Author: Rabid Squirrel
Title: "Murphy's Law"
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. This story is primarily B/X, kids, so don't expect any B/S. Necrophilia is such a turnoff.
Disclaimer: I'm worth more dead than alive (i.e. I own jack squat). Please don't tell my relatives. They're greedy, opportunistic, and they've been giving me that look again.
Spoilers: (BTVS) Thru season 6, though my selective memory allows me to edit out, rewrite, or outright ignore certain unsavory aspects. Assume Angel more or less true to canon thru season 3.
Rating: R, for violence, strong language, and the wanton abuse of literary license.
Feedback: Constructive criticism, comments, and suggestions are greatly appreciated. Flames will be used to burn couches. Couches? Yes, you read correctly, I said couches. Don't ask. You wouldn't understand anyway.
Note 1: As always, thanks to all who've taken the time to post a review, especially RobClark, Ghostrider, Gijsbrecht, WBH21C, Greywizard, Smeghead, Layce74, Randall Flagg, the overburdened miss Lori B, and all others not mentioned here, but appreciated nonetheless. Oh, and Unix!Rules? Fear not, for you'll be seeing more of our favorite redhead in subsequent chapters.unless I kill her off.
Note 2: In a previous chapter, Xander mentioned that Giles voted for Al Gore in the 2000 Presidential election. However, as Giles is a resident alien, and not a U.S. citizen, he could not legally vote. Since nobody has pointed this out, I hereby invoke the suspension of disbelief clause, and choose to ignore this inconvenient fact. I guess that's why they call it fanfiction.
Note 3: I apologize in advance if I've misquoted Whistler in any way, shape or form. My mind's not what it used to be, and in all honesty, it wasn't much to begin with.
Dedication: To 2004, and the endless possibilities of the New Year. I'd like to take this opportunity to apologize to the half of the world's population I've managed to offend in my relatively short tenure on this rock. And to the remaining 3 billion or so I haven't yet pissed off? Don't worry, the year is still young J
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Words of Wisdom: "I got suspended from school today.they found a switchblade in my locker.I took a swing at a cop. I'm just mad all the time." - Bart Simpson
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Chapter 20: "In Media Res"
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For once, Whistler had gotten it right.Bottom line.even if you see it coming, you're not ready for the big things.
In the final calculation, given the benefit of hindsight and the clarity of resolution, the truth was always obvious. No big shock there. Of course, it wasn't always that easy. In reality, even when you knew what was coming, even when you knew how to deal with it, you simply weren't prepared for the aftermath. You had no way of knowing, of coping, of adapting. Bottom line.even when you won, you lost.
Nobody asks for their life to change. The big moments are gonna come. You can't help that.
And come they had. The dominos were falling, one by one, and there wasn't jack squat anyone could do about it. The truth of the matter is, you can't stop what's inevitable. If it's meant to be, it's meant to be, and that's that. It wasn't fate, or karma, or any of that. It just was, and you either dealt with it or you didn't. That was really the only choice you had.
It's what you do afterward that counts.
The hard part was what came next. To put it simply, you basically have two choices. You either a) ride the storm out, and let the cards fall wherever they may; or b) Ride the storm out, and do your damnedest to stack the deck in your favor. Confused? That's all right. Everybody is at first. But don't worry.
You'll see what I mean.
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Pacific Coast Highway Outskirts of SunnydaleHe stood ankle deep in the blowing sand, gazing dispassionately through the remains of the shattered windshield at the broken body lying beyond. He knew she was dying, could see the life draining from the girl's still form as her breaths came in increasingly shallow gasps. An empath, he also knew that she was afraid; had known that she, like all other mortals, would try desperately to deny the inevitable and absolute nature of death when confronted with the end. In that regard, he wasn't disappointed. He could sense the panic and denial running through the girl's mind, could envision the endless litany of regrets and "what-ifs" playing out before her disbelieving eyes as her entire world slowly faded into nothingness.
It was the same, he reminded himself. It was always the same. Different people.different circumstances.same result. They lived their entire lives cognizant of their own mortality, knowing that one day, their card would be punched, and that there wasn't a damn thing they could do about it. Naturally though, when the time came - and it always did - they begged for a second chance, pleading with a God they'd never really believed in, entreating him for another chance, in exchange for promising to live a more righteous and enlightened life. Not that any of them would have done so, he reasoned, arrogant little bastards that they were.
Of course, their irrational fear of death did ultimately serve its purpose, which is why he was here in the first place. Toward that end, he'd given serious consideration to expediting the process. It wasn't that he wanted to spare the little whore any undue pain and suffering. For certain, that was the only part he really took any pleasure in. But, he reminded himself, he did have a job to do, a greater purpose to serve than his own amusement, and that took precedence. Of course, he rationalized, she'd be dead in a minute or so at any rate, so there was really no need to take matters upon himself. Besides, if it so happened that she suffered a minute or two longer, who was he to deny himself such a basic pleasure?
With a smile on his face - albeit one that only qualified as angelic by default of his lineage - he stepped to the wrecked skeleton of the Chevrolet, fragments of glass from the shattered windshield crunching noisily beneath his feet. Moving within reach of the overturned vehicle, he dropped to one knee, acutely aware of the irony of a being such as he appearing to genuflect, more so given what he had in store for the girl. With that thought, he motioned to the stilled form of the Slayer, beckoning the dying girl with a curled finger. The Slayer neither acknowledged the gesture, nor moved of her own accord. Nonetheless, her smashed body began to move toward the front of the overturned truck, drawn to the evil visage in white by some unknown force. The dying girl slowly inched forward, the injury to her body compounded by the shards of glass strewn about the front of the vehicle. Not that it mattered. The girl was beyond the capabilities of medical science to save her at this point. Her only hope, it seemed, was the one who now crouched over her body, laying his hand upon her head.
"Open your eyes, Faith," he commanded her, without saying a word aloud. "Look at me, if you want to live."
On cue, Faith's eyes flitted open, though in them registered neither the comprehension nor recognition of human consciousness. For death had already seized the girl in its clutches, her body rapidly shutting down, no longer able to sustain life, despite its best efforts. With dead eyes, she looked upward, into the expectant gaze or the First true evil.
"You must listen to me, Faith," the man implored her, his mouth unmoving. "I can save you, but I need your cooperation. You must know what death has in store for you; know what will become of you. If you would promise me but one thing, I could spare you that fate."
Faith did not respond verbally. She blinked once, twice, then a third time, trying plaintively to rationalize the irrational from behind uncomprehending eyes. She wanted to cry out, to scream, but she could not even speak. Not that it ultimately mattered, for her every thought was broadcast as clearly as if spoken aloud.
"Am I dead?" she asked.
The man smiled again. Not yet, he thought to himself. "You are only dead if you so desire to be, Faith. Is that what you want?"
"No.God, no. Please. Help me."
"I will help you, Faith. But first you must do something for me."
Even without speaking aloud, Faith's confusion was evident. "W-who are you? What do you want from me?"
He remained smiling. "Who I am is not important, Faith. And what I want from you is a promise. A solemn vow that in exchange for your life, you will do whatever I say, whenever I say it, without hesitation. Do you swear to me that you will do so?"
Even through the haze of death (or whatever the hell this was), Faith could see the danger signs. "...Don't understand.. don't know what you want from me.why you want me."
The smile began to show signs of wear. "The only thing you need to understand is what will happen to you if you choose not to cooperate, Faith. I am a patient individual Faith, infinitely more so than you could ever hope to understand. But even my patience has its limit."
Without another word, he took hold of her head in his hands, the tips of his gnarled fingers roughly probing the surface of her skull, in search of what lie within. She wanted to protest, to beg him not to do whatever it was he had planned for her, but she found herself unable, surrendering herself to his devices.
In total control, the man looked deeply into her eyes, his piercing gaze boring unhindered into the innermost recesses of Faith's mind, seeking out her most personal thoughts and memories, and in them, her deepest fears. A strange sensation permeated Faith's body, beginning deceptively, announcing itself as only a small, harmless tingle, but growing rapidly, agonizingly, in intensity, until it resembled first a severe electric shock, then ultimately a million simultaneous bursts of lightning, wreaking unimaginable torment on her weakened body and mind. For what seemed like hours - in reality only mere seconds - the pain ravaged her soul, accompanied by grotesque, hellish images dancing before her terrified blinded eyes, images fueled by her greatest fears and worst nightmares. The devil in angel's clothing showed Faith her own personal hell, feeding upon her doubts, regrets, and insecurities, giving her a vision of a world devoid of reason, a world without love, bereft of hope, and fueled by the hate and pain of a billion tortured souls, including her own. Deep down, she knew it wasn't real, not in the physical sense of the word, wasn't part of the here and now, but that didn't make the pain any less real. She tried to scream, to beg, to plead, anything to spare her this hellish torment, but was unable to do so. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, it stopped, ending just as suddenly as it had begun.
With tears streaming unabashedly down her face, Faith found her inner voice. "W-what was that? What the hell did you do to me?"
He removed his hand from her forehead, roughly cupping her trembling chin between his thumb and forefinger. He lifted her head until their eyes met. "What I did was show you your future, Faith. I gave you a glimpse of what awaits you on the other side of death. Now do you understand? You have a choice to make, and you must make it now. You have seen what awaits you beyond this life. I could spare you that fate, and all I ask in return is a simple promise."
Faith's eyes widened, the hopelessness of the situation reflected within. Hell. The end of the line for wayward Slayers. Do not pass go; do not collect two hundred fucking dollars. She had tried to dismiss it, had told herself it was all a big lie. There was no God. No Satan. No Heaven. No Hell. Just life and death.birth and the big dirt nap. The circle of life. That's all there was to it, or so she'd tried to convince herself so many times. But she knew better. Dammit. Wanted to make amends.tried so damn hard to make things right with the world, with Buffy. And I failed.again.
Faith looked back at the man who held her life in his hands, seeing beyond the obsidian orbs, looking to the darkness and hatred raging within. She knew who he was, and more importantly, what he represented. "Please.don't make me choose," she begged of him. "I can't do that. I won't betray them.not again."
"You can," he enjoined her, "and you will. Or would you prefer the alternative?"
He touched her temple again, unleashing once more the torment of Faith's own personal hell. This time, he allowed her to scream, to cry out at the top of her unbreathing lungs, to beg him for release from the terrible pain. An interminable moment passed, the pain subsided, and Faith again found herself looking into the face of evil.
It was almost more than her mind could bear. The images haunted her, seared into her faltering consciousness, proclaiming the undeniable truth about what had once been, was now, and would forever be. She was weak; a traitor to a world that had never really wanted her, Faith admitted to herself in those final moments, plagued with doubt and self-loathing, her actions governed by fear, her emotions suborned to an all consuming hatred born of her own perceived mistreatment. She'd been given a second chance, a chance to redeem herself, to live up to her God-given potential, and in doing so, restore the honor she had fought so long and hard to ignore. More than anything, she wanted to be brave, to face her end with dignity, and with her final act of defiance, to find the peace and serenity that somehow eluded her in life. But the strength and resolve that had sustained her in life had now abandoned her in the face of death, leaving her to the devices of the very evil she was sworn to oppose.
She felt the darkness returning, a tidal wave surging against her own will, threatening to overwhelm the thin veneer of resolve lingering within her broken body. "Let it go, Faith", the voice admonished. "Just say the word, and it will all be over. No more pain, no more doubt. Just give me your word, and it will all go away."
She fought against herself, her physical and spiritual selves in polar opposition to one another, her mouth forming the words even as her mind screamed in protest. "W-won't do it. Not this time. Never again." But she was fighting a hopeless battle in a war she could not hope to win.
With her last ounce of strength, the Slayer looked helplessly into the face of death, preparing to utter the words he'd been waiting to hear.
"I swear.."
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Giles' House The images played across the ancient television screen, endless lines of olive-green vehicles parading in front of the cameras in a scene evocative of countless Russian May Day parades of yesteryear. Only the Cold War had long since ended, and the feed wasn't being broadcast from the Eastern Europe, or even a third-world country for that matter. The live broadcast originated from downtown Los Angeles."Ladies and gentlemen, today we bear witness to a new and terrifying phase in the history of these United States. Only a few hours ago, President Bush, in response to the wave of recent terror attacks, issued an Executive Order declaring martial law in effect for all of greater Los Angeles County. Congress, in a symbolic gesture of support for the unprecedented move, voted 430-104, with one abstention, to approve the President's actions.
By order of the presiding military authority, a curfew has been enacted for all residents of Los Angeles, in effect from midnight to 6 a.m. Any person found to be in violation of the curfew, without due cause, will be subject to incarceration and prosecution by the convening military authority. To enforce the curfew, the President has, by virtue of Executive Order, federalized the California Army National and Air National Guard.
As you can see from the live video, mechanized elements of the National Guard are rolling into the city as I speak, establishing security checkpoints on all major thoroughfares and outside of all federal buildings. Residents are advised to remain inside their homes if at all possible. All schools and federal offices are to be closed indefinitely. All non-essential federal, state, and local employees are not to report to work until further notice, and travelers are being advised to avoid travel to the greater Los Angeles area."
The anchor fell silent for a moment, holding a hand to his earpiece. "I've just been informed by our Los Angeles affiliate that Los Angeles International Airport, by decree of the Adjutant General of California, has been closed indefinitely to all commercial air traffic. All inbound flights have been re-routed to alternate destinations, and all outbound flights are cancelled until further notice. Additionally, regional."
Rupert Giles clicked off the remote control, effectively silencing the familiar voice of the CNN news commentator. "Well then, it seems that answers one question."
From the chair opposite the Watcher, Wesley nodded in agreement. "A rather shrewd move on the part of the Americans, I dare say. Of course, it's only a matter of time before they turn their attentions a little closer to home."
"But against whom.or what? The enemy has yet to make so much as a single overt move, much less show its face."
"I don't disagree with your assessment," Wes acknowledged grudgingly. "But, for the sake of argument, put yourself in their shoes; what would you have done in their position?"
Giles grunted, rather uncharacteristically for the reserved Brit. "The bloody American president must be beside himself with joy at the prospect."
The younger man offered a half-assed smile in response, unconsciously strumming his fingers on the coffee table. "There is sort of a karmic justice to it," he mused alive.
"Rather so, I should think," Giles reluctantly admitted, bristling at the sheer audacity of the Republican President in ordering the invasion, even if for what were apparently altruistic reasons. He lifted a half-full glass to his lips, downing the remainder of the single-malt scotch before continuing. "Unfortunately, that leaves us with the likelihood that we'll be crossing paths with the ensuing military operation in our own backyard. I dare say that bodes ominously for our chances of success, given our past history with the Initiative."
"I hate to admit it, Rupert, but I should think it may well be in our best interests that they should be here, at least for the time being. Given the circumstances, we could do with a bit of additional firepower. I don't think I'm alone in fearing that pointy wooden sticks aren't going to get the job done this time."
Giles graciously conceded the point. "Perhaps. Though I would feel better knowing exactly what their intentions are. I fear we have enough surprises awaiting us as is."
Wesley opened his mouth to reply, only to stop dead in his tracks. The sight that greeted him was not one he'd been expecting to see, though, given his questionable past, was not exactly alien to him. Centered on Giles' chest, directly between the rumpled lapels of his unbuttoned tweed jacket, was a perfectly round red dot. With a growing sense of dread, Wesley slowly turned his head, tracking the light beam back to its point of origin, even as his former colleague became uncharacteristically subdued. Confirming Wesley's worst fears, he found himself staring into the muzzle of a laser-sighted submachine gun, brandished by a serious looking individual decked out in black Kevlar body armor. The presence of three additional similarly outfitted men suggested to Wesley that he, too, was the unwilling recipient of an identical red dot.
He turned back to Giles, his voice heavily laden with sarcasm. "You were saying, Rupert."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Outside Giles' House
The warning implicit in the combination of the words 'Spike' and 'standing right behind you' did not go unheeded by the youngest of the Summers girls, especially given the time of day and the aforementioned vampire's profound aversion to sunlight. Spinning around, Dawn's jaw nearly hit the ground as her eyes beheld a heretofore-unthinkable sight. Standing just a few feet away, his pale form casting a warped midday shadow on the patio brick, was the very monster Dawn had that very morning sworn revenge upon.
"Spike?" Dawn gaped in awe at the unthinkable sight, unable to believe her own eyes. "Spike!"
The prodigal vampire's pale lips curled upward into a twisted facsimile of a smile, unlit cigarette dangling precariously between them. "'Ello, Nibblet," he greeted the stunned girl. "Long time no see. How you been, cutie?"
Despite her initial shock, Dawn quickly recovered her composure. "What.what the hell are you doing here?" she demanded haltingly, jumping from her seat to face Spike, even as Willow's reassuring hand appeared on her shoulder.
The vampire paused to light his cigarette, savoring the moment as long as he could. "Oh, I don't know," he hedged, taking a deep drag off the smoke. "Thought I'd drop by, see how the old gang's doing. Maybe grab a bite to eat."
For the second time that day, Dawn cursed herself for leaving her purse - and the stake it contained - in Xander's truck. She eyed the vampire with less than subtle hatred, gritting her teeth. "Why? Didn't get your fill last night?"
The vampire's smile widened. As much as he consciously desired to kill the girl, he couldn't help but admire her grim sense of humor, and the underlying pain responsible for it. Truth be known, he hadn't really intended for his new childe to kill Dawn, what with his 'employers' plans for the little tart. Still, the thought of snapping her slender little neck held great appeal, Wolfram & Harts' intentions notwithstanding. "Not so much," he acknowledged magnanimously. "Snogging the little bint was like eating Chinese - an hour later, I was hungry again."
Spike's choice of words struck a decidedly sour chord with Dawn, who struggled to keep her growing rage in check. "Go fuck yourself," she spat, restrained from physically assaulting the vampire only by Willow's firm grip.
"What.no hug?" Spike asked, feigning disappointment.
"You are so fucking dead," Dawn muttered, her voice barely rising above a whisper. The intent, however, came across clearly.
"Hate to disappoint you, luv," Spike offered, accentuating the last word, "but in case you hadn't noticed, I'm already dead."
"I think you mean Undead," Dawn spat out, still struggling against Willow's grasp. "But I can fix that for you."
Willow looked on silently, taking in the entire exchange with morbid fascination. Dawn's initial hatred for the vampire wasn't exactly surprising, given what he'd done - or at least had attempted to do - to Buffy. But it was obvious there was a more personal matter at play here, something more than Spike's attempted rape of Dawn's sister, and it didn't take a genius to realize exactly what the something was. "You son of a bitch!" she snarled, surprised by the intensity of her own growing sense of outrage. "How could you?"
"Wasn't all that hard," Spike admitted with a dismissive shrug. "You just go for the jugular, and the rest kind of takes care of itself. If you'd like, I could demonstrate on Niblet here."
"Now might be a good time to shut your mouth," Willow advised, her usually cool demeanor showing signs of fraying. "Unless you want me to shut it for you."
Spike suppressed the urge to laugh, knowing full well what the witch was capable of. "Now, now, Red. Watch that nasty temper of yours. Wouldn't want to go all veiny again, would we? Not good for the 'ole complexion."
"Neither is the sunlight," Willow retorted, taking a step towards the vampire. "And yet here you are."
"Heard a little sun was good for the ol digestive process," Spike explained, staring pointedly at Dawn as he dabbed absently at the thick layer of protective sunscreen covering his face. "Got me a bit of a bellyache, I do. Must've eaten something that didn't agree with me."
Willow smiled coldly back at Spike, tightening her grip on Dawn as she extended a single finger toward the unrepentant vampire. "You might want to get your priorities straight," she suggested, a ball of flame spontaneously appearing above her fingertip. "I don't think a little tummy ache's your biggest concern at the moment."
Spike wasn't one to back down either. "Gonna take more than a little fireworks display to scare me away, pet. See, the sunscreen's what you Scoobies might call a contingency plan." He held up his hand, revealing an ancient, if vaguely familiar, piece of jewelry. "Did a little accessorizing."
Dawn recognized the ring for what it was, though she didn't let on. "Where'd you get that?" she asked flippantly, referring to the gaudy Gem of Amara that Spike now sported. "Queer eye for the undead guy?"
"Made me some knew friends," he disclosed with a wink, shrugging off the implied insult. "Friends with nice toys. You like?"
Dawn didn't. "If you think that ring's gonna save your skinny albino ass, you're in for one hell of a nasty fucking surprise."
"Well, well" Spike retorted, leering suggestively at the younger of the two girls as he boldly stepped closer, now nearly nose to nose with the younger of the girls. "Look who's all grown up and using big girl words. Ya know Niblet, you're starting to remind me a lot of that whore of a sister of yours. If you're lucky, I just might have a go at you too. Been a while since I've had me a good shag."
"I think you've overstayed your welcome, Spike," Willow insisted, moving with astonishing speed as she grabbed the vampire by the neck, lifting him bodily off the ground with one hand. Spike struggled briefly, wildly, attempting to break the witch's iron grasp, before accepting the inherent futility of his actions. He raised his hands in mock surrender, chuckling in spite of his apparent situation.
"Might want to reconsider the violence, luv. You're not exactly the one holding all the cards here."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Willow demanded tersely, tightening her grip around his throat.
"Why don't you see for yourself," Spike rasped, nodding in the direction of the back door as it swung open.
Willow dropped Spike, whirling around, eyes widening in shock as she beheld both Giles and Wesley marched unceremoniously outside, fingers laced behind their heads, automatic weapons trained at their backs. Four men followed them through the door, each decked out in matching black fatigues and sporting similar hostile expressions. Giles glanced over at the girls, mouthing a silent apology for his uncharacteristic carelessness.
Spike, meanwhile, was paying no particular attention to the spectacle. As Willow turned her head, his hand darted out, grabbing a startled Dawn by the hair, pulling the girl away from her distracted bodyguard. Upon hearing Dawn's cry, Willow spun back around, cursing herself for letting down her guard.
"Let her go, Spike!" Willow warned threateningly, her anger rapidly rising, accompanied by a marked chill in the surrounding air.
"Bugger off, pet," Spike shot back, drawing his arm tighter around a struggling Dawn's neck, "unless you want to spend the next week scraping bits and pieces of Watcher off the patio."
Willow glanced helplessly at Dawn, then back to the subdued Watchers, frantically considering her options. "Giles", she pleaded, resorting to telepathic communication, "A little help?"
In spite of the situation, Giles' reassuring - if telepathic - voice helped to calm her. "Don't let them take her, Willow. Whatever you do, you mustn't let them take Dawn."
"But what about.I mean if I.then they'll.?"
"You mustn't worry about us," Giles insisted. "Do whatever you have to do, but protect Dawn at all costs."
The possibility scared Willow to no end. "Even if I have too."
"Yes, Willow, even if you have to kill them."
What happened next was not exactly clear to anyone present. Each of them - that is, those who survived the ensuing fracas - would come remember the events of the day differently. For Willow, Giles' admonition, and the undeniable fact that Spike was dragging Dawn further away by the second, was all she needed to know, and all she would ever really recall. Before any one could stop her, she took did what she did best, her gaze shooting skyward, her lips uttering a brief mystical incantation.
As she spoke the words, Willow felt it happening again, knowing even then that she couldn't be saved, could never go back. The beautiful mane of red hair was gone, turned jet-black as she yielded to the power, allowing it to wash unhindered over her body. The sky overhead darkened perceptibly, a portent of things to come. As the storm clouds gathered, her lovely blue eyes glazed over, the spark within extinguished as the darkness seeped in, obscuring the humanity residing there only moments before. As she closed her eyes, surrendering once and for all time to the Magics, a lone bolt of lightning emerged from angry sky and streaked toward the earth, splitting seamlessly into four separate arcs as it struck ground, sending a lethal dose of voltage coursing through the bodies of the armed intruders.
The nearest of them had no more than leveled his weapon at Willow before it erupted in a brilliant ball of flame, instantly engulfing the hapless man. He died where he stood, screaming in agony, his cries drowned out by an impossibly loud crack of thunder. The next two fared even worse, failing to so much as train their firearms in the direction of the attack. Death came painfully, if not instantly, to both.
The remaining gunman fared slightly better than his comrades, his index finger tightening around the trigger of his Heckler and Koch as his body spasmed in the throes of death. As he breathed his last, he managed to level his weapon, spraying a lethal stream of lead about the courtyard, felling both Watchers before he, too, met the same fate as his colleagues.
Willow watched dispassionately as the four assailants perished, knowing even then that they would have done the same to her, had the situation been reversed. It might have stunned, even revolted her, the taking of four human lives, had she still been Willow. But Willow had long since left the building. For that matter, Willow had left the fucking planet, and she wasn't coming back anytime soon.
That is, until she saw Giles and Wesley fall.
The last shooter went down, dropping both Giles and Wesley with a final burst of gunfire as he fell. Willow stared in horror, watching as both men collapsed to the ground, unmoving. In a split moment, the apathy was gone, replaced by an odd confluence of horror and rage. "No!" she screamed at the top of her lungs, immediately starting for the spot where both men lie. She'd taken no more than a single step when she was jolted back to the reality of the drama unfolding behind, her attention drawn to a decidedly feminine scream from the other direction. She turned back hesitantly, torn by her desire to attend to the injured/dead Watchers, but cognizant of Gile's desire to protect Dawn at all costs. Giving one last fleeting glance toward Giles and Wesley, she tore off in the opposite direction.
For his part, Spike was already on the move, grasping a wildly thrashing Dawn under one arm as he bolted from the yard. He churned his feet faster and faster, his preternatural speed propelling him quickly toward the street, even as a dark Chevy cargo van screeched to a halt at curbside.
Behind Willow, a single figure stirred, his form still smoking from the close-proximity lightning strike, his clothes bloodstained from multiple flesh wounds. The man rose awkwardly, limping off after the fleeing vampire in spite of his injuries, with no real hope of catching him.
Across the yard, the van's side-door slid open, revealing still more armed men. Focused solely on Spike, Willow ignored the new threat. Still running after the vampire, she thrust out her hand and uttered a single word, invoking a spell she had until now employed only against a certain deceased hell god.
"Thicken."
To Spike, the relatively short distance from the courtyard to the street seemed to be anything but. Even with his preternatural speed, he was hindered significantly by the violently struggling sixteen year old tucked beneath his arm. Only seconds before, it had seemed he was home free. But there he was, just meters from the awaiting van, when something entirely unexpected happened. The very air around him seemed to solidify, an unseen force retarding his forward progress. The vampire churned his legs ever harder, but to little effect. His movements were a study in slow motion, every inch coming harder than the last. He glanced frantically over his shoulder, seeing that the witch had nearly closed the distance, with the cursed Watcher not far behind. He knew he wasn't going to make it.
"Bloody Hell," he grumbled, hand darting into the pocket of his leather jacket as he spun around. With the rampaging witch less than ten feet away and closing, he yanked the revolver from the coat, leveling it at the approaching Willow, squeezing off all six rounds into her chest. The stream of bullets tore into Willow's upper torso, the force of the impacting rounds lifting her bodily into the air for a brief instant before gravity took hold, dropping her on her back on the dried-out lawn, where she remained, unmoving.
Dawn watched in horror as Willow fell in her tracks, her white blouse riddled with bright red bloodstains. "You motherfucker!" she screamed at the unrepentant vampire, struggling anew against his powerful grip. "You son of a bitch! You killed her!"
Spike only smiled, still looking back as the lone pursuer continued to limp toward him, presenting no real danger to the vampire. "You know what they say, luv," he said turning back to Dawn, as if consoling the struggling girl. "If you can't dazzle 'em with brilliance, riddle 'em with bullets." With that, he flashed a shit-eating grin at the struggling Watcher, saluted sloppily, and then jumped into the awaiting van, cargo in hand.
Directly behind them, a battered Rupert Giles threw himself to the ground, yards from the escaping van, as a hail of gunfire passed overhead, compliments of the front seat passenger. He watched helplessly, fighting unconsciousness as the vehicle accelerated away from the curb, sped off down the road, turned a corner, and vanished from sight.
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Willy's Place
He knelt down by the stilled body of the Slayer, reflexively checking the usual spots for any sign of a pulse. Instinctively, he knew it was a wasted effort. Even in death, her eyes were still open, pupils dilated, staring upward into oblivion, an odd mixture of surprise and relief etched on her face. He'd always expected this day to come; it had just been a matter of time. But it wasn't supposed to end like this, not at the hand of some human scum who more than likely had no grasp of the significance of what he'd done. With that thought, and with a delicacy seldom seen inside these walls, Willy reached down, performing a final service for the girl as he gently closed Buffy's eyes.
"See ya around, kid," he whispered to his sometime nemesis, though he doubted their paths would ever cross again, in this life or in the next. Reaching into his pocket, he reluctantly pulled out a cell phone, dialing the number from memory. Willy waited patiently through four, and then five rings before a familiar voice finally answered on the other end.
"Martinez," a man announced gruffly.
"Detective, it's Willy. I need a favor."
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Pacific Coast Highway
Outside Sunnydale
The two aircraft hugged the nap of the earth, following the gently curving slopes of sand, passing just barely above the rapidly receding earth below. They moved in unison, flying in staggered formation as they mimicked each others movements, one fully armed, the second less a single Starstreak air-to-air missile, bits and pieces of which now resided in the smoldering wreckage of the unmarked helicopter strewn about the ground a few clicks aft of the formation.
Cresting the tip of a large dune, the flight climbed briefly before slowing to 80 knots, two sets of turbine-powered rotors whipping up an artificial sandstorm in the desert sands below. Inside both aircraft, identical sets of fire-control radars had acquired a target of interest, though both sets of weapons-bay doors would remain closed, at least for the foreseeable future. This was, after all, a rescue mission, despite what a recently deceased chopper pilot might have otherwise believed. Of course, the plume of smoke rising into the air just a quarter mile away suggested that the nature of the mission was about to change, which in turn told both sets of pilots and co-pilots all they needed to know: Namely, that they were too late.
As the wreckage of the sport utility vehicle came into view on the port side, the trailing aircraft broke away smartly, banking sharply right before assuming a large oval patrol pattern, looking outward for any additional threats. Simultaneously, the pilot of the lead chopper banked left, executing an impressive 80-knot snap-to-turn, maintaining his forward momentum as he slewed the helicopter's nose toward the wreckage of the Suburban, his co-pilot training the 20mm Gatling gun on the smoking skeleton below. From their vantage point, the men in the leading chopper - designated Archangel-1 - could plainly see a figure moving about, just forward of the totaled vehicle. The pilot slowed the aircraft, still side slipping, wondering whom, if anyone, could have survived such an attack, if the person was indeed a survivor. Though he had no basis for his suspicion - other than the obvious - the pilot suspected the man was up to no good.
"Six," the pilot, known by his call sign 'Reaper', barked into the radio, "This is Archangel flight. Be advised, Wildcard is down. Repeat, Wildcard is down. Confirm visual on one possible unfriendly. Request authorization to investigate."
"Archangel, Six. Confirm presence of unfriendly. Request is denied. Maintain holding pattern and secure area. Additional units are en-route."
Archangel-1 swore beneath his breath, switching frequencies to talk to his wingman. "Wildman, you copy that last transmission?"
"Roger that, Reaper," came his wingman's deflated response. "Guess that we means we get to sit here holding our dicks in our hands. Don't suppose you wanna go down and say hi to our friend anyway?"
"Let me ask mom" Reaper demurred, switching channels once more. "Six," the lead pilot said into his helmet-mounted radio, "This is Archangel-1. We're taking some small arms fire," he improvised. "Request permission for weapons release."
"Archangel, Six. Weapons release denied. Maintain present position and await further orders. Be advised, ground units are en-route to secure the area."
"Six, Archangel. Repeat last transmission," he demurred. "We're getting some interference here."
The tired voice of the radio operator came across clearly. "You copied correctly, Archangel. Weapons release is denied. Repeat, weapons release is denied. Maintain present position and wait for ground units. Six out."
Reaper flipped back to the inter-aircraft frequency. "Mom says we can't go out and play. Guess she doesn't want us to get our hands dirty before dinner."
"Aw fuck, Reaper. You heard Mom.. the bastard's an unfriendly. I hate to say it, but I'm pretty sure I sense a 'weapons malfunction' coming on."
"Stow that shit, Wildman," warned Reaper. "You remember what happened the last time you experienced a 'weapons malfunction?"
"The board of inquiry absolved me of any responsibility," Wildman replied defiantly. "Besides, those damn tree huggers had it coming. Wasn't my fault their shitty boat sank." He hesitated for a moment, before conceding the point to his wingman. "But I do see your point."
"Amen to that," Reaper sighed, his eyes drawn to a movement on the horizon. "Hey Wildman, you see what I'm seeing?"
"Five-by-Five," came the immediate reply. "Shooter and I got a visual on both dumb and dumber. You don't suppose they're together?"
"Don't know," came the wary response. "New arrival could be one of ours," he cautioned. "You have any idea what color the good guys wear these days?"
"Green," came the expected reply, referring to the drab color of the flight suits they all wore, eliciting a knowing grin from all four aviators. "Olive Green."
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Pacific Coast Highway
On the Ground Below
With her last ounce of strength, the Slayer looked helplessly into the face of death, preparing to utter the words he'd been waiting to hear.
"I swear," Faith said, somehow finding her voice, and with it, an inexplicable measure of resolve. "I swear to God that someday soon, someone just like me is gonna kick your sorry ass back to whatever fucking rock you crawled out from under."
The man found little amusement in Faith's last overt act of defiance. "Someone just like you? Not in this lifetime, Faith" he admonished the dying Slayer, who offered no response. The individual standing behind him answered for her.
"Well," the voice allowed with an abundance of amusement, "maybe not just like her."
The black-clad figure leapt to his feet, belatedly whirling to face the unexpected newcomer. Even with his preternatural speed, he was too late in his actions. As he laid eyes on the speaker, the other man thrust out his hand, the blade grasped within impaling his chest, sanctified metal penetrating the man's unbeating heart, the tip of the sword jutting out his back.
The man in black stared in abject shock, his eyes widening in recognition as he sunk to his knees, knowing even then that he was finished. "Nemamiah," he hissed, grabbing futilely for the bloodstained blade.
"Sammael," the blue-jean clad man acknowledged with a wisp of a smile, plunging the sword even further into his adversary's chest. "So good to see you again, my old friend."
Sammael responded with an inhuman roar, the blade tearing relentlessly into his hands as he tried desperately to retract it from his body. "You think this is over?" he spat at his nemesis, decayed blood seeping from the corners of his mouth. "You think you've won? When He rises, you'll wish I'd killed you."
Nemamiah thumbed a recessed button on the sword's grip, four embedded spikes springing from the blade with a definitive click, their barbed tips pointing back toward the hilt. "Give Nachash my regards," he replied evenly, jerking the blade back through Sammael's body, the barbed spikes eviscerating the demonic angel, tearing the black heart from his chest.
As the former angel fell dead at his feet, Nemamiah wiped the bloodied blade carefully on the man's black cloak, retracting the spikes in the process. He took a step toward the stilled body of the Slayer, crushing the atrophied heart of his vanquished foe underfoot. Kneeling down, he briefly laid his hands upon the girl's forehead, whispering a silent prayer. He then stood, looking upward at the curious flying machines hovering overhead.
And he smiled.
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End chapter 20. I know this is starting to sound redundant, but I'm sorry this took so long to post. This story has kind of taken on a life of its own, and I've been forced to rewrite much of what I've already written. Thanks to all of you with the patience to stick with me; I hope the story lives up to your expectations. If not, let me know. Remember, feedback is my friend, and yours. The more I get, the more motivated I'll be to write (hey, it works in theory).
Regards,
Rabid Squirrel