The words hung in the air for what could have been seconds, or centuries. Subjectively speaking, of course; the rest of the universe was frozen, and stayed frozen, while the Adversary and I sat there and looked at each other.
I took a couple of sips of my soda. The Adversary wasn't impressed.
"Are you sure?" he finally asked.
"I just went through it," I said. "I've been thinking about this for about as long as we've been sitting here, going through the summary. The game wouldn't be over without the score being tilted enough in one direction or the other to make a decision."
"The game could have been timed."
"Really?" I said, not bothering to disguise my sarcasm. (The judgment had already been made. The votes were in. Assuming the Adversary plays fair – and I have to assume that, because if he's just been jerking me around, with the power he's got there's nothing I, Buffy, or the combined forces of the Justice League, the Avengers and every last damn Jedi George Lucas ever put on the screen could do about it – whether I'm sarcastic or polite as Miss Manners isn't going to do a damn bit of good or harm.) "Really?" I repeated. "So it's mere coincidence that the clock ran out seconds after Drusilla was finally killed? I find that hard to believe."
Smiling slightly, he said, "As well you might, Miss Mars. You are correct. For all of my baseball analogies, the 'game' was not going to end until the matter of your triumph or defeat was settled one way or the other."
"And I went out on an up note." I didn't phrase it as a question, because it wasn't one.
"So you did."
More silence. Finally, I prompted, "And . . .?"
"Why the rush, Miss Mars? Do you have a bus to catch?"
"Yeah, I'm heading to Vegas. I figure if I can beat you, I can beat anyone."
"The eggs have not yet hatched."
"The magpie lands at midnight." If knew what he meant, but if he was going to talk like spy code, then so was I. I was counting my chickens before, etc, etc.
"You," he said, "Are perfectly aware of what I mean."
"Yup. You're telling me not to count on a victory that hasn't been granted yet."
"Plus, I have two complete seasons left to go."
"I waive my rights," I said.
"You are not under arrest," the Adversary said mildly.
With deliberate mimicry, I said, "You are perfectly aware of what I mean."
"Yes, I am," he said. "There is a lot more to come. Ups and down, twists and turns – all of which may very well count against you."
"Is the outcome going to be any different whether I hear the summary or not?"
"No."
"Then, once again, I waive my rights."
A brief pause, then, "As you wish, Miss Mars. Request granted. Still, though we will not relive seasons six and seven, they still have bearing on my final judgment, so I am going to have to discuss them to some degree."
Shrugging, I said, "I really wasn't expecting anything else. Discuss away." To note, I'm not nearly as confident and cocky as I sound. But, really, there's no point in sounding tentative. I probably did miss a few things –
But I am confident that I haven't missed enough to cause me to lose the bet.
"That was a heated summary you gave, but one that was largely accurate," he began. "As you are neither omnipotent nor omniscient, though, you did not take absolutely everything into account."
"I figured as much," I said.
"The first thing you missed is that the magic-addicting sorcerer Rack makes his return to Sunnydale in season 6."
Right. I had forgotten that one. True, it wasn't one of my prouder moments in this revisionist timeline, but that's really no excuse.
"The second thing is that the 'trio of doom' is also about to make their appearance."
I said, "Actually, no. That one I didn't forget. I went by the possibly logical assumption that, under the circumstances, they would be less of a hassle."
"Ah. So you wrote them off."
"Yup," I said.
"You did so prematurely." Of course I did. "Also, there is the fate of Mr. Wyndham-Price and Glorificus' other victims. They were not automatically cured by her death."
Crap. That I hadn't thought of at all, either. Still, in for a penny and all that. "So, count the damage," I said.
"First, to Rack. While you may not have factored him in, he indeed does not play nearly as much of a role in the retooled sixth season. Miss Summers and her friends have long memories, and Rack is somewhat overconfident in his ability to stay hidden. He successfully addicts other users of magic, but none in the Slayer's immediate circle. Eventually, they track him down and Misses Rosenberg, MacLay and Kelly successfully destroy his extra-dimensional parlor and detox his clientele. Rack himself is given bus fare out of town and is promised that, should he return to his former occupation or anything even close to it, that his lifespan thereafter would be measured in nanoseconds." Buffy would have botched the word, so I'm guessing Willow made the threat. And coming from her, even in this universe, it's probably true.
"And Larry, Moe, and Curly?" I asked.
"You insult the Three Stooges by the comparison," the Adversary said. "Still, they are a presence."
"So I'd guess that Warren wasn't successful at getting back with Katrina?" Not that this surprised me; considering that he'd most likely raped me, and had sure as hell raped Katrina in the original timeline, that he had managed to attract a woman as levelheaded as Katrina in the first place without the intervention of either a magic gem or intoxicants was little short of a Biblical miracle.
"No. And for a while the season progresses similarly, except Miss Summers is not distracted by a sojourn in heaven or the fervent desire to feel something. But after the murder of Miss Silber and the failed attempt to blame it on Miss Summers, things accelerate much more quickly. Miss Rosenberg tracks the three down and a fight ensues, with Mr. Wells and Mr. Levinson captured and Mr. Mears escaping; and again, as in the original timeline, he comes back with a gun while the majority of characters are in the Magic shop. He fires four times. Two of the shots hit: One the elder Miss Summers, one Mr. Harris. Miss MacLay restrains Miss Rosenberg from going after Mr. Mears, but Vi is not so restrained. She chases him, catches him, and pummels him, but turns him over to Sheriff Lamb when he arrives."
Hold it. "Don Lamb is still in charge of the Sunnydale police department?"
"With no one but the Kanes left to suck up to – The widow Echolls having made it very clear that she wants fair treatment – he has proven competent, if not more than that," the Adversary said. "All three members are tried and convicted and are sent to prison for a minimum of twelve years. Miss Summers suffered a punctured lung but made a full recovery; Mr. Harris lost –
"An eye?"
"Poetic and ironic though that would be, things rarely actually play out as though plotted. And, in any event, if Mr. Harris had been shot through the eye, the bullet would have gone through and killed him. Instead, the bullet tore off most of his left ear."
Ouch. Ouch, ouch, ouch. And no such thing as an earpatch, either. Still -"So not great, but still somewhat better than the original timeline?"
"Yes."
So far, so good. I wasn't going to read too much into that, though. And I wasn't exactly jumping for joy over Buffy's lung, or Xander's mutilation, so don't think that 'so far, so good,' means I don't care. Because I do.
Remember, Veronica Mars: Marshmallow. Everyone says so.
"And Wesley and the rest of Glory's meals?" I asked.
"Ah. There . . . you fare less well. In the original timeline, Miss Rosenberg, to cure Miss MacLay's delirium, developed a spell to drain Glorificus of the mental structures she had fed upon. In this accelerated, revised history, that was not the case. While they, plus Ms. Kelly, Ms. Mistwood and Ms. Calendar search for and eventually find the cure for the condition of the afflicted, it turns out to be the same cure as that in the original timeline. And with no Glorificus alive to use as a resource, there is no way to cure the victims. No way, I must emend, that would not involve draining other sane beings of their mental structures, and that is beyond the pale for all five. And, for that matter, for everyone else involved, including young Violet, whose chipper disposition is distinctly more strained."
"That's against me."
"Most definitely."
"I still win." Like I said: I'll be damned if I'm going to concede anything.
"That still remains to be seen." Me? Expecting no other answer there.
"Season 7?"
"Indeed."
Okay. Rubber, meet road. "I'm not wrong about my theory about the First."
"Are you sure of that?" he said. "Miss Mars, are you absolutely, one hundred percent confident, beyond the faintest shadow of a doubt, that your theory is correct? Could the First not have simply needed five and a half years or so to have the time to sufficiently build up its organization and find someone to empower who so closely embodied its viewpoint as did the "Reverend" Caleb? Are you completely and and utterly certain?"
Of course not, with a side of "hell no." Still. I'd learned one thing, at least: Not to succumb to paralysis by analysis. So, flip the cards over, Veronica.
"Of course not. With a side of hell, no. But that's my thinking and I'm not going to change it now."
"Even were I to offer you an out?"
Did I hear that right. "Sorry, what?"
"An out, Miss Mars. What they refer to in blackjack as 'surrender. We will stop here and declare the bet null and void."
All this for nothing? I don't think so. The Adversary did not put me through the last two and a half months of a reasonable approximation of hell just to say 'status quo.' Somehow I get the impression that if I accepted the 'surrender,' I would actually lose the bet. The Adversary was either counting upon me to be so afraid of losing that I'd grasp at any thin life line to get out of it, or, more probably, to be so suspicious of the offer that I'd assume he was trying to get me to think I'd won, and, assuming I'd actually lost from the transparency of the ploy, back off.
I wasn't going to play that game, though. No overanalyzing. But no underanalyzing, either. "No deal."
"Very well. As for the First – whether you are correct or not, it must be admitted that it still has some power, else it would not have been able to attempt to manipulate Angel."
"Granted," I said.
"So even should your line of reasoning be accurate, it would be able to, at the very least, make a try at unleashing the army of Turok-Han."
"Yup." He wasn't telling me anything that wasn't already blindingly obvious. "But with less power, comes less invincibility."
"With less power," the Adversary reiterated. "So the question remains whether the First is underpowered."
"I've given you my reasons," I said. "And unlike you, I'm neither omniscient nor omnipotent. You want the question answered, you're going to have to do it yourself."
"Very well. Miss Mars, your theory is right."
Yes.
"Still, I have this sneaking suspicion that the next word's going to be 'but.'"
A slight smile. "You are incorrect. However -" Close enough – "The First, under these circumstances, still attempts its grand plan, despite its reduced powers. Potentials and Watchers still die – although fewer. The Watchers' Council headquarters is still demolished. Potentials and Watchers flock to Sunnydale, where the First's plans are altered but still manage to bring about the release of one Turok-Han. After that battle – Vi and Miss Summers working together manage to defeat it – Miss Summers once again calls in favors and the group wipes out as many Bringers as they possibly can. No powered Caleb means that this is a losing battle for the Bringers. Then, deliberately keeping Angel and Miss Summers out of the loop, Miss Rosenberg manages, with assistance from practically everyone, to close the gateway that Miss Summers' first resurrection had opened."
"So . . . to my favor?"
"Yes."
"So . . . I win?"
A nod of the head. "Yes. You do. The test is complete."
I let out a long breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.
Hell, I'd been holding this breath since the moment it became clear exactly what the bet entailed. This wasn't the thrill of victory (though it was a lot better than the agony of defeat), this was, simply, relief.
I took another deep breath and let it out, slowly.
"So, what have we learned, Charlie Brown?" I asked.
"Learned?" He asked.
"Disingenuousness? Really?"
The Adversary said, "Then let me turn the question back on you: What have you learned?"
"Never to say the words 'I bet' again."
"Is that all?"
"That I can take on beings who for all intents and purposes are one notch below God and kick their behinds?"
"Be serious, Miss Mars." I sensed that perhaps the time for my patented sarcastic commentary was rapidly drawing to a close.
"Okay. Let me think." After a pause, I said, "But I meant what I said about 'I bet'." No response. Can't honestly say that surprised me. "The only things I can think of are those I already knew. Don't go on tilt when you're ticked off. Don't overanalyze. My instincts aren't perfect, and sometimes, neither is my reasoning. You wanted me to pick up something else? Because those points were driven home with a sledgehammer."
"True," he said, "But those lessons, while they should serve you well, were not the lessons intended."
"Okay," I said. "Give me a moment." I thought, but couldn't come up with anything. I admitted as much.
"I am slightly disappointed, Miss Mars, but not entirely surprised."
"Hey!" I interjected with some irritation.
"No insult was intended. Your entire interaction with me has been one of negativity, so it is only natural that you would make the logical assumption that I was trying to teach you about a flaw of yours. This is not the case. You are aware of most of your flaws. You do not always manage to stay away from them, but such is the nature of life for most of the sentient beings I have ever encountered. Job, if you remember, was a pious man before he was tested, and stayed so, despite the exhortations of his friends."
Wait a minute. "I thought you told me that Job was fiction."
And for the first time in what I believe to be ever, the Adversary's smile was broad. "Five words, Miss Mars."
I counted on my fingers. "Out for a walk – bitch"?
"No. 'Based on a true story'."
And that was the point at which I lost it. I burst out laughing.
All that tension I'd been under? Finally released. Enough of it, anyway. I'd been carrying the weight of two universes on my back, give or take, for three months.
The Adversary let me laugh myself out, which for all I knew could have taken decades. But once I was finally back under control, he said, "Miss Mars, are you quite finished?"
Still chuckling, I said, "Yeah, I think so."
"Good. Pleased as I am to have given you the opportunity for such amusement, we still have some business left to attend to."
"Hold on one second. I have a question," I said. "So you are in fact that Satan?"
"I loathe that name," he said. "Because it has become associated with the figure of ultimate evil in the Christian religion, and I am not evil. Strictly speaking, it is not even a name; it is my title. I have no name, nor do I want one. 'Adversary' is sufficient." He paused a second and then said, "In any event, before your outburst of laughter, we were discussing what the point of the bet was. Remember, Job was tested on his strength: his faithfulness to God. You have been tested on your strength, as well."
"Snarky comments?" Look at me, all self-referential.
"No, though had that been the test you would have passed with flying colors. This test was about exactly what it seemed to be about: You were given a nearly impossible task, weighed down by restrictions, and, in essence, thrown into the deep end of the pool, with no preassigned assistance from me or anyone, other than the occasional cryptic hint, and you succeeded. You proved you could do it. If there is a lesson to be learned here, it is simply that you are capable." Then he added, "In any event, I am the Tester, the Prosecutor. Not the teacher. Any lessons learned are nice, but entirely beside the point."
"So it really was a simple bet." Not exactly a hard pill to swallow, but certainly a weird one.
"Simple being a relative term, yes, it was. And as a bet, there were stakes. So, Miss Mars: One request granted from me, a 'being who for all intents and purposes are one notch below God.' Name your reward."
This was the one thing I'd known since ever since my wonderful voyage of discovery began. And yes, it's the obvious thing.
Lilly.
Yes, she wasn't perfect; she cheated on Logan, she dated Weevil, she slept with Aaron. Yes, her death made me the woman I am today. But she wasn't some plot-convenient catalyst; she was my friend. And, growth be damned, everything be damned, I would give all of that up in a heartbeat to get her back.
But I opened my mouth to say it – and something stopped me.
What? It wasn't that I couldn't talk – I could hum, sing, whistle, and recite the Pledge of Allegiance, much to the Adversary's amusement, but something was holding me back from claiming my reward.
What was it?
Okay, Veronica. Time to think. One last challenge. I say "I want Lilly Kane alive again," and what happens?
Lilly lives. So, she was never murdered, so that changes the universe. I already knew that. It would change me.
It would change everyone.
Well, okay, not literally everyone; I doubt President Bush or Dolly Parton would be affected all that much by whether Lilly lived or died, but it would change more than just me and those immediately around me. The ripple would die out eventually, but where, and when, and whether it would be for the better or worse were things I could not possibly know.
I'd just spent three months, with an aircraft carrier's worth of foreknowledge, and I, as near as I could tell, had barely squeaked out a win. No foreknowledge? Kind of not going to guarantee that'll come out well.
And –
hold on.
I'm worried about my universe, and with good reason, but –
What about this universe? I asked the Adversary as much.
"This universe is here solely for the purposes of our wager. Once the wager is complete, the universe reverts to its original path."
So whatever I did, whatever I asked for, this universe would turn out worse.
Jenny Calendar would die. Drusilla would live. Cordelia would die.
Sheila would die.
And the thing is, I'm not a god. Not even close. These were not my puppets; they were not here for my amusement.
"And what about my home timeline? Should I decide to use my wish and go elsewhere?"
"Elsewhere?"
"The Star Trek Universe. Narnia. General Hospital. Does it matter exactly where?"
Back to the slight smile. "I suppose not. Miss Mars, you were taken from 'between moments," as it were. Those moments will continue."
"So I disappear?"
"No. You will still be there. Removing you from your home timeline was never part of our wager."
"Two mes?"
"An infinity of yous, Miss Mars. Some where you traveled with your mother instead of remaining in Neptune. Some where you and Miss Summers were best friends until she left Neptune and she returns there after sending Angel to hell. Some where your father is too late to save Aaron Echolls from the vengeful waitress. Some where you and yours are merged with the Firefly universe. Some where you travel with the Doctor."
"Doctor who?" I asked.
"Exactly. So one more you is hardly a burden."
Burden on whom, I was tempted to ask. I didn't. No point in drifting off on tangents now.
One thing was clear, though. I couldn't simply ask for Lilly back. That would destroy one universe and do no one knew what to my own.
Making a wish? Not as easy as you think.
"The reward's as big a responsibility as the bet," I said.
"Indeed, Miss Mars. It would be substantially less enjoyable wagering with someone whose answer would be 'a billion dollars' or 'immortality.' You, on the other hand, have a much greater sense of responsibility. You will not make your request until you are as certain as you can be about the effects."
"And before this started, if you'd shown up and granted me a wish, I would have wished for Lilly in a second." After a second, I said, "Damn it. There's the lesson."
"Perhaps. But regardless, Miss Mars, you do still have that request coming."
Somehow I didn't get the impression the Adversary was going to be one of those literal genies.
Okay. I had it. I knew what I wanted.
I can sum it up in two words:
Epimetheus unbound.