11:29, TUESDAY AUGUST 24, LIMA (19:29/24-08-99 ZULU)
SUNNYDALE HOSPITAL
Willow's first ten minutes or so with the new 'eyephones' had been devoted to learning the various commands and eccentricities of the interface. After that, it was pure hacker heaven. When the laptop had been hit, a power-surge had junked most of the file-fragments she'd had time to save, but after a great deal of coaxing (and a couple of naughty words in Hebrew and Latin) she finally decided she'd recovered all she could. Not that it was much: only a couple of partially-scrambled files and maybe twenty lines of text, mainly disjointed phrases in pathologist's jargon. What sense she could make of the information posed a new puzzle. "That's it, guys. I only got the 'deleted' part from one of the reports before the shooting started, and I've recovered about as much of it as I can, but it's funny: all they were deleting was a description of the victim's identifying marks."
"'Victims' are innocents, Willow. These guys were tangos who got what they had coming," Xander reminded her, harking back to a long-ago conversation with Gunny Patterson. "But I'm being a jerk again. What'cha got?"
Willow answered by reaching into her laptop's carry-case, producing a notebook and pencil, setting the former on her knee, then looking through the images on the inside of the data-goggles to trace them on the paper. When she was done, she showed the page to both of her friends. "Two tattoos. The first one was on his left bicep, the other one on his left collarbone."
"Well, you and I both know what that first one is," Xander pointed out, tapping the upper symbol. "The red star and thunderbolt is a Spetsnaz mark, remember? Our boy served in Afghanistan, which means he was a lot of firepower to be involved in a simple art heist... if that's what it was."
I drew it in pencil, Xander; how did you know it was red? Willow wondered. Well, okay, our time at Quick, but still....
"'If that's what it was'? What are you saying?" Buffy blinked at him.
"I'm not saying anything. If I had anything to say, I don't think this is the time or place to say it," he smiled. "This other marking... is not something I ran into when I was Research Boy. Buff, you got a clue?"
The second tattoo Willow had traced consisted of a figure-eight lying on its side; inside the left loop was a circled Star of David; within the right loop, a right-angled triangle rested on one short side, three lines extending to the right from the long face to make the symbol roughly square.
"Hey, it was always a case of you guys doing the book-stuff so I could Slay things; how should I know?" the blonde asked, taking the notebook from Willow nonetheless. "Naw, sorry. Will, any ideas?"
"Well, this outer symbol, the leminscate, represents 'infinity', so whatever's inside is meant to be eternal. The hexagram could be alchemical or religious, but this one on the right is completely new to me."
"Maybe Giles or Cerian can spot it."
Xander cocked a skeptical eyebrow at her. "They're both wounded, Buff; our reference library is so much papier mch right now, and you told the Watcher's Council to take their job and shove it. Got any more bright ideas?"
"How about Willy? He always knows what's going on."
"I don't think he does mundanes, but it's worth a shot," he shrugged. "When shall we head down there, about seven-ish?"
Buffy raised both eyebrows at him. "'We'?"
"Willy responds only to money or threats, Buff. I seem to have a liiittle disposable income right about now, you're the Slayer, and I made the papers for zapping a man. I think he's going to be most forthcoming. Don't you?"
"That smart-ass thing's gonna get you in trouble one day," the Slayer warned him, mostly joking.
"Way too late for that warning, Buffster." He shrugged and looked back to Willow. "Wills, didja get that stuff on the kid yet?"
"Uh... no; that data-reconstruction was pretty involved. I'll get on it now."
"Good woman." Xander gave her a gentle smile-and-wink of encouragement.
Which reminds me.... Buffy crooked a finger at the young man as Willow went back to work. "Could I talk to you for a minute? Over here?"
Xander moved off to one side with her, his eyes and manner wary. When they were outside Willow's immediate earshot, he lowered his head and voice. "Okay, Buff, what's on your mind?"
"What are you up to?" she hissed.
"What do you mean?"
"The necklace, the techno-goodies, the extravagant gesture - it's all really sweet, Xander. Too sweet for a guy who wasn't even away two whole months. Are you making a play for her? Because she's happy with Oz, dammit!"
"I'm not making a play for anyone, Buff." His tone was even, patient. "I wanted to show you guys how dear you are to me, and for once I actually had the means. Is it a crime to miss your closest friends?"
"So that last little gambit was just ninety grand of 'I missed you'?"
"You say that like you can put a price on true friendship," he said, as if mystified, and went back to Willow's side.
Buffy threw up her hands, muffling another scream. If he keeps this up...!
When Willow looked past the images on her eyephones a few minutes later, she was struck by the difference in her friends' demeanours. Buffy was pacing back and forth again, muttering a constant litany of vengeful threats against whoever had hurt Giles, visibly agitated and in the express lane to 'frantic'. Xander, on the other hand, was sitting on the other couch, his hands free in his lap, his eyes leaving Buffy every few seconds to check the doorway, at once alert but somehow at ease. The question went straight to her mouth without consulting her brain. "Xander, how can you be so... so self-possessed at a time like this?"
"What happens to Giles is out of our hands," he said mildly, unsurprised by the question. "We can't help him, and worrying ourselves crazy sure isn't gonna achieve anything, so we might as well concentrate on something productive. For my part, I'd like to come back in a couple of days and give him this blood-mage's head on a plate as a 'Get Well Soon'."
"So you're not worried?" Buffy snapped.
"Of course I'm worried, but what's next for Giles isn't up to me. There's no point bitching about things that are outside our control. Worry about what you can do, Buff, not what you can't. Anything else is a fast route to a nervous breakdown, an ulcer, a heart attack, or a combination thereof - and you're too cute to have an ulcer."
"Thanks. I think."
"You're welcome. I think," he mocked.
Before Willow could add her own two cents, a dialogue box appeared before her eyes. "Got it!" she chirped.
A heartbeat later, both Xander and Buffy were at her side. "And?" Buffy prompted, her voice taut.
"I'll print it all out when I get home, but it looks like Cerian was right on the money: the killer used a slightly curved edged weapon, which left traces of silver in the wound, to slit both carotids longtitudinally." Willow illustrated by tracing both of those arteries from jaw to collar with her fingertips, then used a fingernail to score an inverted pentagram on the pad that lay on her knee. "I don't recognise most of the symbology in the other wounds, but the old favourite was carved over his heart."
"Any sign of, uh...." Buffy trailed off.
"I think she means, 'is there any evidence of sexual assault'," Xander provided, not shrinking from the thought as Buffy had.
Willow shook her head. "Nothing. They ran a full autopsy and examination, and nothing like that."
"I'd almost feel better if there had been. How callous does that make me?" he drawled.
"Well, that's work dealt with, anyway," Buffy shrugged. "We can try and sort this out at my place later. For now, Oz is probably feeling real lonely right now. Are we gone?"
Willow carefully packed away the laptop and its new peripheral, slung the case over one shoulder, then handed the gym-bag to Buffy. "Here, Buffy. Feel useful," she smiled.
"Thanks a bunch."
- * - * - * - * - * - * - * -
Oz was propped up on a nest of pillows when the trio came in, and he looked like hell. His bottom lip was split and swollen, eleven stitches closed the curved gash on his forehead, two more sealed a surgical wound over his left cheekbone, and his pallor only highlighted the angry, purple-red contusions that stretched from hairline to jaw, half-closing his eye. However, he wasn't alone, and both Xander and Buffy came up short at the sight - and sound - of the strangers.
"Oh, bullshit!" Shooter near-yelled, gesturing emphatically as she half-rose from her seat, her cheeks flushed and her eyes flashing behind her trademark glasses. She spoke quickly, her accent thickening slightly as her passions rose. "The only reason the American economy came to dominate the global after World War Two was because it was the only one still intact! All the other major economic powers had had most of their productive capacity destroyed and their civilian populations decimated or relocated. Quality control might have been a small part of the equation, but basically, America is where it is today because after World War Two, its was the only major economic/industrial infrastructure that hadn't been burned down, blown up, fought over, rolled under, uprooted, incinerated, or just plain bombed flat!"
Oz's lips were twisted almost sideways by his smile as he glanced at Nemo, who was standing behind his wife's chair.
"Don't look at me, priyatel," the older man said reasonably, gently patting his wife's shoulder to settle her down a little. "I'm with her."
"Hey, Oz, you asked for my opinion, and that's exactly what you got. If you don't like what I have to say, you shouldn't've asked in the first place." It was as close to an apology as Shooter would come.
"Who the hell are they?" Xander asked under his breath, blinking at Willow.
This should be... interesting, the redhead noted. "Buffy, they're the ones I told you about, remember? Xander, that's Shooter, with the glasses. You can see what she's like," she smiled wryly. "That's her husband Nemo with her. He's...." She spent a moment trying to frame it right, and eventually went with, "complex."
"Look, Oz, consider the major economic powers of the time," Shooter continued, still very gesture-y; her blood was most definitely up. "Russia: twenty million dead, everything west of Moscow a former battleground, and the NKVD purging *anyone* who had an idea that deviated from the Party ideal. Japan: every major city repeatedly firebombed by B-29s, plus two nuked. France, Italy, Germany: all bombed silly, every inch of territory fought for, plus the aftermath of their various Occupations. Great Britain: clawing to simply feed itself after six years of near-strangulation by Doenitz' wolf-packs. America: untouched. Gee, you do the maths," she sniffed sardonically. As she finished, her gaze lifted towards the doorway. She examined the trio of newcomers with cautious eyes, relaxing when she recognised Willow - then she took in the bloodstains. "Bozhe moi!" she blurted, bolting out of her seat, her eyes widening. "Willow, are you all right?"
Willow didn't have a chance to answer; with characteristic disdain for restraint (and the finer feelings of onlookers), the taller woman crossed the room and wrapped her up in a nigh-bone-crushing hug.
"Shooter, I need those ribs," she squeaked.
"Sorry," the brunette shrugged, releasing Willow and stepping back. Today, she was wearing a scarlet(!) denim jacket over battered jeans and an orange T-shirt. Emblazoned across the shirt's chest was an image of a mouse raising a middle finger to the eagle that was stooping on him, with the caption {THE LAST GREAT ACT OF DEFIANCE}.
Nemo was right behind his wife in approaching Willow, but contented himself with grasping her by both shoulders when Shooter stepped back; he was dressed in dark-blue trousers, a pale-blue shirt (long-sleeved, of course), and a black leather aviator's jacket that matched his eyepatch perfectly. "Ye look like ye've been through the devil's own wringer, my sweet," he observed, in a perfect Belfast accent.
Thursday night dates with Oz had become a near-permanent fixture of Willow's vacations since junior year; that first night they'd met at the bowling alley, Shooter and Nemo had traded 'phone numbers with the younger couple and turned it into a double-date scenario. 'Colourful' was probably the best nutshell description for these two, she decided privately. Not that she didn't like them, of course, but she was halfway convinced that Shooter was probably at least a little crazy (in a hyperkinetic, tomboy free-spirit kind of way); being around her was like being at the centre of a tornado. But on the other hand, she's not crazy-crazy, like Faith.
On the other hand, Nemo was almost impossibly laid-back and good-natured - which, thankfully, seemed to be a tempering influence on his wife. He was one of those people who simply took whatever came with philosphical humour, despite some often piercing insight and shocking cynicism. Willow remembered the brief conversation they'd had a couple of weeks ago, when they'd come out of a movie and he and Shooter had been laughing at all the holes in the plot:
"Nemo, do you have to make fun of everything?"
"The Irish have a blessing, darlin': 'May I never take life too seriously, knowing I'll never get out of it alive.'"
Which is about all I know about them, Willow realised, frowning a little on the inside. They'd talk about almost anything and everything, with the ring of experience and wide reading and each in their own... unique fashion, but never about what they did or why they were in Sunnydale; their past was such a big ol' blank that she didn't have enough biographical information on them to cover a postcard.
Thinking all this took Willow less than a heartbeat - more than enough time for what little contrition Shooter had shown over her ebullient greeting to vanish completely. "That blood's fresh - what happened to you?" she demanded, brow furrowed in concern.
"We were at a friend's place and somebody decided that it'd be fun to do a drive-by on an unemployed British librarian," Xander half-lied quickly.
Oz sat up a little. "Giles is hurt? How bad?"
"You say that like there's a good way to get shot," Nemo murmured, with droll, good-natured derision.
"Sucking chest and a broken arm, he's in surgery now," Xander confirmed to the bed-ridden werewolf, giving Nemo a foul look. "Cerian's gonna have a limp for a few weeks, too, but she should be out of here tomorrow morning. It could'a been worse."
"Are you hurt?" Nemo wondered, examining Willow closely.
"Just a little shakey. I'll be fine." She smiled crookedly, quoting one of his favourite sayings right back at him. "'Never let 'em grind you down', right?"
He chuckled and nodded, ruffling her already wrecked hair. "You'll be okay, kiddo."
Willow gave him the indulgent look she'd always reserved for Xander at his most boyish, realising as she did that while these two might know herself and Oz - "I'm forgetting things in all the, the being shot at. Natalya Kerensky, Phelan Travis, say 'hi' to Xander Harris and Buffy Summers. Xander, these are Shooter and Nemo; Buffy, these are the two I wanted you to meet but you were always too busy." She gave this a little touch of the accusatory; Buffy had a right to mope over Angel's leaving, true, but that didn't mean she couldn't come out and have fun.
"I've heard a lot about you," Buffy smiled. "Willow seems to think you can walk on water."
"Likewise on both counts." Shooter ignored the blonde's offered hand and simply inclined her head, 'hi there'; her manner towards Buffy was... correct, but somehow lacked her usual all-embracing enthusiasm. "Zdratsvuite," she added, waggling her fingers at Xander in a slightly warmer greeting.
"Willow is very trusting. Perhaps a little too much so," Nemo pointed out to the Slayer, a little crisply, then sketched a salute-like wave Xander's way, 'hi'.
"Will, you never mentioned you knew Tori Amos and Jon Gruden," Xander grinned.
"Jon Gruden?" Nemo wondered mildly.
"Head coach for the Oakland Raiders. A regular baby-faced assassin."
Willow couldn't help but hear the... deliberateness of that last sentence - and she could've sworn the older couple twitched at hearing it.
"I can't say I follow the inner workings of the NFL too closely." Nemo shrugged, then nodded at the chairs at Oz's bedside. "Incidentally, are we gonna stand in this doorway all day, or shall we repair to the cheap seats?"
"Uh... two chairs, five visitors," Oz pointed out.
"Easy solved," Nemo grinned, tugging Shooter to one side and waving the other three forward. Buffy took one seat; Xander stepped back to let Willow take the other, then stood behind her in a manner that was oddly reminiscient of a bodyguard's.
Nemo settled on the windowsill beyond Oz's bed, half-sitting with a full view of the door, and Shooter snuggled against his right side, sighing contentedly as his arm automatically went about her shoulders. "So you are the notorious Buffy and Xander," she observed. "I can't say you're exactly what Willow's stories led me to imagine."
"What did you expect?" Xander wondered, his eyes levelled at Nemo.
"Lucy Lawless and Jim Carrey," the eye-patched man drawled. "But then, Jim Carrey's never shot anyone dead, has he?" he added significantly.
"I wasn't what you'd call overburdened with choice." Xander's tone was just a touch frosty.
"It wasn't a criticism: you did what you had to," Shooter shrugged. "But people are going to treat you differently."
Willow's ears pricked up. If she hadn't known better, she'd have said there was something almost... multi-layered about the tone of this conversation....
"It's called the Mark of Cain syndrome. It's a by-product of 'civilisation'," Nemo put in, the last word a caustic epithet. "People attach so much of a stigma to violence that they forget that not only is it sometimes necessary, but that some people are just better off dead."
"So you think I did the right thing?"
"The way I hear it, the joker was about to machine-gun a bunch of unarmed innocents, including the people you love. Far as I'm concerned, that's as justifiable as it gets," the eye-patched man declared unequivocally. "But whatever the circumstances, a lot of people will be incapable of seeing past the fact that you've killed someone. The human animal doesn't like to be reminded of its own darker nature," he added blandly.
Buffy spared a moment to consider the truth in that observation before cocking her head at Nemo. "You think people aren't civilised?"
He laughed softly, then spoke with the rueful cynicism of someone old far before his time. "Civilisation is a very recent development in evolutionary terms, and we're still working the bugs out of it. In all frankness, I'm not sure it isn't a futile effort. In my experience, humankind is like a lot of other things: it seemed like a good idea at the time... but the execution left a great deal to be desired." As he spoke, his free hand rose to massage the scar on his brow.
Xander cocked an eyebrow. "Nice jewellery you've got there. Diamond and sapphire?"
Again the deliberateness. Again the twitch-y.
"Well, if they're not, we've been to a lot of time and effort for nothing." Nemo's smile was a little cool. He turned his attention back to Buffy. "You were saying?"
- * - * - * - * - * - * - * -
Janelle LaFollet half-sighed and lowered her pad. "Mrs. McKellar, you're not being very helpful."
"I can't tell you things that I didn't see, Detective," the older woman countered. She'd been under only local anaethesia in the surgery she'd emerged from not fifteen minutes ago, and it had to be wearing off. Between the pain, the stress she'd been put under less than a hundred minutes beforehand, and a healthy dose of annoyance at being told she had to stay in hospital overnight, she was visibly restraining her temper, and having a harder time of it by the second.
"Look at it from our perspective, ma'am," Little Bob suggested reasonably. "We've got a housewife and a four-year-old with forty-calibre brain haemorrhages, another housewife who bled out after having both legs almost blown off by a single rifle bullet, her daughter injured in the resulting head-on MVA, a former high-school librarian undergoing thoracic surgery as we speak, and you're effectively the only eyewitness."
"They had the curtains drawn in the house they were shooting from, Sergeant. I didn't dare stick my head out for long, and when I did glance out, all I could see was a muzzle-flash. I'm sorry."
Patterson stifled a disappointed sigh. "You seem pretty sure that it was the Triads. Why?"
"I recently... procured some items that the chieftain of Bi Diā Bāng Huě, Hong Kong's 'White Eagle Society', was most eager to get a hold of. He was not best pleased at being denied, and this is certainly Triad style: brutal, messy.... They prefer to let you know that you've done A Bad Thing: you, your spouse, your children, your parents, the random bystanders around you, passersby on the street, your third cousin living on a mountain-top in Tibet - they're not known for being overly subtle," she finished, with a roll of her eyes.
Little Bob snorted a laugh and cocked an eyebrow. "So how d'you figure they knew where to wait for you?"
"It's a matter of public record that Rupert Giles and I worked for the British Museum concurrently, and the Cultural Sciences department at UC Sunnydale offered me a post a couple of months ago. All they had to do was come here, find out where Rupert lived, and wait for me to arrive in town; as soon as the newspapers reported my intervention at the art gallery...." She shrugged.
"I see." LaFollet closed her pad and pinched the bridge of her nose for a moment. She'd had less than an hours' sleep before Patterson's call had woken her, and she still wasn't tracking too well, but something about that answer sounded a little too pat.
Patterson shrugged and tucked away his own notebook; his hand re-emerged from his jacket holding the pistol they'd confiscated from McKellar the previous night. "While we've got you here, you might as well have this back."
"Thank you, Sergeant," the ex-professor smiled, accepting the weapon. "Though how I'll carry it for now is, if you'll pardon the pun, an open question."
"P-9 Gyurza - 'Viper'," he noted, with absent professionalism. "Double-action/single-action, dropping-block recoil mechanism, fires a proprietary 9x21mm armour-piercing round off an eighteen round magazine. I hear that puppy's been tested against two stacked Threat-III Kevlar vests, with strike plates, at fifty metres and gone clean through, front-back-front-back."
"Yes, I believe that's the case," McKellar nodded, manifestly not seeing where he was going with this.
"What do you need that much gun for? And if it'll punch through Kevlar so well, why did you shoot for the head last night?"
"I run into a lot of unsavoury characters in the course of my work, Sergeant. Do you know how many members of the underworld wear body-armour these days?" she pointed out. "The Russian government issues these to the Militsiya and Federal Security Service for dealing with Organizatsiya goons who wear Kevlar and drive armoured automobiles. I can never know who's wearing, so I'd rather be prepared. As for last night, I aimed high because I didn't want to hit any civilians."
"You do realise that California does not issue civilians licences to carry a concealed firearm, don't you? And that armour-piercing ammunition and magazines exceeding a capacity of ten rounds are also illegal outside of the hands of law-enforcement, security-agency, and military personnel?" At her arch look, he explained, "I'm not going to bust you for it - if I didn't last night, I'm damn-sure not gonna do it now - but some eager-beaver patrolman might not be so understanding."
"Security agency," she murmured, considering for a long moment.... "Very well. I'm probably going to get a world-class bollocking for this, but if I'm to make California my new base of operations...."
The detectives exchanged baffled looks as McKellar dug through her wallet for a moment, then came out with a laminated ID card and handed it to Patterson. "What's that?" LaFollet blinked.
"Identification provided by my nominal employers at Sturmfalke Sicherheitskrfte."
Another exchange of looks, this time amazed. Sturmfalke Sicherhietskrfte - Stormhawk Security Forces - was a relatively new player on the security market, only eight or nine years old, but well-financed and -organised enough that it was already providing bodyguard, large-scale corporate security, and (if persistent rumours were to be believed) mercenary contingents to anyone - anyone - who had the ready cash. Rumours also implied that unofficially-official Stormhawk policy was 'shoot first and question the corpse'.
"They rate me as 'executive personal protection', which is a fancy way of saying 'bodyguard' if ever I heard one, but in actual fact, my employment by Stormhawk is a blind for my 'real' employers. MI6."
"As in the British CIA and James friggin' Bond?" Patterson blurted.
"You're letting Hollywood do your thinking for you, Detective," McKellar smiled. "James Bond is more a product of a fever-dream than of the true intelligence profession. MI6 sometimes contracts me for analytical purposes, and in my travels I often hear or see things that Her Majesty's government finds useful... and valuable."
"You're a paid snitch, you mean," LaFollet half-sneered, fatigue overriding her internal censors. "They give you money, you give them information. Sounds a little too much like being a whore for my tastes." And what the living hell is a British spook doing in small-town California?
Unless... unless she knew something about Khokhriakov and his buddies that she didn't want to share with the FBI or us local yokels.
"Mercenary, in any case." McKellar's smile and tone held a calm, distinctly icy viciousness. "Yes, I'm paid for my services, Detective. As you are. And as for any question of negotiable affection, you're far closer to the normal age-bracket than I am."
LaFollet sucked in a breath, her lips curling back from her teeth, but Patterson stepped in before she could say anything. "You asked for that one, Jan. Besides, she's right. Cops are paid to provide a service, just like hookers; the only difference is the nature of the service."
"And you'd know about hookers, wouldn't you?" she snapped.
"Listening to squad-room gossip again?" Patterson said sourly. "In any case, Mrs McKellar, until we hear back from Stormhawk about you, it might be best if you used a ban-compliant weapon to avoid future entanglements. Some people" (he carefully didn't look at LaFollet) "get a little uptight about things like that."
- * - * - * - * - * - * - * -
"How long it takes your Giles to recover is a function of his general health and outlook," Shooter stated, tipping her head at her husband. "Look at misery-guts, here. When he was burned, he was up and around in a little over three weeks."
"That was under... unusual circumstances, cariad," Nemo pointed out, smiling at some private joke. "Not the least of which was the overriding desire to get home to you."
"And our shared bed," she purred wickedly - then perked up. "Now there's an idea! Promise your friend a weekend at the Moonlite Bunnyranch when he's better. He should be up and around in no time."
Xander blushed a little.
"The what?" Buffy blinked. "What the heck is a 'Moonlite Bunnyranch'?"
"It's, uh... *kof* it'sabrothelinNevada," Xander coughed into his fist.
"It's a what?" the Slayer blinked again, turning her gaze on her friend. I know I didn't hear that right.
"It's a brothel in Nevada," he repeated more distinctly, blushing brighter.
"Why am I not surprised you know this?"
He gave her a look. "Some of the guys I played cards with talked about it. Apparently most of the women who work there are glamour models or A-list porn stars."
"Prices start from about a thousand dollars an hour, but no-one's ever complained about not getting his - or, occasionally, her - money's worth," Shooter grinned wickedly. "Which just goes to show, you should go to a professional when you have a problem that needs seeing to... even if the problem is just needing a good seeing-to."
Despite her previous experiences with Shooter's frankness, Willow's eyes were very wide, and she was blushing from hairline to collar. Nemo buried his face in his free hand and laughed helplessly. "Jesus, cariad...."
"And you know about this place... how?" Buffy asked.
Nemo glanced at his wife, who nodded. "We ended up paying them an unexpected visit a few weeks ago. We're involved in the acceptance trials for a new photo-reconnaissance drone; the Corps was flight-testing it out of Fallon when it force-landed at the Bunnyranch. It seems the jarheads had been using the place as a navigational reference," he finished blandly.
Xander quashed a smirk.
"It's interesting, the people you see and how," Shooter added thoughtfully. "The... staff offered us the hospitality of their bar when we were done picking up pieces of UAV, and while we were in there I could've sworn I saw Gavin Rossdale marking time with Teri Weigel."
Buffy shuddered at that image. Ack. There goes that Anywhere-But-Here! "Okay, back up a minute. Are you seriously suggesting that we send Giles off to a -?" She couldn't finish her sentence.
"Old does not mean incapable; hell, some of the worst skirt-chasers I know are in their fifties or older. It might even improve his disposition towards you, since Oz gives me to understand he's a little too staid for his own good."
"My wife, mistress of the 'blunt instrument' school of diplomacy," Nemo drawled.
"Fah - 'subtle' is over-rated!"
"No way. Uh-uh, for-get it!" Buffy declared categorically. "The last time Giles got unwrapped like that, he seduced my mother!"
"Just goes to prove my point. Besides, if you send him off somewhere else to get his ashes hauled, your mother's virtue is safe!"
Nemo groaned and clapped his hand over his wife's mouth. "Better?" he asked the assembly, a little desperately.
"Uh-huh," Oz nodded.
"It's not that she's crazy, really," he half-apologised. "She just doesn't let society's idea of 'proper behaviour' get in the way of being who she is." Then he yelped and snatched his hand away, glaring at the woman in question. "Will you stop licking my palm!?"
She gave him a smouldering look and murmured something in Russian that probably didn't bear translation in polite company.
"See what I mean?" he said ruefully, blushing afresh.
"Are they always like this?" Buffy asked of Willow, a little dazedly.
"Nah. Sometimes we act crazy," Shooter grinned.
Oz's mouth quirked. "You get used to it."
"Which is a scary thought in itself," Nemo noted blandly.
Giggling helplessly, Willow lowered her head and started massaging her eyebrows with her fingertips, trying to soothe a faint but developing headache. The pair's whirlwind antics often had that effect on her. I don't think the world's ready for three Xanders, she decided, a little faintly.
Doctor Hamshari came in just then and glanced about, manifestly wondering what he'd missed... and how good it had been. "Uh...."
"It's okay, Doc, we're just making ribald suggestions," Shooter tossed his way.
"I, uh... see." He shook himself, re-cloaking himself in medical dignity.
Before he could gather himself completely, Nemo looked over at him, completely serious just that fast, and asked him something. What prompted amazed stares from the assembled Scoobies was the fact the way he asked: in perfect Arabic. All they could understand of what was said was Giles' name.
Hamshari blinked and missed half a beat in an astonished gape before responding in the same language, albeit at rather more length than the eye-patched man. Apparently satisfied by what he heard, Nemo nodded and subsided back beside his wife, motioning for the doctor to carry on.
He wavered for a moment, not knowing who to address, before turning his attention to Xander. "As your friend has just asked me, while I'm not directly involved in his treatment, it's my understanding that your friend Mister Giles is out of immediate danger. Might I ask where you learned the language, sir?" he asked as an aside.
"Mate of mine." Nemo's dialect and dismissive delivery almost made it sound like motor-mind. "He spent a lot of time in Saudi and Oman. Heck, it's what I'm doing in this city."
"You teach languages?"
"Out at Quick." He jerked his head towards the window and the base. "At least, that's what I do between my trips to the photo-interpretation shop. I've got to do something while gorgeous here" (he squeezed Shooter's shoulders) "has her head buried in an engine-cowling. I'm starting to think the contractors sold the Corps a lemon."
"Oi! No bad-mouthing the people paying our expenses," Shooter rebuked him sharply, nudging him in the ribs with an elbow - and none too gently, at that. "And you say I've got a big mouth."
He grunted in half-feigned pain, recovered his breath, and deadpanned something in Russian that made Shooter chuckle - and blush bright pink.
"Hey, can you knock it off with the multi-lingual innuendo?" Xander wailed plaintively. "Some of us get into enough trouble in one tongue. Don't say it!" he added, aiming two fingers at a grinning Nemo.
The freckled foreigner raised his free hand placatingly and let the opening pass.
"It's like being on 'Whose Line Is It Anyway?'," Oz observed.
"Or 'Jerry Springer'," Buffy countered.
Nemo grinned crookedly. "Or crack."
"All of the above?" Xander suggested mildly.
Willow pressed the heel of one hand to her aching ribs, tears in her eyes. She hadn't laughed this hard since the time in fifth grade when Jesse brought a horned toad back from Texas and dropped it down Harmony's collar.
For his part, Hamshari was admirably poker-faced. "Actually, I came in to give you some good news, Mister Osbourne. All your scans have come through clean, you're free to leave whenever you choose. We'll leave your ribs taped for the next week or so, then re-evaluate your condition when you come in for a check-up next Tuesday. I'd also advise you to get lots of bed-rest to recover from the surgery. There are prescriptions for antibiotics and painkillers waiting for you at the pharmacy."
"Thanks." Oz immediately shifted his legs towards the edge of the bed. "My clothes around here?"
Hamshari nodded towards the small table/cupboard that stood beside the bed. "In there, but I'm afraid your shirt and sweater were ruined when we took them off you. I'd better get on with my rounds."
Even as the doctor passed out the door, Willow hefted the gym-bag Buffy had carried for her. "Clothes. A full set, even."
"Thanks, Will." Oz levered himself upright, with obvious effort and discomfort, and swung his legs off the edge of the bed, ready to stand.
"Hey-hey-hey-hey-hey," Nemo chided, making a 'go easy' motion. "I've spent too much time at the panel-beaters myself to blame you for wanting to get out of here ASAP, but the man did say 'take it easy'. As much as I distrust the public health system, I don't think he'd cut that sort of corner. It's not like a dead man can pay his bills."
In any other town, you'd probably be right, Willow smiled to herself.
Xander plucked the bag from Willow's grasp. "Jeez, Will, what did you pack in here, the Encyclopaedia Britannica?" Before she could protest, he opened the bag up and started digging things out, tossing them onto the bed for Oz. "Underwear. Pants. Shirt. Socks. Shoes. College package. Yearbook."
Oz froze.
Propelled by a slightly too-enthusiastic toss, the maroon-bound tome half-skidded across the bedspread and tumbled off the edge at Shooter's feet. "Nice shot," she drawled, kneeling to retrieve it. "Wait a minute...." Straightening again, she snapped the book closed in one hand and plucked out a folded piece of paper that protruded from the pages, apparently loosened by the fall. "What the devil is this?" she wondered aloud, opening it one-handed.
Oz's expression was stricken; he seemed to want to speak, but he couldn't get the sounds out.
A moment later, all the humour had vanished from Shooter's manner, and her eyes turned on the battered guitarist, as narrow and dark as a bunker's firing-slits. "Oz, you pedik!" she snarled, her voice impossibly ugly.
"Huh?" Buffy wondered. All the joviality had left the atmosphere just that fast.
Nemo took the paper from his wife's hand and read quickly; within a couple of seconds, his mouth thinned down to a furious white line. Ignoring the ashen-faced Oz and his attempts to intercept him, Nemo stepped around the end of the bed and handed the paper to Buffy without a word.
Baffled by the sudden shift in their mood, she accepted the proffered document. "It's just a class-confirmation form -" she shrugged - then took in the letterhead and turned stupefied eyes on Oz. "What the hell is this?"
"He's turned deserter, by the looks of it," Shooter growled.
"What?" Xander and Willow chorused. They'd grown up in a Marine town, so they knew exactly how vile an epithet 'deserter' was. Xander knew that 'Shooter' knew it, too, and had used it deliberately.
Buffy passed the form to Willow sidelong, all the while glaring at Oz, who avoided her gaze as best he could. "That's funny, Oz: you never said anything about going to Seattle before."
"Seattle?" Xander asked blankly, reading over Willow's shoulder.
Baffled, afraid, hoping all this was a horrible mistake, Willow read quickly. No mistake. Under the letterhead of the University of Washington was the usual verbiage confirming that Daniel J. Osbourne had been enrolled and entered in classes about this, that, and the other. Nothing after the first paragraph really registered.
Willow looked up to her boyfriend's face, hoping to see him denying any knowledge of this. All she saw was guilt.
"You want to explain?" Nemo suggested, his tone like a sword-blade on a frosty winter's morning.
"What possible explanation -!" Rage clogged Shooter's vocal cords, rendering her speechless for the first time since Willow had known her, but her expression spoke to murder. She started towards Oz, but the back of Nemo's hand pressed against her midriff, stopping her before she could even shift her weight properly.
That's weird; I can't feel anything. Even my limbs aren't working right, Willow thought distantly. Some foreign, lucid part of her added, Well, that explains why he's felt so weird lately.
Behind the redhead, Xander was looking at the werewolf with diamond-hard eyes and fists clenched so tight his arms shook. No-one in the room knew what it cost him to speak calmly. "Let's hear your side of this, Oz."
"You're taking his part?" Nemo demanded incredulously.
"I want to hear all the sides before I draw any conclusions. I learned that lesson the hard way," Xander bit out. "Now butt out, this doesn't concern you."
"The fuck it doesn't!" Shooter snapped, her accent as thick as the Yellow Pages. "Willow's our friend -"
"I said zip it!" It was that same Command Voice he'd used on Willow, and Shooter went silent, with an astonished blink. "In fact, would the two of you excuse us for a few minutes? Go get some coffee or something, you're new to this situation and we don't have the time to subtitle everything for you."
"Who the hell do you think -!" Shooter began.
Nemo nudged her into silence. "That might not be a bad idea, at that. We'll be back in a few minutes. Xander, Buffy, it's nice to meet you; Willow...." He shot her an encouraging wink. He quite pointedly did not acknowledge Oz's existence. Shooter dug in her heels, levelling a burningly-cold look at Oz for a few seconds, but her husband hissed a few words in her ear - in Russian, naturally - and she eventually allowed him to usher her out, figurative smoke streaming from her ears.
As she reached the doorway, she looked back over her shoulder and speared Oz with a look. "'Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens'!" she spat, before Nemo dragged her around the corner.
She argues historical world economics and quotes J R R Tolkien as a go-home line, Xander smiled inwardly. Interesting mix... if she were only a grease-monkey.
"Mild-tempered, isn't she?" Buffy bit out, then turned lethal eyes on Oz. "Well?"
The guitarist had struggled out of his hospital gown (with a couple of pained gasps), revealing the sterile bandage taped to his ribcage and a hand-sized black/purple bruise across his midriff, a souvenir from Russkie's boot. "These," he said simply, waving at the bruises as he reached for the khakis Willow had brought.
"You might want to expand on that, Oz. In case you hadn't noticed, I'm the only person even sitting on the fence around here." Xander jerked his head the way Nemo and Shooter had departed. "Those two are probably starting to simmer a cauldron of oil right about now, so do yourself a favour and talk. Fast."
Oz sighed, pulled on his shirt, and took a moment to order his thoughts. When he spoke, it was not with the hysteria of the desperate, but with the calm of a man who'd made a rational, reasoned decision. "Since I started Scooby-ing, I've run the nightly risk of injury, death, or worse. I've been ducking vampires and demons for more than a year now, and what has it got me? I spend three nights a month locked in a cage so I don't eat somebody. I've lost all my other friends. The Dingoes think I'm a flake. My parents saw some slaying stuff in my room and they're talking about sending me to a shrink. I'm out of high school, I've got the right to choose where I'm gonna spend the rest of my life, and I'm not gonna spend it getting the living hell kicked out of me by ninety-nine different shades of demon and not even getting a 'thank you' for it! I served my hitch on the Hellmouth, I've saved the world - and now I want to get on with a real life! I never asked for this!"
"Neither did I, but here I am. If you didn't want to help, why'd you sign up?" Buffy clipped.
"I got dragged in, remember? If I'd said 'I want out', you'd've all thought I was a coward."
"So you try to sneak off and 'Dear Jane' Willow from two states away instead. Oh, yeah, that's the mark of a real stand-up kinda guy!" Xander snapped. "You could've told us you'd had enough, and we'd've -"
"Like you told us what really happened that night in the factory?" Oz countered mercilessly.
Willow went ashen. Xander paled, though for a different reason. "That's an entirely separate issue," he growled.
"You're the one holding forth on how honest people should be!"
"What the hell is he talking about?" Buffy asked, feeling distinctly left behind. No-one heard her.
"If you want to blame anyone for that, Oz, turn it this way." Xander's jaw was set.
"Very noble, Xander, but last time I checked, it took two to fuck."
Buffy let out a shocked gasp and started to stand, her eyes aflame at his hateful tone. "HEY!"
Xander's hand caught her shoulder, stopping her movement less by main strength than by sheer projection of his will. "There are distinct differences between the two situations, and don't EVER say that about Willow again."
"I'll say whatever the hell I please." Oz's teeth were bared.
For all the (considerable) self-control he'd developed in his time away, Xander was about a microsecond away from putting Oz back in the emergency room himself.
Despite her confusion and outrage, Buffy still summoned her best we're-all-friends-here manner. "Uh, guys, I don't know exactly what the hell you're talking about here, but can we all take it easy? Oz, maybe this can wait until you're feeling better."
"You wanted to know what's going on," he countered. "Ask these two. Go ahead and ask - right now. A few more hours aren't going to change the truth."
Oh, God.... He's not going to let this go. Not that I blame him, but I wish there was another way out of this.... Willow cleared her throat somehow, dreading what she'd have to say next. "Wh-when... just after Homecoming, when Spike kidnapped Xander and I and locked us in the factory... we couldn't get out, nobody was going to rescue us, we were certain we were going to die -"
"- And, being me, I didn't want to die a virgin, so I seduced Willow," Xander declared evenly.
Buffy blinked. "You -"
"Something tells me she didn't try too hard to change your mind," Oz sneered.
Xander didn't let himself react to that visibly. "Spike was damned-sure going to kill us sooner or later, there was no way we could know you were about to rescue us... I was lying on a bed with a wonderful, gorgeous woman, and consequences were a moot issue. I thought."
"And you didn't tell us because -?" Buffy trailed off.
"Cordy was never going to take me back, but I didn't want to rub salt into the wound. Oz and Willow had a better chance of staying together, and as it was you saw how hard a road that was; this would've been the last straw. And as big a bastard as I may be, I wanted her to be happy. Oz makes her happy - or did," he added. "Which brings us back to the actual point of the discussion. Why take off in the middle of the night, man? Shame? Or have you just lost your guts?"
"Okay, that's it," Buffy said, before Oz could deliver a truly vicious riposte. "Xander, why don't you take five, huh? Before your newfound macho impulses get us all into a train-wreck? Go and check on Giles."
His first instinct was to stand his ground and keep snarling at the smaller youth, but after a long, deep breath.... "Yeah, that's probably a good idea. 'Cause I'm not really helping here, am I?"
"What's new?" Oz sneered.
"Hey!" Buffy snapped. "You can back off for a minute too, y'know!"
"You and I are gonna talk later, Oz." Xander patted Willow's shoulder gently and levelled a piercing look at the werewolf before he started for the door. "And you will not like what I have to say."
Oz gave Xander's departing back a dismissive snort.
"He's got a point, Oz," Buffy said, trying to stay calm. "Why do things this way? You could've talked to us."
His look was steady. "And admit I'd lost my nerve less than a month before the Ascenscion. Lots of sympathy potential there."
"You could've trusted us." Willow was still having trouble with her voice. "You could've trusted me."
"No, I couldn't." It was cold, and distinctly bitter. "I trusted you with my heart, Willow, and you abused that trust. How the hell was I supposed to trust you with my life or soul?"
Those words were a dagger in her heart.
Oz sighed, shrugging helplessly. "Willow, I do love you... but it's not enough. If you don't love me enough to tell the truth about something that major.... I've lived a lie for a year and a half, and I can't - I won't - do it any more. I'm sorry."
- * - * - * - * - * - * - * -
Xander was leaning against the wall when Buffy half-carried Willow, shattered, stumbling and weeping, out into the corridor; he'd manifestly gone no further and, by the flat look in his eyes, heard every word of what was said inside. Willow was too lost in her pain to even look up, much less see through the tears, and his voice was deliberately pitched too low for any but a Slayer to hear.
"Loyal breed, huh?"
Chapter End Notes:
The perspective 'Shooter' expresses on historical world economics is of course her own, but it does make a certain degree of sense.
priyatel - buddy. (Russian)
NKVD: the predecessor organisation to the KGB. Under Stalin and his immediate successors, it was even less warm and fuzzy than its replacement agency.
Bozhe moi - My God! (Russian)
Zdratsvuite - hello. (Russian)
In his recitation of the Gyurza's technical details, Little Bob doesn't mention (but does know) that, owing to the nature of its reloading action and its (insanely!) light trigger-pull in single-action mode, the Gyurza can easily go off by 'accident'. One would think that Cerian would be more responsible about possible collateral damage....
For those who care, you can find a go-to on the Gyurza at world(dot)guns(dot)ru(slash)handguns(slash)hg25-e(dot)htm.
Kevlar vests come in six grades of protection: Threat-I, Threat-IIA, Threat-II, Threat-IIIA, Threat-III, and Threat-IV. Threat-I is the lowest level of protection, lightest but proof only against the weakest pistol rounds; Threat-IV will stop almost anything short of a heavy-machine-gun round, at least once, but is too thick and heavy to wear for any extended period and severely limits the wearer's mobility. Threat-III vests, such as Little Bob mentions, are proof against virtually all pistol fire and even some rifle rounds; the standard-issue US Army Kevlar vest is Threat-III, backed by steel 'last chance' strike-plates. The Gyurza's wicked penetrating power is mostly the product of an ingenious bullet-design.
Militsiya - 'Militia', the Russian equivalent of a state police force. (Russian)
Organizatsiya - 'The Organisation', a slang term for the Russian Mafia. (Russian)
Note that Stormhawk's title translates as security forces, not as a service. Rather telling, that....
The Moonlite Bunnyranch does exist as described; being so close to California (and so expensive), it caters mainly to those in the entertainment trade. Not that many of its patrons will admit that. :D
And you'll recall that Buffy's 'Anywhere But Here', back in Episode 2.08 'The Dark Age', was a beachside foot-massage from Gavin Rossdale. Ah, the early seasons, when the characters weren't yet utter train-wrecks.... :S
UAV - Unmanned Aerial Vehicle; a drone.
'Nemo' does tell the truth about what he and 'Shooter' do at Quick - just not all the truth.
pedik - Russian prison slang; translates as 'bitch' or 'cocksucker'. Something 'Shooter' picked up in a rare phone conversation with one of her brothers.
'Shooter's' so-called 'go-home line' is indeed from J R R Tolkien - The Lord of the Rings, Fellowship of the Ring, Book Two, Chapter Three. Being that she reads the trilogy to destruction on a regular basis, it's little surprise that she's all but memorised the whole thing.
Yep, that last line is a call-back to Episode 2.16, 'Phases'. ;-D
I've been told that I portrayed a very un-Oz-like Oz in this chapter, and that I need to write a pro-Oz piece as atonement. The former is to a degree necessary for plot reasons; the latter is taken under advisement. That said, this chapter was written a few weeks before Episode 4.06, 'Wild At Heart', screened in New Zealand; after seeing that episode, I was tempted to retort that this wasn't actually 'Character Disrailment' so much as moving up Oz's timetable (and maybe tweaking the details of why he took off). I realise that Seth Green left the show, and I know why, but the way Mutant Enemy's writers explained his departure didn't do much for Oz. }:-(