't feel the pain in her head.
"I was afraid you wouldn't wake up in time." Though Harmony's body had no internal source of heat, the voice still managed to chill her to the bone.
Through blood-encrusted eyes, Harmony could just make out the diminutive figure of a small woman standing in front of her, though initially, she couldn't tell who it was. But the memories came back: Spike, fire, running like hell, crypt, Slayer. This couldn't be good. "B-Buffy…h-hey," she stammered. "I seem to be stuck. You think you could give me a hand?"
The Slayer arched an eyebrow, feigning interest. "Why, Harm? Is there something wrong with yours?"
It was about that time that Harmony noticed the shadow the Slayer cast on her, as well as the uncomfortable proximity of the early morning sun to her unprotected skin. Harmony may have been ignorant, but she wasn't totally oblivious. "Can we at least talk about this?"
"Talk, Harmony? I don't recall us ever really talking before. In fact, I seem to remember that you were always too good to talk to me."
"I was wrong," pleaded Harmony. "I-I know I never really gave you a chance, but I can change. We could be friends."
The thought elicited a cold laugh from the Slayer. "You know, Harm – I'll always cherish the initial misconceptions I had about you. Here I thought you were just an insipid little bitch. I never realized you were spineless to boot."
Panic began to set in as Harmony felt the first rays of sunlight tickle her blood-encrusted hair. "You can't do this!" She protested vehemently. "You're Buffy. You're the good guy. You don't torture people!"
"You're not people, Harmony," Buffy reminded her coldly. "What you are is a pathetic excuse for a demon. Show a little backbone and die with at least a modicum of dignity."
The panic turned to rage as the futility of her situation set in. "You think this matters, Slayer?" Harmony hissed at her. "You can kill me, but you can't get us all. In the end, nothing you do will make a difference!"
Buffy shrugged dismissively. "I know. It's a thankless job, but I have a lot of karma to burn off. And speaking of burning, Harm, I believe your hair's on fire."
The vampire instinctively raised her hands to her head, forgetting momentarily about the broken bones inside. She'd only managed to lift them to her shoulders when the pain became unbearable, forcing her to lower them back to her side, where they dangled uselessly.
"Please," she pleaded, repeating the word over and over until it grew into a scream of agony. The hairspray she'd carelessly applied the previous night finally ignited, consuming her upper body entirely. Buffy watched dispassionately as the flames began spreading downward, ignoring the demon's dying wails. At the last possible moment, she retracted the sword form Harmony's torso. Freed from the blade, Harmony's blazing form dropped to the floor, collapsing into a cloud of dust before it made contact. And as the dust settled, Buffy turned on her heel, and walked out into the sunlight.
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1600 Revello Drive
0730 hrs
Some mornings were just better than others. The truism generally didn't apply to Mondays per se, except perhaps on those occasions when school happened to be canceled. Fortunately for Dawn Summers, this was one of those days.
Straddling the kitchen stool, Dawn scanned the front page of the newspaper, sipping a large glass of orange juice as she perused the headlines, or in this case, headline. On this morning, one story dominated the front page. Engrossed by the headline, Dawn didn't' bother to look up as the kitchen door opened and closed.
"What do you call a hundred dead lawyers?" she mused aloud.
"Karmic justice?" guessed Xander, retrieving a glazed donut from the box on the countertop.
"Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of a good start," Dawn said, looking up from the paper with a rare Monday morning smile. "But your answer works too."
Xander crammed the entire donut into his mouth. "When did you become so callous, Dawnster?"
"Around the time puberty set in. All those rampaging hormones make Dawn cold and indifferent. And for the record, my name's actually Dawn, not Dawnster. It even says so on my birth certificate."
"Your birth certificate's not real." Xander pointed out.
"It's signed and notarized, Xand. That makes it official. You wanna fight city hall on this?"
He hung his head in resignation. "I have no chance of winning this argument, do I?"
"No chance in hell," Dawn confirmed. "Remember, bitchy teenager here."
Now it was Xander who smiled. "You're many things, Dawn. But a bitch is not one of them."
"And you, Xander Harris, are a terrible liar, but a sweetheart nonetheless."
Xander swallowed the last of the donut, pulling a carton of milk from the fridge and taking a healthy swig. "You don't by any chance still have a crush me, do you?"
Dawn shook her head morosely, not the least bit embarrassed. "Nope. I'm afraid my school-girl crush has grown into a full-blown case of borderline obsessive teenage lust."
"I hate to burst your bubble, young lady, but the only ride you're getting from me is a ride to school."
"I just love it when you call me young lady," Dawn said, pouting her lips seductively. "It makes me feel all bad and dirty inside."
"You're incorrigible, Dawn."
"I'm also cute, articulate, and accident-prone. And I'm not going to school."
"You're not?"
"It's cancelled. The guy on the radio said something about "structural failure", but I pretty much tuned out after hearing "School's cancelled."
"Structural failure?" repeated Xander, putting the milk back in the refrigerator.
"That's what the man said. I think the library floor collapsed into the basement, or something like that. I blame shoddy craftsmanship."
"Dawn, I built that damn school."
"I know. I'm ashamed for the both of us."
"I appreciate the vote of confidence," Xander said sarcastically, "I guess I should probably get over there while I still have a job."
"I wouldn't bother. You're probably already fired."
"Dawn…stop it"
"You'll be evicted from your apartment," she added.
"Cut it out!"
"You'll be homeless. You'll probably have to shack up with me."
"I'm not listening to you," Xander warned, covering his ears and singing loudly and very off-key. "La La La La."
Dawn still ignored him. "It's a good thing I have a double bed. Would you say you're more of a snuggler or a cuddler?"
"I'm leaving now," Xander informed her, his hands still covering his ears as he opened the door and backed out. "I'm going to forget we ever had this conversation."
Sometimes it was just too easy. Dawn slid off the stool. "Hold up, loverboy, I'm coming with."
Xander dropped his hands. "You want to go to school on a day off?"
"God no. I wanna stop by Stacey's; It's on the way."
Xander mulled it over. "You promise to behave?"
"Scout's honor," Dawn assured him, placing one hand solemnly over her heart. "I promise – no more suggestive comments."
"Dawn – you were never a girl scout." Xander reminded her.
"I might have been," she countered, grabbing her house keys and sauntering to the door. "But in all fairness, I have only those wacky monks to blame for that one. And besides, since when is my word not good enough for you?"
"That was a rhetorical question, right?" The look on her face suggested otherwise, so Xander gestured to the truck. "All right, I give up…get in," he conceded. "But at least tell me one thing."
"What's that?"
"Why is it that I can never say no to you?"
Dawn smiled at him sweetly. "I'm just too damn adorable. That, and you're severely lacking in the willpower department."
"I have willpower," Xander protested, holding open the passenger door for Dawn.
"Of course you do, Xander. Tell me, when's the last time you said no to someone?"
"Ask your sister," he muttered, closing the door and walking around to the driver's side.
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Crawford Street
Monday Morning
The street was beginning to come alive on this September morning, the usual sights and sounds signaling the arrival of another routine business week. A lone garbage truck rumbled noisily down the asphalt lane, jarring the last of the early-morning risers from their blissful slumber. Men and women in business suits trickled steadily from their carbon-copy suburban homes, eager to begin another day at the office. A few enthusiastic children, taking full advantage of a rare weekday off, were already outdoors enjoying the late summer warmth. Everywhere on Crawford Street, it seemed, people were embarking on the ubiquitous adventure known as Monday morning. Everywhere, that is, except in the brownstone at 1216.
There was no activity in the house, save for the monotonous drip of the coffee maker as it spewed out its wondrous caffeine tonic. There was no rush for the bathroom, no microwavable breakfast foods consumed, and no kiss goodbye at the front door. In short, nothing was stirring, not even a mouse.
Until approximately 1 a.m., the home had been occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Reginald Gellar, along with their sixteen year-old daughter. They were a happy upper-middle class family; sober, non-abusive parents and a spunky, if slightly over energetic teenage daughter. Mr. and Mrs. Gellar had raised their daughter well, teaching her life's lessons as they saw fit, and letting her learn others on her own. She had learned one of the latter only hours before, though it had come at a very steep price. The recently deceased Mr. and Mrs. Gellar could have testified to that.
Their only child lay motionless on her bed; the white comforter stained a dark crimson with her blood. She knew she was dying, both from the hemorrhaging of blood, and the internal injuries inflicted on her; for that, at least, she was thankful.
She'd been smitten with him from the moment she'd first laid eyes on him, the prototype bad boy, the kind her parents had warned her about. From his bleach-blonde hair, black duster, and the cigarette dangling precariously from his pale lips, she knew he was trouble. That's probably why she was so turned on in the first place.
He'd been the one to approach her, charming her with his Cockney accent and confident manner. They'd talked, danced, and talked some more, intermingled with brief yet furious make-out sessions in a darkened corner of the Bronze. The motorcycle had sealed the deal.
Climbing onto the chromed-out Harley Davidson, she couldn't help but notice the envious looks she was getting from the other girls, especially after she wrapped her arms around his lean, muscular form. Ever the gentleman, he'd taken her home, even insisting on walking her to the door. Beneath the security light, he'd given her a remarkably chaste goodbye kiss, even as her father had appeared at the door. And that was when everything, quite literally, went to hell.
In retrospect, she should have noticed the signs. His skin, his incredibly pale skin, had been incredibly cool to the touch, though in all fairness she did have other things on her mind at the time. And of course, there was the remarkable sense of hearing, though she had simply ascribed it to his overriding attentiveness. After all, she was, among other things, exceedingly interesting. She had overlooked all of those things. But what had happened on her doorstep could not be ignored.
Six hours earlier:
She'd seen guys change before, just not in the literal sense, and not right before her disbelieving eyes. No sooner had her father appeared in the doorway, admonishing her for once again staying out too late (and on a Sunday night to boot), than the nightmare had begun. It was the face that gave it away. His eyes had inexplicably changed color, suddenly imbued with an unnatural yellowish hue, the light from the overhead bulb perfectly reflected in them. The transformation had spread quickly to the rest of his face, the pronounced ridges above and around the eyes announcing to the rest of the world that he was truly "not like other guys". But what had scared her most was the hand wrapped tightly around her father's throat, and the surprise and fear reflected in daddy's eyes.
The corner's of William's mouth had curled upwards slowly, twisting his perfect mouth into a cruel imitation of the genuine article. "Invite me in, luv" he recommended, almost sounding reasonable, "or I make you an orphan." Naively, she'd acceded to the suggestion, and allowed the demon into her home. Had she been thinking clearly, or been a bit more fatalistic, she might have refused, sacrificing both she and her father in order to spare her mother's life. But she wasn't a martyr, and lacked the capacity to think clearly at any rate. And so both of her parents had died, instead of just the one.
Predictably, he'd turned on her father first, but hadn't killed him outright. Bruised and bloodied, and lightheaded from the loss of blood (William always like to eat before playing), daddy had been forced to watch as the monster had its way with his wife, forcefully violating every orifice in her body, his passion only intensified by her repeated screams and pleas for mercy. She felt guilty, the daughter did, sitting there watching as the vampire repeatedly raped her mother. She knew what was coming, what these creatures were and what they represented, but she was helpless to stop it.
In due course, he'd finished with mom, ending her life with an effortless snap of the neck. Her father had followed soon after, but not before William had knelt down beside his broken body, whispering one last taunt into his remaining "good" ear before ending the man's life as well. And then he turned to face her, that sexy smile adorning his face as his features returned to normal. "Your turn, pet."
She tried to run of course, mentally willing her uncooperative legs to move, but shock had already set in, and she remained frozen in place, resigned to her fate. He stalked over to her, his long white fingers forcibly grasping her chin, forcing her to look at him as he extended his bloody fangs. His other hand grasped at her blouse, tearing the buttons from the fabric in one swipe, his calloused fingers returning to grope her roughly, alternately squeezing and pinching her small breasts through the cotton bra. She moaned involuntarily as he began licking her face, tracing a line across her tear-stained cheek. "I'm going to eat you," he purred into her ear, more a promise than a threat.
He smiled again, giving her a quick peck on the cheek. Then he grabbed her by her flowing red mane, brutally dragging her up the staircase behind him. She stumbled along, crying profusely as she tried in vain to maintain her balance, her arms flailing uselessly at the unperturbed vampire. He randomly kicked in doors, searching impatiently until he found the room he was looking for. Dragging her into the room, he flung her violently onto the bed, the one she'd slept on for years, the same one in which she dreamed of one day losing her virginity. She never dreamed it would be like this.
Growling ferally, he tore off the rest of her clothes, leaving her trembling naked on the thick white comforter, praying in vain that her death would be quick. He deftly yanked off his belt, shedding his black jeans, and with them the last vestiges of humanity. She closed her eyes as he set upon her, taking both his pleasure, and his time. The last sensation she ever had, before descending into merciful oblivion hours later, was that of the monster sinking his fangs into her slender neck.
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Residential Sunnydale
Xander's Truck
0815 Hrs
"You know where she lives, right?"
Xander stole a glance at the young girl, not for the first time during the short drive. "Yeah, I'm familiar with the area, Dawn" he assured her, recalling a certain nearby mansion that carried with it quite a few unpleasant memories. "Your sister used to, uh, spend a lot of time around here."
Dawn didn't press the issue, knowing full well that the Angel subject was a touchy issue with Xander. "Speaking of Buffy, have you two talked yet?"
"Not so much," he admitted, both to himself and to Dawn. "What I meant to say is, I tried, but she wasn't what you would call receptive."
"You mean you two fought." She observed bluntly.
"Only if you consider yelling and screaming to be fighting. I personally like to think of it more as a spirited commentary on some of her life choices."
"Oh. I see. So basically what you're saying is that you were all judgmental and insulting, and didn't give her a chance to tell her side of the story. I guess it's safe to assume that you didn't let her down gently?"
"One could safely make that assumption," Xander conceded. "Though in my defense, the opportunity didn't really present itself."
Dawn accepted that for the time being. "You do realize that I'm now obligated to hate you."
He nodded. "Most of the women in my life hate me. Why should you be any different."?
"You still feel bad about Anya, don't you."
Another nod. "It's not like I'm still in love with her, if I ever really was. I just regret the way I ended it, the way we left things."
"You should keep that in mind," Dawn suggested sagely. "Burning bridges can get to be a bad habit."
Xander arched an eyebrow, gazing at her in something akin to admiration. "Again with the subtlety. When did you become so damn clever?"
Dawn smiled brightly. "Around the time you all became so emotionally crippled. I figured one of us should keep their head on straight. Who better than me?"
"That settles it, then. You get to be the level-headed one. Can I start calling you Velma?"
Dawn glared at him, her eyes narrowing into mere slits. "Only if you want to lose your tongue. I don't swing that way."
Xander felt his hair stand on end. "Has anybody ever told you that you're a very scary person?"
Dawn's smile grew. "Nobody presently among the living," she confirmed.
Xander returned the smile and raised her a wink. "Let's keep it that way."
"Agreed," she said magnanimously, glancing out the window. "It's right up here on the left. 1216."
Xander pulled smoothly into the cement driveway, toggling the locks as the Dodge came to a stop. "You want me to wait. Make sure she's here?"
Dawn rolled her eyes. "Xander, it's 8:30 in the morning. Where else would she be?" She climbed out of the car, shut the door and turned back leaning into the window. "Thanks for the ride."
"You're welcome, and I'll see you tonight. Hasta.'' He put the dodge in gear, backing out onto the road, as he waved goodbye.
Dawn blew a kiss at the departing truck, and then turned and strolled up the cement walk to the front door, hoping Stacy wouldn't kill her for showing up so early. She rang the doorbell.
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End chapter 11. Feedback? Advice? Death threats? Let me know.
Rabid Squirrel