Author: Rabid Squirrel
Title: "Murphy's Law"
Disclaimer: Obviously, I don't own Buffy. If I did, she'd be stripped naked, chained to a wall and…. well, you get where I'm going with this.
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 – more or less.
Rating: R, for violence, strong language, and the flagrant abuse of literary license.
Feedback: Constructive criticism, comments, and suggestions are greatly appreciated. Flamers will be shot on site.
Note: Thanks to those of you who continue to provide feedback, even if you don't particularly care for recent chapters. I [somewhat] sympathize with your point of view regarding B/X, and your arguments have been well enunciated. Nonetheless, this is, and will remain a B/X fic. In spite of Buffy's necrophiliac tendencies, I think it possible, if not altogether probable, that Xander still harbors feelings for her, and vice-versa. In the words of Captain Peroxide himself, "love's not brains…it's blood." Hopefully, the coming chapters will prove more palatable to your tastes and sensibilities. And if not, feel free to root for the bad guys. Villains need luvin too.
Also, sorry it took so long to get this chapter our. I just finished moving and have been on vacation, so I have not had a lot of time to write. That, and I am a chronic procrastinator, but who's keeping score?
Dedication: To the state of California (aka the fruit and nut state), for constantly reminding me how lucky I am to live in Ohio.
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Words of wisdom:
"The pure and simple truth is seldom pure and never simple" - Unknown
Chapter 18: "Novus Ordo Seclorum"
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Sunnydale High School
Monday, 1230 Hrs
In hindsight, Dawn had been wrong about one thing.
While it wasn't "earthquake proof", the latest incarnation of Sunnydale High School had nonetheless been constructed to meet – and in many cases exceed – existing California building codes, standards considerably more stringent than those of other comparable localities. From a fiscal standpoint, it made good sense, given both the school's proximity to a localized fault line, and the tendency of a particular group of former students to occasionally blow it up or otherwise inflict considerable structural damage. Of course, it had been built with these very exigencies in mind, and though susceptible to damage from both phenomena, it had been designed to survive either. Which – in this case at least – it had.
Shoddy craftsmanship my ass.
Xander had scanned the readout generated by the ground-penetrating radar unit – the city engineers had been unusually accommodating in that regard – and though he was neither a trained geologist nor seismologist, he understood enough to know that the massive concrete foundation, while undeniably damaged, remained structurally sound. He was also smart enough to recognize that the news wasn't universally good. The fissure rendered through the base of the foundation was just too perfect, too symmetric, to be anything other than an intentional construct. That it also happened to be situated directly above the Hellmouth only served to reinforce that troubling belief.
Against his better judgment, Xander ducked under the plastic cordon tape, venturing closer to the breech to satisfy his growing curiosity. For the moment, he was alone in the basement; the city officials having left only minutes earlier, his own crew sent out to lunch. Unimpeded, Xander edged cautiously to the lip of the hole and glanced down, surprisingly unimpressed by what he saw.
Yep…. definitely a hole. A big fucking hole.
As holes went, it was fairly run-of-the-mill – a deep depression in the ground, roughly five feet in diameter and smelling of musty earth. What set it apart from others, aside from its unnaturally smooth sides and dubious origin, was the fact that it had no bottom, at least not one that Xander could see.
Retrieving his venerable Loc-Tite from a loop on his tool belt, the twenty-something carpenter – a purist, he eschewed the term 'contractor' - held the tape measure out over the hole and toggled the release switch, slowing feeding the 50 feet of flexible metal tape into the void below. First five feet, then ten …twenty …thirty…forty, and finally fifty. The tape finally ran out without touching bottom ground, which Xander interpreted as the bad omen it was. As a general rule, bottomless pits were not of the good, especially in a place like Sunnydale. Xander had a hunch that old Murphy was completely in agreement with him on that point.
Retracting the tape, he opted for a more tried and true approach. Xander briefly scanned the floor around him, searching among the discarded chunks of broken concrete for just the right tool. Grasping one of the smaller remnants, he chucked it down the dark hole, waiting expectantly for the unmistakable thud that would indicate it had hit bottom.
He heard something else instead.
"So it's true what they say about the state of public schools."
The words echoed in the enclosed stone chamber, resonating indiscriminately off the unfinished walls in such a manner so as to conceal the direction from which they had originated. Of course, experience, as well as his old friend Murphy, suggested to Xander that the speaker was more likely than not standing right behind him. His suspicion was soon enough borne out.
Xander slowly did an about face, then slowly shook his head in disbelief as his eyes fell upon a familiar face.
Damn.
In all honesty, Xander wasn't really the least bit surprised. He knew – or should have known – the man was more than he pretended to be. The proverbial writing was on the wall, scripted in oversized letters, penned in blood-red ink for the entire world to see. But as was usually the case, Xander had completely disregarded the obvious conclusion. Whether it was a conscious act he didn't know. It didn't matter at any rate; the point was that the truth was right in front of him, and he had once again chosen to ignore it, despite what was at risk. But then, in Xander's defense, he did have a lot on his mind at the present…just not necessarily the right things.
"And what exactly is that?" Xander responded cautiously, appraising the newcomer through decidedly suspicious eyes.
"Oh…you know," Danyael posited, a mischievous gleam plainly visible in his eye, "how they're all going to Hell." He allowed his gaze to drift ostentatiously to the chasm behind Xander, an act not lost on the young man. "In some cases more literally than others."
Still shaking his head in utter disbelief, Xander confirmed in his mind what in his heart he already knew. "Antiques collector, huh?"
The other man smiled somewhat self-effacingly. "I know…it's a little thin."
The admission elicited a knowing laugh from Xander. "Bordering on anorexic."
The man shrugged sheepishly, his oversized duster just barely scraping the dusty dirt floor. "I was never good at the covert."
That much was obvious. "Big surprise." Xander said as he stood, carefully brushing the dust from his pants, never allowing his vision to completely stray from the other man. Might as well get it over with. The big pink elephant in the corner wasn't going away any time soon. Xander cocked a questioning eye at the alleged fallen angel, unsure if he really believed all of it, even given what he knew. "So you're the one," he observed quietly.
It wasn't a question, and the other man knew it. Danyael nodded solemnly. "I suppose I am."
One question down; a million to go: "That doesn't exactly give me a warm fuzzy feeling."
"If you're looking for warm and fuzzy, I suggest you get yourself a dog. In case you've forgotten, this isn't about you."
Xander nodded reluctantly. "Whistler took great pains to remind me of that. But then, I'm guessing you already knew that, or you wouldn't be here."
"Guilty as charged," Danyael conceded. "So how much did our irritating little friend tell you?"
Xander shrugged. "More than I wanted to know…. less than I need to."
"Could you vague that up a little?" Danyael requested facetiously. "Contrary to what you may have heard, Xander, I cannot read minds."
Now that's the first good news I've heard all day. "And here I thought you and Whistler were tight. Why don't you ask him?"
Danyael arched an eyebrow at the prospect. "You have met Whistler…right? Do you enjoy spending time with him?"
The angel had a point. "About as much as I enjoy a prostate exam."
Judging by the look on Danyael's face, he was not familiar with the concept of the mental filter. "Thanks ever so much for the disturbing imagery. If you don't mind, can we please stick to the subject?"
Xander glanced back momentarily at the breech in the floor, reluctant to rehash the events of three years prior, especially with someone who was for all intents and purposes a complete stranger. Nevertheless he turned slowly back to Danyael, wishing for the millionth time that it was all just a bad dream. "It was after we blew up the old school, back in the summer of '99," he recalled. "We'd all made it through the battle with the mayor, and I'd just set out on my now infamous cross-country road trip. I'd made it as far as Oxnard when the goddamned engine literally fell out of Uncle Rory's Bel Air." Xander paused, realizing what he'd just said. He smiled apologetically at the [former?] angel. "Sorry. I didn't mean to…well, you know…the whole 'name in vain' thing…"
"Don't sweat it, Xander. I'm on the Big Guy's shit list, too."
With a nod, Xander continued. "Anyway, I was heading back to my room one night after a stint at the "Fabulous Lady's Night Club" when I bumped into this pimp-looking joker on the street. Out of nowhere he makes some wise-ass comment about me being out of my element, something about Oxnard being a far cry from Sunnydale. To make a long story short, Whistler invited himself into my shithole motel room and proceeded to tell me a nice little bedtime story about the Slayer dying and Hell being unleashed on Earth."
"The Fabulous Lady's Night Club?"
"Don't ask," Xander implored him. There were some things you just didn't discuss, especially with strangers. Or even with friends, for that matter.
"Right then. So…this bedtime story? Let me guess…the Devil went down to Sunnydale?" Danyael was familiar with the tale. He'd written it, after all.
"Something like that," Xander acknowledged, "only Whistler's no Charlie Daniels, and I can't play the fiddle worth a damn."
Danyael smiled sympathetically. "I don't a fiddle's going to cut it this time, my friend."
That came as no surprise to Xander. A shame it was never that simple. "How about hummus?"
"Hummus?"
Xander dismissed the question with a wave of his hand. "Never mind; inside joke." He grinned to himself in spite of the circumstances. "Anyway, Whistler did tell me a few things about the prophecy. He told me a little bit about Glory, about Dawn, and how Buffy would sacrifice herself to save the world. That was the part he really stressed. He emphasized how important it was that I do nothing to change the course of the future. He kept driving home the point that Buffy had to die for the second time. He never told me how or why, just that it was important in the overall scheme of things. Of course, I didn't want to believe him. So when he revealed that Buffy would come back from the dead only to die a third time, I politely informed him what I thought of his little prophecy, and threatened to introduce my foot to his ass."
"So what made you change your mind?" Danyael asked, fishing in his pocket for a smoke, which he presently withdrew and lit.
"Can I bum one of those?" Xander asked, disregarding Danyael's question for the moment.
"You smoke?" That hadn't been in the kid's dossier. "You know, these things will kill you."
Xander didn't smoke, at least not regularly, but that detail didn't seem overly important right now. "I can only hope to live long enough to die of cancer."
"At least you're keeping a positive attitude about your impending death." Danyael extended a hand, offering a Marlboro to the young man, which Xander impatiently snatched from him.
Xander pulled a butane lighter from his pocket, lit the cigarette, inhaled deeply, and promptly erupted in a spasm of coughing. Unabashed, he continued with the story. "Anyway, I said that I didn't want to believe him, but a part of me knew better. I tried to convince myself that he was lying, that he was one of the bad guys and just wanted to get to me. But in my heart I knew that it didn't make any sense. If he was gunning for the Slayer, why give me a heads-up that she was going to die? He had to know that I would try to stop him. It just didn't add up. So I took him at his word when he told me the rest."
"And what was that?"
"Whistler told me about the Fallen; how they would use the Hellmouth to stage an invasion of this world. He said that in order for Buffy to stop them, that she would have to surrender her humanity, and that to do so, she would have to die again."
Danyael nodded. "The twice-blessed warrior."
"I see you and I belong to the same book club," Xander observed with more than the requisite sarcasm. "Of course, Whistler left out a few details."
"I presume that I'm one of those details?"
Xander nodded. "You presume correctly. Our fashion-unconscious friend told me that someone would come for her, to show Buffy her true path. He just left out the part about you being that someone."
"And that's it? That's all he told you?"
"More or less. Emphasis on less."
"Maybe I can fill in the blanks for you."
"That'd be a nice start."
Danyael dropped his cigarette butt to the floor, crushing it underfoot. "I assume you're wondering why I chose to involve myself in this, given that I am, above all, a fallen angel."
"The thought had crossed my mind," Xander admitted.
"Well then, let me ask you this: What do you know about angels?"
Xander pondered the question. "Considering you're the first angel I've ever encountered – not very damn much."
"Then allow me to give you the condensed version. You can forget anything you've ever heard or read. My kind do not have wings, we don't play harps, and for the most part, we despise elevator music. The truth of the matter is, we're a lot like you. We all feel; we have emotions. We love. We hate. We laugh. We cry. In that regard we are no different than humans. Unlike you and your kind, however, we have no soul. We have no need for such a thing. We are made in God's image, and we exist only to serve His will."
"Great. So we've established that you're all shiny happy people on a mission from God. Where does the 'Fallen' part come into play?"
Danyael continued. "In the days before the coming of the age of man, everything happened as it should. Our kind lived in harmony, content to serve God, and to bask in his glory. We were his sons and daughters, and we alone were granted his favor. And so it was for a thousand times a thousand years. But then along came your kind, and everything changed."
Danyael paused to light another cigarette, taking a deep drag before continuing. "In some ways, it was a lot like being an only child. For countless eons we were the sole recipients of God's love and affection. But then along came the new kid, and existence as we knew it was irrevocably altered. No longer were we His favorite children, nor even his only children. You must understand that because of our nature, the concept of sharing was alien to us, much as it is to an only child. Some of our number, seeing what was happening, began to harbor resentment toward God's newest creation. Hatred burned within their hearts, and they vowed to fight for what they believed to be their birthright. Now, even the most strident of the insurrectionists knew that they could not directly confront God. To do so was unthinkable, let alone practical. For that reason, they directed their anger towards man, seeking to eliminate the competition, as it were. The insurrectionists first sought to corrupt man, and failing that, to destroy him outright. To that end, some conspired to purify the bloodline of the race of men. It was the original manifestation of ethnic cleansing. Human women were sought out and either raped or seduced, in the hope that the human bloodline would be purified, and that resulting offspring would join the ranks of the opposition. It was in this manner that the race of demons was born. The union of man and angel was never meant to be; the progeny were neither angelic nor human, but a warped amalgamation of both. They possessed the passion and emotion of man, and the physical prowess of angels. Now, the demon-breed were born out of the gravest of sins, and for that reason, the majority were utterly devoid of goodness and purity. They did not side with the conspirators, yet they entertained the same hatred for mankind that led to their creation. Of course, God was angry – some might say pissed – and rightfully so. He cast out those responsible for the rise of demons, condemning them to an eternity of solitude and shame, and waging war on their progeny with his own heavenly armies. But the rebellion did not end there. By this time, the ranks of the dissenters had grown to a remarkable extent. Those still within his kingdom in turn waged war against the ranks of loyalists, angered by the condemnation of their brethren, and uncertain of their own future. For a thousand years the battle raged, bringing death and despair to a realm which had never known either affliction. The choirs of angels were forced to choose sides en-masse, bearing arms against their brothers and sisters in an unholy war. Eventually, the loyalists gained the upper hand, and drove the rebelling hordes out of Heaven. But these were not merely exiled as were their predecessors. They were banished to Hell, to suffer an eternity of torment for their sins of arrogance and pride. Of course that was not the end of it. The repercussions of the Great War were to be felt for all time. The battle still rages to this day, though for now it is confined to the plains of the mortal world."
"And what does that have to do with the present situation? More specifically, what does this have to do with you?"
"I'm getting to that. I told you that the ranks of angels were compelled to choose sides. What I failed to mention was that not all of us did so. A few of our number, myself included, refused to take sides. We simply stepped aside and watched as the ethereal plains were stained with the blood of our brothers. When the fighting had ended, God had little mercy for those who chose to abstain from service in his armies. Like the original insurrectionists, we too were exiled to this world."
"But you had to know there would be repercussions. Why didn't you just join the right side?"
"I have done just that, in case you hadn't taken notice. However, back then, the prospect wasn't quite so simple for me." Stopping in mid-thought, Danyael took a step toward Xander, flicking the remainder of his cigarette into the abyss behind him, an inscrutable expression on his face as he surveyed the darkness below. He turned slowly back to Xander, continuing with the story. "Sometimes what turns out in hindsight to be black and white appears at the time as different shades of gray." Seeing the confused look on Xander's face, he tried a different tack. "Do you recall when your friend Jesse was turned?"
Xander nodded soberly. "I still have nightmares. Vivid nightmares."
"You ended up killing him, though. You did what had to be done?"
Xander hung his head slightly, realizing what Danyael was hinting at. "Sort of. I staked him, thought it was more or less an accident."
"But you would have done it regardless, even though he was your friend?"
"I like to think so. But we'll never know, will we?"
"No, we won't," Danyael agreed. "Fortunately for you, you didn't have to make that call. I, however, had no such luxury." Danyael paused a moment, allowing the lesson to sink in. "I too was faced with a similar situation, Xander. Like humans, we angels form close bonds among ourselves. The various choirs of angels are a lot like what you would call fraternities, only without the keg parties and dangerous hazing rituals. One of my brothers was a warrior, one of a race known as archangels. He was a soldier of sorts, an executioner divine will whose calling was to strike down the wicked and the unjust. In that capacity he served well, and earned a place among the highest circles of angelic counsels. But if my brother had one fatal flaw, it was pride. He saw how God favored the humans, and, given their behavior, he could not reconcile God's solicitude towards them. The more he came into contact with the human race, the more he failed to make the distinction between the good and the evil among them. After a time, he saw them all as evil, and all but declared outright war on the human race as a whole. He made it his overriding mission to discredit man in the eyes of God, to persuade him that his experiment had failed utterly."
"I'm guessing that didn't go over too well with the boss," Xander interjected, exhibiting his legendary flair for understatement.
"You guess correctly. My brother erred badly in judgment, on more than one level. But you see, he was not punished for his initial transgressions, as were so many of the others. He was given a second chance, a chance to see the error of his ways and make amends."
"This story doesn't have a happy ending, does it?"
Danyael ignored Xander's commentary. "In addition to being proud, Xander, my brother was also rather stubborn. He was not deterred in the least by his initial failure. Instead of learning from his mistakes, he compounded them. When he realized that God would not abide the destruction of his grandest creation, my brother upped the ante, so to speak. In concert with a number of his counterparts, he incited open rebellion among the ranks of angels. But they were greatly outnumbered by the loyalists, and were in dire need of reinforcements. Of course, it was not long before my brother came knocking on my door."
"So you joined him?"
"No. I did not. As much as I loved and respected by brother, I feared the judgment of God even more. Of course, the reverse was also true. As much as I loved God and feared his wrath, I could not bear arms against him."
"You pulled a Switzerland," Xander astutely observed.
"In essence…yes. I remained neutral. At the time, it seemed the best alternative. I didn't have the benefit of hindsight."
"But now you do."
"Yes, now I do."
"So no more shades of gray. Just black and white?"
"Correct."
"And when the proverbial fit hits the shan, you're not gonna go all French on me and wave the white flag?"
"I believe I've already established that, Xander."
"Sorry, had to be sure. I've got trust issues."
"I've noticed."
"I just want you to know that I'm taking a lot on faith here."
If that wasn't irony, Danyael didn't know what was. "Join the club."
"Right…okay. Then there's just one more thing I need to know."
"And what is that?" Danyael asked patiently.
"Buffy."
"That's not a question," Danyael pointed out.
"Tell me about her."
"What is it you want to know?"
"The truth. I want to know everything."
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200 miles above Sunnydale
At that same moment, high above Sunnydale, someone else was listening as the Hellmouth began stirring from its forced slumber. Or, more accurately, something else was listening.
The heavily modified KH-12 satellite had been lifted into a geo-stationary low-earth orbit only six months earlier. Like its aging cousins, it bore an impressive array of instrumentation, ostensibly to serve as an early warning platform for ballistic missile launch. Its true purpose was somewhat more immediate in nature, if not less believably so.
At precisely 1235 Pacific Time, about the time one Alexander Harris was staring down a bottomless pit, an array of on-board sensors detected an anomalous electromagnetic pulse emanating from the vicinity of downtown Sunnydale. The digitized information was immediately relayed to an orbiting MilStar satellite, where it was in turn beamed to the Air Force downlink station in Sunnyvale.
It was only a matter of time now.
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Willy's PlaceThat same time
There was just something about the sense of smell; the way it triggered long forgotten memories; its uncanny ability to instantly bring back certain sights and sounds, long since relegated to the confines of the subconscious. Walking into Willy's, Buffy experienced the full range of olfactory inspired memory recall. It was not, as one might suspect, a positive experience.
Not that the memories were all bad. There was an enduring sense of satisfaction that came part and parcel with smacking around the notorious proprietor of the demonic hangout, though the circumstances necessitating said beatings more often than not left a sour taste in Buffy's mouth. Today looked to be no different in that regard.
As she had done a hundred other times, Buffy strode purposefully up to the bar, continually amazed by the near perfect condition of the woodwork, which stood in abject contrast to the dismal state of the rest of the establishment. As many times as she'd bashed some demon's skull against the ornate scrollwork, or broken something's back on the polished surface, it still looked to be in pristine condition. It never ceased to amaze her how the little things stood out, even when there were more important issues to concern herself with. Even Xander would be impressed. Well…he probably would. One could never be too sure where Xander was concerned.
But she wasn't here to admire the craftsmanship, or even to ponder Xander's preferences. She didn't have time to be preoccupied. She was here to kick Willy's ass, or at least threaten to in lieu of any useful information. At any rate, it was time to get to work.
Buffy never even bothered with the requisite hello. She simply reached across the bar with one arm, physically hauling the startled bartender off his feet and onto the polished wood, until his face was mere inches from her own.
She never saw the gun.
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Pacific Coast Highway
En-Route to SunnydaleThe charcoal gray Chevy Suburban tore down the winding stretch of California highway, flouting the posted speed limit as it wove its way through the intermittent traffic. Speeding citations were of little concern to the vehicle's occupants, as the Government Issue license plates ensured they would not be bothered by law enforcement of any kind.
Inside the SUV, concealed from view behind darkly tinted windows, Faith McKenzie reclined in the back seat, flanked on either side by armed men in cheap dark suits. The Slayer glanced briefly at each, in turn amused and perturbed by the matching expression on each of their faces. She had a lot of questions running through her head, not the least of which why a convicted sociopath such as herself had apparently just been pardoned by none other than the President of the United States. Judging by the look of things, she wouldn't be getting an answer to that question, nor any of the others, any time soon. Still, it wasn't like she had anything better to do.
"Uh…guys? Not that I don't appreciate the get out of jail free card, but would any of you mind telling me what the hell this all about?"
The men sitting on either side of her said nothing, which came as no great shock to the Slayer. The driver, however, glanced briefly to his colleague in the front passenger seat, receiving a shake of the head in reply. Nodding his acknowledgement, the driver looked up into the rear-view mirror, eyeing the convicted killer coolly from behind mirrored sunglasses.
"That's on a need-to-know basis."
Faith had suspected as much; that didn't stop her from pressing the issue. "Let me guess…I don't need to know."
This time the man didn't bother looking up. "What do you think?"
The Slayer restrained herself from sharing with them what she actually thought. "I think this whole fucking thing smells like a set-up."
The man sitting to her left spoke up for the first time; belying Faith's suspicion the man was a deaf-mute. "If this was a set up, kid, you never would have left your cell alive. Assuming you get with the program, you'll find out everything in due time. In the meantime, sit back, shut the fuck up, and enjoy the ride."
The Slayer was not so easily convinced. "I'm not really the get-with-the-program type," she stated matter-of-factly. "But then, you already knew that, what with me being a convicted felon and all. See, the thing is, you guys already seem to know the score. You obviously know who I am. But I know jack squat about you. What guarantee do I have that you guys are who you say you are? For all I know, you could be working for those cocksuckers at Wolfram & Hart."
The very thought elicited a knowing laugh from the front-seat passenger. He pivoted in his seat to face the girl. "Faith…do you mind if I call you Faith? Or perhaps you would prefer something a little more familiar, like maybe prisoner #121675?"
The expression on the Slayer's face set the record straight. "Perhaps you would prefer I take that badge, turn it sideways, and shove it up your civil servant ass?"
That option evidently didn't appeal to the man. "I would prefer you didn't, Miss McKenzie. I'd really hate to have to decorate the upholstery with your brain matter. It's a real bitch to get that crap out of the carpet, if you get my drift. Not to mention what all that blood would do to the leather." He paused a moment to let his words sink in. "But I do admire your directness, so I'm gonna be straight with you." He looked Faith in the eye, furtively allowing his peripheral vision to drift to the man next to her. "I give you my word none of us are now, nor have ever been, in the employ of Wolfram & Hart. Except for Mr. McMichaels, of course."
That comment did not sit well with two of the back-seat passengers. One of them, Faith, spun clockwise, the alarm evident on her face as she turned to the right to face the unexpected threat. The other, soon-to-be ex Deputy Marshal McMichaels, wasn't taking the news very well either. The shock on his face was evident, even as his right hand darted instinctively into his coat. How could they know? He'd been so careful; he'd done everything right – no paper trail, no evidence, nothing. But even as his mind argued the impossibility of it all, he knew he was too late. As his gun cleared the concealed shoulder holster, the agent in the front seat leveled his own custom 10mm Smith & Wesson at McMichaels' chest and squeezed the trigger three times, perforating the target's left lung with the first shot, and obliterating both ventricles of the heart with subsequent rounds. Mortally wounded, McMichaels quickly died where he sat, his gaping mouth deprived of the chance to protest his utter failure, or even to rail against the inequity of his demise. Faith took care of that for him.
Despite her status as a "hardened criminal", the Slayer had never seen anyone shot dead at point-blank range. "Jesus H. Christ!" she screamed at the gunman, unable to believe what had just happened before her eyes. "You – you fucking killed him!"
"Would you rather I let him kill you?" the man countered reasonably, giving the still twitching corpse a cursory glare. "Really Faith, I would expect someone with your pedigree to show a little more composure. You are, after all, a convicted murderer."
"Reformed convicted murdered," Faith corrected him, a healthy tinge of irritability evident in her voice. "And if you knew the sonofabitch was a traitor, why the hell didn't you do something about it?"
"I believe I just did," the Marshal calmly pointed out. The corpse slouching against Faith's shoulder bore witness to that claim. Disdainfully shrugging off the dead body, Faith pursued the argument.
"You know damn well what I meant, G-Man. You could have taken care of him another way; you didn't have to involve me in this shit."
"I had my reasons."
"And what exactly were they?"
"There were doubts about Mr. McMichaels' loyalties," the man admitted grudgingly. "We've suspected for some time that he had his own agenda, but we couldn't prove anything. We needed to be sure."
"So you used me as bait?" Faith asked incredulously. "Your were willing to risk my life to prove your hunch? What the hell ever happened to protect and serve?"
Front seat guy shrugged. "I considered it an acceptable risk," he admitted blithely, casting an indifferent glance back at the Slayer. "And don't look at me like that, kid…I'm no cop. I'm not here to hold your hand and tell you everything's gonna be all right. I hunt down fugitives – human or otherwise. I'm not about to apologize for it."
"So where do I fit into that equation? Assuming this pardon is legit, I'm not a fugitive, at least in the strictest sense of the word." She conspicuously hazarded a glance at the former Marshal slouching on the seat next to her. "How come I drew the short straw?"
"Let's just say that there's a sudden demand for your more "unique" capabilities."
"Unique capabilities? Vague much?"
"I was going for subtle. But since you haven't seemed to master that art, I'll spell it out for you. The pardon's legit, but it is conditional. In exchange for your freedom, you're going to come to work for Uncle Sam."
Faith hadn't been expecting that. She'd considered the possibility – why else would the government have sprung her – but had dismissed it as beyond the scope of reason. "Doing what exactly?"
"It's not that hard to figure out. You're a Slayer, Faith. You do the math."
"You know what I am?" Despite the uncertainty in her voice, it wasn't really intended as a question.
Front seat guy nodded. "I know a lot about you Faith, more than I really care to. But to answer your question – yes, I know you're a Slayer, and I know what that means."
"So what is it you want me to do?"
The man shook his head at the sheer absurdity of what he was about to say. "I want you to do your job," he acknowledged with a pained expression. "I expect you to save the world."
Though he didn't realize it, Faith had has many doubts about that as he did. Unlike him, she didn't hesitate to admit it. "I think you've got the wrong girl for the job, mister. There's another Slayer out there. Why don't you ask her?"
"Understand this, Faith: I'm not asking you to do anything – I'm telling you how it's going to be. Either you do this for your country, or you go back to being prisoner #121675."
Ever the cynic, Faith wasn't buying the party line. "You know, I may not have finished high school, but I wasn't born yesterday. I'm pretty sure a pardon means all is forgiven, no strings attached."
The man leveled his gaze at her, his expression devoid of humor. "I don't think you fully appreciate your situation Faith. The President's orders were very clear in their intent: Prisoner #121675 is to cease to exist. If you choose not to play ball, then you go back to being Prisoner #121675. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"
Suddenly, things were very clear to Faith. As it was, she wasn't about to sacrifice herself on the altar of principle, at least not where her life was concerned. "Well, when you put it that way…. where do I sign up?"
"I'm glad to see you've come around to my way of thinking, Faith. If it makes you feel any better, you've made the right decision."
In the most favorable light, the look Faith shot him could only optimally be described as unkind. "Not like I really had a choice in the matter."
"Oh, but you're wrong, Faith. You always have a choice. It's just not always a pleasant one."
Faith rolled her eyes at that not-quite revelation. "The story of my life."
"Well, then think of this as a chance to make a new start." The fact that the man's gun was now aimed her did not escape Faith's notice. Still, his was the only game in town, at least for the time being.
"Answer one question for me?"
"Shoot," he responded, the pun not entirely unintentional.
Now Faith couldn't help but smile. "Is there any chance we could we hit the next rest stop? I have to use the little girls' room."
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End chapter 18. Sorry this took so long folks, but I've been a busy squirrel. I promise (and this time I mean it) the next chapter will not take so long. At any rate, look for all Hell to break loose (pun intended) in the next installment.
Until next time,
Rabid Squirrel