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: Alternate version of season 7. The real story behind Buffy's resurrection, and the conspiracy that threatens to destroy her, along with the rest of the world.
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.
Feedback: Would it really kill you to take a minute and let me know what you think? On second thought, don't answer that. Just remember: Constructive criticism, advice, and words of encouragement are all accepted, as are bribes, tributes, and human sacrifices. Flames will be used to light my cigarettes, which will in turn be loosed upon the flesh of those who elect to flame or spam me. Gangrene shall ensue.
Dedication: To the voices in my head: May they never again fall silent.
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Words of Wisdom:
"Sacred Cows make the best hamburger" – Mark Twain Chapter 15: "The Gathering Storm"~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Home of Rupert Giles
Monday, 1045 HoursWillow Rosenberg had no great love for the mystery that was Earl Grey tea, but out of deference to the lingering remnants of "Englishness" in the Watcher's life she pretended to enjoy the occasional cup, at least while in his company.
The conversation, at least the one she was currently engaged in, was another story.
"I'm must confess that I'm not quite sure what it is you're trying to tell me, Willow," Giles admitted as he stepped into the living room, balancing an antique silver serving tray atop one hand. Despite the fact that he was fluent in five tongues – ten if you counted dead languages – he hadn't yet completely mastered the intricacies of Willow-speak.
Which was too bad, because he was about to get another lesson.
Willow glanced at her mentor, unable to resist the opportunity for some good-natured teasing. "Why do I get the feeling that you get paid by the syllable?" she asked suspiciously, eyeing the approaching Brit – and the "refreshments" he offered – with exaggerated disdain. Her comment elicited only a blank stare from the Englishman, an expression that closely approximated, if not mirrored, the thousand-yard stare of a deer caught in oncoming headlights. Sighing audibly, the young redhead chose to clue him in. "Xander was right. You really do need to learn to speak American."
"I beg your pardon? What's wrong with the way I speak?"
"Forget it – American humor. Just tell me what part you didn't understand…in thirty words or less, if possible."
Giles set a serving tray on the coffee table, pouring two cups of steaming tea. "Ah…yes…well…I'd have to say that pretty much the entire part between "Hi Giles" and "Do you get what I'm saying" could do with a bit of clarification."
"Giles – you just used a contraction! I-I'm so conflicted; I don't know whether to burst with pride, or report you to Parliament for abusing the Queen's English."
The veteran Watcher chuckled in spite of himself. He loved Willow dearly, as much as if she were his own daughter, but he'd be damned if he could ever fully understand, much less appreciate, the girl's incessant ramblings. "I should much appreciate that you do neither of the two," the Watcher requested. "Though might I suggest that you be a little more specific in whatever it is you are trying to tell me? After all, we do have a plane to catch in…." he trailed off, ostentatiously checking his watch, "…four days."
Willow smiled apologetically, toying with the porcelain teacup, not quite ready to take the necessary culinary plunge. "I don't really do the whole direct thing, Giles. That's more Buffy's style."
"Yes, I suppose it is. And I have a vast collection of gray hairs to show for it. At any rate, I think it best if you tell me straight away what's bothering you."
Which she did, procrastination be damned. "I think maybe Xander's hiding something from us."
Which was exactly what Giles was not expecting to hear. He wordlessly set the teakettle back on the silver tray, settling his lanky frame into the well-worn armchair opposite Willow. "Tell me – what exactly makes you think that Xander's hiding something?"
"It's not so much what I think, it's more what I've heard," Willow admitted, frustrated at her inability to articulate her concerns. "Last night I overhead Xander talking to someone at the apartment."
"Well, of course, I could see how Xander talking to someone might alarm you. We should slay him immediately." Contrary to popular belief, Giles was not immune to the appeal of sarcasm.
Nor, generally, was Willow, except in this particular instance. "They were talking about Buffy," she informed him flatly, the humor noticeably absent from her voice.
"I see," Giles said, removing his glasses in preparation for yet another unnecessary cleansing. There was an indecipherable edge to his speech, though his expression remained neutral, betraying nothing of what he was thinking at the moment. "And this person Xander was speaking with? Did you happen to recognize the voice?"
Willow shook her head. "Not so much. But I did catch his name…. it was Whistler."
"Whistler?" Unlike Willow, Giles wasn't familiar with the name, or the individual it belonged to.
"Yeah, you know – the guy that Buffy…. The one who told her how to…. Oh. I guess nobody ever bothered to fill you in on that, huh?"
"That would appear to be the case," Giles observed coolly. "But I'm sure it just slipped your minds."
"It was a long time ago," Willow offered by way of apology, "back during the whole thing with Angelus."
"Yes, I do seem to recall "the whole thing with Angelus", Giles admitted, his memory of the events reinforced by the vivid scars covering his torso. "Pray tell, what part did this Whistler play in the whole affair ?"
Which Willow did, however briefly. "He showed up here looking for Buffy, just after Drusilla and her gang made with the kidnappage. He was the one who told Buffy how to stop Acathla."
"So one could reasonably make the assumption that he's on our side?" Could was the operative phrase. Giles hadn't lasted this long by assuming anything.
Willow, on the other hand, was slightly less cynical. "Well, yeah…kind of. He told Buffy about how that was supposed to be Angel's big day, but that he was supposed to save the world, not end it. After he came back, Angel told Buffy how Whistler had recruited him, how he had taken Angel to see Buffy on the day she was first called."
"Kind of?"
"I did a little background check on our friend Whistler," she admitted, catching the bemused expression on Giles' face. Knowing exactly what the older man was thinking, she answered the question before it could be asked. "Only three this time," he informed him proudly, referring to the number of anti-hacking laws she had artfully "circumvented" to obtain the information. "Anyway, it turns out that balance demon's aren't really good guys per-se. It's their job to keep the world in balance, to play off the good against the evil so neither side gains an advantage."
"So our mysterious Whistler is a Balance Demon? I suppose that makes sense." Albeit in some cosmically fucked-up way.
"Sorry, I guess I should have mentioned that first. But you said you know about them…. the Balance Demons?"
"Vaguely. I've run into one or two over the years. By and large, an unimpressive bunch, the lot of them."
"So we shouldn't expect him to lead the cavalry charge when the proverbial shit starts to fly?"
"Let's just say I'll reserve judgment on his motives until I know more. For now, I'd like to know your take on the situation."
"Well, that's kinda the tricky part," Willow conceded, braving a drink of the bland tea, if only keep her voice from cracking. "I mean, on one hand, he did help Buffy last time, so if you go with the odds, I'm inclined to guess that he's playing for the other team now."
"And on the other hand?"
"Well, this is Sunnydale, home of the Fighting Razorbacks and the big brewin' evil. It's not like anybody really needs to handicap the odds in favor of the bad guys. Also, Buffy said that even though Whistler was, and I quote, "a totally annoying prick with the fashion sense of a fruit fly", he seemed to be on the right side."
"So let me get this straight: On the basis of a flip of a coin, the Hellmouth's propensity to spew forth evil, a Balance Demon's annoying tendencies and utter lack of good taste, we have managed to conclude only that Whistler is neither good nor evil."
"That about sums it up," Willow agreed, nodding her concurrence as she reached for a molasses cookie. At least Giles got that part right.
"And as far as you know, Xander had no prior knowledge of this Whistler?"
"Not that I'm aware of," Willow admitted, cramming an entire cookie into her mouth. She took another sip of tea before speaking again. "I don't recall Buffy ever mentioning anything to him," she said through a mouthful of cookie. "It pretty much goes without saying that anything Angel-related is taboo when it comes to Xander."
"Do you have any idea what they were talking about– specifically that is?"
"That would be an emphatic no. I only caught pieces of their conversation, though I did hear Whistler say something about Xander keeping his promise; he mentioned that Xander was supposed to keep an eye on Buffy and prepare her for what's to come. As for what that means, I have no idea. I was hoping you might be able to shed some light on the subject, you being the Watcher and all."
"You've said nothing to Xander about this, then?" Giles asked her, the recriminations flying through his head faster than he could process them. "And before the plains of Elysium the Slayer will fall; betrayed by those she would call friend". Was Xander to be her betrayer? Was the young man even capable of such treachery?
"Again, not so big on the whole confrontation concept," Willow explained, mercifully oblivious to Giles' inner turmoil. "Anyway, what would I have said to him? Hey Xand, how's it going? Planning on stabbing Buffy in the back anytime soon?"
"Of course…you're right," Giles temporized, still struggling to come to terms with his suspicions. "It's probably best that we not say anything to Xander, at least until we know more about what's going on."
"I don't suppose you would have any idea on how we're supposed to go about that? Recent events notwithstanding, Xander is still my best friend. We talk all the time…well, we don't always talk per se, but still – we do the whole friend routine. And friends don't keep these kinds of things from each other. We've gone that route before, with less than spectacular results if I remember correctly."
"Quite so," Giles concurred. "However, we must remember that Xander tends to be rather impulsive when it comes to all things Buffy. It seems likely to me that, if he is indeed working with this Whistler fellow, then its only because he's trying to help Buffy, and not harm her."
Willow wasn't entirely convinced. "But it that's true, then why go behind our backs? Why not come to us for help? If he really wanted to help Buffy, then why wouldn't her tell her what's going on? Giles, it just doesn't make any sense! I don't want to think that Xander could possibly be doing something bad…. I mean, he's my friend, and I know he would never willingly do anything to hurt Buffy. But still…"
"Nobody's suggesting anything of the sort, Willow," Giles interjected, doing his best to assuage the girl's fears, despite his own rapidly growing sense of dread. "Regardless of the present difficulties between them, Xander has proven time and again his loyalty and devotion to Buffy. As far as I'm concerned, that's not even in question. But, like it or not, we have to face the facts, and the fact remains that we do not know what Xander has involved himself in. It may very well be that Whistler is here to help Buffy, and not to harm her. But we don't know Xander's role in this; nor do we know his motivation. Until these questions are answered, I think it prudent that we not reveal what we know."
"And Buffy…what about her? If she might be in some kind of danger, doesn't she have a right to know?"
"Yes, of course Buffy has a right, and, I should think, the need to know. However, we must bear in mind Buffy's likely reaction to such a revelation, given the current state of her relationship with Xander. Unless I've misinterpreted the situation – and that's altogether likely given my track record – the two of them aren't exactly on the best of terms right now."
Willow squirmed uncomfortably in her seat, panicked at the mere thought of discussing the Scooby Gang's personal lives with Giles. Explaining the nature of the problem between her two friends necessarily meant delving into her little dalliance with Xander. From her vantage point, undergoing rectal surgery presented an infinitely more attractive option than having that talk with Giles. As rectal surgery really wasn't a realistic choice, Willow opted for the path of least resistance.
"I think they're still both trying to work through the whole Spike issue," she chimed in, not technically lying; yet not divulging the whole truth. "You know how stubborn Xander can be; he hasn't forgiven Buffy for what she did. And Buffy, she still can't accept that she actually…. well, you know…. the horizontal thing with Spike…. all those times that they…."
"I'll thank you to never mention that again," Giles asked of her. He still felt nauseous every time he thought of that rotting creature touching his Slayer. Fortunately, like the rest of the group, Giles was becoming increasingly adept at repressing unwanted memories. Not surprisingly, that particular memory was numero uno on the list of things to be forgotten.
"I'm just saying…." Willow countered unnecessarily, "Xander tends to carry a big chip on his shoulder. He may forgive, but he never really forgets, not where Buffy's concerned."
"That's only natural, Willow. Given the nature of Xander's feelings toward Buffy, it's not at all surprising that he would feel that way."
Willow arched an eyebrow in noticeable surprise, her worries momentarily brushed aside. "I didn't think you'd noticed."
"Must I constantly remind you all that I am still a Watcher? I do, on occasion, happen to take notice of the world around me. I rather think it part of the job description."
"Well…. yeah; no offense, but I just assumed that you ignored everything non-Hellmouth related. You know, out of principle and all."
"In a just world, I would. However, seeing as how I can never seem to extricate myself from your sordid and overly complicated personal lives, I have little choice but to take notice." That their lives greatly resembled an episode of "Passions" he didn't feel compelled to share at the moment. Why encourage them?
"In that case, you should probably ask for a raise." After putting up with them for six years, he deserved it.
"Believe me, I have. It seems the Council had other ideas."
"They usually do," Willow agreed, not without a certain degree of bitterness. Fortunately, though she didn't yet know it, that wouldn't long be an issue. "But I think we might be getting off the subject."
"Ahh, yes. Well, I think the important thing is to remember that Buffy is more than capable of taking care of herself. I don't see any reason to bother her with this just yet, at least until we've talked to Xander."
Willow saw things a little differently. "Don't you think you're being just a tad bit dismissive about this? I understand that Buffy can handle just about anything. But if we know something, even suspect something, then we have an obligation to tell her."
"But that's my point, Willow. We don't know that anything's going on. All we know is that Xander is possibly involved with somebody who has only helped Buffy in the past. We have no justifiable reason to suspect anything untoward, in spite of this one isolated incident. And until we do, I would rather we not jump to any premature conclusions."
"How can you be so blasé about this, Giles? If Whistler's here, and Xander's working with him, then something is definitely happening. This is the Hellmouth… remember? It's never nothing. And hello – isolated incident? I think not! Mark my words; there is definite weirdness afoot. In case you hadn't noticed, giant four-legged bodyguards aren't exactly the norm around here. And what about Buffy's newfound wealth? You can't tell me those things are all just a coincidence."
"Willow, please understand me. I am concerned about what's happening. But we must keep things in perspective. We don't know what's going on with Xander, but you of all people must have faith in him. You said yourself that he would never do anything to compromise Buffy's well-being. And as for the other two issues, there's no concrete evidence to suggest that either of them is in any way related to the situation with Xander. In truth, they both seem to be a blessing for Buffy, do they not?"
"So now who's missing the point?" Willow challenged him, raising her voice an octave. "Giles, I trust Xander with my life; I also know how stubborn and impulsive he can be when he thinks someone's in danger. Because of that, he goes charging into situations without thinking things through. If he believed for even a second that Buffy was in danger, then he'd do whatever he thought necessary to protect her. And the other things…it doesn't really matter whether or they benefit Buffy; the important thing is that there's an underlying reason for all of them – there's a reason they're happening all at once. If those…. those things… are here to protect Dawn, then it's because somebody thought they needed to be. And if somebody gave all that money to Buffy, then maybe that somebody thought it best that she focus her energy on slaying, and not flipping burgers at the Doublemeat Palace. Giles, like it or not, we both know that something is happening, something big. Buffy needs to know. And if you won't tell her, then I will."
"Willow, please. Don't misinterpret my intentions. I'm just concerned that if we share what we know – or even think we know – with Buffy, then chances are she'll react in a less than rational manner."
"Don't even go there, Giles. I know what you're thinking; but Buffy would never hurt Xander. She loves him.
"Loves him? Am I to understand that Buffy's feelings toward Xander have changed?"
"Well, yeah – maybe a little bit. But that's so not the point! What matters is that Buffy wouldn't hurt Xander. She'd be upset with him, sure, but she'd never physically harm him…at least not permanently."
"We are talking about the same person, are we not? The same one who's nearly came to blows with Xander on multiple occasions? The same one who nearly killed Dawn and Xander during her little mental episode last year?"
To say Willow was shocked by the tone of Gile's remarks would be a drastic understatement. "How can you say these things, Giles? This is Buffy – your Slayer! The girl you supposedly have "a father's love" for?"
"Please understand me, Willow. I'm not saying these things to either hurt you or demean Buffy. I just wonder if perhaps you might be jumping the gun a bit when it comes to this. I think maybe your overcompensating for past events."
"Overcompensating? Reality check, Giles: I'm not doing this to ease my conscience or make amends to Buffy. I'm saying these things because I'm worried about my friends, and I'm worried that perhaps you're not giving this the attention it deserves."
"Willow, please. You just have to accept that I'm trying to do what's best given our limited grasp of the situation."
But was he really? Willow rose from her chair, pacing the room as she struggled to come to terms with what Giles was saying. She glanced back at her mentor uncertainly; her hazel eyes locking with Giles' blue ones, silently pleading with him to see things her way. Something definitely wasn't kosher. Aside from the obvious indications – namely Xander's midnight rendezvous and a few additional odd occurrences – there were other indications; the tone of Giles' words, the near total lack of concern in his voice. It was as if he wasn't worried, as if he knew something she didn't.
And then, just like that, everything clicked. In an instant, it all made sense.
The most difficult lesson Willow had ever learned was that the truth was seldom an easy thing to accept, all the more so when it ran counter to everything you'd ever held – or even just wished – to be true. Truth, as she had come to know it, was by its very nature a dichotomy; an intangible concept with unfailingly tangible consequences. But contrary to what she might presently believe, truth was never patently cruel. For that would imply intent, and the truth, even in this instance, had no such motivation. Truth was just truth for its own sake; it owed no allegiance, and allowed no recourse. That was the nature of the beast.
Which, at present, was of precious little consolation to Willow Rosenberg.
She struggled to find her voice; her words coming out as only a whisper, an incontrovertible indictment borne on the single gasp of breath she was able to summon. "You knew," she said softly, resolutely, her quiet observation masking the torrent of emotion building within her. "All this time – you knew, and you stood there and lied to my face."
Giles was many things, but a fool was not one of them. He knew when he'd been compromised. He also knew that trifling with an extremely pissed-off Wicca was probably not in his best interest, especially when said witch's eyes had just now turned a decidedly unnatural shade of black. "Willow…"
She wasn't about to give him a chance to explain. "Don't you dare!" she demanded, her features partially obscured by a few stray strands of rapidly darkening hair. "You knew…you knew all along that something was going on. That's why you're being so nonchalant about all of this. You knew, and you didn't tell me!"
Was that a vein he saw protruding from her forehead? "Now Willow – please…you must calm down. It's not what you think."
"You couldn't possibly have the slightest idea what I'm thinking right now," Willow corrected him, her voice still oddly subdued, her breath visible in the rapidly chilling air. "Believe me when I tell you you're going to find out."
"Please Willow, you mustn't lose control of yourself; you must focus. I can assure you there's a very good reason for my actions."
"Oh really?" she asked coldly, affixing the older man with a penetrating glare. "And what reason could you possibly have for lying to me?"
Gathering his nerve, the Watcher looked the young woman directly in the eyes, his solemn expression conveying a finality his words could not.
"Because Buffy's going to die…. again."
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1629 Revello Drive
1050 HoursTechnically speaking, the house was no longer for sale, regardless of what the sign in the front yard said.
It had been listed several months earlier, at a time when the real estate market in Sunnydale was described as anything but booming. It hadn't helped matters that the house directly across the street seemed to be a magnet for what the insurer frequently referred to as "acts of God", as if the deity himself were responsible for the wanton acts of destruction inflicted on the structure by the less savory elements in Sunnydale. As it was, the occurrences in and around 1630 had single handedly depressed property values in the neighborhood to an extent that – coupled with the ever-present danger of living next door to the Summers – had compelled the vast majority of residents to make their homes elsewhere. Of course, that suited the current occupant of 1629 just fine. After all, it was because of his new neighbor that he was here in the first place.
In truth, he wasn't really an occupant; that was just a convenient term. Intruder would be a more appropriate word to describe the man. That's what the actual owners of the house on 1629 Revello would likely have called him, if not for the fact that their bodies were currently lying on the cellar floor, matching 9mm bullets wounds adorning the head and chest of each.
There was a time when the man would have felt bad about what he'd done. But, like many other things, that time had since passed. He knew that the world was changing, even if he refused to fully accept it. In his own mind, he knew why it was so: It was her fault, and hers alone. She was the one who'd betrayed them; she was the one who'd initiated this insurrection that had so suddenly and violently brought down the organization to which he'd pledged his loyalty and his life. The Council was all he'd ever know – all he'd ever wanted to know. And now it was gone. And she would pay for it, pay with her worthless life.
The man hefted the rifle, securing the black-matte barrel to the tripod resting on the table in front of the windowsill. The window itself faced to the east, it's dirty, translucent surface reflecting the rising sun's rays just so, preventing the curious observer from seeing inside. For a moment he'd considered opening it, concerned about the likelihood of deflection as the bullet passed through the glass pane. After some thought, he'd decided against it, opting instead to utilize the semi-automatic capability of the Armalite rifle, compensating for the probable deflection of the first round by quickly and expertly following the initial shot with a second.
He'd been waiting for some time, patiently manning his post as he waited for his intended target to present herself. He'd initially favored a more intimate approach, wanting to put a bullet into the ungrateful bitch at point-blank range, if only to look the traitor in the eyes as the life drained from her body. Of course, Operations had advised against such a course of action, warning him of the inherent danger involved in directly confronting the girl, as well as the unwarranted attention he'd garner to the cause by needlessly exposing the operation. And so he'd been relegated to his perch on the second floor, assuming a role he thought he'd left behind so many years before. Of course, this wasn't exactly Belfast, and he sincerely doubted the boys at Hereford would sanction an operation such as this, even if the girl actually was – as he considered her to be – a terrorist. But that didn't matter right now. The only thing that did matter was that Buffy Summers was finally going to get hers.
He pulled a finely machined metal canister from his military surplus duffel, carefully screwing the threaded end of the cylinder onto the front of the barrel, an act that still seemed surprisingly familiar to him, even after all these years. It was, despite the obvious dissimilarities, a lot like riding a bike. The clip came next, fifteen rounds of 5.96mm subsonic rounds. He didn't expect to use more than two shots, three at the outside. The breaking window would likely attract some attention at this time of day, as would the soon-to-be dead girl on the porch of the bungalow across the street. That's why he needed the suppressor, and with it the low-powered ammunition. It wasn't widely appreciated that a supersonic round could not effectively be silenced. You could trap the expanding gases from the shot with a proper silencer (silencer itself was a misleading term – one could dampen the sound of a fired round, but never completely silence it), but there was still the matter of the ambient noise associated with a projectile, whether bullet or aircraft – traveling faster than the speed of sound. In all likelihood, it wouldn't really matter how much noise he made, as long as it came after the shots were fired. If all went well, within forty-five seconds of firing the first shot, he would be packed and out the back door, leaving behind only three corpses and a lot of unanswered questions, none of which would ever be tied to him. At least, that was the plan.
The man calmly took a seat at the table, consciously stepping through his breathing exercises as lowered his right eye to the scope, simultaneously working the action to chamber the first round. He knew she'd be coming out soon; not from any sixth sense or bullshit intuition, but from the tap they'd placed on her line the previous day. He'd heard the call as it came through: Little sis got bit by a bloodsucker…. well that was just too damn bad, wasn't it? Served the little brat right; for all he knew, she was probably just like her older sister, in which case her death would have been a blessing. And one never knew, maybe he'd get to take care of that one as well.
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1630 Revello
It wasn't supposed to be like this.
Buffy had always accepted that Dawn would be in danger, at least as long as she remained in Sunnydale. It wasn't a particularly pleasant thought, though it was manageable, even if there had been an abundance of close calls. But Dawn was supposed to be safe in the daytime, protected from the creatures of the night by the ever-present California sunlight, safely tucked away among the endless throngs of people meandering about. That's how it was supposed to be.
But since when did things ever go according to plan?
She tried to look at things rationally. So Dawn was in the hospital, her throat nearly ripped out by her former best friend, who was now just a pile of ash? No problem – she could deal. Xander hated her guts? So be it. She'd lasted this long without him; she could make it a few more years, or decades, or whatever the hell it was that came after decades. She was the Slayer; she was supposed to be alone. And so what if something majorly fucked-up was about to go down, for like the umpteenth time in her life? She'd done the apocalypse routine before. What was one more time?
To be sure, the reality of the situation was considerably more complicated than she would like to admit. Buffy had been honest with herself where Dawn was concerned - she really could deal. Yes, it had shaken her a bit, and pissed her off a bit more, but she understood the risks, and – by and large – accepted them for what they were – occupational hazards. It helped matters tremendously knowing that if and when she found the responsible party, heads would quite literally roll.
And then of course, there was Xander. She'd been somewhat less than honest in her self-appraisal of all things Xander-related.
Buffy hadn't exactly made it this far without him. In truth, she knew that he had been there for her the whole time, fighting the good fight, watching her back every step of the way, even if he hadn't been there with her. And while the distinction may have seemed a subtle one at first glance, it nonetheless mattered quite a bit to Buffy Anne Summers, even if she didn't quire understand why.
Of course, in the final analysis, Buffy had been right about one crucial fact: The overriding problem wasn't that all of these things were happening to her. The problem was that all of these things were happening to her at once. And there was still more to come.
Blissfully naïve of what awaited, Buffy pulled out her cell phone, dialing the seven-digit number from memory, as Xander had asked of her. She hadn't really thought about what she would say to Willow, aside from the obvious, that is. To be fair, it wasn't as if Willow had done anything that she herself wouldn't have, given half the chance. And in all honesty, she sincerely doubted that it had been about the sex at all, considering Willow's state of mind and Xander's protective nature. But self-righteousness was a demanding mistress, and for that reason Buffy still entertained certain illusions, chief among them the belief that it had indeed been entirely about the sex, if only to spite her. And so Buffy couldn't find it within herself to forgive Xander, or by virtue of her complicity, Willow. Which was fine with Buffy. It just made things easier.
Xander's home phone rang once. Then a second and third time, the familiar recorded voice finally announcing to Buffy that no one was currently available to take her call, and that she could leave a message – if she so chose – at the beep. And that, too, was fine with Buffy. She didn't really feel like talking to anyone, answering machines included, at the moment.
She gratefully thumbed the end button, walking out the front door and onto the porch, unaware that from a darkened window across the street, a pair of eyes tracked her every move. Still clutching her phone in one hand, she turned to lock the door.
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Fewer than a hundred feet away, a man watched the events unfolding with more than a passing interest. He'd been one of them once, a member of the select few chosen to guide the Slayer and wage the war against the forces of darkness. But that was all in the past now. He hadn't been sent to Sunnydale on the whims of the Executive Council; he was here of his own volition – his assistance requested by someone whom he knew didn't completely trust him, but who sought his help nonetheless.
That he'd come was not at all surprising. He'd harbored a festering hatred these past four years, yearning for the chance to exact his revenge upon those responsible for the present state of things. And that one phone call had given him just such an opportunity.
Smiling to himself, Wesley Wyndham-Price took careful aim, his finger lightly brushing reassuringly against the trigger-guard.
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As it was, Buffy never actually heard the first shot. Jiggling the key hopelessly in the lock – Xander hadn't yet gotten around to replacing it – the sound of shattering glass nearly escaped her notice. But not quite.
Her keys still dangling from the lock, the diminutive Slayer spun counterclockwise, her attention instinctively drawn to the incongruous sound of exploding glass, her eyes automatically seeking out its source. Even as she reacted, the would-be assassin let loose with a second shot, the muzzle flash alerting Buffy to the real threat.
What happened next came as a surprise to them both.
Buffy would never recall exactly how it happened. She would only remember that there was a loud noise, a flash of light, and then everything just stopped – or seemed to at any rate. What struck her at the time was that while she never actually heard either of the shots fired at her, she could see each approaching bullet in remarkable detail, right down to the rifling marks embedded in each deadly missile. It seemed as if the very fabric of time had been torn asunder, its natural continuum violated by some unnatural force.
And that wasn't all.
What she hadn't realized, but eventually would, was that even before the second shot had been fired, her body had already reacted to the threat presented by its predecessor. Performing a move that would have done the Wachowski brothers proud, Buffy Summers ratcheted her upper body violently, bending backwards until her entire torso was perfectly parallel with the ground, her feet still firmly planted on the concrete porch. The lethal projectile, which had only milliseconds before been speeding towards her back, now passed harmlessly overhead, embedding itself in the front door of 1630 Revello Drive, to be followed only moments later by a second round, impacting three inches above the first.
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The shooter looked on in bewilderment, momentarily unable to fire another shot. It was impossible! No Slayer could move that fast. Nothing human could do what the girl had just done. He had to remind himself that she wasn't really human, a notion that wasn't far from the truth, even if the man had no reason to really believe it.
Quickly composing himself, he swiveled the barrel downward toward the now moving target, selecting a fully automatic burst this time. She could avoid one, even two shots. He was betting she couldn't outrun a dozen.
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Buffy was on the move now, darting across the asphalt strip, hurtling toward the source of the attack, her movements as graceful as they were unexpected. She knew that they'd expect her to run away, to seek cover from the fire.
They would be wrong.
If there was one overriding law of nature on the Hellmouth, it was that Buffy Summers never ran away from danger. Like an insect irresistibly drawn to the light, she sought it out, destroying it where it stood. She didn't fear death. Didn't fear pain. She only feared failing, and that didn't happen on her watch.
She closed the distance in a matter of seconds, vaulting effortlessly over a parked car, never breaking stride as she reached the sidewalk in front of the house. In her wake, the pavement erupted intermittently, violently, a fusillade of rounds impacting harmlessly on the asphalt she had just left behind. Reaching the house, she took the front stairs in one bounding stride, ignoring the voice in her head telling her this was ludicrous, that she couldn't outrun a bullet.
Above her, the rifle belatedly tracked her approaching form, losing the target as the girl passed from view beneath.
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He knew he'd failed. Even as he turned around to meet the imminent threat, he knew that she had already bested him. To be sure, she'd be angry, certainly angry enough to kill him. He still had the rifle of course, as little consolation as that was. He hadn't been able to hit her with the first two shots, when he still had the advantage of surprise, and he'd faired equally as well with the remainder of the clip. He sincerely doubted he'd be able to redeem the situation at this point.
It wasn't until he'd completed his turn that he realized just how wrong he'd been.
The other man stood half in the shadows, just inside the open bedroom door. The rifleman couldn't make out the man's identity, but he could discern the gleam of the large caliber Colt leveled at his chest. He glanced down uncertainly at the rifle in his hands, a gesture not lost on the new arrival.
"That won't do you any good, Charles," a familiar voice observed matter-of-factly.
He knew that voice; knew the man it belonged to…. he just couldn't place it. "Who are you? And how in the Hell do you know my name?"
The mystery man took a step forward, the sunlight playing over his features, giving Charles a brief glimpse of his face. "It has been some time, hasn't it, my friend?"
"Wesley? Wesley Wyndham-Price? Is that you?"
"It is," the former Watcher admitted, his ears straining to pick up the sound of the front door shattering downstairs. He only had a few short moments now – to do what must be done.
"What are you doing here?"
"I'm here to make things right, old chum. And for that, I am truly sorry." Without further explanation, he squeezed the trigger once, forever ending his association with the late Charles William Emerson.
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State StreetSunnydale, CA
1050 hrs
En-route to Gile's
Xander cast an uncertain glance at the passenger seat. "I'm not exactly getting a warm fuzzy about this, Dawn."
Groaning her displeasure at Xander's admission, the girl leaned forward, turning down the volume on Godsmack for the second time in the past five minutes. "This is absolutely, 100% final, the last time we're going to have this conversation, so listen carefully: I don't give a damn if you're having second thoughts. We are going to hunt down Spike. We are going to burn his worthless ass alive. And we are going to do the Snoopy dance all over his ashes, whether you like it or not. Am I making myself clear?"
"Abundantly. That's what worries me."
"I'm not going to change my mind," Dawn asserted defiantly, daring Xander to suggest otherwise.
"No, I don't suppose you would. I just think it'd be better if you slept on it, tried to get a little perspective. You shouldn't make important decisions when you're angry."
Who are you, and what have you done with my Xander? "Since when did you become perspective guy?"
"Since I saw you nearly die right in front of me. It kind of made a lasting impression."
That shut Dawn up…. for about five seconds. 'I'm gonna be fine, Xander," she assured him. "Remember, no permanent damage."
"Yeah, and I'd prefer to keep it that way," he admonished her. "Harboring personal vendettas against unstable vampires generally leads to badness and mayhem. And I think it voids your life insurance policy."
"I'm not harboring a vendetta; I'm acting on it. Besides, the shrink told me I shouldn't keep my feelings bottled up inside. She told me to let them out, to act on them, so if you look at this from a purely psychological perspective, killing Spike is actually therapeutic."
"I'm looking at this from more of a physical perspective, as in it's physically bad if you die."
"I can take care of myself," Dawn objected.
Xander raised a skeptical eyebrow in her direction. He didn't need to say it.
Dawn caught his drift. "That was different; Captain Peroxide caught me off guard. It won't happen again."
"And if it does…?"
"Then you'll be there to protect me," Dawn offered, finishing the thought. "Besides, isn't that what "White Knights" do?"
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End Chapter 15.
As always, thanks to all who have taken the time to read and review:
Chorlton: What can I say, I've never understood Buffy's obsession with clothes. I just try to write her as true to character as I can bear! Thanks for the kind words, and rest assured, there a still a few surprises in store for Dawn and Xander, at least where Spike is concerned.
WBH21C: Keep the "Faith", man. You just never know.
Lori: Lots 'o love to my lost loyal reviewer – thanks for sticking with the story. It's readers like you who make me want to write more.
John: It's always good to see there's someone out there who hates Spike (at least as an involuntary "good guy") as much as I do. Thanks for the suggestions.
RobClark: I haven't forgotten about you guys. I've just been in a funk since BTVS wound down to the series finale. Maybe I'll even finish this story before another spin-off hits the air! Thanks so much for hanging with my little vision of Buffy.
Eckles71: Glad to see you've found your way back man. I aim to please.
Rob: If the story depresses you (a little), then it's had the desired effect. Rest assured there will be an emotional payoff at some point, as well as a Scooby reconciliation; just don't expect things to get better any time soon. And good catch on the Christianity theme. I haven't gotten many comments on that….I guess maybe it turns some people off.
Jarald: Submit as many reviews as you like; I can never get enough. Good call on the "Prophecy" allusions. I was wondering if anybody had noticed.
That's about it for now; I know I've said this before, but look for more action next chapter, some unexpected revelations, and the return of Danyael, along with some friends.
'Till next time,
Rabid Squirrel