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 entire human race.
Spoilers: (BTVS) Thru season 6, though my selective memory allows me to edit out or rewrite certain unsavory aspects. Assume Angel more or less true to canon thru season 3.
Rating: R, for violence, strong language, and limited sexual content.
Feedback: Want it; crave it; need it. 'Nuff said.
Dedication: To Jeebus, who never learned the difference between "prophet" and "profit". Next time, leave the water the fuck alone!
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Words of Wisdom:
"This would be really funny if it weren't happening to me" – Rabid Squirrel, on life.Chapter 16: "Weapons of Mass Distraction"
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And then there were the signs.
The Five Man Electric Band had disparaged them in song; the Bible prophetically foretold of their coming, and all around Sunnydale, any number of people were presently doing their best to interpret them.
But in all of Sunnydale, there was only one sign that really mattered, one that told its diviner everything he needed to know about what was happening, in terms that could not be misunderstood.
Just a few feet outside the city limits, set amongst a featureless expanse of sand on the edge of the Pacific Coast Highway, a solitary metal placard stood vigil atop a metal stand. Emblazoned on its green background were three words, words originally intended to welcome visitors to the sleepy town, but which now served as a stark warning to those either brave or foolish enough to venture any further.
The sign read simply: Welcome To Sunnydale.
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If one were to continue further past the sign (assuming one had the testicular fortitude to do such an ill-advised thing, knowing what we do about Sunnydale), he would come to what appears to be an archetypal California town, replete with palm trees, an abundance of suntanned blondes, and of course, the ubiquitous shopping mall.
But then, looks could be deceiving.
Sunnydale wasn't your typical town, not even by California standards. It wasn't even really a town at all, at least not in the grand scheme of things. Though numerous settlements had sprung up in the area over the years, due in large part to a hospitable climate and its close proximity to the ocean, the area in question had always served a far grander – some might say nefarious – purpose. The present incarnation of Sunnydale, population 15,586 and falling, sat atop a cosmic junction point, a sort of highway interchange from hell.
Not that most were privy to that little piece of information. The majority of current residents, both of the living and undead variety, knew their town wasn't exactly Mayberry, even if they didn't really know why. Normal small towns didn't have 12 cemeteries; they didn't have half of the graduating class of 1999 eaten by a giant serpent; and they weren't situated above one of only two known Hellmouths in the continental United States. Of course, in the interest of fairness, Cleveland wasn't exactly a normal town either, Hellmouth or no Hellmouth. However, the so-called "Mistake by the Lake" is a matter for another time. It doesn't concern us just yet.
But Sunnydale does concern us, and a lot of other people as well…. more than just the fifteen thousand plus that happened to make their homes there. In addition to being a gateway to Hell, Sunnydale was a place where things happened, for better or worse. And at this very moment, things were indeed happening…mostly for the worse.
As the sun climbed lazily into the Eastern sky that morning, conspiracies were unfolding all over the Boca Del Inferno; battle lines were being drawn, armies amassed, and coalitions formed and broken, all in the name of progress. And on a partially deserted section of State Street, just a block from a certain Art Gallery, a few secrets were about to be revealed as well.
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Xander's Truck
State Street
En-Route to Gile's House
Xander slammed his foot down on the brake, conveniently opting to ignore Newton's First law of Motion. As the truck lurched to an abrupt halt, both occupants were thrown forward in their seats, their forward momentum arrested at the last possible moment as two sets of seatbelts locked in place, effectively knocking the wind out of both Dawn and Xander. Somehow, the sixteen-year old still managed to speak, albeit in halting gasps.
"Well…I guess that settles it then," Dawn observed with a crooked grin, gingerly rubbing her bruised ribs over the seatbelt embedded in her chest
Not surprisingly, Xander wasn't smiling, not even a little bit. "What in the hell are you talking about?"
"You know, the sticker on your bumper? The one that says, "Cleverly disguised as a responsible adult". I always wondered if that was intended as a joke or a warning. Now I know."
Xander shook his head. "Nice try, Dawn. Try rewinding a little further."
So much for understated attempts at diversion. "Oh, you mean the whole White Knight bit…. wasn't sure you picked up on that."
"Subtlety's never really been one of your strong points."
"So I guess you probably want an explanation or something."
"Or something…if it's not too much trouble." Not that he really cared if it was.
Dawn considered her options. "And if it is?"
"You tell me anyway," Xander advised, the tone of his voice suggesting the matter had already been decided.
Dawn had suspected as much. "All right," she conceded, "but I have to warn you – you're probably not gonna like what I have to say."
"Not exactly a revelation, is it?"
Dawn nodded soberly. "Guess not."
"So let's hear it then. From the top."
Dawn fell silent for a moment, briefly considering how best to describe something that she herself didn't quite understand. "It began about a month ago," she started tentatively, avoiding Xander's gaze, staring out the passenger side window as they resumed the short trip to Giles' house. "That's when I started having the dreams. "
Xander ventured a glance over at his passenger. "I assume by the tone of your voice that these aren't your garden variety walking-into-class-naked kind of dreams?"
"You assume correctly," Dawn admitted, still gazing out the window, looking outside for answers that weren't there. "They were mostly just random events, scenes from the past, things that I didn't – couldn't – know about. It was like watching a movie trailer – big on the action, short on plot."
"But you believe they're all somehow connected?"
She shook her head. "I didn't at first. But the more I think about it, the more they do seem to have one thing in common."
"And that is…?"
"Everything I saw, everything I dreamed I saw, all happened before I existed. I saw things that Buffy had done back in high school; I saw the day she was called by Merrick. And there were other things, things I don't remember from all of my fake memories." She looked pointedly at Xander, driving her point home.
"I presume one of those other things was a certain incident at the hospital?"
"You could say that," Dawn acknowledged with a weak smile. "And by the way – thank you."
"For what?" Xander honestly didn't know.
"I saw what you did for Buffy – and not just that one time." The smile grew a little brighter, in spite of what she had gone through that morning. She shook her head in amazement. "You don't even think about yourself, do you?" she asked admiringly. "You just ride in on your white horse and do what needs to be done, Lone Ranger style."
Xander opened his mouth, attempting to say something which modesty prevented.
"You don't have to say anything," Dawn interrupted. "Knowing you, you'd probably just ruin the moment anyway. Let's just admit to ourselves that we both know why you do it, and let it go at that.
Which of course Xander couldn't do. "I think you're reading too much into this, Dawn…. about Buffy, that is. And the Lone Ranger comment? Faulty metaphor; I tend to see myself as more of a Tonto…. or possibly even Trigger."
"Faulty metaphor aside, Xander, you're wrong. Those dreams, whatever they were, were meant to tell me something. They showed me the things you've done, Xander; In my dreams I saw the look in your eyes, every single time you put your life on the line to protect her. When you faced down Angeles, you didn't do it out of some sense of nobility, and you sure as hell didn't do it for anything as self-serving as recognition. When you put yourself between Angel and Buffy, you did it because you were afraid you were going to lose her, and if it came down to your life or hers, in your eyes it was no contest."
"Dawn, we're not having this conversation again."
"I believe we already are," she insisted. "Listen, Xand: I've had a really shitty day. I was nearly killed by my best friend, a friend who I can't even bury because there's nothing left of her but a pile of dust. So at least show me enough respect to be honest with me. I think I deserve that much."
"It's not like that. I didn't mean it that way."
"Nobody ever does. But we really don't have time for this right now, so I'm going to say this one thing, and then we're going to move on. Capiche?"
Xander relented; he could never say no to Dawn. "Capiche."
"All right, then here it is: I can't stop you from lying to Buffy. That's your choice, and yours alone. But I am going to borrow a page from Willow's book. If you hurt my sister, if you're not honest with her, I will beat you to death with a shovel. You have my word on that."
Xander believed her, for what it was worth. "So we're finished then?"
Dawn shook her head. "Not by a long shot. There's one more thing. As shitty as my day has been, I have learned one thing, Xander: Life's too damn short to let a stupid thing like pride keep us from finding happiness. If you truly don't love Buffy, then fine. I can live with that, even if I don't like it. But if you're keeping her at arm's length because your pride's been wounded, as I suspect is the case, than you're not half the man I thought you were. Whether you want my advice or not, I'm going to give it to you: Bury the hatchet. Put the past aside and let sleeping dogs lie. I don't like the fact that she was with Spike. I don't understand it, and frankly, I don't want to. But we can't change what happened, and neither can Buffy. Dwelling on the past only keeps us from living in the present. One way or another, you have come to terms with what happened and move on, no matter how much it hurts."
Xander, who had sat quietly through Dawn's tirade, finally spoke. "Sooo…. are we finished now?"
"As pertains to all things Buffy – yes."
Xander nodded, and then prompted her to continue. "You said at first it was just the dreams?"
"Yeah…for the first couple of weeks anyway. But then the dreams started changing. It wasn't just random events playing in my head anymore. There was a voice, someone or something narrating my dreams, whispering to me in the darkness."
"What did the voice say?"
"It said that I needed to discover my path, that it was time to embrace my destiny; it was time to become."
"Become?"
"That's what the voice said," Dawn confirmed, cognizant of the incredulous expression on Xander's face. "And don't look at me like that. It's not like I asked for any of this. I don't pretend to understand the voices; I just listen to them. Anyway, there was more. The voice also warned that something would be coming for me. It said that in the last days the Fallen ones would come in search of the Key, that there quest would lead them to the gates of hell."
Xander raised an eyebrow. They need Dawn, he mused to himself. She's the one they want – not Buffy. He looked curiously at the teenage girl. "Sounds a little on the dire side, don't you think?"
"Depends on who you ask. But I did kinda get a creepy Apocalypse now-ish vibe."
"And you didn't feel the need to share this with anyone?" Not that the end of the world wasn't commonplace, but still, there were procedures to be followed
"I believe I just did. Besides, I didn't really remember any of it, at least not until I woke up in the hospital this morning."
Xander accepted that at face value. "Did the voice say anything else? Something about your sister?"
Knowing Xander as she did, Dawn easily saw through the facade. "Why do I get the feeling there's something you're not telling me?"
"Probably because you have a suspicious nature," Xander acknowledged. He didn't add that she was correct in her suspicions. He didn't need to.
"It's all tied together, isn't it? The dreams I've been having; the changes I'm going through; all the weird shit that's happening lately. It's not just a coincidence."
"It never is," Xander lamented. "Which is why I need to know: Do you remember anything else from the dreams?"
"Now that you mention it, there is one other thing. There was someone – a man I think – dressed in black."
"Do you remember anything else about him? What he looked like? Something he said?"
"Not really. I never got a good look at his face, and I don't recall him ever saying anything in any of the dreams. I think he had a tattoo, though…. on his neck, I think." She glanced apologetically at Xander, her mouth forming a smile that didn't quite extend to her eyes. "I know that's probably not much help, but it's all I can remember."
A tattoo? It couldn't be…could it? Xander forced himself to smile in return. "You might be surprised, Dawn. Tell me, this tattoo, did it by any chance resemble an upside-down v connected to an x?"
Dawn blinked in surprise. "Now that you mention it, yeah, it did…. with little circles at each point. How did you know?"
Now they were getting somewhere. "Call it a lucky guess."
Dawn wasn't quite that obtuse. "Lucky guess my ass. You know something. What does it mean?"
"What it means, Dawn is that we're finally going to get some answers."
"And we're going to do that how?"
"We are not going to do anything. Xander is going to do it alone." The finality of the statement told Dawn there was no point in arguing.
"Fine," Dawn conceded, running a hand through her disheveled hair. She debated checking out her appearance in the vanity mirror, but opted not to, knowing full well she sported a severe case of bed-head. "So tell me, what is Xander going to do?"
"I'm gonna see a man about a tattoo."
"And in the meantime?"
"In the meantime, we go to Giles' and you tell everybody what you just told me, except for the part about our tattooed friend in black."
"So basically you want me to lie?"
"Lying is such an ugly word, Dawnie. I prefer to think of it as temporarily withholding unsubstantiated information."
Dawn's eyes narrowed visibly, appraising Xander through narrow slits. "And they say your generation has no values."
"It's a common misconception," Xander conceded diffidently. "We have values; we just tend to ignore them whenever convenient. Fortunately, I manage to keep a positive attitude about my destructive habits."
"I see. So what do I get in return?"
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me. If I keep this little secret, what do I get in return?"
"Who said you were getting anything?"
Dawn smiled evilly. "Blackmail's a terrible thing, Xander."
"I never said anything about blackmail."
The smile grew wider. "I know. But since I'm planning on blackmailing you, I thought I'd bring up the subject."
Xander stared at her in utter shock, mouth agape. "Whatever happened to that sweet little girl I knew?"
Dawn shrugged it off. "TV, rock-n-roll, the Internet. I think the Hellmouth might also be a bad influence. Before you know it, I'll be having "the sex" and doing "the drugs".
Xander wasn't exactly comfortable discussing the "s" word with Dawn, so he opted to change the subject. "And what makes you think I'll give in to your little blackmail scheme?"
She'd thought that much was obvious. "Because, you evidently know something that you don't want Buffy to find out. Fortunately for you, I trust your intentions enough not to go running directly to Buffy…. at least, as long as you're willing to play by my rules."
"What's to keep me from telling Buffy about your plans for Spike?"
Dawn had anticipated that argument. "For one thing, you gave me your word. And two, you want Spike dead just as much as I do. With Buffy on the "Right to Un-Life" bandwagon, what are the odds she'd just stand aside and let us dust him?"
The girl had a point. "Just so we're clear, Dawn, you do know that you're evil?"
"The evilest," she agreed with a grin. Getting her way always improved Dawn's mood.
"So lay it on me. What's the going rate for blackmail these days?"
That was an easy one. "Dinner and a movie."
Judging by Xander's reaction, the price was just a little too steep. "No way in hell."
Dawn could play it that way as well. "Fine," she said, reaching into her purse, pulling out her cell phone. "I'll just call Buffy…"
Game, set and match to Dawn. "All right you little criminal. You win. But I have two rules: Number one – other than any hormone-ridden teenage girls you're trying to impress, you swear to tell absolutely no one about this; and number two – absolutely, positively, no funny business. No holding hands, no copping a feel, no nothing. I love you, but I'm not going to jail for you."
"Whatever you say," Dawn agreed cheerfully. "And don't feel bad; you'll be doing a good deed by immeasurably improving my social standing. I'll even let you pick the movie." She was feeling especially magnanimous at this point.
"Great," Xander groaned, picturing the potential fallout. "I've gone from White Knight to eye candy in the space of a few minutes. Your sister's gonna think I'm some kind of pervert."
Dawn smiled sympathetically. "If it makes you feel any better, she already knows you're a pervert. But for some reason, she still likes you."
"And strangely enough, I don't feel any better."
"Look on the bright side Xand," Dawn countered as they pulled onto Giles' street. "There's a good chance the world's gonna come to an end in the near future, in which case you won't have to go through with any of this."
Now that made Xander feel better.
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1629 Revello
The same timeBuffy ascended the stairs four at a time, her feet barely making contact with the thinly carpeted surface of every fourth step. She was halfway to the top when another shot rang out, its report echoing loudly within the confining walls of the fifty-year-old bungalow. Already, Buffy knew what had happened.
Even as she'd torn through the front door, Buffy was aware that the sniper was not the only one lurking in the house. Though she wasn't sure how, Buffy had sensed the presence of two people inside, an ability she'd never before possessed, but wasn't about to question. As Giles had frequently told her, "fortune favors the brave."
Bounding effortlessly up the few remaining steps, she was now distinctly aware of only one beating heart – other than her own, that is. Why that was, she didn't care. After all, it only tilted the odds in her favor. Mindful of that fact, she hit the top step at an angle, wedging her left foot between the wall and second-floor landing, propelling her body to the right, in the direction of the door where she'd sensed the human presence. Tucking her upper torso in close, she somersaulted through the open doorway, swiftly coming to her feet as the lone gunman swung his weapon in her direction. Before the man could squeeze off a shot, she seized the forearm of his gun hand, wrenching it violently inward, forcing the man's upper body perpendicular to hers as she twisted his arm behind him, effectively trapping the gun. Her captive, as if sensing the futility of the situation, did not resist, obediently dropping the firearm onto the carpeted floor.
And then, things got weird…er.
She spun the man around to get a look at him, and was shocked as she took in his familiar features.
"Wesley?"
The man smiled at her meekly. "Alive and well, dislocated shoulder notwithstanding."
Buffy stared at him dumbfounded, surprised to see the man after so long, especially under these circumstances. "What the hell are you doing here?"
The more things changed… "It's good to see you too, Buffy."
"I asked you a question."
"Would you believe saving your life?" Judging by the look on her face, she wasn't buying it. Which was too bad, as it happened to be the truth. At least, that had been his intention, if not the eventual outcome.
"And you were hoping to do that how? And for that matter, how did you even know my life was in danger?"
"I was a little late," Wesley conceded. "As for the rest, well, it's rather a long and drawn out story, I'm afraid. All in all, you don't appear any the worse for wear."
"No thanks to you…. or him," Buffy pointed out, gesturing to the corpse sprawled out on the floor. "I don't suppose it occurred to you that I might want to take him alive? Dead men generally aren't very forthcoming with the details."
"I had planned to offer him tea and scones," Was admitted somewhat facetiously, "but assassins tend to be rather disagreeable types."
"Kind of like Watchers?"
"More than you think," Wesley confirmed with the hint of a smile. "It turns out that our recently deceased friend here is – or was – a Watcher."
Buffy's jaw nearly hit the floor. "He's a Watcher?"
Wesley nodded. "Until about a minute ago. I think we can safely consider him retired."
Buffy rolled her eyes in frustration. "God…what is it with you guys? What side are you on?"
"There's a lot you don't know, Buffy. Times have changed. And in case you'd forgotten, I'm no longer a Watcher."
"Way to state the obvious there, Wes. Maybe you could give me something useful for a change?"
Patience was an art; one that Wesley had taken the time to learn. "I think perhaps our first order of business is to vacate the premises; the rest can wait. Unless of course, you care to explain this mess to Sunnydale's finest?"
That wasn't really an option, at least not a pleasant one. "You have a car out back?" Buffy asked, her enhanced hearing discerning the faint sound of approaching sirens.
"After you," Wesley insisted, gesturing chivalrously toward the door.
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Somewhere in Northern California
The four men walked in lockstep, similarly attired and sporting identical black shooters' glasses, their footsteps echoing loudly in the barren concrete and cinder block structure known simply as Ward S. Nobody took any special note of their passage, save perhaps a few emaciated mice scrounging about for whatever crumbs could be found. But the men weren't here for the vermin, at least not the four-legged kind. As distasteful as their mission was, they were here for the lone human inhabitant of the Segregation Unit at the Northern California Facility for Women's Correction, or – as it was known to its less enthusiastic residents – NO FUCK.
Sitting alone in her cell, the raven-haired occupant of Ward "S" paid the approaching party little attention. A passing glance at the men had told her all she needed to know: Cheap suits, dark glasses, stoic expressions…. obviously cops. She'd seen enough of them over the past few years; she doubted these would be any different than the rest.
Of course, it wouldn't be the first time Faith had been wrong, and it wasn't likely to be the last.
As the men drew closer, two of their number reached inside open jackets and unsnapped the buttons on their hip holsters, their right hands resting cautiously on the butt of each weapon. The warning had been explicit in that regard: Take no chances with this one. Not that any of them would have any way. There was a reason they'd been selected for this assignment. All four were Deputy U.S. Marshals, each with no fewer than ten years on the job. And all four had fired their weapons in the line of duty, resulting in a corresponding number of deceased bad guys. None was the least bit reticent about doing so again, which was the primary reason they were here.
But as seasoned as they were, not one of them had ever drawn an assignment quite like this. They were, mind you, law enforcement agents. And despite the irregularities of the current situation, they intended to do just that, albeit in the manner proscribed by the legal document the senior agent carried with him. After all, at the end of the day, they served the law of the United States of America, and by default, its Chief Executive. And if he decreed that prisoner #121675 should cease to exist, who were they to argue?
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Fort Sentinel Army Base
Sunnydale California
In military circles the concept was known as low observable technology, the capability to deny one's enemies either visual or technical acquisition of one's own tactical military assets. To the public at large it was known simply as stealth, a term evocative of billion-dollar aircraft rendered invisible to enemy radar. But what the public seldom acknowledged was that the military's interest in stealth technology wasn't limited to airframe applications, nor did it necessarily entail the judicious expenditure of defense funds.
The Pentagon's newest weapon hadn't even been developed in America, at least not the initial technology application. A research scientist in Japan had taken the initial steps, experimenting with the use of fiber-optics to create – if not invisibility per se – then at lest the appearance of such. The DoD had taken it one step further, fusing next generation reactive battle armor with active optical camouflage in its revolutionary NGBA, or Next Generation Battle Armor.
The stealth aspect of it was surprisingly simple in its concept. Miniature outward-facing fiber optic cameras were mounted at regular intervals on the new prototype armor. When activated, the cameras on one side of the armor application would project a live image to the reflective material on the opposite side, in essence creating the illusion that one could see through the armor. It wasn't a perfect system by any stretch of the imagination. An observer could still see a "ghost" image of the armored soldier, and the projected images were not perfect 3-D replications. But from a distance, in low light situations, the system made detection extremely difficult, even to the trained eye.
Which is exactly what the members of Task Force 20 were counting on.
Not that they weren't already experts in the art of concealment. TF-20, casually referred to by its members as Whispering Death, was composed of the best of the best. Most of its members were drawn from the elite Special Operations community, primarily Delta Force and Seal Team-6, with one or two spooks thrown in for obvious reasons. Collectively, they weren't the type to look a gift horse in the mouth. If the new armor gave them an edge over the enemy, especially an enemy the likes of which they had never faced before, so much the better. It was their lives on the line, after all.
As it was, the armor had already been tested in real-world conditions, primarily against vampires (whose vision was far more acute than that of any potential human adversary), but also against various other species of demon. It did have its limitations, as proven in daylight tests. But overall, it had thus far proven to be a resounding success. Of course, the real test was yet to come.
Currently, the fifty-plus men of TF-20 were gathered in a nondescript room, undergoing one final mission pre-brief before being unleashed on the underworld denizens of Sunnydale. They were all volunteers, having enlisted individually for a mission they were initially told nothing about, save that it was a "matter of grave national security", which each of them had heard on any number of previous missions. As they had come to understand, this time J-SOC (Joint Special Operations Command) wasn't just feeding them a line.
A full-bird Colonel walked up to the podium, resplendent in his dress uniform, several rows of highly polished combat decorations gleaming on his chest. He surveyed the assemblage with a great sense of pride. Many of these men and women were young enough to be his children, two of which were currently serving in the Marine Corps, a fact which a number of his contemporaries found quite amusing, given the man's twenty years of service in the US Army. Fortunately, inter-service rivalries ceased to exist in this room, with the exception of an enhanced sense of competition among the troops, which only succeeded in enhancing the esprit-de corps between the members of TF-20. As a picture of an attractive twentyish blonde women appeared on the two oversized screens behind him, the Colonel addressed his troops.
"Good Afternoon ladies and gentlemen. The following briefing is classified Top-Secret, not for dissemination to foreign nationals." He paused, glancing briefly at the image projected behind him. "By now you have all been briefed on the situation unfolding in Sunnydale." Fifty heads nodded in unison, confirming his statement. The Colonel continued. "Inside your briefing folders you will find the latest intelligence estimates and overhead imagery concerning our target objectives. Please review and memorize these at the earliest possible convenience." He didn't need to remind them that each and every copy would be incinerated prior to deployment.
"You have already been given the bad news; I am here today to tell you the good news." He gestured to the figure on the screens, accompanied by the sound of rustling papers as each soldier opened his/her folder to find a similar digital photograph. "The woman you are looking at is Elizabeth Anne "Buffy" Summers, age twenty-two. You may find yourself asking what is so impressive about this young woman, other than her physical attributes. Allow me answer that question for you. Each of you has been instructed in great detail on the nature of the threat in Sunnydale. You know all about the paranormal presence here, and have proven yourselves capable of tracking and engaging a number of these threats. You may even consider yourselves experts in that regard, and no one could fault you for doing so. However, let me assure you that your capabilities and experience pale in regard to those of Miss Summers."
That statement raised a few eyebrows.
"Buffy Summers is not a soldier. She carries no firearms, and has had no formal training. She doesn't even have a college degree. But what this young lady has is seven years experience in fighting the otherworldly menace."
That statement raised a few more.
"You see, Miss Summers is not like you and I. While she is human, there is something that makes her different than us. She is what is known as a Vampire Slayer."
By now a few disbelieving murmurs could be heard around the room. They were quickly silenced by a stern look from the Colonel. "I will not bore you with all the details. They are not relevant to the task at hand, though there are a few things that you all should know. Miss Summers, by virtue of her birthright as a Vampire Slayer, possesses enhanced physical capabilities. She is considerably stronger than any human being, by a factor of at least ten, if not more. Her speed and agility exceed that of any vampire, and her body has greatly accelerated healing capabilities. Her senses are extremely acute, and it is widely believed, though not substantiated, that she possesses some manner of precognition. Now, you may find all of this hard to believe, but consider that just three weeks ago none of you believed in the existence of vampires. I can personally attest to Miss Summer's prowess. If not for her, my own daughter would not be alive today."
He paused for a moment, deliberating on whether or not to tell them the rest, which, of course, he did. "Undoubtedly many of you have heard the rumors floating about regarding our adversaries. I tell you now that some of those rumors are in fact true. While our primary objective will be to neutralize the standard HSTs, you will likely run across an enemy none of us has ever encountered before, that is, those referred to in the intelligence briefings as "The Fallen". I cannot confirm whether or not the scuttlebutt regarding their origin is factual. But I will let you in on a little known secret: Those bastards aren't going to know what hit them."
"I don't know if we can kill them. I don't even know for sure if we can even hurt them. But what I do know is that we are the meanest group of motherfuckers this side of hell. If these "Fallen" sons-of-bitches want a fight, we'll damn well give it to them. We will hit them with everything we've got, and then we'll hit them with some more. If need be, we'll reign down fire and brimstone on their sorry asses. We'll go medieval on them, and then we'll introduce them to the twenty-first century, courtesy of the US of A. Gentlemen, you will have every weapon at your disposal. For once, the Air Force will be at your beck and call. The Marine Corps will be ready at a moment's notice to unleash an artillery barrage that will make those evil fuckers shit their pants. And when the shit hits the fan and our backs are against the wall, Miss Summers and her band of merry warriors will be there right beside you."
"Of course, with the exception of one person, none of her group knows about our impending operation." He clicked the remote, flipping to the next picture. The face of Alexander Harris graced the screens behind the Colonel. "This man is Alexander Harris, a close friend of the Slayer. He is the only on of their number aware of this operation. He will be our eyes and ears with regard to the civilian side of our offensive. I am told Mr. Harris has some military background. I do not know the details or extent of his training, but do not doubt what I have been told. Also, please keep in mind that the Slayer and her group have had previous experience in dealing with military operations, though I am told it did not impress favorably upon Miss Summers. In spite of that fact, it is believed that she will cooperate with our operation, provided we do not get in her way or unnecessarily endanger the civilian population." The Colonel looked directly at the soldiers. "I know all of you are unaccustomed to assuming this type of role. I am sure you would rather assume the mission of primary assault force, as would I. But given the nature of the opposition, that is not a realistic option."
"Now, before we proceed with introducing you to the rest of the Slayer's crew, let me tell you a few additional things about our unconventional allies. While NCA would not divulge the origin of the main threat, they did assure me that at least one of their kind is working on our side, and is already in place in Sunnydale. I cannot readily confirm that this is true, but my superiors have assured me that the source of this information has been rated 5-5 in reliability and dependability. I have no reason to question this assessment. Let me also share with you a few other things regarding the Slayer. Number one, she has never lost. On no fewer than six occasions, she has forestalled an extinction level event. Take a moment and let that sink in, people. A young girl and her friends saved the world six times." That revelation, in addition to raising quite a few eyebrows, caused more than a few jaws to drop. What he said next left an even bigger impression. "And if you still have any doubts about the Slayer's motivation, allow me to put them to rest. Fifteen months ago, before any of you even knew the boogeyman existed, Buffy Summers sacrificed her own life to save this world."
A stunned silence fell upon the room, the incongruity of the Colonel's claim not lost on any of the soldiers.
In spite of himself, the Colonel couldn't help but smile. It wasn't often that one could elicit this kind of reaction from such hardened individuals as those that comprised TF-20. "Right now you're asking yourself how this is possible. Allow me to introduce you to another member of the Slayer's group." He clicked the remote once more, bringing up a picture of a stunning redheaded woman. "Gentlemen, meet Willow Rosenberg."
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End Chapter 16. As always, feedback is the gift that keeps on giving…. kind of like syphilis, only without the blindness and insanity. Rest assured that Chapter 17 is in the works, and the action should begin ramping up, and this time I mean it. Look for more from the mysterious Danyael, as well as a guest appearance from everybody's favorite brunette Slayer. And if you ask nicely, maybe I'll even throw in a little Buffy-Xander Hallmark moment (which I've already written, but am withholding due to my evil nature).
Until Next Time,
Rabid Squirrel