Author: Rabid Squirrel
Title: "Murphy's Law"
Disclaimer: I own nothing, save a shattered croquet mallet, a pair of frozen underwear, and a few remaining shreds of dignity.
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 the flagrant abuse of literary license.
Feedback: Constructive criticism, comments, and suggestions are greatly appreciated. Flames will be used to burn couches. Couches? Yes…I said couches. Don't ask. You wouldn't understand anyway.
Note: Thanks again to all who continue to provide feedback, and to those of you who have just joined us for this little extended head-trip into the BTVS alternate-reality universe. As for those who haven't yet reviewed…. where's the love?
Dedication: To Frank, and all other demonic rabbits the world over. Let's hope we have more than 28 days left.
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Chapter 19: "Guns Don't Kill People, Bullets Kill People." And from these afterward another raceProceeded, late-completed, youngest born,
Blood-stained, perverse in counsel; of men these
Were in the fourth race; much the blood they spilled,
Nor feared they God nor had regard for men,
For maddening wrath and sore impiety
Were sent upon them. And wars, homicides,
And battles sent some into Erebus,
Since they were overweening impious men.
But the rest did the heavenly God himself
In anger afterwards change from his world,
Casting them into mighty Tartarus
Down under the foundation of the earth. - Excerpt from the Apocrypha, Book I of the Sibylline Oracles ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ A Block From Willy's Place
They watched from a discrete distance, two otherwise unremarkable men sitting inside what at first glance appeared to be a customized Ford F350 pickup truck. But as was to be expected in Sunnydale, neither the men nor the vehicle were what they initially appeared to be.
The truck was not really a pickup at all, but a practical technology demonstrator, an integrated weapons and communication system mated to the venerable Ford chassis. Officially it was only a concept vehicle, a project designed to evaluate the efficacy of pairing cutting edge commercial automotive applications with an urban light tactical vehicle platform in a low-intensity urban warfare environment. It was, in short, the SUV from hell.
While the exterior body of the vehicle might have been crafted in any of Southern California's numerous custom body shops, its numerous internal components were something straight out of a James Bond flick. The seemingly off-the-shelf headlights were capable of delivering stunning 2-million candlepower bursts of light, incapacitating, and in some cases blinding, any potential enemy. The metal door handles were similarly outfitted, wired to deliver a potent fifty thousand volts of theft deterrent to any would-be thief. Its exhaust system, while almost stock, functioned as a smoke generator, enabling the driver and occupants to cover their retreat if things really went wrong.
To ensure against such an exigency, the vehicle known officially as the smarTruck also carried with it a number of more active defense systems. Foremost of these was a pair of embedded 20mm chain guns, each concealed in its own weapons bay on the port and starboard sides of the truck, just aft of the engine compartment. And for those situations in which a lethal rain of lead just wouldn't suffice, the truck could be readily outfitted with Stinger, Hellfire, or TOW missiles, depending on the nature of the anticipated opposition, and the inclination of the armorer.
The most lethal weapons carried onboard the smarTruck, however, were to be found sitting patiently in the front bucket seats. The two occupants of the vehicle, casually attired in what passed for civilian garb in military circles, were both well-trained instruments of warfare. At present, however, neither was in the employ of any military branch per se, though both had at one time seen extensive service in such. As it was, neither man even knew whom he was ostensibly working for, though both knew one thing for certain: They were on the right side.
The younger of the two, a visibly fit black man in his mid-to-late twenties, discretely reconnoitered the surrounding area from the passenger seat, expertly surveying the surrounding commercial district with marginally better than 'perfect' vision. Presently, a flash of movement midway down the street caught his attention, prompting the man to remove his Ray Ban sunglasses. His left hand automatically moved down to the console between the two men, picking up a pair of cheap commercial binoculars, which he offered reflexively to the man beside him in the driver's seat.
"Female, blonde, early twenties. Fifty meters at your 2 o'clock. Looks like our girl."
The elder man raised the glasses to his eyes, adjusting his field of view slightly to the right. There she was all right. Caucasian female, age 22, blonde hair, green eyes, and if he wasn't mistaken, toting a short blade inside her jacket. The hilt was a dead giveaway. "Roger, positive ID on Alpha," he muttered coarsely, simultaneously reaching for the C-Cell unit mounted on the console.
"Six, Sunburn. Stand by for confirmation," he spoke into the secure hand-held communications device.
The response came immediately: "Sunburn, Six; go ahead."
"Primary is a go. Repeat, primary is a go. Alpha has arrived; Oswald is on station."
"Roger that, Sunburn. Confirm primary is a go. Be advised – Wildcard en-route with escort. ETA twenty minutes. Six out."
With a muffled curse, the driver terminated the transmission, turning to his partner. "So what do you think?"
"I think she's kinda hot," the other man replied glibly, attempting, and succeeding, to get a rise out of his counterpart. "Don't you?"
"I hadn't noticed," the older man informed his oversexed counterpart, nevertheless checking out the subject in question from the corner of his eye. "I'm a happily married man."
The younger man grunted, following his colleague's wandering gaze. "Happily married? Isn't that what they call a contradiction in terms?"
"This coming from a guy who considers a one night stand a long-term relationship?"
"Damn straight," the younger man declared. "You know my motto: 'Get some and get gone'. Gotta keep it simple."
"For someone who likes to keep things simple, you sure as hell chose the wrong line of work," observed the other man. "Talk about your contradiction in terms."
"Careful pops," the younger agent cautioned, wagging his finger disapprovingly. "You're projecting again. Me thinks you might need another session with the shrink."
His partner's response came out as a growl. "She isn't a goddamned shrink. She's a psychologist. There's a difference. And you know damn well it's a standard part of the AAR and debrief, so cut the shit and keep your eyes on the target."
"Yes sir, massuh," the younger man responded tongue-in-cheek, offering the older man a mock salute, replete with extended middle finger. "I know just what to keep my eyes on."
His colleague rolled his eyes in disbelief. "You do realize she's gonna be morgue meat in a few minutes. Your disturbing fixation almost borders on necrophilia."
The younger man just rolled his eyes. "Which begs the question, and don't think I don't know you feel the same way: Just what the fuck are we doing sitting here on our asses? Hell man, I've got my Barrett stowed in the back. One squeeze of the trigger, and bam: One dead asshole, and one very appreciative white girl."
"I'm sure you'd fall in lust and live happily ever after," the driver conceded, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he raised the binoculars to his eyes once more, "Unfortunately for you and your simple life, we have a job to do. And it's a little late to be getting cold feet, so get your shit together and stick to the mission parameters." Then man fell silent for a few seconds before speaking again, his voice a little softer. "All right, she's inside. Shouldn't be more than a few minutes now." He glanced over to his colleague, observing the crestfallen look on the younger man's face. "Aw, c'mon. Buck up kiddo. With any luck, you'll at least get to kill the bastard later." That revelation brought a measure of relief to the younger man's face, though it was fleeting.
"That is," the older man qualified, "if he doesn't do himself afterward." That had been known to happen, after all.
"It ain't right, man," the passenger lamented, a murderous look reflected in his eyes. "It just ain't right, doin' that to your own daughter."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Inside Willy's Place
It was a little appreciated fact that there was world of difference between the concept of destiny and that of fate. The latter, despite frequent invocations to the contrary, was little more than a human contrivance, a way to assign some sort of meaning to the undesirable outcomes of conscious actions. Destiny, on the other hand, was an entirely real phenomenon, if somewhat more ambiguous in nature.
All of which was of little consolation to Hank Summers.
He'd told himself that it wasn't really his fault; that it was his daughter's deviant tendencies that had brought about the present situation, and not his own moral shortcomings. And that had initially helped, at least to some degree, convincing him that he wasn't really to blame for this. Buffy was the one who had broken the rules, he reasoned; she was the one who had made the enemies, not the other way around. That's the way it had always been. She'd destroyed his marriage to Joyce all those years ago, with her outlandish behavior and selfishness, all the time driving a wedge between him and her mother. It hadn't been the affairs or the neglect on his part; it was she. Buffy was simply a bad kid, and that's all there was to it.
Except, of course, there was more to it than that. To assuage his guilt, Hank Summers allowed himself the luxury of dismissing the inconvenient matter of his monetary obligations to a certain law firm, a circumstance arising out of his questionable financial dealings and increasingly lavish lifestyle. He'd rationalized time and again that he only wanted what was rightfully his, a lifestyle denied to him by familial obligations and a floundering California economy. And to that end, Wolfram & Hart had been a godsend, or so he'd thought at the time.
Sitting in the corner booth at the dingy bar, it began to occur to him that maybe, just maybe it wasn't fate that had brought him there. Had he been a little more inclined to personal introspection, he might have ultimately come to the logical conclusion: That it wasn't fate at all, but a dubious destiny that had brought him to this point in life. But Hank Summers lacked the requisite self-awareness to come to such an enlightened realization, emotionally unable to accept the truth that it was his choices, and not those of his estranged daughter, that had triggered this chain of events, culminating with his arrival in Sunnydale.
Which ultimately was why he was sitting at that exact moment in some god-forsaken dive, clutching an unregistered 9mm pistol in his violently trembling hands, trying in vain to steel himself to do what must be done. It was why his eldest daughter was going to do die by his own hand this very afternoon, and that had nothing at all to do with fate.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Giles' House
"You haven't told them everything…have you?"
The elder Watcher glanced up irritably from the growing mountain of research, affixing his approaching counterpart with a disdainful glare. "And what, pray tell, is that supposed to mean?"
Wesley smiled benignly at his colleague, knowing full well he wasn't the only one who'd been less than candid. "…'And before the plains of Elysium the champion will fall," he recited from memory, "betrayed by those she would call friend, struck down by agents of the First True Evil." The smile slowly faded into something else. "Stop me if this all sounds familiar."
"You've been holding out on me," Giles observed warily, closing the volume of biblical prophecy sitting in front of him.
Wesley casually leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms in front of him. "It seems I'm in good company in that regard."
Giles disregarded the implicit accusation, curious as to how the other man had come by that particular bit of information. "How did you know?"
"As I told you before, I have my sources," the younger man assured him.
"Right…your sources," Giles echoed, the corners of his mouth turning upwards ever so slightly in a knowing half-smile. "Who is she?"
"She? What makes you think my source is of the female persuasion, or even a human for that matter?"
"I wasn't aware that humanity was a prerequisite of yours," Giles remarked off-handedly. "You must have raised your standards since we've last spoken."
"I'm laughing on the inside," Wesley assured the other man, smiling benignly, "in case you were wondering."
"I wasn't," Giles countered. "At least not about that. As for this alleged source of yours…"
"The source is reliable," Wesley granted. "Her motivation for disclosing the information is another matter entirely."
"Then your informant is human?"
Wes nodded. "A lawyer."
"I stand corrected."
Wes ignored the other man's attempt at humor. "She's a junior executive at Wolfram & Hart."
"I presume you're referring to Angel's old friend Lilah Morgan."
"You've been speaking to Angel then?" Wesley hadn't been aware of that little detail.
"On occasion," Giles admitted, rising purposefully from his seat. He ambled over to a nearby cabinet, removing a half-full decanter of scotch whiskey and two glasses. He poured a generous amount of the former into the latter, offering a glass to Wesley, who readily accepted. "More as a professional courtesy than anything else."
"But he saw fit to mention my…'arrangement' with Lilah?"
"Among other things. I don't believe Angel looks very fondly on your habit of….'pumping' Ms. Morgan for information."
"I make no apologies for my actions," Wesley imparted to his would-be mentor. "I did what had to be done, given the circumstances."
"I'd say you've gone above and beyond the call in that regard," Giles added for the other man's benefit, draining his glass with one long pull. "But be that as it may, it still leaves the question as to why Lilah would see fit to share this information with you."
"I assure you, Rupert, I'm not so naïve to assume that her motivation was altruistic," Wes admitted. "Conversely, however, I have my doubts as to whether her intention was to, shall we say… incline us to a particular course of action."
Giles could read between the lines better than most. "You believe that it's inevitable then…that Buffy can't be saved?"
"I don't believe it's a matter of whether she can be saved as much as it is should she be saved."
"That's a rather callous interpretation," Giles observed evenly, his expression conveying his personal disdain for Wesley's explanation.
"Callous…but practical," Wes maintained. "We've both read the same prophecy, Rupert. You know the words as well as I."
Giles couldn't argue with him on that point. He'd read and reread the proceeding passage so many times that it was forever ingrained in his memory:
But at the hour when all seems lost, from the ashes of the fallen warrior shall spring forth new hope; out of the funereal pyre a new champion shall be born unto this world, one conceived of man, graced with divine favor, and resurrected as flesh. She will be called Elisheba, the protector of man, and with her, the line of the chosen shall pass into the new age.
He shouldn't allow himself to believe it; he couldn't allow himself to accept it. But if it were true…
"I don't much like it either, Rupert," Wesley supplied, sensing Giles' ambivalence, "but we have to consider this rationally. Should we fail in an attempt to forestall the prophecy, then we run the risk that we will be unprepared for whatever is coming our way."
"And if we don't," Giles argued, "then we will quite possibly lose her forever."
"I've considered that possibility," Wesley conceded. "But ultimately what it comes down to is a choice between the lesser of two evils. In which case we have no choice."
"And Buffy, what of her choice?"
"I think it's already been decided for her," Wesley suggested. "You know her as well as anyone, Rupert. Do you honestly believe that, given the choice, she wouldn't come to the same conclusion?"
"I know she would," Giles insisted. "But we would be remiss not give her the choice. It is her life, after all."
"I won't argue that point with you," Wes conceded, seeing the futility in pursing the argument further. "Ultimately it is Buffy's decision. However, assuming she makes the right choice, there are still a few major issues we must deal with."
"Not the least of which is the identity of her betrayer," Giles offered.
"I assume you have a few thoughts on the matter."
Giles nodded. "More than I care to admit."
"A hell of a thing to suspect your own of treason," Wesley commiserated. He did, after all, have some experience in that arena.
"More so when there's evidence to confirm your suspicions."
Wesley had expected as much. "Who?" he asked quietly.
Giles peered warily around the corner, looking through the front window to confirm that Willow and Dawn were still sitting in the courtyard outside. Despite the fact that he and Wesley were alone, he still found it hard to vocalize his suspicions.
"Xander. I believe Xander may be the one."
"The boy? And you're quite sure of this?"
"As sure as I can be of anything at this point," Giles confirmed, pouring himself another drink. "Willow overheard a meeting between Xander and a demon named Whistler. I don't suppose I need to tell you the topic of discussion?"
He didn't. "Exactly what did she hear?"
"Very little of practical use, I'm afraid. From the brief snippets Willow overheard, it appears the two were discussing Buffy's impending fate, and Xander's role in preparing her for it."
"So you don't know for certain that Xander is the one?"
"No, I do not. For that matter, I don't even know what form of betrayal the prophecy alludes to. I cannot fathom that Xander would do anything to bring harm to Buffy, despite the recent difficulties between them."
"Let's look at this objectively, Rupert. For starters, we know that Xander has met on at least one occasion with this Whistler, who – if I'm not mistaken – is a balance demon."
"You're not mistaken."
Wesley nodded. "Secondly, we have prophecy – albeit one we have every reason to believe is genuine – that portends Buffy's imminent betrayal and death."
"But not necessarily in concert," Giles added, a thought taking shape in his head.
"Pardon?"
Giles began slowly pacing the room, running his hand through his disheveled hair as the theory ran its course. "The prophecy contends that Buffy will be betrayed by one she calls friend, but that she will be struck down by an agent of the First."
"So?"
"So…the wording leaves open the possibility that these are separate acts. That the one who betrays her will not be the same one who takes her life. Unless, of course, the betrayer is in league with the First"
Wesley wasn't biting. "Assuming your initial theory is correct, her betrayer would still be aiding and abetting in her death."
"Maybe," Giles conceded. "But it's also possible that the alleged betrayal is only a perceived act of betrayal. What if Xander knows something about the prophecy that we do not? It may well be that he is acting in good faith, and not against our interests."
"Even so, it would mean that he's withholding information. That fact alone gives us cause for concern."
"Need I remind you that both you and I are guilty of that very same transgression? Yet, only a few moments ago, we both agreed that the most prudent course of action was to allow these events to run their course and let the chips fall where they may. What if Xander is simply doing the same? If he possessed advance knowledge of the prophecy, it stands to reason that he might arrive at the same conclusion as we have."
"Perhaps. But the only way to confirm that is to find out what he knows. And the only way to accomplish that…"
"Is to confront Xander with what we know," Giles finished. "Which brings us back to square one."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Outside
Willow casually lifted an eye towards Dawn; casting a concerned glance at the young woman she had come to think of as much her own sister as she was Buffy's. More than anything else, it was the girl's reaction, or, more accurately Willow reasoned, her lack thereof, that bothered her. Despite everything Dawn had been through, and everything they'd learned over the past few days, the girl still somehow managed to project an unflappable, almost indifferent demeanor, seemingly untouched by the disturbing events unfolding around them. Knowing Dawn as she did, Willow couldn't help but get the feeling that something was up. After all, no sixteen-year-old girl could possibly go this long without speaking. It just wasn't natural.
"So…. Dawn," Willow ventured, more to break the silence than anything else, "Have I told you what a convincing impersonation of an inanimate object you're doing? I mean, first rate…really," she added, giving Dawn the proverbial 'thumbs up'.
Dawn raised an eyebrow in Willow's general direction, but didn't quite meet her gaze. "To the untrained eye it may appear that I'm doing nothing, but I can assure you I'm quite busy at the cellular level."
"I don't suppose you feel like talking about it?"
Dawn hesitated, eyeing the other girl warily. "Do I have a choice?"
Willow shook her head. "I was kinda hoping you'd just say yes and save me the trouble of forcing the issue."
"Well, when you put it that way, how can I say no?" Dawn replied flippantly. "What is it you want to know?"
"For starters, how are things going on the domestic front?" It wasn't much, but you had to begin somewhere.
Dawn shrugged dismissively, staring vacantly off into the distance, watching as the mid afternoon sun cast long shadows over the neighborhood, her finger absently tracing a line in the dust on the patio table. "As good as can be expected," she acknowledged after a long pause. "I mean, we're both making a conscious effort. Buffy's even trying to cook, for what it's worth."
"Buffy cooks? Where was I when this happened?"
Dawn shrugged again. "I said she was trying. I never claimed success."
Willow smiled sympathetically, having sampled the results of Buffy's prior forays into the culinary arts. "Betty Crocker's still sending you hate mail, huh?"
"Yeah, but it's less frequent now, and with fewer four-letter words. And on the plus side, we're on a first-name basis with the fire department"
"But everything else is kosher?"
"With the possible exception of our impending doom, yes, everything's peachy. We're like the Brady Bunch, only less annoying, and without the parental supervision."
"That's definitely of the good," Willow temporized, obviously trying to get at something else. "So, are you and Buffy talking?"
"It's kinda hard to avoid," Dawn pointed out, "given that we live under the same roof."
"Right," Willow acknowledged. "But does she ever…you know…talk about me?"
With that question, the two girls switched roles, Dawn assuming the part of the sympathetic friend. "She doesn't hate you, Will," Dawn counseled, flashing the older girl a reassuring smile. "In case you've forgotten, Buffy's kinda big on the whole forgive and forget philosophy of late."
"Well sure. I mean, when it's a minor thing like trying to end the world. But I was referring to, uh, more recent events."
"Oh, you mean like making Xander your cuddle monkey?"
"I probably wouldn't have used that term, but yeah, that's pretty much what I was getting at."
"She's wigged," Dawn conceded, which wasn't exactly an earth shattering revelation to either girl.
"I kinda noticed. Is she mad?"
"Not so much. She's confused, upset, and seriously in denial. But if she's mad at anyone, it's herself."
"So it's true, then. She's in love with Xander."
Dawn nodded. "Apparently it's obvious to everyone except her and Xander," she supplied. "Of course, she may not be the only one…"
Willow answered the implicit suggestion with a shake of the head. "Do I have to keep reminding everyone that I'm still gay?" she asked with a rueful grin. "I mean, I love Xander, but not in a 'the hills are alive', 'singing in the rain' kind of way."
"Must be kind of awkward, though" Dawn empathized. "I mean, sleeping with your best friend and all."
"Why do you say that?"
"It's kind of hard not to notice, Wills. The tension between the two of you is way obvious."
"But that's not…" Willow started, before thinking better of it and falling silent.
"Not what?" Dawn prodded, correctly intuiting the significance of Willow's verbal slip.
"Nothing. It's nothing for you to worry about."
"No," Dawn insisted, "you've got something face. What is it you're not telling me?"
"It's nothing. Well, okay, it's not 'nothing' nothing, but it's not really important."
"You know Will, lying's bad for the soul," Dawn lectured. "Take it from someone who knows."
"It's not like that, Dawn. I'm not even sure that I understand it myself."
"Then maybe I can help you to understand. Secrets…they tend to lead to badness," Dawn warned. "And badness generally leads to me getting tied up, and not in a good way."
"There's a good way?" That was news to Willow, who, despite suspicion to the contrary, had never actually played 'Mistress of Pain'.
"Focus Will. Bondage…not really the relevant issue here."
Willow turned slightly from the other girl, breaking eye contact in a futile attempt to conceal what she was thinking. "Sorry Dawny, my mind sort of wandered. It does that on occasion."
Dawn hadn't been born yesterday. Two years ago – yes – but definitely not yesterday. "You were trying to change the subject, Will, which, I might add, will only strengthen my resolve."
"I was not trying to change the subject," Willow protested weakly, looking back up at Dawn, then allowing her gaze to shift past the girl to a familiar figure standing just beyond her. Her half-hearted attempt at a smile quickly transformed into something else. "If I wanted to do that, I would just point out that Spike is standing right behind you."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
SHS – That same time
"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."
"And that would put your mind at ease?" Danyael asked Xander. "Give you some semblance of peace of mind?"
"I think we both know better than that, prophecy boy. But I've at least earned the right to know why."
The Fallen angel nodded reluctantly. "Far be it from me to say so," he allowed grudgingly, "But when you're right, you're right. In hindsight, you should have told."
"In other words," Xander translated, "errors were made - others will be blamed. Why don't we skip ahead to the part where my not-quite-potential-girlfriend has to die."
"You've got it all wrong, Xander," Danyael corrected. "Despite what the prophecy may say, you have my word that this will not end with her death."
Now Xander was truly confused. "But Whistler…. he told me…"
"He told you the truth," Danyael finished. "He told you that Buffy Summers will die, and so she shall."
"Care to vague that up a little?" Xander asked, the anger rising in his voice. "Look, I've done everything you asked. I stood by and watched her die. I stood by and did nothing as her life fell apart, did nothing as she slipped away from us all. And now I'm tired. I'm tired of the lies. I'm tired of the riddles. I'm tired of the bullshit. For once, just give it to me straight. Please."
"I've done nothing but," Danyael countered calmly. "The truth has always been right in front of you, Xander. You just refuse to see it for what it is."
"Look, I'm not so good with the metaphorical bullshit, so why don't you just save us both a lot of time and tell me what it is I'm supposed to be seeing."
"Elizabeth is different," Danyael offered, fishing yet another cigarette from his pocket, seemingly undeterred by Xander's outburst,. "She's unlike any Slayer that has come before her, unlike any that will follow."
"Yeah. Buffy's one of a kind," Xander concurred, "I get that. But why her? Why now?"
"She was destined to give her life, Xander, not once, but twice. When she came back to this realm, she had doubts…about herself, about her place in this world. She believed she'd somehow come back wrong, returned something less than human. But in that regard she was mistaken, even if she didn't realize how or why she was wrong."
"I know we didn't bring her back," admitted Xander. "At least, not the way we intended to."
Danyael lit the cigarette, taking a long drag before continuing. "It was a rather elegant charade," he allowed, exhaling a stream of perfectly concentric smoke rings. "Your friend Willow had grown remarkably strong, imbued as she was with the white magic. She was more than capable of restoring and reanimating Elizabeth's corporeal body."
"But it wouldn't have been her; wouldn't have been Buffy," Xander interjected. I know we weren't responsible for that."
"No Xander, it wouldn't have been her. Magics are capable of many things, capable even of summoning a lost soul from the ether. But not even the most learned of conjurers may wrest a soul from Heaven. That power is far beyond that possessed by either man or demon."
"But not beyond your power."
"Not even I wield that degree of power, Xander."
"But if not you, then…" Xander halted in mid sentence, belatedly grasping the significance of what Danyael was suggesting. "Wait just a damn minute. You mean to tell me that…"
"I am saying precisely that," Danyael interrupted. "Elizabeth was sent back because her time in this world was not yet at an end. She has a greater purpose in this life, one far beyond the calling of a Slayer."
"But that means that Buffy was right all along…she isn't human, at least not entirely."
If the truth behind Buffy's reincarnation had once succeeded in shocking Xander, then what he heard next shook him to the very core of his being.
Danyael gazed intently at the young man, a strange mixture of sympathy and amusement etched into his normally inscrutable features. "What makes you think she ever was?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Willy's Place
The sound of gunfire wasn't a particularly uncommon phenomenon at Willy's, even in the middle of the afternoon. For the record, on that afternoon and as police reports should later – but would never – show, Buffy Anne Summers unofficially became the 21st gunshot casualty of the year. As fate would have it, she also became the second fatality.
At least, in a manner of speaking.
Ironically, it was Willy who first saw it coming. There was just something about the man that struck him as overtly odd. Maybe it was the man's appearance, knowing as Willy did the immutable fact that a human being had no earthly business setting foot in this place, especially one that looked every bit the part of a hapless businessman. Or perhaps it was his mannerisms, the shaking hands belying the man's obvious discomfort, beads of sweat cascading down his forehead despite the coolness of the conditioned air inside. Whatever the reason, Willy should have known, long before he saw the gun in the man's hand.
Of course, he tried to alert the Slayer. And were it not for the deceptively strong hand currently wrapped around his neck, Willy might have succeeded. As it was, his warning came out as an unintelligible hiss, the unrelenting force of her grip strangling his windpipe, preventing the flailing bartender from uttering anything even remotely comprehensible. Had the Slayer exhibited a bit more prudence, or even a modicum of patience, Willy's otherwise futile attempt might have proven beneficial. But the Slayer was well past the point of rational thought; driven as she was by forces she could neither control nor comprehend, Buffy was incapable of preventing what had been foretold.
And so it came to be that, with the focused application of just a few pounds of pressure to an otherwise unremarkable metal level, Hank Summers triggered into being a chain of events that would forever change the world, and in doing so, sealed his own fate.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Pacific Coast Highway
Just outside Sunnydale
As chance would have it, there were not one, not two, but three Slayers whose grip on life was far more tenuous than each fully appreciated. Careening down the winding asphalt ribbon at speeds exceeding 100 mph, Faith Mackenzie was about to learn that lesson the hard way, and with it, the realization that despite what she'd succeeded in convincing herself, there were indeed limits to self-determination.
The man sitting beside her – that is, the one not currently riddled with bullet holes – was the first to see it coming. He'd spent much of the ride sitting maintaining a silent vigil, keeping a watchful eye on events unfolding both inside and outside the automobile. Experience had taught him that the worst kind of trouble was that which tended to sneak up on you from behind, and for that reason, he'd spent most of his time peering out the back window, alert to any potential danger. In that regard, he wouldn't be disappointed.
It appeared at first as a tiny speck in the sky, a rapidly growing dot approaching the truck from several miles out. The man kept his eyes trained on the unwelcome sight, watching raptly as it grew in size, feeling a large knot growing inside his stomach. He cursed himself silently for not being better prepared. It had been his idea to forego any heavy weaponry for this mission, reasoning that Wolfram & Hart would have struck by now, if it had indeed been their intention to eliminate the Slayer. The unmistakable 'whump-whump' of the approaching rotary aircraft belied that belief.
"We've got company," he warned his counterparts, simultaneously clambering over the back seat into the rear cargo area. "Chopper inbound at our five-o'clock."
The driver acknowledged the warning with a surreptitious glance at the passenger side mirror, hoping to catch a glimpse of the potential threat. "Friendly?" he asked his counterpart, harboring a glimmer of optimism, though he logically suspected otherwise.
"Wouldn't bet on it," the older man in back advised, keeping one eye on the unwelcome arrival. "Check with dispatch just to be sure."
The passenger-seat agent grabbed the console-mounted radio, hoping against hope that the unknown aircraft was one of their own. "Six, this is Wild-Card," he uttered tersely. "Be advised, we're en-route on PCH, ETA eight minutes, and it looks like we've got party crashers."
The response came instantly. "Wild-Card, this is Six. Please advise as to nature of threat."
"Six, we have an unknown chopper approaching. Bogey is approximately two miles at our five-o'clock and closing fast. I don't suppose it's one of ours?"
"Negative Wild-Card. No known friendly air assets in the vicinity." A brief pause, then: "Do you require assistance?"
"That's affirmative, Six. Tell those army flyboys to get off their asses and give us some goddamned air cover."
The brief static that followed was quickly replaced by the familiar voice. "Roger that, Wild-Card. Be advised: Air support is en-route. ETE ten minutes."
The agent closed his eyes slowly in resignation, his fears officially confirmed; there would be help for them, at least none that would matter. "Thanks Six," he acknowledged, unable to conceal the considerable sarcasm in his voice. "Wild-Card out."
He glanced up into the rear-view mirror, addressing the other occupants of the vehicle. "Well folks, it looks like we're on our own. I suggest you all fasten your seat belts and keep your heads down," he admonished, ostentatiously shifting his gaze to Faith. "It's gonna get a little bumpy."
For once, Faith did as she was told, buckling her lap belt and tucking her upper body down in front of the seat back. She didn't appreciate being given orders, but when it involved people shooting at her, she felt slightly more inclined to do so. Meanwhile, the agent in the back of the truck was opening the built-in cargo compartment set into the floor. He pulled out a large rectangular metal case, struggling to maintain his balance in the swerving vehicle. As he punched the memorized combination into the cases' cipher lock, he hazarded a glance out the rear window.
The chopper had now closed to within a mile, descending lower than 100 feet AGL in an attempt to confuse any potential counterattack with thermal guided weapons. The pilot couldn't have known that the occupants carried no such weapons, and that, at least, worked in the marshals' favor. Thankful for this minor godsend, the agent pulled the M95 rifle from its foam-lined case, sliding a detachable 10X scope into place atop the weapon. Working quickly, he attached a bipod to the bottom of the barrel, locking the short metal legs into place. Finally, he slapped a five-round magazine of .50 caliber rounds into place near the rifle's breech, working the bolt-action to chamber a round. Having assembled the weapon (in fewer than fifteen seconds no-less) he turned to face the approaching interloper, triggering a small button concealed within the floor compartment. A concealed gun-port immediately opened in the rear window, and the marshal obediently swung the rifle in that direction, resting the small bipod atop the rifle case to stabilize the weapon. Placing his eye to the scope, he mentally estimated the range to the weaving chopper, and dialed in the appropriate settings. His preparation complete, he took a closer look at the approaching aircraft, which he readily identified as a UH-1 "Huey", the venerable – if outdated – helicopter that had found service in the US Army for so many years. That the aircraft sported externally mounted "Zuni" rocket pods and twin 20mm mini-guns did not escape his notice.
From the front seat came the voice of the senior agent. "How we looking back there?"
The rifleman took a moment to answer, managing to do so in a calm voice in spite of his reservations. "Professional assessment? We're FUBAR," he replied evenly, using the unofficial military acronym to convey that they were indeed about to be 'fucked up beyond all recognition'.
The driver responded without word, pressing the accelerator to the floor as his training dictated. The supercharged ten-cylinder engine reacted instantly, pushing the lightly armored SUV past 120 mph, still accelerating. Despite the situation, the driver's expression betrayed none of the anxiety he was feeling. He knew implicitly, as did the others, that the tactical situation was not promising. They were still a good fifteen miles from Sunnydale, sorely lacking in anti-aircraft weapons, and without any attendant air support. He knew there were Air Cav elements operating out of the army base near Sunnydale, but he was also cognizant of the fact that by the time they'd arrive on station, this engagement would be long over, for better or worse. Putting aside the apparent futility of the situation in favor of temporary survival, he focused on his driving, weaving in and out of moderate traffic, exhibiting a talent that would have impressed even the most veteran of NASCAR drivers.
The senior marshal, sitting opposite the driver, discarded his usual S&W 10mm for the Heckler & Koch stowed away in the glove box. He turned to face the Slayer, machine pistol in hand. "You still with us, Faith?" he asked with a lopsided smile, extending the handgun to faith, butt first.
"Like a bad habit," Faith shot back, returning the smile. She reached for the proffered weapon, obstinately refusing to show any fear in front of these men. As her fingers closed around the customized wood grain handgrip, the situation took a decided turn for the worse.
If there were still any lingering questions as to the intentions of the approaching aircraft, they were put to rest as a burst of 20mm rounds tore into the Suburban's Kevlar armor plating, sending glass, and bodies, flying. Ducking instinctively to avoid the hail of bullets, Faith grasped frantically for her seatbelt in an effort to unclasp it, only to find it had been torn away by one of the offending rounds. She pulled back her hand, startled to find it covered in blood. Shit, she thought fleetingly. I survive two goddamned years in prison only to get my ass shot off in the drive-by from hell. With no small bit of trepidation, Faith glanced down at her right leg, quickly locating the source of the blood. The same shot that had freed her from the confines of her seat belt had apparently left its mark on her as well, passing cleanly through her thigh on its journey forward. Almost as an afterthought, she glanced toward the front of the vehicle, following the logical trajectory of the bullet, and was shocked to see the driver slumped forward over the steering wheel. On instinct, Faith lunged forward, intending to grab the wheel, but was surprised to find that her body would not cooperate. Her adrenaline rush subsiding, she realized belatedly that her leg was broken, and that she was bleeding out.
The man in back was not faring much better than his counterparts. He'd managed to squeeze off a few rounds at the approaching chopper, but at this range, firing from an unstable platform, he might as well have been throwing pebbles. By some miracle, he'd avoided the first burst of fire. His rifle, however, had not been so fortunate. As he picked himself up from the floor, he'd been dismayed to find his trusty Barrett cleaved in two, the polished metal barrel laying uselessly at his feet.
Hanging halfway out the front passenger window, the senior agent, oblivious to Faith's condition, futilely emptied his entire clip out the passenger side window, his usual marksmanship negated by both the wildly swerving vehicle, and the limited range of the MP-5. Casting a look back inside the truck, he was horrified to see his friend and colleague slumped forward, obviously unconscious, and likely dead as well. The man lunged for the steering wheel, grabbing hold of it even as the truck careened off the pavement and onto the sandy shoulder of the highway. In his excitement, he overcorrected, jerking the steering wheel too far to the right. Still traveling at nearly 100 mph, the top-heavy truck lifted momentarily off the ground, proceeding to turn end over end in a grotesque barrel roll. With the sickening sound of crunching metal, the doomed vehicle rolled for several hundred feet, its unrestrained occupants tossed about violently like oversized rag dolls. Amid a cloud of dust and leaking fluids, the metal hulk finally came to a stop, its smoking corpse coming to rest inverted against a rocky outcrop.
In the wake of the wreckage the bodies of both the senior agent and the rifleman could be seen sprawled lifelessly, each of them tossed from the rolling vehicle by the extreme centripetal force. The driver still sat unmoving in the front seat, suspended from his safety belt, which had ultimately proven useless. The same shot that had felled the Slayer had also struck him, passing through the seat back and into his heart, instantly obliterating the organ, thereby sparing him the pain of the crash. Further back, the mortally wounded Slayer lie unmoving on the roof of the upside-down truck. Though she could still see and hear, Faith had no illusions about her condition. Unable to move, she lie still, gasping desperately for air, each precious breath coming harder then the previous, a tortuous prelude that could and would lead only to a final, macabre conclusion.
Part of her wanted to cry, to shout out against the indignity of her demise. It wasn't supposed to end like this. She was a Slayer; a warrior in the purist sense of the word. It was her given birthright, her code of honor, to die at the hands of some godforsaken demon, not to suffer the humiliation of perishing in something so mundane as a car wreck, even if the circumstances of which were not exactly pedestrian. But most of all, Faith wanted to cry out for her regrets. More than anything, Faith had desired closure, sought redemption in the eyes of the people who'd meant more to her than anyone, even if she'd never admitted as much to anyone but herself. It seemed that once more, she would be denied even that chance. It's not fair, she railed inwardly, wanted to do so much…say so many things. God, B, I'm sorry…so damn sorry. Wasn't supposed to be like this. Wasn't supposed to end this way. I wanted to tell you how I felt, wanted to set things right between us. Wanted to…wanted to…
As she felt the cold hand of death announce its imminent arrival, Faith's remaining senses began to obediently fade into oblivion. Her hearing failing, she could barely make out distant, muted sound of an violent explosion, followed by softly approaching footsteps in the sand. Footsteps in the sand? Footprints in the sand? It was all strangely familiar to Faith. Heard that somewhere before. Sum'thin 'bout footprints in the sand. Yeah, that's it…footprints in the sand.
The sound of footsteps ceased in her ears, replaced by an eerie and absolute silence. As her vision tunneled and faded to black, the last sight Faith saw was that of a man in white, smiling down peacefully at her shattered form.
And then her eyes closed.
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