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.
Disclaimer: For the record, I don't own BTVS. Feel free to sue anyway. I crave the attention.
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 creative license.
Feedback: It's called sharing kids. Learn it; live it; love it.
Notes: Contrary to popular belief, I have not dropped this story. I've just been more apathetic than usual the past several months. Blame the evil little gremlin on my shoulder. He's a devious, conniving bastard, and he's only getting stronger. Pray for me.
Dedication: To all fanfic writers – even those wacky B/S shippers – who labor to keep BTVS alive, if only in the realm of cyberspace.
Words of Wisdom"Evil will always triumph, because good is…. dumb." – Dark Helmet, Spaceballs
Chapter 22: "Syzygy"
500 feet above Sunnydale
No plan survives first contact with the enemy.
It was a lesson easily enough learned, and even easier forgotten. In the Army it was universal truth, part and parcel of the doctrine drilled into the minds of countless generations of warriors, including two hapless chopper pilots who even now wandered how the hell the mission had gone to shit before there very eyes.
Of course, their problem wasn't so much that the plan hadn't survived first contact with the enemy, but that it hadn't survived first contact with…. well, with anybody. But then, in all fairness, it wasn't as if the mission had started out all that well in the first place. Despite the fact they were on ready alert when the orders had come down, they'd arrived on station too late to be of any real help to those who'd needed it most. That part had hurt. It always did. But if nothing else, at the very least they'd managed to administer a modicum of whoopass on the bad guys, whomever the hell they might of been. And it wasn't like this was the first time either of them had seen the situation go south. That was also part of the lesson.
In military parlance it was known as IMAO – Improvise, Modify, Adapt, and Overcome. Its applicability was premised on the former part of the doctrine, itself a corollary to Murphy's first, and most famous law. When the shit hit the fan, this man's army was trained to improvise, and to some degree, the two men had done just that, even if they weren't entirely aware they had done so.
To be honest, the improvising part really hadn't been of their own device. When a man jumps fifty feet into the air, lands on the canopy of your chopper, and motions you to land with a very large and very bloodstained sword, your first tendency – aside from emptying your bladder – is to do what he says, training be damned. In that same vein, modifying the mission plan had come just as naturally, which basically came down to doing whatever the scary guy said. It just seemed like the right thing to do at the time.
And so it was for precisely that reason that both pilots found themselves deviating from their flight plan, cruising over downtown Sunnydale, sans gunners, transporting a young, badly injured (dead?) girl and one rather taciturn swordsman, destination unknown. From his vantage point in the elevated rear pilot's seat of the lead chopper, Archangel surveyed the suburban neighborhood below, watching silently as the windswept sands of the pseudo-desert slipped seamlessly into the horizon, and with them, he couldn't help but suspect, any prospect for further career advancement.
Army of One, my ass.
Buffy Summers was no stranger to death. In life it had been her one constant companion, an unbidden specter dogging her every move until her time too had come. She knew death, knew it as intimately as she'd known any lover, if less pleasurably so. It was her gift, her curse, and her burden to bear. She'd dealt it by her own hand, had surrendered friends and loved ones to its embrace, and ultimately, had succumbed herself to its inevitability. And yet she didn't fear death. Nor did she seek it out. She merely accepted it for what it was, and let it go at that.
Of course, she didn't remember it being quite like this.
The first sign that this wasn't your run-of-the-mill afterlife was more intangible than anything else. It just felt different, somehow felt wrong. On that horrible day when she'd hurled herself into the portal, everything had been so clear. There was no pain, no doubt, and no regret. Only the certainty that things were as they ought to be, and that while that did little to mitigate the fact that she was dead, it did make things a bit easier to swallow. This was different. But then, that was Heaven, and this was…well, as far as she could tell, this was the old high school library, which came as quite a shock, seeing as how she vividly recalled giving it a proper Hellmouth sendoff more than three years ago.
All irony aside, however, it came as no great surprise when she found herself seated in a heavy, yet strangely comfortable wooden chair, positioned at the head of a familiar oak table. "Great," Buffy bemoaned, surveying the recognizable, yet altogether eerie surroundings, "high school. That settles it…. I'm officially in hell."
She had not been anticipating a response.
"I should hope not," enjoined a familiar voice, floating down from somewhere in the stacks above. The recently departed Slayer spun her seat around, eyes automatically locking on a most unbelievable sight. Overcome with emotion, Buffy opened her mouth to speak, but managed to choke out only a monosyllabic response.
"Mom?"
Abandoned Warehouse
Sunnydale Industrial Park
Elsewhere, things weren't exactly progressing according to plan either.
In hindsight, the "snatch-and-grab" portion of the plan had gone off reasonably well, if a fifty percent casualty rate could be considered as such. But then, the men had known the risks, and in the ultimate scheme of things, their loss didn't amount to much in anyone's estimation. Besides, Spike rationalized, he'd planned on eating the survivors anyway, so what difference did it really make if the witch got to them first?
Of course, that part was supposed to be difficult; getting the package back to the warehouse wasn't. But in the grand tradition of unanticipated consequences, Spike, along with two unconscious mercenaries and the whole of Wolfram & Hart had overlooked one minor detail: Namely, that the death of one Slayer – let alone two – tended to trigger the calling of another. Assuming the other parts of the scheme had gone off according to plan, and subsequently that both Buffy and Faith had been removed from the picture, then logic stipulated that the next Slayer had been called. That eventuality was reinforced by the existence of a very large, very nasty bruise covering a significant portion of Spike's jaw, which – one might have observed – appeared to have been broken. And if that wasn't proof enough, then the broken-off two-by-four protruding from the vampire's chest pretty much confirmed it.
Ignoring the not inconsiderable pain, Spike afforded the dazed – and heavily chained – Slayer a rare show of respect, even has he grasped the offending broomstick firmly in his left hand. "Gotta hand it to you, Niblet," he conceded, almost managing to sound magnanimous as he jerked the wooden board from his body in one fluid motion, conspicuously unperturbed by the ensuing fountain of blood spurting from his gaping chest wound. "I'm impressed. Bloody friggin' impressed. Caught the Big Bad off guard you did. But then, I've always known there was something special 'bout you." He paused, flashing the prostrate Slayer an exaggerated, toothy grin, cigarette butt dangling precariously between his thin, pale lips. "Course, what with you bein' all Slayery all the sudden, figure that doesn't bode too well for big 'sis, now does it?"
At his feet, Dawn stirred groggily, instinctually trying to stand, but finding her arms and legs unwilling to cooperate, a lingering effect of her all-too-recent Tazing. Stymied in her attempts, she settled into an awkward crouch, gazing upwardly at her captor. She, of course, knew implicitly what her newfound capabilities suggested, even if she hadn't yet had time to rationally process the information. But then, the possibility of Buffy dying wasn't exactly uncharted territory, even at such an inopportune time. However, given her present predicament, she couldn't afford to dwell on that eventuality.
Fighting through the dizziness and nausea, she steadfastly held Spike's gaze, her eyes betraying little of the anger and panic simultaneously welling up within her. "You know what they say about assumptions," she offered defiantly.
"Quite the little optimist, aren't we" Spike observed dryly. "No worry. We'll just see if we can't beat that out of you."
"Give it your best shot," Dawn countered, her voice growing stronger, bravely maintaining her composure, despite the certainty of what was to come. "But between you and me, I don't think you've got what it takes to get the job done."
"Big sis never complained," Spike retorted smugly.
Dawn wasn't about to leave it at that. "If you say so," she conceded flippantly, flexing her arms to gauge the strength of her restraints. "But then, you aren't the first vampire to make that claim."
That little reminder didn't sit too well with Spike. "Say his name and I'll rip out your bleedin' throat," he threatened, not without a degree of implied legitimacy.
"Oh, I'm sorry," Dawn apologized, albeit disingenuously, her voice rife with undisguised sarcasm. "Guess that's kind of a sore spot for you, always having to settle for your sire's leftovers." She batted her eyelashes coquettishly. "Tell me, what's it like being Angel's bitch?"
Given his proclivity for unrestrained violence, Spike's response had not been unanticipated – just badly underestimated. With startling speed, the platinum-blonde demon lunged forward, grabbing the defenseless Slayer by the neck. Snatching the girl bodily from the ground, he yanked her upward as far as her restraints permitted, then brutally slammed her slender frame into the wall behind, leaving an indelible impression on the cinder block construction. Ignoring the shooting pain in her back and arms, Dawn instinctively raised her hands, trying – with little success – to shield her face from the brunt of the blows she knew were forthcoming. In that regard, she would not be disappointed.
The sickening crunch of cartilage announced the full onslaught of Spike's fury, and with it, a level of pain to which Dawn was both wholly unaccustomed and ill prepared. Her nose shattered, the alkaline taste of blood permeated Dawn's taste buds, even as the savage blows continued to rain down, one after another in rapid succession. For her part, Dawn could do little but literally turn the other cheek, accomplishing nothing save the even distribution of facial bruises to come. To make matters worse – assuming that were at all possible – mere bruising and bloodletting were proving wholly insufficient to sate Spike's bloodlust, as evidenced by the increasing savagery of his attacks. Through bruised and swollen eyes, Dawn Summers watched captively as her one-time idol endeavored to beat her to death. With each bone-crunching strike, by each broken rib and every angry contusion, the newborn Slayer felt her purchase on reality slipping a little further from her grasp.
And then, at the precise – yet not at all clichéd – moment when all seemed lost, when Dawn had all but reached the proverbial point of no return, salvation appeared in the unlikeliest of forms.
Enter Lilah Morgan - savior in six-inch stilettos.
Giles' House
Martinez stared silently at the Englishman, mentally attempting to piece together the events of the day. What he knew didn't amount to a hell of a lot. It consisted mostly of what were euphemistically referred to as "known-knowns" - those things he was sure that he knew - as well as "known-unknowns", things he knew for certain that he didn't know. Martinez knew that some serious shit was going down in Los Angeles; he was also aware that recent events a bit closer to home suggested that whatever was happening in L.A. was only a precursor for the main attraction, as evidenced by the rumors flying around the department, rumors reinforced by the undeniable presence of some rather serious gentleman in dark suits driving government fleet sedans. He knew also that someone had intended to kill Mr. Giles, along with the Englishman's coterie of demon hunters, witches, and general contractors. Courtesy of Mr. Giles, he also now knew that an extremely influential, albeit ethically challenged, law firm was somehow knee-deep in the middle of all this, having allegedly abetted in the kidnapping of a teenage girl, a girl who even now was the subject of a coordinated manhunt by the SPD, Sunnydale County Sheriffs Department, and California Highway Patrol. And then, of course, there was the reputed death of Buffy Summers; a bit of bad news the good detective had not yet bothered to share with Mr. Giles, pending official verification, as well as his ability to summon the courage to do so. What he didn't know, what he didn't yet have, was the link that tied these events together. He had only an endless list of questions, and very few answers to go with them: What the hell is going on here? Why would a Los Angeles Law firm be mixed-up in kidnapping? And if they were, why the girl…why take Summers? How did she figure into whatever was going down? What made her special? And lastly, and most importantly, why the hell didn't I accept that offer from the FBI when I had the chance?
Giles, for his part, knew exactly what was going through the detective's mind, save the bit about the FBI, and the death of the girl he loved as one would a daughter. He had no way of knowing either. "I suppose I owe you a slightly better explanation," he conceded at last.
Martinez nodded. "I suppose you do," he acknowledged hesitantly. "Though to be honest, I'm not sure I want to hear it."
"No one ever does," Giles commiserated. "Unfortunately, this is one situation we cannot afford to ignore, not where Dawn is concerned."
"They're going to kill her," Martinez stated flately. "That much I get. What I don't know is why."
"They need her," the Watcher continued, his voice assuming an increasingly ominous tone. "They took her because of what she is…what she can do. They intend to use her, exploit what's inside of her to achieve their ends. And if they are successful, she will die." Giles removed his glasses, gazing intently at the detective. "Rest assured she would not be the only one."
"It's Buffy," Martinez deduced, brainstorming aloud. "This has something to do with Dawn's sister being the Slayer, doesn't it?"
"A Slayer," Giles corrected, alluding to the existence of not one, but now three Slayers, "And yes, it does have something to do with that, though it is quite a bit more complicated than it might at first seem."
Martinez nodded, though he wasn't quite sure what he was agreeing with. "So what is she then? A witch? Another Slayer? Something else entirely?"
"She is, as you've surmised, a Slayer. She is also much more than that."
"And what exactly would that be," the detective asked patiently.
Giles eyed the other man warily. "I'm going to ask that you do try keep an open mind."
Martinez shook is head, managing – out of deference to the seriousness of the situation - not to laugh at the sheer irony of the request. "I do have some experience in that department."
Whistler's car
Church Parking lot.
Xander's eyes blinked open slowly, jarred from an otherwise pleasant dream by the unpleasant realities of his waking life. Presented with an unfamiliar sight, his eyes darted rapidly about in confusion, disoriented from the lingering effects of the blast. Though still in the throes of semi-consciousness, he was nonetheless acutely aware of two things, the first being that he was no longer eating asphalt in the school parking lot, the second that the cheap vinyl seat beneath him was badly in need of restoration, an observation borne out by the sharp metal spring intimately acquainting itself with his posterior. In due course his eyes fell upon the familiar figure perched behind the steering wheel, leading him to seriously consider whether he had indeed survived the blast, or whether he'd died and gone to Hell. It may have been the utter revulsion he felt toward the driver, or more likely, the recognition that he was in a good deal of pain, but either way, the memory of his recent brush with death came rushing back.
Xander shifted uncomfortably in the back seat, trying, with little success, to find a comfortable position in an uncomfortable situation. His efforts ultimately attracted the attention of Whistler, who casually glanced up, studying Xander in the rear-view mirror.
"How ya feelin' kid?" he asked, more as a matter of courtesy than out of any genuine concern.
Xander silently cursed himself, pondering whether or not he'd actually been fortunate to survive the blast. "Let's just say I can empathize with Wile E. Coyote," he muttered. "Getting blown up sucks major ass."
Whistler glanced up into the rear-view mirror, affixing the injured twenty-something's reflection with a bemused look. "Technically, you weren't blown up. Your truck was."
Xander rolled his eyes, which only succeeded in making him dizzier, if not more nauseous. "Thanks for the reminder, Balance Boy."
"You don't have to get defensive," Whistler remarked, not quite managing to come off as offended. "I was only trying to help."
"You can help by taking me to a hospital. Or maybe you'd prefer I bleed to death in your backseat?"
Whistler shrugged. "Either way. No skin off my back."
"Your concern for my well being is overwhelming," Xander noted sarcastically.
"Quit complaining…. you'll live. Which is more than I can say for some people."
With that comment, Whistler had Xander's undivided attention, for what it was worth. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Let's just say there was an incident at the librarian's house."
Xander rolled his eyes. "Thanks for the breaking news, Tom Brokaw. What of it?"
"And, it was nothing your little Wicca friend couldn't handle. The little firecracker racked up a pretty impressive body count, even by local standards."
"Willow killed someone?" Xander asked with obvious concern, wary of what had transpired the last time she had done so.
"Four someone's, to be precise. But in her defense, they were trying to kill her, so in a karmic sense, it all balances out."
"But she's okay? Right? Willow and the others?"
"They'll survive," Whistler conceded. "Nothing a little magic couldn't fix." Whistler paused a moment before stating the next part. "Though there may be a teensy problem."
Xander hesitated a second before asking the obvious. He couldn't help but suspect that a "teensy problem" constituted the end of the world.
"And that would be…?"
"A minor setback," Whistler confidently assured him, to little effect. "It appears that the bad guys have gotten their grubby little hands on the Key."
"They have Dawn?" Xander bellowed, inadvertently attracting the attention of a few random pedestrians. He softened his voice…slightly. "How in the hell could you let that happen?"
"I'm a Balance Demon, not a bodyguard," Whistler reminded him. "Her continued well-being is the Slayer's concern."
"And where the hell was Buffy when this happened?"
"Don't blame her, kid. She has her own problems at the present, if you get my drift."
Knowing what Whistler had implied, Xander leaned forward in the back seat, staring the demon down, unblinking, his own pain forgotten for the moment. "I'm having a very bad day, Whistler," he remarked evenly, mostly for the demon's benefit. "Believe me when I say that. So if you have any intention of telling me that Buffy's dead, then just do it and be done with it. You crack another joke about it, and I swear to whatever god there is that I will rip out your lungs and shove them up your immortal ass."
Whistler cringed, mindful of a similar threat once made by the Slayer in question. "Easy on the imagery, kid. It's only temporary. She'll be good as new – better even – in a few hours."
Xander considered that for a moment, then slowly settled back into his seat, consciously forcing himself to calm down. "So it's true then," he admitted to himself. "The prophecy…. her resurrection…. everything?"
Whistler raised an eyebrow. "Denial ain't just a river in Egypt, Harris."
Xander ignored him. "So what's our next step?
"There is no 'our' next step, kid. You and I are just along for the ride. So sit back, relax, and try not to bleed on the upholstery."
"What about Dawn?"
"She's not in any immediate danger," Whistler lied. "They need her in one piece. So she's safe – relatively speaking – until the big bad's ready to make its move."
"And then?"
"And then we call in the cavalry, sound the charge, and the good guys ride in with guns blazing to save the day. After which we all live happily ever after. Well, some of us anyway."
"Nice bedtime story," Xander cracked. "You should write children's books."
"No he shouldn't," advised a third voice, as Danyael hopped into the front passenger seat, clutching a small metal case in his left hand. "He'd screw up the next generation even worse than they already are."
"It's great to be appreciated," Whistler noted without any apparent enthusiasm. He cocked an eye at Danyael. "You get what you needed?"
"More or less," the one-time angel conceded. "Just remind me to apologize to that poor priest."
Whistler turned over the engine, putting the car in gear. "The priest, huh? You do realize you're going to hell when this all over?"
Danyael smiled darkly. "Not to worry. When this is over, hell just may save us all the trip."
Willy's Place
The two men stood quietly, gazing down at the still form sprawled out on the cold concrete floor below. To the uneducated eye, the object of their attention might have merely been passed out - as frequenters of Willy's establishment were wont to do - were it not for the unmistakable puddle of blood pooling beneath her body. Regardless, they both knew better. They had seen death up-close and personal, far more often than both cared to admit, and more often than not dealt by their own hands. Even so, that didn't make this any easier.
As a matter of course, they'd heard the gunshot. They'd also witnessed the gutless bastard fleeing out the front door, just moments after murdering his eldest daughter in cold blood. Lesser men than they might have given into temptation and ended the cocksucker right there and then, but they were professionals above all else, and so had the added benefit of training and experience working for them. Still, the urge had been there, just the same.
The younger of the two removed his sunglasses, glancing beyond the polished wood bar to the cowering bartender seated beyond. "How long?" he asked tersely, though he already knew the answer.
"I-I don't know, man," Willy stammered. "Five – ten minutes?"
The man replaced his shades, turning back to his counterpart. "Get the truck," he ordered, though technically he was outranked. The older man nodded, leaving the bar without a single word. The younger man then turned back to the bartender. "You're Willy?"
The bartender nodded meekly.
"Do you know who I am?"
He shook his head. "FBI? CIA?" Willy lowered his voice almost to a whisper. "IRS?"
"Wrong on all counts," the man asserted. "We're not with the government. We're not with anybody. In fact, we were never even here, and none of this ever happened." He paused to let his words sink in. "Do you understand what I'm saying to you?"
Willy nodded again. The picture was pretty damn clear, even to a slow learner such as he.
"Very good, Willy. Now, I need you to do something else for me. Can you do that?"
Willy's eyes darted about nervously, avoiding the other man's gaze. "Sure thing pal, whatever you say."
"We're going to be taking the girl with us. You do not need to ask why, and I wouldn't recommend you do so. What you will do is clean up this mess; wipe away the blood, wipe away any trace that Buffy Summers was ever here. When you're done, you will call a Detective Martinez and arrange for Rupert Giles and his associates to meet us at this address." He produced from his pocket a small card bearing a local address, which he handed to Willy. "I believe you know the policeman's number?"
"Yeah," Willy admitted, not bothering to ask how the man knew that.
"Good. You do exactly as I've said, and God willing, you'll never see me again. Get any cute ideas, and you'll get to know me very well."
Outskirts of Sunnydale
The column rumbled down both lanes of the freshly paved highway, leaving in its wake miles of chewed up asphalt, along with more than a few bewildered motorists. As far as the public knew, the armored force was composed of units of the California Army National Guard, though interspersed among the few actual Guardsmen were a large number of more specialized outfits, including select members of the highly specialized 30th WMD Civil Support Team, as well as hand-picked Special Forces and CIA paramilitary operatives, the latter two groups gleaned largely from the ranks of SEAL Team 6 and Delta Force, with a few Army Rangers thrown in for flavor. To a man, they knew the basics regarding the nature of the mission, though some among their number knew more than others. In time, they would all come to know the truth, provided they survived that long.
Their mission was technically legal, after a fashion. Having federalized the CNG, the President, at the advice of his senior advisors, the Vice President, and the JCS, had proceeded to order troops into Sunnydale, ostensibly in response to the alleged string of terrorist attacks plaguing Los Angeles. In time, the public at-large would come to know the truth, or at the very least, whatever watered-down facsimile the federal government could get them to accept. But for now it was necessary to maintain the illusion that the country was under terrorist attack, by an enemy John Q. Citizen knew and understood, if not feared.
Out of deference to the local population, the few main battle tanks in their TO&E had been loaded onto flatbed trailers for the short trip from Fort Resolve to downtown Sunnydale, while the lighter Bradleys and Stryker assault vehicles traveled under their own power. Even at the relatively slow speed of 40 mph, the cumbersome convoy quickly covered the distance, the leading elements appearing in the residential outskirts of Sunnydale as the late afternoon sun began to dip in the sky.