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, Mutant Enemy, 20th Century Fox, UPN, and quite possibly the U.N., sick bastards all of them.
Summary: All right, I confess. I'm making this up as I go. But we've come this far…
Spoilers: Thru season 6, though my selective memory allows me to edit out or rewrite certain unsavory aspects.
Rating: R, for violence, strong language, and limited sexual content.
Note: In previous chapters, I referred to the Summers' address as 1606 Revello. In a recent episode of BTVS, their address was shown as 1630 Revello, which I will reference in this and all remaining chapters, unless someone informs me otherwise.
Feedback: Constructive criticism, advice, and words of encouragement are all accepted, as are bribes, tributes, and human sacrifices. All flames will be used to burn the French flag. Viva La France!
Dedication: Here's to Saddam, Qusay, Udai, and the rest of the Baath Party boys: Hear that sound, guys? It's the fat lady singing. Next stop: Syria!
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Words of Wisdom:
"We will either find a way, or make one." Hannibal
Chapter 13: "The Dawn of a New Age"
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Shady Hills Cemetery
Monday MorningThe funny thing about history – aside from the questionable fashion trends and frequently abused quotations (not that your humble author is guilty of that) – is mankind's almost universal inability to recognize it unfolding before their eyes. Sunnydale residents, the law enforcement community included, were no more immune to this phenomena than others.
In all fairness, they couldn't be blamed for that particular shortcoming. Hindsight may well and true be 20/20, but it's always difficult to see the larger picture when you're busy slogging it out in the trenches. Of course, the allusion to soldiers is no accident, since, for all practical purposes, that's what the majority of citizens were; proper grunts taking orders and going about their business as usual, entrusting the important decisions to those who knew better. Or, at least to those who should know better. That wasn't always the case, especially within the ranks of the Sunnydale PD. But that's a matter for another time. For the Sunnydale Police Department, there were more pressing issues at hand, even if they didn't yet know it just yet.
Parked outside the stone gates of the main entrance, a lone patrol car stood sentry, its rotating rooftop lights warning casual observers to keep their distance. That it was unmanned was unimportant; the good people of Sunnydale knew better than to go looking for trouble. It did well enough finding them all on its own.
Just inside the cemetery grounds, a lieutenant detective paused outside the cordoned-off area at its westernmost extension, stymied by a persistent breeze in his attempts to light his first cigarette of the day. He finally succeeded on the third try, cupping the small flame protectively inside his hands as he brought it to the tip of the cigarette dangling between his lips, a minor triumph that would likely go down as his only victory of the day. The detective had been to Shady Hills on many occasions, usually shortly after sunrise – nobody in his or her right mind came here at night – and almost always for the same reason. At least today they wouldn't have to involve the coroner. He supposed that qualified as a victory of sorts, though not one he could rightfully claim for himself.
He glanced reluctantly over at the small contingent of officers clustered inside the police tape, catching the eye of an overweight veteran sergeant, who in turn beckoned the lieutenant with a wave of his hand. Dropping the half-finished cigarette into the still dewy grass, he strode over to the "crime scene" and ducked beneath the tape.
"So what's the story?" he asked perfunctorily. After five years on the force, he had the routine down cold.
The senior patrolman gazed at him sympathetically, foregoing his usual "good morning" greeting. There was nothing particularly good about it anyway.
"SSDD," he informed the senior officer bluntly, without anything in the way of explanation.
Despite his current mood, the detective couldn't suppress a grin. SSDD. The acronym had made its way into the SPD lexicon a number years before, embraced by a cynical generation of officers who had adopted the phrase as their unofficial motto. He couldn't recall the name of the deputy who had first used the term – the officer in question had been eaten, literally, a few years back – but the man's legacy had been forever immortalized by the words spelled out on the briefing room chalkboard.
He cast a questioning glance at his colleague. "Another Monday morning special, huh Sarge? So what are we calling this one…fraternity prank?"
The sergeant dismissed that suggestion out of hand. "Used that story last week. This one's going down as a routine vandalism." Of course, his declaration might have been more convincing were he not grasping a severed horn in his hand at that particular moment. Fortunately, both men had the good sense to ignore that otherwise incongruous fact.
The sergeant tilted his head in the direction of a nearby mausoleum. "You wanna see something interesting, Mr. Defective? Drag your greasy ass over to that crypt and take a look inside," he advised the detective, tossing the aforementioned appendage onto a pile of similar demon paraphernalia. "You happen to notice anything unusual?"
Muttering something about Gringos beneath his breath, the native Mexican traversed the short distance to the entrance to the vault and peered inside, spying the remains of the door and a few large piles of ash. He shook his head. "Aside from the fact that someone slaughtered a bunch of demons, ripped a two-hundred pound steel door from its hinges and killed a coupla' vampires? Nope, nothing out of the ordinary here."
"And you call yourself a detective?" the sergeant scolded his counterpart. "Take a closer look at the door, Sherlock. I think you might recognize the handiwork."
Kneeling down, the detective ran his hand over the surface of the mangled door. There was a small imprint of a fist embedded in the steel, a depression that protruded clear out onto the opposite side of the 3 inch door, belying the myth that the door had been ripped from its hinges. "Damn!" he exclaimed, whistling appreciatively. "That's definitely our girl. Wonder what got her so worked up?"
The sergeant shrugged. "I don't know. You think maybe she had a bad hair day?"
"I think she had a bad day, period. And she's not the only one." The detective gestured to the pile of demon corpses adjacent to the crypt. "You get a body count yet?"
"Hard to tell," the sergeant confessed. "Best guess – at least a dozen. Maybe more. We're bagging and tagging now."
"You know how to handle this, right?"
The sergeant rolled his eyes, feigning exasperation. "I do have some experience in the matter, Lieutenant. You can rest assured nothing unseemly will make its way into the evidence room. This one will be done by the book." He didn't need to add that "by the book" took on a slightly different meaning in Sunnydale. The first thing any new recruit learned upon joining the force – other than the fact that their 9mm sidearm wasn't the most effective weapon of choice – was to throw the conventional "book" out the first available window. Traditional tactics and procedures were all fine and dandy when dealing with criminals of the human variety, but things tended to get a little murky when demons were thrown into the mix.
"So I can also assume that you'll be taking care of the paperwork on this?" The detective was notorious in his disdain for the clerical aspects of the job.
"You know what they say about assumptions?" The sergeant wasn't particularly fond of paperwork either.
The detective nodded, grudgingly accepting the reality of the situation. He may have passed the buck on mopping up the crime scene, but he was still stuck with filing the report. Not surprisingly, he'd long since learned not to cross swords with the Sergeant, rank notwithstanding. "You know, I can remember a time when little Miss Summers cleaned up her own messes."
"You going all Norman Rockwell on me, detective? I never pegged you as the nostalgic type."
The detective suppressed a laugh. "Mock me all you want, but back in the day we had a system: We pretended not to know what was going on, and she pretended not to know that we knew."
The sergeant had been around way too long to fall for that one. "The only difference between then and now is that I've gotten older and you've gotten uglier. Face it, my friend – you're just pissed that you have to clean up after her."
"Actually, sergeant, you have the distinct pleasure of cleaning up after our resident vampire slayer. I'm here strictly in an advisory capacity."
The overweight officer arched a brow in mock disbelief. "Do my ears deceive me? Are you actually pulling rank on me, lieutenant?"
He'd thought that much was obvious. "You bet your donut-fed ass I am. This is your crime scene, buster. My considerable talents are best utilized elsewhere."
Mildly offended, the sergeant hung his head in dismay. "So the rumors are true then – you give a cop a gold shield, and he turns into an asshole."
His counterpart grinned wickedly, his appearance not dissimilar to that of your common weasel – who, truth be known, had gotten a bad rap over the years. "That's where you're wrong, old man: I was an asshole long before I ever made detective."
The sergeant's witty retort was drowned out by the sound of the detective's cell phone trilling, the customary ring replaced by a badly rendered electronic version of the "Cops" theme song. The detective reached into his suit jacket, pulling out and unfolding the small unit in one smooth motion. "Martinez," he answered curtly. He quickly fell silent, ostensibly listening to whomever was on the other end. Judging by the look on the detective's face, the news was not good. After a minute or two, he mumbled an incoherent goodbye and flipped the phone shut, unceremoniously stuffing it back into his coat pocket.
"Bad news?" the sergeant inquired, his curiosity getting the best of him.
The detective affixed him with a tired gaze, looking every bit of his 42 years.
"Same shit, different day."
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1216 Crawford Street
That same timeWhoever said that your life flashed before your eyes as your were dying was full of shit. Ditto for that whole "white light" song and dance. Dying was dying, as far as Dawn Summers was concerned, and at this very moment she was getting a little first hand experience in that arena.
What surprised her the most, aside from the incomprehensible fact that she was actually going to die, was that it didn't hurt, at least not in the physical sense of the word. In all honesty, it was almost a pleasurable experience, a ubiquitous sensation of pseudo-euphoria tinged with just a touch of sexual release. But then again, that may have just been the blood loss speaking. At this point it was hard to tell.
As Stacy continued to feed on Dawn, the blood loss quickly began to take its toll. Deprived of oxygen by the decreased blood flow, her brain reacted automatically, sacrificing Dawn's sensory perception in the most rudimentary act of self-preservation. Of course, Dawn knew nothing of this. She knew only that her eyesight was failing her, her field of view blurring and tunneling until she could barely make out the figure sucking the life from her. As she began to lose her purchase on reality, Dawn could almost swear she saw something else, a vaguely human-shaped figure looming large in front of her. And then everything went dark.
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1630 Revello Drive
SunnydaleIt was all a lie, really.
In the commercials, the laundry detergent could handle anything. Grass stains? Step on up! Red wine spots? No problem. Caked on mud? Puh-lease! How about a real challenge?
All-temperature bleach…meet your match.
She'd been generous with the detergent, dumping fully half the bottle into the aging Kenmore in a vain attempt to restore her favorite tank top to its original color. As it turned out, the folks on Madison Avenue had a lot of explaining to do.
"Stain fighter my ass," she mumbled, slamming the metal lid closed.
Her clothing had emerged from the washing machine in much the same condition as it had gone in – dripping wet and covered in demon goo of an indeterminate nature. Which, combined with the current status of her personal life, did little to improve Buffy's already foul mood. So much for starting the week on a positive note.
She hadn't meant to be out all night. The plan was to patrol for a few hours, kill a few (dozen?) bad guys, and make it home in time for Letterman…or at least Kilbourne, whom she didn't even like that much. Of course, that plan, like most others she made, had not survived first contact with the enemy. What was that they said about the best-laid plans of mice and men?
She'd simply lost track of time, or, at least, that's what she told herself lately, even if the excuse was starting to wear thin. The plain and simple truth was that she couldn't stop. It wasn't enough anymore to kill jus two or three vampires on a given night, or even to eradicate the occasional nest; she wanted to kill them all. Now.
And that wasn't such a bad thing…was it? It was her calling after all. She killed vampires, demons, and the occasional Hellgod. That's what Slayers did; at least until they died, or in her case, even after they died. But until someone else came along, it was her responsibility, and hers alone. Besides, each one of the bastards she killed meant that someone would live to see another day. So what if she didn't get paid? Knowing the good she did made it all worthwhile.
But still…
There was something about her situation that was vaguely disturbing. Buffy had always been obstinate and willful in her own right (those were Gile's words, not hers), a fact she prided herself on. She'd never let her birthright define who she was. But lately she'd felt as if she were no longer in control, like there was some unseen force dictating the events of her life. And as much as she hated being a spectator in her own life story, a part of her was content to let that happen. That, more than anything else, told her that something was wrong.
She tried to deal with it, to maintain some semblance of normalcy in her life, a goal she'd never quite succeeded in attaining, but nonetheless one she continued to strive for, even if the cards were stacked against her. God forbid, she'd even tried the whole personal introspection routine, but hadn't found any answers there, either. Buffy knew it was time to tell the others, and come hell or high water (probably the former, given they were in California), she intended to do just that. She'd talk to Giles and the rest of the gang tonight, including Dawn, who, with the loss of Tara and Anya's de-facto defection, had deftly succeeded in maneuvering her way into the remnants of the Scooby gang.
Dawn was another story. As concerned as she was about her own present state of affairs, Buffy was even more worried about her younger sister. She could see it happening right before her eyes, could sense the changes Dawn was going through. The less Buffy began to resemble her former self, the more her sister began to fill that role. It didn't take any giant leap of faith to come to the logical conclusion: Dawn was becoming her. And that downright scared Buffy.
She hadn't said anything to Dawn, but it was obvious the younger Summers wasn't totally oblivious to what was happening. She had to know something was going on, had probably suspected something for quite a while now. It was only a matter of time.
She'd recently told Dawn she didn't want to protect her from the world; that she wanted to share it with her. In reality, it was only a half-truth, even if the intent had been true. Buffy did want to include Dawn, to give her the chance to chart her own destiny on her own terms. But try as she may, Buffy couldn't reconcile her newfound intentions with her instinctual imperative to protect her younger sister at all costs. And as soon as Dawn knew the real truth, as soon as her powers had completely manifested, Buffy knew without a doubt that all bets would be off. Protecting Dawn would be impossible at that point.
And still, she'd resolved to do everything thing within her power to provide Dawn with as ordinary a life as possible, even if her definition of "ordinary" didn't exactly approximate that of the rest of the world. Dawn would graduate high school, would go to college, and would have a career that didn't involve graveyards and pointy objects, even if Buffy had to force her at gunpoint. Fortunately, there were plenty of pawnshops in Sunnydale.
Tossing her ruined shirt into the wastebasket, Buffy closed yet another chapter in her life – that of the color coordinated ensemble. No more white, no more pastels for this girl. From here on out it was either black or earth tones, and anything the color of blood. While money was no longer a pressing issue, it was just too emotionally straining to watch her entire wardrobe die off piece-by-piece. After all, you could take the Slayer out of the girl, but you couldn't take the girl out of the Slayer.
Turning on her heel, Buffy left the utility room, and along with it the ghosts of her wardrobe. She strolled into the kitchen, in search of breakfast and a comfortable chair. She couldn't know that she would find neither.
Just as she reached the refrigerator, and with it the promise of bacon and eggs, the wall-mounted telephone sprung to life, postponing her culinary bliss.
"Who the hell could it be at this hour?" she wondered. Dawn was at school, Xander at work, and she sincerely doubted that Willow would brave calling her this early. By process of elimination that left only Giles. Leave it to a Brit to call before nine o'clock.
She picked up on the fourth ring, fully expecting to hear the Watcher's voice on the other end.
"Hello, Summers' residence."
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EarlierAs it turned out, there was a blinding white light after all. In fact, there were many of them.
She could feel them more than she could see them – intermittent arcs of brilliant white light flashing by overhead, drifting just beyond her reach. And though she couldn't see much of anything, Dawn had the uneasy sensation that she was floating on air, her body propelled forward by some unseen force. Likewise, she could hear little, though all around her she could barely make out muffled sounds, strangely disembodied voices calling out her name, beckoning her forward to some unknown destination.
Dawn had never been a particularly religious person. The closest she ever came to organized religion was the fantasy football league she'd joined last year, and even that had been done only to gain the attention of a certain upperclassman. That wasn't to say she didn't believe in the man upstairs, or Heaven and Hell for that matter. After all, Buffy had been there and done that. It was just that she didn't have a lot of use for religion. She had enough strife in her life. Why would she willingly want to add more?
Still, to hedge her bets, she did say the occasional prayer to whoever might be listening, whether it be God, Allah, Buddha, or some other mass-marketed deity. And it wasn't as though she'd led an immoral life. Sure, there was that little klepto phase she'd gone through, the rare (but increasingly more frequent) profanity, and the occasional impure thought. But thinking something wasn't the same as doing it, was it?
Right now, Dawn wasn't sure. But of one thing she was fairly certain: Dawn Summers was no longer among the living; she was, in drawn out terms – stick-a-fork-in-me, shoot me, stuff me, mount me, pushing up daisies – dead. Of what that meant in practical terms she was slightly less certain.
She didn't think she was in Hell. After all, Hell meant fire and brimstone and eternal torment – the whole nine yards. At least that's what the televangelists said, and if you couldn't trust them, whom could you trust? Thankfully, Dawn hadn't experienced any of that, though she could have sworn that her ears had picked up a few strains of elevator music at one point, which, she feared, did not speak well for her current situation.
On the other hand, Dawn was equally doubtful that she was in Heaven. From what little Buffy had told Dawn of her experience there, the younger Summers had ascertained that Heaven was indeed a very warm and fuzzy place. Not at all like the place she found herself in at the present, which was – pardon the pun – colder than hell.
Which then left her with option C: Purgatory. It wasn't exactly a comforting thought, but neither was it entirely bad, except perhaps for the motion sickness she was enduring at this point. At least she wasn't in any pain. And who knew? Maybe she'd get lucky and Willow would bring her back. She'd done it for Buffy. Why couldn't she do it again? Until then, she'd just have to bide her time.
And so she found herself relegated to seeking out the mysterious lights once more, searching for something to pass the time. The task might have been easier were her eyes not shut, but then, Dawn wasn't even aware that she had them closed. Of course, had they been open, not only would she have seen the lights, but she likely would have seen something infinitely more interesting:
Directly above her – resplendent in its all neon glory – was a simple sign:
-- Operating Room #1 --~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
End Chapter 13. To those of you following this story, I apologize for not posting sooner. All blame lies squarely with my muse: She's a fickle bitch.
Chapter 14 should be up shortly. Look for the conspiracy to unfold further, Buffy to make a new friend (sort of), some surprise revelations regarding Dawn, and a traitor close to the Slayer.
Until next time,
Rabid Squirrel