FIC: Ravages Of Hell (20?)
Lorne groaned as he recognised the figure hurrying towards him. He'd almost been caught twice in his search for assistance. But this person was almost as bad as the hired killers. "Between a rock and a hard place," he muttered. Whatever that meant. Humans, they made about as much sense as Christian rock. Steeling himself, he stepped out of the shadows. "I need your help."
The figure started, halted, and looked furtively over his shoulder before looking back at him, an eyebrow raised sarcastically. "If you need directions," the man pointed over Lorne's shoulder, "the bunker's the other way. Now, if you don't mind-."
"It's Giles," Lorne interrupted, a note of desperation entering his voice, "he's in trouble. Whyndham-Pryce is going to use the fight as an opportunity to kill him."
"Ripper?" Ethan's face paled momentarily before regaining its usual nonchalant mask. Still waters indeed. "Well I've never liked that arrogant bugger. I'd like a chance to spit in his eye. Which way?"
De Boers shuffled through the papers neatly piled on the desk, squinting slightly in the half-light, wishing he could turn the full lights on, but not wishing to risk detection at this delicate point. Hearing the click of the door behind him, he glanced over his shoulder but saw nothing. Deciding he mustn't have closed the door properly, he walked over and shoved it shut. Nodding in satisfaction, he turned back to the desk, intent on carrying on his investigation.
And froze at the arm around his throat and the gun muzzle shoved in his ear. "General Dieter De Boers," a deep American accent whispered in his other ear. "No. 7. on the UN's Most Wanted List. I'd like to say it's a pleasure, but," he swallowed at the click of the automatic being cocked, "my mother didn't raise any liars."
Desperation surging through his veins, he snatched at the man's hand, knocking it upward, even as it fired. Plaster fell from the ceiling where the bullet hit.. At the same exact moment he drove his head back into his assailant's mouth, eliciting a surprised gasp. Spinning around, he drew his own gun only to have it kicked out of his hand. Snarling ferally, he lunged at the younger man, a tall, good-looking boy, hoping to barrel him over with his heavier bulk.
Andrew skidded to a halt at the sound of approaching footsteps, boots thudding onto the carpeted floor, almost falling on his backside. Unable to make anything more than panicked, bleating sounds, he looked around desperately for somewhere to hide.
Seeing a darkened doorway, he bolted to it and tried the door. If it was locked, he was done for…..
He let out a relieved gasp when the door swung soundlessly open. Counting his lucky stars, he hurried inside, quietly closing the door behind him. Looking around, he found he was in one of the classrooms used to teach Slayers the academic side of their Calling. But not a history of comic books like he'd sagely suggested.
Seeing the suit of armour by the door, Andrew hurried over and slid into the narrow hiding place behind it, right hand still clutching tightly to the meat cleaver he'd been carving the night's meal with when the alarm had blared out. His heart tightened when the door swung open and a slight figure ran in only to relax when he recognised Dawn. He opened his mouth to hiss to his friend.
And closed it again when a trio of burly men charged into the room and encircled the former Key.
"Oh bollocks!" Giles cursed as he looked around the bunker's occupants. All the support staff, cleaners, kitchen staff, and researchers had made it to the bunker, leaving the battleground clear for those experienced in such things. But no Andrew. And far more worryingly, no Dawn.
Turning, he headed for the door. "Hold on!" Willow grabbed his arm. "You can't go out there! It's madness!"
He turned to the red-haired witch. "I know, Willow. But I promised Buffy I'd look after her." Ignoring the witch's continuing protests, he turned and hurried out of the bunker, slamming the heavy door behind him.
What seemed an eternity later and he was heartily regretting his promise. Since leaving the bunker, he'd been travelling the castle's darkened passageways searching for Dawn. There'd been no sign of the younger Summers girl, but plenty of the on-going carnage – the sound of fighting, power-burns on the wall, and even the occasional corpse. He himself had ambushed one group-.
"Hello, Rupert."
Giles started at the voice behind him only to belatedly relax when he recognise the cultured tones. Turning, he looked at his portly deputy. "Roger!" he hissed as he looked around the shadowy dormitory he'd been vainly searching. "What are you doing here?" he demanded. "Why aren't you in the bunker?"
"Oh, I'll get there." He gasped when the sneering Watcher pulled out a revolver and aimed its muzzle at him. "But I've got some important business to deal with first."
Riley groaned as the heavy-set South African charged him. Stupid, very stupid, he cursed inwardly. He really shouldn't have been caught by the general's sneak attack.
Gathering his thoughts, he sidestepped the South African's rush, grabbed the war criminal's collar, twisted, and flung the soldier face-first into the wall. Spinning around, he crashed a right into his adversary's kidneys.
"Aaaah," the general gasped before falling to his hands and knees. Riley stepped over the man and raised his hand to deliver a karate chop to the deck.
"Shit!" he yelped when the general grabbed his right foot and yanked, knocking him onto his back.
The general was on him instantly, punching him again and again, his weapon forgotten in his animalistic fury. Ignoring the pounding he was receiving, Riley wrapped his legs around the South African's portly body and squeezed. The mercenary grunted and attempted to rear up, but he held firm, his hands reaching up to grip the sides of the older man's face and stab his thumbs into his rival's eyes, gouging them.
The man's eyes squelched under his attack, and the mercenary's mouth opened in a scream but he cut him off with a fist to the throat. The general's craggy face purpled. Riley grabbed him beneath his chin and on the top of his head and twisted. He winced slightly at the resulting crack before shoving the now limp body off him, and clambering to his feet. He laughed when caught a glimpse of himself in the window opposite. He looked a mess with his bleeding and broken nose, rapidly closing right eye, and cut bottom lip. But, he glanced down at the corpse at his feet, he was still alive.
Andrew quaked in his hiding place as the three thugs surrounded his friend, their expressions leering as they commented on the nubile teen's beauty. "Cor," drawled a thick-set cockney, "she's a bit of alright ain't she?"
"Aye laddie, she is," agreed a wry Geordie, normally Andrew had trouble understanding them, but tonight he was all too terribly clear. "Get your kit off lassie."
"Spoils of war," agreed the third man, a short but hefty Texan.
"Aiee!" Suddenly Dawn launched herself into the air, exploding into a roundhouse kick her sister would have been proud of. The blow smashed into the cockney's face, splattering viscera onto previously pristine suit of armour Andrew was cowering behind.
"Bitch!" The moment Dawn's feet touched the ground, the Geordie caught Dawn with a backhand slap to the face, knocking her to the floor. "Like it rough do you? Well," the man kicked the former key in the stomach making her gasp for air, before leaning over her, "that can be arranged."
The sound of clothing ripping jarred Andrew out of his horrified stupor. Reaching out a shaking hand, he shoved the suit of armour. The moment it smashed to the ground, he charged out of his hiding place to confront the three hired killers as they turned towards him.
His cleaver slashed sideways, ripping through the Geordie's throat with the same brutal ease he'd torn through Dawn's blouse just seconds ago. Andrew's ears burst under the twin assaults of the Geordie's screams and the deafening boom of a gun firing.
He spun around to face the Texan unable to believe that the gunman had missed in such a confined space. Han Solo never would have. The Texan's eyes widened in an almost comical fashion when he charged the man, and slashed with his cleaver, slicing him from ear to ear.
The Texan gurgled, blood foaming out of his mouth as he fell to his knees. "You crazy bugger!"
Andrew turned at the voice to see the Cockney rising from the floor, gun in hand. Quickly weighing up his options, Andrew took the only chance left to him, and raised the cleaver above his head, and threw it. The Cockney screamed when the cleaver didn't hit him in the heart as he'd planned, but slammed into his left arm, almost ripping his arm off at the elbow, spewing blood everywhere, and causing him to drop his gun. Andrew nodded as the still shrieking man fell on his back, strangely detached from the vicious skirmish he found himself in. He stepped forward, intent on finishing the thug off.
And gasped when a great lethargy engulfed him, his legs buckling beneath him. He screamed as he hit the floor, pain roaring through him. Looking down, he saw the Texan's hadn't in fact missed. A bullet had torn through his stomach, his blood-stained entrails leaking out of the gaping wound. "So cold," he muttered. It all seemed so distant, as if he was watching this happen to someone else.
"Oh no." A shirtless Dawn knelt by him, tears rolling down her face. "Andrew."
"Sorry," he gasped, his own tears starting to fall as his body spasmed. "Tried to be a hero. Guess," he laughed, "I'm a better super-villain."
"Don't," Dawn wiped at her red eyes, "you dare. That was the bravest thing I ever saw."
"Really?" Andrew smiled proudly. Then he giggled as he noticed something. "My first boobies," he pointed at Dawn. "They're even nicer in the flesh." And then he died.
Dawn's strained laugh turned to a choked sob when he realised Andrew had died. After a few seconds holding the corpse, she became dimly aware of the surviving mercenary's pained wheezes.
Heart hardening, she picked up one of the dropped guns, and stood. Eyes filling with horror, the mercenary attempted to crawl away from her. "Mercy."
Dawn didn't need to see Andrew's corpse to know her answer. "No." Her ears rang with the gun's retort even as her tears continued to flow.
"What are you doing you dozy bugger?" Roger rejoiced at the upstart's confusion. "This is hardly the time-."
Covering the distance separating them at a run, he slammed his revolver's heavy butt into the younger man's forehead, knocking him to the ground. He aimed the weapon at his fellow countryman, savouring the helpless rage in Giles' eyes. He wished he had time to break the sod, but at least he'd get to finish him off.
"Go on Rog, give it to him!" Hearing a voice, he spun to his left, aiming his gun at Ethan Rayne; the smirking chaos mage leant against the wall by the door. "Hold on," the younger man raised his hands in surrender, eyes filling with alarm. "I'm just 'ere to watch that uptight prissy get his comeuppance, keep your eye on him!"
Roger instinctively turned back to Giles, promising himself to deal with Rayne afterwards. He looked down at his target.
And screamed at the cobra writhing around the wrist of his gun-arm. Shrieking in terror, he dropped the gun and leapt backwards. His eyes widened when the snake disappeared. A trick, he snarled at Ethan before stepping towards his dropped weapon.
He grunted when something heavy crashed into the back of his head, knocking him to his hands and knees. Seeing the gun beside him, he reached for it but Ethan kicked it away, tutting sarcastically. "Naughty, naughty."
Looking up, he saw the green-skinned demon friend of the vampire helping Rupert to his feet. "You'll all pay," he blustered.
"I doubt that," pain erupted in his side when Ethan kicked him in the guts. The chaos mage glanced towards the supposed Council head. "You alright, Rupes?"
The former Slayer's Watcher stared at Rayne. "How? Why?"
"Partially to see that look on your face," the renegade wizard chuckled before sobering. "Life wouldn't be the same without you to bedevil. Besides," Roger's hackles rose at the disdainful look Rayne shot him, "buggering up his plans was just the icing on the cake."
Rupert shook his head. "Same old Ethan," his nemesis took the gun from Ethan before glancing down at him, a terrifying look in his eyes. "your son was worth ten of you." All at once he knew what Giles intended. He opened his mouth to beg, saw the man's finger squeeze the trigger.
Ethan hid a wince when Ripper shot Roger in the head, exhibiting the cold-bloodedness that had in turn excited and terrified him. His heart fluttered at the grateful look the Watcher shot him. "Thank you, Lorne, Ethan."
"Think nothing of it old bean," he replied casually, his heart thundering. After all, what choice had he had? Given the chance of saving the life of the man he'd secretly loved for three decades?
"Andrew's dead?" Giles whispered. Seven Slayers, twelve Watchers, and fourteen Council troops had all died in the battle for the keep. And of course Wells.
He was shocked by his sense of loss. How much he'd miss the boy's cheerful self-delusion and oblivion. The way the youth ran their kitchens with surprising and tasty efficiency.
Looking around the devastated Council grounds, he could see the pain he felt reflected on the others' faces. "Giles," he looked towards an ashen faced Willow. "What are we going to do about the corpses and building damage?"
"I said not now!" he thundered, his frayed temper finally snapping. Seeing the witch flinch, he opened his mouth to apologise but was interrupted by the ringing of his mobile playing 'God Save The Queen' by the Sex Pistols. Mouthing 'sorry' to the red-haired woman, he pulled out his phone and glanced at the number on the display. His eyes widened in recognition. Turning the phone on, he placed it to his mouth and spoke. "Hello?"
"NOO!"
Seeing the head Watcher's legs buckle, Riley raced forward, grabbing hold of the Englishman as he fell. "It's alright, Giles!" he soothed over the others' shocked screams. But looking at the Watcher's broken face he doubted it would ever be alright again.