07:19, THURSDAY AUGUST 26, LIMA (15:19/26-08-99 ZULU)
SUMMERS RESIDENCE
"So where's your Mom?" Xander wondered, carefully setting an ice-pack to the Slayer's neck and the puffy bruises thereon. He'd appeared at her door ten minutes ago to find her still lying in bed, distinctly reluctant to move, and he'd only started asking questions after he began tending her injuries. Now, she lay on her belly on her bed in her sleepwear, her cheek pillowed on her crossed arms, Xander sitting next to her hips and thankful she couldn't see his expression. Even though the bruises were already turning yellow-brown instead of their original, savage red-purple, she looked like she'd gone twelve rounds with Apollo Creed. Jesus T. Kirk, did he have to go this far?
"She left me a note - she went down at the gallery half an hour ago. The contractors wanted to get an early look at the place, see what kind of a mess they needed to clean up. Thank God the cops are finally finished with the place," she responded, wincing as blissful coolness started spreading through her neck. She didn't know why Xander had shown up, but she was indescribably thankful that he had. She ached like each blow had been from a baseball bat, and the idea of moving to treat her injuries had not sounded like fun. Sighing in relief, she closed her eyes again.
"Makes sense. You actually slept like this?" he asked, piling ice into another tea-towel.
"Didn't have much choice," she drawled.
"Uh-huh. Hold that?" He set her hand to the first ice-pack, then scooted the next under her head; Buffy settled her bruised brow and blackened eyes onto it with another sigh, curving her free arm under her chin so she had space to breathe. "Where else?"
"Lower back and right side. I tell you, Xander, this guy was lethal! He was so fast I couldn't figure out what happened until afterwards, and he hit harder than half the vampires I ever fought."
"Yeah, well, I figured he must be a hell of a mechanic, Buff - because he really tuned you up," he commenting, rolling up the back of her cami-top to bare that injury. Kay-rist! He tried - and failed - to cover the whole of the bruise with both hands set flat, but he kept his voice normal. Somehow. "Hell, if he'd hit you much harder, he could've caused some permanent damage, Slayer or no. Any guesses about why these haven't healed yet?"
"You tell me, Mister FM21-11," she teased, gasping as he laid more ice across the hyper-sensitive small of her back. "Oooooooh! Coldness!" The sensation washed up her body like a wave, and she was aware (a little awkwardly) of how it left goosebumps and tautened nipples in its wake. Between that and the warm, gentle touch of Xander's roughened hands, she was feeling a little dizzy... and not entirely from the head-injury, either.
"That's the general idea about using ice, Buff," he chuckled, not knowing what was going through her head. He massaged the ice-pack a little, spreading it out. "Better?"
"Mmm-hmm," she nodded, lowering her head again. "Y'think that blood-magic stuff might be the answer?"
"Hmmm?" he wondered, gently rolling her top up further to bare the spot on her ribs. Both were very aware of how close this was coming to naughty touching. Buffy again firmly pushed those thoughts away. Xander, for his part, reminded himself that he was here to minister to his friend, not take advantage of her, and slipped back into his pose of professional detachment, gently probing the bruise to make sure nothing was broken.
"Well, Cerian said - uh! - blood-magic is to regular magic what crack - ah! - is to cocaine, right? Maybe he used it to become, I don't know, Slayer Lite? Normally I don't bruise at all, but this... maybe he used that blood-magic power to, y'know, counteract my Slayer defences?"
"Breathe in? Hold, two, three - and out. Well, there's no crepitus - the ribs should be okay. Yeah, could be," he said to her question, not sounding too convinced. "But don't get too locked into one explanation, Buff. Commandment VIII of our profession: 'Thou Shalt Never Assume'."
"He said he took it easy on me. What 'nasty' is in his book, I don't think I want to know. And you just made up that 'Commandment', didn't you?"
"Actually, I borrowed it."
"From who?" She gasped again, louder, as that last icepack went against her side, heightening that goosebumpy feeling even further.
"I'll tell you some other time," he smiled, massaging the pack into place. That done, he ran his hand down her spine tenderly. "Just lie there and rest for a while, okay? Give that ice and the Advil a chance to do their work. I'm gonna go downstairs and call Willow and Cerian, get 'em over here so you tell 'em what's the what."
"Good thinking," she mumbled as he left, her voice muffled by the bedspread, thanking heaven that he couldn't see the effect that casual caress had had on her. I did not just have a whole bunch of sex-thoughts about Xander. I didn't. I absolutely did not.
Oh, God, who am I trying to kid?
- * - * - * - * - * - * - * -
Forty minutes later, freshly, painfully changed into real clothes and relocated to the living room, Buffy had just finished describing her abortive skirmish. Now that she'd had a bit more time to go over things again, she looked about as embarrassed - and angry - as she felt at being so easily disabled.
"You sure you're okay?" Willow asked intently, brow furrowed in concern.
"Yeah, I'm gonna be fine," the Slayer nodded, touching the still-fading bruises on her face. She'd been horrified at how she'd looked in a mirror.
Cerian's expression was thoughtful. "It's certainly something to think about."
Xander had listened to her recounting with keen interest, despite having heard it all before. "Buff, how smart was it to go out on patrol alone?"
She blinked at him. "Huh?"
"That first bullet on Tuesday almost took your head off. Given that there's somebody out there with a proven desire to blow you in half, was going out on the streets with no back-up really a good idea?"
"You needn't worry about the sniper," Cerian cut in before Buffy could respond. "I had a little run-in with the police last night, and they gave me some good news while I was in their care. It seems that some opportunist robbed and killed our sniper and burned his car with him in it."
"How do they know it was him?" Willow wondered.
"The owner of the house he shot from was executed to keep her out of the way. The remains of a pistol were found on his body, and it was a perfect ballistic match to the one that killed the house-owner."
"Sounds like his luck ran out," Xander grinned. "But still, Buff, you could probably do with some help hunting down those two behemoths."
"Nah," she said, shaking her head a little - then wishing she hadn't. Owwwh! "I'll be okay; I just need to stop charging in like that. More firepower wouldn't hurt, either. A couple of crossbow-bolts in the legs might make Mister Sorry-About-That a little easier to deal with."
"Sounds like a plan to me," Cerian smiled thinly. "What about his companion?"
Buffy described the second man as best she could, which didn't take long, and how he'd departed so unusually, which made Cerian's eyes widen. "Something you know?" the Slayer wondered when she was done.
"It sounds like accounts I've heard of 'slip-travel' - effectively teleportation. Only a handful of human magicians have ever been able to manage it, and there are precious few other creatures who can pull it off either... none of which match your description."
"Why's it so rare?" Xander frowned, oddly intent.
"The spells involved in the creation of a slip-gate involve moving the subject across both space and time, which is a business that is dreadfully delicate, insanely hazardous in all manner of ways, and shatteringly demanding of one's reserves of magic and stamina. Only a handful of human magicians ever managed it, and they all came a cropper in short order: they took one trip too many or too long and dropped dead of exhaustion on the spot, or they missed their destination by a hairs'-breadth and landed in a hostile environment - or never landed at all. The Watcher rumour-mill tells of people going on vision quests and encountering the shades of people who tried slip-travel and became lost in time, trapped between moments, and aware of it... for all eternity." Cerian shuddered. "A more hideous fate, I have a hard time imagining. Reliable slip-travel is usually confined to beings far more intimately acquainted with magical energies than humans, such as Archons, who directly serve the will of Fate and act in the furtherance of its wishes."
"No shit," he breathed, at once thoughtful and deeply impressed.
"So, this guy - thing? - is really dangerous, then," Buffy observed sarcastically.
"Not necessarily. As I said, slip-travel is highly draining, so last night's little stunt will have depleted most of his reserves. I'd imagine he's laid up in bed somewhere bending all his energy on keeping his heart beating. He's almost certainly incapable of wielding any significant magic for the next few days."
Xander mopped his brow theatrically.
"So, now what?" Buffy wondered.
"I'll have to go back to my storage lock-up and go back through my books for a reference that might give us some clues on this fellow's haunts and habits. I'm afraid the three of you will have to make your own fun in the meantime."
"We've got be somewhere soon anyway," Xander pointed out.
"Huh?" Buffy frowned.
"Well, they should have Giles up and about by now, walking him about, trying to get the last of the fluid out of his lungs," he explained. "I don't know if they'll let him have visitors yet, but we can try."
- * - * - * - * - * - * - * -
09:38:06, AUGUST 26, LIMA (17:38/26-08-99 ZULU)
CYBERSPACE
THANK YOU FOR USING MSN MESSENGER!
: SIGN-IN
USER-NAME: Colt [bootneck_librarian...]
PASSWORD: Loyalist
SIGNING IN . . . . .
ON-LINE:
- MacGyver [demolition_chick...]
NOT ON-LINE:
- Orion [long_rifle...]
- Fenris [white_wolf...]
- Snoopy [sunnydale_bootneck...]
- Zorro [swashbuckler...]
SEND INSTANT MESSAGE TO: MacGyver
: BEGIN CHAT SESSION
MacGyver: Hey. How goes it?
Colt: Fairly well. I have a brief update on Team One's composition for tonight.
MacGyver: Hit me. :-D
Colt: No, thank you - I'd like to keep both my arms. :-)
Colt: Team: Amethyst (CO), Turquoise (2 i/c), Topaz, Emerald (driver), Diamond, Sapphire, + 2 demons, full-blood Zal'kiirs.
MacGyver: Nothing we can't handle, then. :-D
Colt: There's a fine line between self-assuredness and outright arrogance, y'know. :-D
MacGyver: Have you forgotten the combat environment we cut our teeth on?
Colt: Touché. :-J
MacGyver: Why the sharkies?
Colt: Amethyst wanted an extra safety-margin. For her peace of mind.
MacGyver: Come again?
Colt: The improvement(!!!) in Snoopy's skill-at-arms made her nervous.
MacGyver: My heart bleeds. :-D
MacGyver: I'll give Orion and Fenris the bad news.
MacGyver: Which reminds me - he gave B the *good* news last night.
Colt: !?
Colt: Who - Fenris?
MacGyver: No - my uncle!
Colt: Just as well - meeting Fenris like that could have been complicating.
MacGyver: We're not *amateurs*! [glower]
Colt: A thousand apologies!
MacGyver: There's no need for sarcasm.
Colt: There's no need to be a bitch, either.
MacGyver: [blink]
MacGyver: Since when are *you* so irritable?
Colt: [sigh] I'm just wound tight. Playing agent provocateur for this long hasn't been all that kind on my nerves. I'm sorry. What happened?
MacGyver: She happened across Orion and Himself while she was patrolling. She charged, Himself slip-tripped out of there, and Orion dropped her in six seconds flat. Nothing worse than a few bumps and bruises, but....
Colt: ... It won't improve her mood or Snoopy's. Got it.
Colt: Look, I've got to go before Topaz comes back on-line. I'll IM you tonight, once I've taken care of the other half of this problem. Luck!
COLT HAS LEFT THE CONVERSATION.
SIGNING OUT . . . . .
- * - * - * - * - * - * - * -
10:11, AUGUST 26, LIMA (18:11/26-08-99 ZULU)
SHRIKE SAFEHOUSE
Topaz peered down the barrel of her field-stripped P99, then ran a cleaning-brush down the bore one last time, whistling tunelessly as she worked.
"You do realise that that's the third time today you've cleaned that weapon, don't you, Colleen?" Emerald smiled, not looking away from her scanners and monitors.
"I'd rather not be caught out by a stoppage like Coral was," the brunette replied, smiling a little herself. "Especially not after the way Harris dealt with Spinel. Besides, it kills time, yeah?"
The Canadian nodded. "Yeah - this waiting's hard on the nerves. Never mind - only seven hours to go, eh?"
"Mmm." Finally satisfied with the state of her sidearm, Topaz started reassembling it. "I just... something just feels off about this, y'know, Lisa? Like our luck's gone sour?"
"How d'you mean?"
"Bloodstone and Jasper were supposed to snatch Harris at Dulles, yeah? But nobody's heard from them since and he turns up here, safe and sound, right in the nick of time to help smash Team-3. Then Peridot tells us that his swift action helped save Giles' life? I've read his profile: he was not that good nor lucky when he left. And let's face it, if we fuck this up and the 'Scoobies' or Opal don't get us, Onyx sure as hell will."
"The man's dedicated, Colleen." Emerald carefully adjusted a dial, tuning back into the S.P.D.'s radio chatter.
"Oh, yeah, he's a True Believer," the Irish woman sniffed, setting her half-assembled weapon back on the table. "He shops Zyrianova and McKellar Junior and goes straight to the top. The fact that his uncle's one of our most fervent supporters among our 'main-stream' brethren had absolutely nothing to do with it. God, he didn't even pull the trigger on them himself!" In fact, she realised with a faint frown, she couldn't remember him ever pulling the trigger on someone who wasn't one of their own operatives....
"Tell that to Ruby."
"I'll do that," Topaz muttered sourly. "Which reminds me: where's our Glorious Leader Amethyst, anyway?"
"Went into Sunnydale about half an hour ago... after making sure she still had her suite at the Sunnydale Plaza, making an appointment at a beauty salon and lunch reservations at an Italian restaurant, and calling an all-hours escort agency," the Canadian added blandly.
Topaz went back to reassembling her P99 with a sly grin. "I've heard worse ideas. Hell, I might even follow her lead once we've got this done."
"I heard that."
Topaz chuckled for a moment, then put the final pieces of her Walther back together. "It doesn't alter my original point, though. I've got a bad feeling about this deployment, Lisa."
"Gawd, and I thought Opal was the only tea-leaf-reader around here." The comms specialist rolled her eyes and adjusted her gear again.
"Don't tell me you don't feel it too."
"Agate and Ruby fucked up, Colleen. It's that simple. We'll have the numbers on our side, and only Harris is anything like a threat. Once we put him out of things, it'll be plain sailing."
Sounds like famous last words to me, the cracker didn't say.
- * - * - * - * - * - * - * -
10:22, AUGUST 26, LIMA (18:22/26-08-99 ZULU)
SUITE 707, SUNNYDALE HOLIDAY INN
Cerian glanced over at the pile of tomes she'd retrieved from storage. She'd chosen them very carefully... though the criteria she'd used in that selection process might have surprised her young companions. In any case, they would hold the Scoobies' attention for long enough.
In the meantime, there was... something niggling at the back of her mind, an unease about this whole affair that was too vague to be defined or articulated, and she needed to put that veiled spectre back in his closet. Which was why she'd also dug out her Tarot deck. Time to see what the night holds. She carefully settled herself onto the suite's couch and started unfolding the purple silk that swaddled the cards with deliberate motions, already losing herself in the mild trance that always accompanied a reading. She wasn't going to do a full pattern, but the ritual itself provided a sense of peace and calm, which was what she sought.
First, she quickly riffled through the deck and drew out the Magician, the card she thought of as best representing herself, and laid it face-down on the coffee-table. Skill, diplomacy and subtlety, strength of will.
Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes, shuffled the remaining seventy-seven cards, and cut them thrice, all the time keeping her mind on that simple question. What will happen tonight?
Exhaling slowly, she opened her eyes, took the top card off the deck, and laid it below the Magician. This first reading-card stood for the atmosphere and influences around her, things as they stood now.
The Moon! She blinked in shock: drawing one of the Major Arcana as the first card in any reading, much less a quicky like this, meant that something major was in the offing. Danger, hidden enemies, deception and error. Well, no surprises there.
To the left of the Moon fell the next card, which represented the immediate past, what had most directly caused the current situation. Page of Swords: perception. Someone vigilant and mentally agile, most likely a young man, was even now exercising those talents, somehow disturbing her designs. But who? Harris?
On the Moon's right was the immediate future, what would directly come of the circumstances as they stood. Knight of Swords: reckless action. A once-stagnant situation will be altered by bravery, wrath, skill, and defence - by whom? Of whom? - and destruction and ruin will follow. Something or someone will rue this night.
The far left was the deep past, the root of the whole matter. The High Priestess, reversed. Ignorance, conceit, and shallow knowledge brought me to this point - but whose, and of what?
Lastly, the card on the far right spoke to the long-term future, what would finally come of it all. The Lightning-struck Tower: false hope and mistaken ideas. Unexpected events will bring unwelcome change.
"But change for whom? Unwelcome to whom?" she mused aloud, trying to calm whatever instinct? intuition? was niggling at the back of her mind. I know who I think is going to get the short end of the stick, but this doesn't sound right. This is why I always hated having to deal with prophecies and divinations: all too often, they only make full sense after the fact.
Further contemplation was cut short by the ringing of her satellite 'phone. Blast! "Hello?"
{"Hey, Cerian!"}
"Buffy. What can I do for you?"
{"They wouldn't let us in to see Giles, so we're back at my place. Xander and Will are doing the research thing, but Xander just made a suggestion that made sense."}
"Which is frightening in itself, judging by all Rupert's told me," Cerian smiled.
{"On Xander's behalf: hey!"}
"Sorry. What did he say?"
{"The way I got smacked around last night was kind'a embarrassing, and I don't have anyone to train against or anywhere to train at. That is, until Xander suggested I bring you in for sparring practice and rent a dojo for a few hours. You interested?"}
Cerian's mind went into high-gear for a moment. Knowledge of the Slayer's fighting style was always handy, and under the current circumstances - "I don't see why not. When and where?"
{"There's a place on Hamilton Street; Xander says they have some sparring rooms free today, though how he knows this is a mystery to me. Anyway, see you there at eleven? Xander and Willow are gonna stay on the research side of things while we're gone."}
"I'll see you there." Thumbing the disconnect, Cerian looked at the phone for a long moment, weighing her options. This could all be over by noon.... No. I've come too far to ruin things by acting precipitously now.
- * - * - * - * - * - * - * -
12:41, AUGUST 26, LIMA (20:41/26-08-99 ZULU)
SUMMERS RESIDENCE
Willow didn't even blink as the doorbell chimed. Xander looked up from the tome he was reading, shot her a glance, and made for the front door, shaking his head in wonder. As he went, he reached into the small of his back and produced the .45 Buffy had acquired for him, thumbing off the safety. It was unlikely the Shrikes would pull anything in broad daylight, much less at the Slayer's home, but Opal had always been the joker in the deck....
Standing against the wall next to the front door, he held the .45 against his thigh, out of sight but ready for rapid deployment. "Who is it?"
"Pizza, sir!"
He turned the door-knob with his left hand and cracked the door so he could identify the newcomer. Delivery uniform - blonde, average height, on the solid side, twenty-ish, lively face - not familiar, she doesn't match any of the photos they gave me. Probably not a bad guy. Not relaxing completely, he tucked the pistol back into the back of his belt and opened the chain. "Yeah?"
"Order for Harris at 1630 Rovello: one large deep-dish pizza, a ten-pack of bread-sticks with garlic sauce, one two-litre Coke," she chirped brightly. "Plus delivery charge and tax, it comes to $17.78, sir."
"Thanks." Xander counted twenty-five dollars into her hand and accepted the whole bundle of boxes and packets on the flat of his left hand. "Cheers. Have a good one, kid."
"Thank you, sir!" she said with gusto, tucking the spare five-spot into her pocket as she went.
Manuevering himself and his load back to the table with the ease of long practice, he set the whole lot down and looked at Willow for a long moment. She hadn't looked 'up' the entire time, and didn't now, her eyes locked on the display before her eyes, her fingers flying across the keys. After a few moments, he shook his head again and laughed softly. Put that woman in front of a computer with a job to do, and you could set off a nuke in the next room without her noticing. "Willow, you are priceless."
She looked at him past the data on her eyephones with a 'huh?' expression, then went back to what she was doing as though the comment hadn't registered.
Xander took a closer look at her and sobered. "Willow, you've been at that for more than four hours solid. Take a break, huh?"
"In a minute," she said distractedly, rattling the keys again.
"No, now. You only squint like that when your eyes are blurring on you, and I can see the tension in your shoulders from here. Knock it off for a while."
She turned her visored gaze back on him. "Xander, I'm -"
He cut her off sternly. "'But' me no 'buts', Rosenberg. Save what you're doing and turn the computer off."
"Oh, all right," she sighed, sounding very put upon, then logged out, shucked off her eyephones - then winced as unfiltered light struck her eyes, sending a tension headache stabbing into her temples like chisels. Whimpering, she rested her elbows on the table, put her face in her hands, and started rubbing her eyes.
Xander moved around behind her and started gently massaging her temples. Willow moaned and tipped her head back to give him better access, gasping as he found the worst spots, sighing as warmth spread from his touch to soothe away the pain and tension. After a minute or two of that, he started working his way down, carefully popping each of her neck-bones back into proper alignment with his thumbs as his fingers loosened the muscles that lay over them with strong, precise motions.
"Ohhh, God, Xander, you have all day to stop that...." Willow leaned her head back against his chest, luxuriating in the controlled power of his touch; he'd always been good at this. "You're spoiling me, y'know."
"It's a dirty job, but someone's gotta do it," he smirked, his hands reaching her shoulders and carefully, deliberately digging out the knots stress and too much concentration had tied them into. "Slayerette job description, paragraph one, sub-section one, clause two."
"I ought to hit you for that... only all my bones are melting," she sighed. If this keeps up, he'll have to pour me out of this chair....
He chuckled at that but didn't comment. After a few more minutes that saw him minister to the upper portion of her back as well, he slowed his pace, then stopped altogether. That ought to do it. Besides, if I touch her any more right now I'm liable to do something that's stupid even for me.
Willow's lids flickered, and she stared up at him with eyes that were dark with a complex mix of emotions. "Xander...."
That look did really interesting things for his pulse, but dammit, for all sorts of reasons this was not the time! "Feel better?" he asked, more casually than he felt.
Disappointment flickered across her face and was gone just as fast. "Mmmmmm," she nodded, rubbing her cheek against one of his hands. "Thank you."
He shrugged. "You've been working so hard, I figured you deserved a little pampering. Which reminds me, pizza's here."
"Pizza?" she blinked, not really hearing him... then the smell registered. "Hey, food!" She started to bolt from her chair -
- and Xander's hands held her firmly in place. "But you're gonna stretch out first. You've been sitting in that same position for too long."
She gave him her best copy of Buffy's glare, and he shrugged off the death rays like so much rain. Sighing in irritated acquiesence - In some ways, it's kind of annoying how Xander 1.1 has twice the 'stubborn' of the original. - she obeyed, gasping as bones and joints snapped back into place with a series of crackling pops more felt than heard. "Satisfied?"
"It's a start," he said neutrally. "I've got some sweats in the Suburban; once we're finished eating, you can change into a set and we can jog a couple of blocks to make sure."
"Jog? Since when do you jog?" Willow blinked. "Hey - since when do I jog!?"
"Yes, you'd be surprised, and as of right now: a healthy body equals a healthy mind, Will, and let's face it, the ability to run away from trouble is one we both need to cultivate," he added drolly, sliding off the edge of the table and deliberately stepping from between her and the food.
Shooting her lifelong friend a ha-ha look, she proceeded to almost bowl him over as she lunged past him, snatched away a bread-stick, and tore into it like a half-starved wolf.
Xander chuckled again. "And again I say: you're priceless," he smiled, opening the packet of garlic sauce that went with the bread-sticks. "I didn't know if you still keep kosher these days, so I got a Harris/Rosenberg special. That okay?"
"Xander, right now I'm so hungry I could eat Herbert," Willow smiled, opening the box. The 'Rosenberg' side was topped with mushrooms, onions and green peppers; the 'Harris' added to those enough beef, ham, bacon, Italian sausage, and pepperoni for three men - or one Xander. She smiled as an old memory occurred to her. "Hey, you wanna pizza-race?"
Xander blinked for a moment... then he remembered a tradition that was as old as the Harris/Rosenberg pizza itself, and he grinned predatorily. "You think you can beat me in a pizza-race these days, Rosenberg? You haven't managed it yet in thirteen years' trying!"
"You can't shut me down forever, Harris," she grinned, a competitive gleam in her eyes. "Pizza race."
"Oh, yeah, gingi - you're on!"
The rules of the Harris/Rosenberg pizza-race were pretty simple. Each contestant took one slice, and on the word 'go!' they tried to eat that slice as quickly as possible, crust included. The contestants could not roll their slice, nor interfere in their opponents' efforts in any way. The winner got first crack at the Coke and dibs on the last slice and any left-overs; the loser(s) had to get the glasses and ice for the drinks and clean up the mess afterwards.
The original Slayerettes grinned at each other as they took their marks. They solemnly saluted each other with their slices; then, after a steadying breath, Willow cried "Go!"
Despite being ravenously hungry, she was never really in the running; Xander had a bigger mouth, a black hole for a stomach, and no apparent need to breathe while eating. As always, he was finished a good five bites ahead of her and indulged in a celebratory 'burp!'. Willow finished her own slice and chided him with a look for that, as ever... and suddenly, they were both laughing. Xander leaned back on the table-edge and chortled like Muttley; Willow grasped at a chair and giggled helplessly at their silliness, at the feeling of... rightness that old game had brought to the fore.
"Da winna, and still da champ," Xander grinned broadly, feigning a damn-good Brooklyn accent, and started sniggering again. A moment later, he calmed a little and cocked an eyebrow. "Hey, how long's it been since we had a pizza-race, Will?"
Willow sighed and straightened a little, still smiling... mostly. "Too long. I don't... I don't remember us having one since Jesse died."
"Yeah, sounds about right." Xander sobered a little.
"I'll be back in a minute. Try to leave me some bread-sticks, okay?" Willow ducked into the kitchen.
When she returned with their glasses, Xander cracked the Coke and started pouring, tipping his head at the stack of print-outs she'd made in the past while. "What're you doing, anyway?"
The hacker accepted her glass and half-drained it without taking a breath. "Trying to dig up more on that tattoo those guys at the gallery had. There isn't much out there, but I remembered something Giles told me and played a hunch... and came up with these." She plucked up a roll of printout and handed it to him, then reached for another slice of pizza.
"More autopsy reports?" he puzzled, reading nonetheless.
She swallowed so she could speak clearly. "That top one was conducted almost three and a half years ago, in Napier, New Zealand."
"And?" He carefully didn't let on that she wasn't saying anything they hadn't already told him a good while ago.
"That's where the last Slayer was based, Xander. Look: the guy was killed on the night of September 25/26, 1995 - less than six weeks before the Slayer was shot - and look at how he died. He was killed bare-handed, by someone incredibly strong and very skilled." She raised her brows significantly. "And he had the same symbol as those guys on Monday night, in the same place on his body. He was wearing a shoulder-holster and magazine pouches, but the gun and ammo were gone."
"Yuh-huh." Xander started in on another slice of pizza, his mind's eye seeing how the man had met his fate. Swift, certain, and brutally efficient.
"And then there's this one, found in a poor district of São Paolo in October of '88: same tattoo, also killed bare-handed... but they found a gun in his hand, a SIG-Sauer P230. A silenced P230."
"What are you saying?"
The redhead set aside the bread-stick she'd been gnawing on and frowned a little, nibbling at her top lip. "The way these guys died, the way they were armed... I think maybe they were looking for the Slayer and found her, which was an 'Oops!' for them."
God, Will, sometimes you're so smart it's scary! he thought, wishing he could tell her the full truth right there. She was so excruciatingly close, and on just these scraps of evidence, but she would never come to it on her own; even if she'd had all the pieces, she couldn't put it together the right way. One of the reasons he'd always loved Willow (on various levels) was that her mind just didn't work in terms of treason, intrigue and back-stabbing; it simply wasn't in her nature. "So they're what, assassins? Like the Order of Taraka?"
"That's my guess. Giles said Napier was the Slayer's turf in '95, and São Paolo was in '88; I'd have to check the Watcher Diaries to find more locations to see if the pattern holds, but for now, once is an accident, twice is coincidence -"
"Three times is enemy action," he nodded, completing a maxim Little Bob had been fond of. "What do we tell Buffy? I mean, we've already zapped four of these guys, maybe that's all there were." Gotta keep her thinking I'm in the dark, too, at least for now; Gawd only knows if the Shrikes have this place bugged....
"The sniper?" she reminded gently, then added, "And we both know that snipers usually work with a spotter, Xander, so there's at least one more out there."
"And one roach in the open means there's a hundred more under the stove. Vaffanculo!" he muttered.
Willow blinked. Rosella Valenza Harris' husband hadn't allowed her to speak a single word of her native tongue for almost fifteen years, so where the heck had Xander learned to swear in Italian? She absently filed it under 'To Obsess Over Later' and came back to the issue at hand. "And then we have to wonder, who are they working for? Who hired them to kill the Slayer - and two other Slayers, by the look of it - and why?"
"You assume they're hired," he pointed out. "There are other motivations."
"Like?"
"M-I-C-E, Wills," he said, then counted them off on his fingers. "Money; Ideology; Conscience; Ego. These guys killed an innocent bystander, so we can forget conscience straight up, but we're left with three possibilities. Money: they're being paid to do this. Always possible, but that leads us to ask who commissioned them and why. Ideology: they were ordered to or they believe it has to be done. Again, why? Ego: they're doing this for the prestige. Let's face it, taking out a Slayer makes for a lot of critters wanting to buy you drinks, but why the rest of us?"
"I don't know, and that's what bothers me," she admitted, tipping her glass for a refill. "Maybe Mayor Wilkins left some poison pills behind? Y'know, time-delayed orders?"
"Nah. Those 'Wanted' posters sound like his kind of spite; Wilky was a manipulator and a crazy, yeah, but going to this much trouble post-mortem? Nah. Besides, this feels like it's being actively directed."
"But by whom?"
"That's the sixty-four thousand dollar question, isn't it?" he shrugged. And the answer would probably shock you....
- * - * - * - * - * - * - * -
13:15, AUGUST 26, LIMA (21:15/26-08-99, ZULU)
DRUMMOND'S SCHOOL OF JEET KUNE DO
Breathing a little heavily and coated in a layer of sweat, Buffy eased herself down onto the practice mats and probed her left thigh through her pants, stifling a wince as she found the fresh bruise. Cerian might be almost three times her age, but that also meant thirty years' more experience. With Buffy holding back much of her Slayer strength, the Welshwoman had actually given as good as she got. Maybe that's how that old guy did it last night. But who the hell is he, to be that good?
Cerian sat down next to her, just as gingerly, and pressed the heel of one hand to her ribs. Like Buffy, she was clad in sweats and a tank-top, both decidedly damp. They'd been at this for more than an hour, with pads work before that, and both women were feeling their exertions.
"You're not bad for an old chick," Buffy half-joked, swiping the sweat from her forehead. Her breathing was already falling back to normal, but then, so was Cerian's. Jesus, is she in shape! "I didn't know anthropology was such a physical field."
"Age and treachery will defeat youth and strength every time," the Welshwoman responded, with a crooked grin of her own. "And it's not, but staying fit is an imperative when you deal with people and demons as many and as varied as I do. Running away is not an ability to neglect."
The Slayer chuckled. "How's the leg?"
"You tell me, it was your arse I kicked with it," Cerian smirked, taking a long swig from a sipper-bottle of Gatorade.
"Dream on, Watcher chick," Buffy snorted. "If I'd come after you with my full strength, they'd be picking you up with a spatula."
"Now who's delusional?" Cerian gave Buffy a level look. "You did notice how I was fighting, yes?"
The blonde considered it for a second. "Yeah... every time I attacked you, you used it against me somehow, threw me or tripped me or countered. You didn't have all that much direct offence."
Cerian nodded. "Most of my training is in styles like aikido and jiu-jitsu, the so-called 'soft' martial arts. They're primarily defensive styles that use an opponent's own energy against them. You don't hurt them; they hurt themselves. If you hadn't been pulling your blows, you would've just hurt yourself more."
"Yeah, right," the Slayer sniffed skeptically... though privately, she did have to admit that maybe the older woman had a point. "Mind if I ask you something?"
Taking another drink, Cerian nodded. "Ask away, though I'm free not to answer."
"When Giles first heard you were coming, he went kind of, well, postal. He really doesn't like you for some reason - but he just wouldn't stop raving about your Slayer and your son. Why doesn't he like you? And what were they like, since he's so hyper about them?"
"You'd have to ask him that question, my dear. And Tatyana and Peter?" Cerian's colour began to rise as she remembered. "Tatyana was an arrogant, insolent, headstrong, hot-tempered, bloodthirsty, hidebound -"
"Oh-kay: I'm sensing issues!" Buffy blinked at the venom in the older woman's voice.
Cerian coughed and took a breath to calm herself. "I'm sorry, I just - she and I just hated each other's guts on sight, and our relationship went downhill from there. Frankly, I was grateful that my cover necessitated my spending as little time with her as possible."
"Huh?"
"The 'police' in Napier were in the pocket of the Ordo Astra, and they were actively hunting for the Slayer. If I'd spent any real length of time with her, it would have been noticed; they'd have traced my connections, discovered I was a Watcher, and we all would have had 'accidents'."
"So how did she do her job without a Watcher?"
"Peter was effectively her Watcher. They developed their own networks of informants, they planned and executed strikes against the Astra's strongholds... he even put together a field-reference on the various creatures they encountered, sort of a pocket-bestiary."
"What about prophecies and stuff?"
"They weren't an issue. Tatyana had a truly uncanny talent for being where the trouble was thickest, and she was so mercurial that prophecy simply didn't seem to apply to her until after the fact. It's rather hard to tie down a loose cannon, especially in the middle of a typhoon."
"And these Astra guys - were they really that nasty?"
"Oh, yes," Cerian said feelingly. "Not only were they firmly entrenched in Napier's infrastructure, and not only did they control the 'police', but their membership consisted almost exclusively of warriors. Most of the vampires you've fought were simply predators: they thought with their teeth or their cruelty, and they relied on their strength to carry the day against any opposition. The Astra bought slaves to feed on, which freed their time and mental energy for training and thinking like fighters. Any one of them had skill-at-arms that would at least match my own. The Astra date back to the Third Crusade, and their splinter factions are the ones that most plague us these days: the Spanish Order of Aurelius, Italy's El Eliminati, the French Fraternité du Sang, Scandanavia's Winternight.... Thankfully, Tatyana and Peter's efforts effectively broke the Astra's power; as far as I know, the Astra are a spent force these days, a mere shadow of their former glory, holding on to what little power they have by their fingernails. Not that the splinter factions aren't an issue these days, but the Astra were the only sept that ever truly terrified me."
"Why?"
"They had money." Cerian smiled crookedly. "Their leader, Freiherr Gerhardt von Hausmann, had been carefully investing his wealth since he returned from Jerusalem, and by the time he was forced to move to New Zealand after World War Two, he'd rat-holed enough money to buy half the world... and with that much money comes power, and influence, and connections. Stopping him was Tatyana and Peter's finest moment... for all that they did it completely the wrong way."
Buffy raised an eyebrow. "There's a wrong way to kill vampires?"
"Their last raid against the Astra turned into a bloodbath, Buffy. They decimated the Astra's troops and crippled Hausmann and his operations, yes... but the 'collateral damage' amounted to several billion dollars of destruction and damage, not to mention all the casualties. To this day, I don't know how they got out; Tatyana fired me that night, and I'm not even sure they made a report to my replacement on the matter before they were killed. It certainly never made it through channels before I was... encouraged to leave the Council." The relic-hunter set aside her drink and stood again, favouring her wounded leg only a little. "Well, have I punished you enough for one day, or are you thirsty for more pain?" she asked, her tone distinctly challenging.
Buffy caught the 'that subject's off-limits' in the older woman's manner, put it aside for later study, and bared her own teeth. "Lady, Faith couldn't beat me; what makes you think you can?"
Chapter End Notes:
Gingi - a redhead. (Hebrew)
Vaffanculo - Italian oath, loosely meaning 'fuck it' (though it is very versatile, depending on context). [Thanks to Rhiannon at / for using this term in one of her own fics and thus bringing it to the attention of a non-Italian speaker. :-J]
BTW, Rhiannon's site also makes excellent reading for fans of the Highlander franchise... though I must warn you: some of her fics aren't for people who don't like explicit content or 'slash'.
And yes, the name I used for Xander's mother is one of my own choice, rather than the 'Jessica' we were told in Season Six. I believe I already mentioned that I'm choosing not to acknowledge the UPN seasons in this fic? Even if 'magic-as-crack-cocaine-metaphor' and 'Slayer powers-as-rape-metaphor' were a fit for this work, thematically speaking - which they most emphatically are not! - I wanted to base this fic on the show Buffy the Vampire Slayer, NOT on its incoherent UPN spin-off, Spike the Naked Vampire. }:-(
Jeet kune do is the martial art invented by Bruce Lee, originally based on wing chun kuen; perhaps its most famous tenet is 'Absorb what is useful, reject what is useless, add what is specifically your own'. The style's philosophy emphasises simplicity and takes a problem-solving approach; there are few hard and fast rules, only guidelines, and the practitioner is expected to experiment with, analyse, and borrow from any and all fighting styles they may encounter to find what works for them. (Of course, the case could be made that this is true of any true combat art, rather than the more rigid, tournament-oriented forms taught in many schools... but nonetheless, jeet kune do is credited as the start of popularising and modernising the Chinese martial arts.)
Ordo Astra - Order of the Stars. (Latin)
Fraternité du Sang - Brotherhood of the Blood. (French)
Freiherr - German title equivalent to Baron.