Chapter Fifty-eight: In Enemy Hands...
Monday, November 3, 1997: Sunnydale Medical Complex cafeteria, Sunnydale, Morning 6:45am –
"Sorry about the delay, guys," Michaela said as she sat back down at the big corner booth they'd commandeered. "Had to speak with my Colonel, then deal with a minor issue involving Agent Umbridge, who took umbrage at me tearing his warrant up, got a medical update, and then took a few to rest my injured butt on the way back."
"I thought your butt was the only part of you not injured, Chief," Brockhurst said.
"I'll have to remember to make note that the Zoomie Colonel has been checking out my butt," Michaela said, grinning. "It reinforces all of my stereotypical beliefs about the Air Force."
"Hey, Tailhook was Navy, I'll have you know," Brockhurst said.
"So, what did High Command allow?" Michael Sheridan asked, his eyebrows raised.
"Effective? KMAGYOYO," Michaela said, scowling. "Which, for the civilians in the audience, means – "
"Kiss my ass, guys, you're on your own," Benjy said, grinning.
"Benjy!" Mrs. Sheridan said.
"Sorry, sir," Benjy said, as Aura shook her head, laughing.
"Affirmative, Small Soldier," Michaela said. "Major Buckley asked for the company heavy response team, and instead, I'm getting the comedy duo of Merrill and Moseby, and a freaking JAG weenie and one of our CID guys."
"We who are about to be bent over without lube, salute you," Jesse said, shaking his head.
"Pretty much."
"So, Merrill and Moseby? What's wrong with them?" Brockhurst said.
"Oh, nothing so much, really. They're a pair from our troubleshooter unit," Michaela said. "However, if you think that I'm insubordinate and prone to sudden outbreaks of deadly violence, wait 'til you get a load of M&M. I'm a pussycat in comparison."
"Yeow," Brockhurst said. "Sorry I asked."
"Hrrm. Actually, sounds like just what the situation calls for," Sheridan said. "Speaking as a grizzled old former Ranger, anyway."
"There are no former Rangers, sir," Michaela said. "Which, I am not in any way disagreeing with you. All of Morgan's Marauders are like that. Instead of a name patch, their uniforms have: This end toward enemy, pull tab, stand way back."
"Kind of a like a human claymore mine, huh?" Benjy said.
"Yeppers. Human is debatable in Merrill and Moseby's case, however," Michaela said.
"What wrong with nonhuman?" 'Kat said, her ears flattening.
"Nothing, fuzzybutt, stand down. I'm sure the CWO didn't mean it that way," Benjy said. She looked at Michaela. "Have to excuse my scouts. Some are a bit sensitive on some issues."
"No problem, and no apologies needed," Michaela said, gravely. "My apologies if I gave offense."
Benjy nodded.
"'Kat and Chessie are a bit like that. Hand to hand with them is a bit like walking into an operating chainsaw," Misty said.
"They and the Chief here should get along wonderfully," Brockhurst said. "There's a few of Walsh's goons who wish they'd merely walked into a chainsaw."
"Pshaw. You'll turn my head." Michaela grinned at him, and said, "You'll be happy to know at least that it's no longer a mere and lowly Chief Warrant sassing you. I am now Brevet Captain Michaela Reeves of the Black Company, for the duration of the emergency, and in command of our operations in Sunnydale and surrounding vicinity with all due authority etc etc yata yata."
"I am in awe," Brockhurst said. "Someone was actually insane enough to promote you?"
"Beggars the imagination, doesn't it?"
"Congratulations and condolences, Captain Reeves," Sheridan said.
"So, what happens now?" Jesse said, and Aura and all of the Irregulars nodded and looked to Michaela.
"Next you mean? As soon as they tell me that Harris is transferred from recovery to the private room I and the police ordered, I'm gonna park myself in the second bed for as much sleep as I can get before catastrophe hits and wakes me."
"We are parking ourselves in there," Brockhurst said. "I need sleep, too. I'll have one of your Halleck MPs scare me up a cot."
"Gee, I'm not sure I want you seeing my tender young bod in my army skivvies, Colonel Tailhook, sir," Michaela said. "I know how you guys are."
"Told you, that was the Squids, Captain Chief," Brockhurst said, grinning. "I'll close my eyes. Besides, if there's anything more un-sexy than Army Green undies, I've yet to see it."
"There is that. I and my non-existent virtue are probably safe, then," Michaela said, nodding. "All right: then, I am transferring Harris out to Vandenberg where he can be protected properly, just as soon as he's able to be moved safely. And then I can sigh in relief and devote my attention to the thornier issue of Cordelia Chase."
"Good," Devila said, nodding. "We gonna bust her out?"
"Have been ordered not to. Therefore... I haven't decided yet," Michaela said. "However, none of you are to attempt anything along those lines, y'hear? While I am derogatory toward Walsh's toy soldiers as they are not in my league, they are dangerous, make no mistake. And Walsh would lock you and your friends here in a secret lab and take you apart to see what makes you tick."
"Ratz," Devila said, scowling.
'Kat and Chessie were bristling and it sounded like they were lashing their tails at the mention of secret labs. "They're not gonna do that to Lady Cordelia, are they, huh?" 'Kat said, her ears laid back.
"Not if I and the Colonel here can figure out a way to stop 'em," Michaela said. "My word on it."
"Can you figure out a way, though," Aura said, scowling. "This Walsh sounds like seriously bad news."
"Not sure yet," Michaela said, "But regardless, I'm going to have to. And yes, she is. And I really should have capped her when I had the chance and the excuse."
"Too many armed cops around the first time," Brockhurst said, his tone reasonable. "And too many cops, too many civilians, and too many of their backup the second time."
"Yeah yeah, I know," Michaela said. "You and the Chief hadn't stood me down, I'd of ignited ground zero right there. But that guy pistol whipping Chase set my teeth on edge."
"Wait, some guy hit Cordy?" Jesse said, his eyes narrowing.
'Kat and Chessie and the others nodded. "Saw it," 'Kat said. "And twisted her arm and made her yell."
"I'm going to kill him," Jesse said, scowling.
"No, you're not, Jess," Aura said, shaking her head. "Let the Captain here do it. Or else Xander will when he's back on his feet."
"Speaking of, you'll be happy to know that Mr. Harris is expected to make a full recovery," Michaela said. "The surgeon said that his injuries were already healing better than they had any right to have been by the time he reached the OR. He claims to have no explanation for it."
"Thank Pooka Bell for that," Cap said, smiling. "She's pretty good as a battlefield medic – that magic thing that Colonel Brockhurst dislikes." Several heads among the scouts nodded vigorously.
"I'll have to remember to do that," Michaela said, looking around for the tiny pixie.
"It's not that I dislike magic, or the idea of it," Brockhurst said, "It's just that I find it a bit disconcerting to think about."
"Hmm... " Michael and Michelle Sheridan said, also looking around.
"Where exactly is Pooka," Michael said.
"Oh? Huh," Benjy said. She and Misty began craning their heads around to look. "Probably mooching off plates. You know how she gets, Dad."
Misty nodded vigorously, looking around the room. Looking everywhere except in the direction or vicinity of Michael and Michelle Sheridan, as a matter of fact...
"Beverly Teresa Sheridan," Michael said, and Benjy's head whipped around to look at him, her already large eyes widening. "Where. Is. Pooka. Bell."
"Uh... Dad?"
"Beverly?"
"She, uh, followed Chief, uh, Captain Michaela, sir," Benjy said.
Misty slid down into her seat, trying to look inconspicuous. It didn't seem to be working, going by the gimlet eye Mrs. Sheridan was fixing upon her.
"Beverly," Michelle said. "You know that you were ordered in no uncertain terms not to do that."
"Um, no ma'am, Colonel Mom," Chessie piped up. "Colonel Benjy said not to send me and Devila. Not say anything about Pook." Devila nodded enthusiastically, looking as innocent as possible.
Which, Michaela noted, wasn't very for a four foot eight inch demon girl...
"Chessie... " Michael said, sighing and shaking his head.
"Uh, oh, you're in trouble... " Jesse said, grinning. Aura nailed him under the short ribs with an elbow, and he subsided immediately.
"Dad, I only sent her to follow the Captain, nowhere else," Benjy said, looking wounded.
"She did, I heard her," Misty said, nodding.
"Umm... is her hearing really good by any chance?" Michaela said, starting to get a sick feeling. "As in, good enough to hear both ends of a cell phone conversation?"
Stephanie nodded. "She can generally hear her name and zip back to report in seconds or minutes, from a long way off. We've never been sure just how far, exactly."
"Long long way," 'Kat said.
Michaela shook her head, and then swore. It felt so good that she went on at length for several minutes, in English, Gaelic, Japanese, Cantonese, and Texan. By the end of it when she wore down finally, Michelle Sheridan was looking amused, the kids along with Aura and Jesse were looking awed, and both Brockhurst and Michael were looking impressed.
"Wow. I don't think I've ever heard a number of those words and phrases put together in quite those combinations before, ever," Sheridan said.
"Hell, Colonel," Brockhurst said, "I didn't even understand three quarters of those words, or even know they existed, and I've done joint naval ops."
"Don't try this at home," Michaela said, gravely. "I am a professional."
"I'm gathering that there was something in that phone conversation that causes you some concern, Michaela," Michelle said, studying her.
"You might say that, Michelle," Michaela said, her tone dry. "She would have heard me getting orders to the effect that I am not to use standard 'ally in enemy hands' protocols for effecting Cordelia Chase's release from durance vile, but to rely upon legal maneuvers while Colonel Danvers works on it from her end."
"I'm afraid to ask, but... " Michael said, "What are 'in enemy hands' protocols, if I'm considered to have a need to know?"
"Knowing the Chief Captain here," Brockhurst said, "They're something along the lines of: level Cordelia's prison and everyone in it except for Miss Chase, and then piss on the burnt spot. Pardon my French."
"By this point," Michelle said, dryly, "I think the kid's tender ears are all acclimated to French."
"Hell, as one of my only two actual military allies at the moment, Colonel," Michaela said, "You have all the need to know that you require." She sighed, and added, "And, Brockhurst is not far from wrong. We tend to take having our people taken prisoner very badly. Usually because the type of things that we deal with do truly nasty things to people in their hands. Or talons. Or tentacles."
"So... Pooka might have decided to go look for Cordelia on her own," Jesse said, exchanging looks with Aura.
"Uh huh. And she may have determined to follow Umbridge and his men to see if they would lead her there," Michaela said.
"Oh, crap," Benjy said, starting to look alarmed.
"She would have done it on her own initiative, then," Stephanie said.
"Uh oh," 'Kat said, exchanging looks with Chessie and Devila, and getting nods back.
"I take it that this is bad?" Brockhurst said, looking at them.
"For certain values of bad, depending, sir," Stephanie said. "Pooka Bell's initiative tends to be very effective, generally."
"In the way that a Kamikaze pilot is effective, yeah. She takes after the First Sarge here in that," Misty said. Benjy slid down lower in her seat. "Hey, I still remember the sound the two Lost Boy pixies made when they missed that last curve. Ouch."
"Benjy, can you call her back?" Aura said, looking at her with both curiosity and sympathy.
"Yes, ma'am," Benjy said. "Maybe." She took a deep breath and said, "Pook!"
"That's all it takes?" Brockhurst said, his eyes widening.
"If she's in range to hear it, yes," Stephanie said, nodding.
"Or listening," Misty said.
Chessie snorted at that, and "Pook always listens to First Sergeant Benjy," 'Kat said.
"Pook! Report, Private!" Benjy said, a bit sharper. Several minutes went by.
"Out of range maybe," Stephanie said.
"Or Pooka went off the Rez," Devila said. Her ears flattened against the sides of her head at the glares that received, and she shrugged. "Always first time."
"Great." Michaela went into another, longer burst of profanity this time, throwing in odds and ends of Vietnamese, Farsi, and border Spanish. When she wound down again, she sighed and shook her head. "Lesson the one, kids. This is not a game. We are not playing. These people are dangerous, and they make a specialty of capturing people like you and taking you apart to see what makes you tick."
'Kat, Chessie, and Devila slid down into their seats, their eyes wide.
"Ma'am," Misty said, her eyes clear. "All due respect, but we are not playing, either. We don't leave our people behind. Ever. And Cordelia Chase is now one of ours. Just like Tech-sergeant Xander is one of ours."
"She's right, ma'am," Stephanie said. "We've learned that bad things come from doing that."
"Then we'd better learn how to do it right and proper," Michaela said, grimly. "With orders, backup, planning, and with command knowing what's going on."
"Just the way that Captain Leg here does," Brockhurst said.
"Oh, do shut up, Colonel Chair Farce, sir," Michaela said, reddening slowly. "You've been waiting all night to make that pointed observation, haven't you."
"Why yes, I have, as a matter of fact."
Monday, November 3, 1997: Sunnydale MHMR, Topanga Street, Sunnydale city limits, Morning 6:50am –
Unable to stretch properly, Cordelia Chase did her best to work her shoulders and release at least some of the tension and ache in them. Damned restraints. What did they think, she was going to chew through her wrists or attack some six foot plus two hundred pound orderly? Bare handed? What... all five seven and a half and one hundred and twenty pounds of her?
Ok, one twenty-seven. But she'd been meaning to get rid of those last seven...
Oh, yeah. Naked, emotionally and physically exhausted, unarmed, and with a freshly dressed bullet hole through her leg. Thoroughly dangerous woman here right now.
You bet.
Just let me get my hands on one of those pistols, though...
She'd seen a clock once, just once, after she'd arrived here. Five thirty-five. Meaning it had taken nearly forty minutes to drive here from the salvage yard in the bitch Walsh's Mercedes. After that...
Apparently orderlies and nurses had had orders to remove clocks from anywhere she was taken. She'd seen them do it once.
And then...
First, the humiliating, degrading and thorough body and strip search, complete with cavity probe. By a male goon, one of Walsh's supposed DIA guys. Smirking and obviously enjoying himself.
Then the thorough, ice cold freaking shower. With cheap, industrial, institutional soap and shampoo. Under guard and under observation. Under male guard and observation, again. And then with a cheap, thin, scratchy motel type towel to kind of dry off with.
She was pretty sure she'd seen the fat male orderly thug guarding her playing pocket pool with himself the whole time. And the male Agent, at times.
Probably all the sex that they ever got.
She'd made the mistake of mentioning that, and had gotten hit again. In the diaphragm, this time, where it wouldn't leave a mark. He hadn't given her time to recover her breath, just grabbed her by the arms and hauled her off half dried, hair still tangled and dripping at the ends.
To medical. What a joke...
Damned good thing that tiny pixie had showed up after the big, armed helicopter had swirled off to find a landing spot. And, boy, had that ever been a shock...
Then again, vampires? Demons? Invisible girls? Undead franken-jocks? Reptile gods? Life sucking mummy girls? Terminators?
Why shouldn't there be seven inch plus tall, green glowing pixies named Private Pooka Bell?
At least the cute little thing had healed her leg up a bit for her. Even if that had involved, eww, crapping pixie dust all over it.
Hey. Whatever worked, at this point.
Good thing, too. Or she might have bled out waiting for them to get around to figuring out who got to haul her away, Bitch Walsh, Stein, or the hot looking Chief Warrant Officer and her salty goodness Air Force Colonel. Wished it'd been Hot Soldier Girl that won the toss.
Figures that it would be Bitch Walsh.
Gods... please, Xander, be alive. Please be alive.
Finally, they'd examined her leg while she shivered and shook strapped to the exam table, and dressed it and her other, more minor scratches and injuries.
She wanted her damned rifle. Or her Beretta shotgun. And her hands free.
At least Bitch Walsh and her goons didn't seem to realize that it was Cordelia that had blasted a heavy twelve gauge slug through Captain Finn's chest. She wished now that she'd shot him in the nuts, instead.
Several times, she'd heard a couple of the agents talking, bitching really, about some bitch named Barkley and how many agents she'd killed in some base somewhere. Good. Pity she hadn't killed them all. She vaguely remembered Cheng mentioning the name, she thought. They seemed to think that Buckley had probably done for Finn, or maybe Rory.
She'd heard them mentioning the name Creed a couple of times, too. Apparently, he'd ripped his way through a bunch of Walsh's goons as well. Good for him. She vaguely, also, remembered something about Aura saying that name on the phone several weeks ago. Days. Day. Whatever.
Please, Xander, be alive. Please be alive.
If Xander had died before they finally got him to the ER, Walsh was going to die slowly, at Cordelia's hands. Always assuming the tough, dangerous Warrant Officer didn't get her first.
Might be a toss up. There had been raw, ice cold murder in Michaela Reeves' eyes behind that rifle scope.
And, briefly, absolute terror in Call-me-Maggie Walsh's.
Something to savor.
Cordelia let her gaze go sideways to the two agents guarding – and regarding – her nude, strapped down body. She snorted in derision, not bothering to muffle it.
Take a picture, guys. It'll last longer. Give you something to jerk off to, also.
And, hey. Go ahead and think that I'm a helpless, harmless girl now that you took away my rifle, my pistol, my Master Sergeant, and my boyfriend. I'll encourage you.
It'll make it easier, eventually.
Gods... please, Xander, be alive. Please be alive.
"I really have to protest this treatment of the patient, Dr. Walsh," Dr. Robert Hartley said.
Damned psychologists. Not even a real doctor. Dr. Margaret Walsh shook her head, and said, "By all means. Do."
Hartley sighed, sounding frustrated. "You are violating every single precept of mental health patient care, Doctor. As well as the patient's civil rights. Not to mention basic human decency." He glanced through the two way mirror into the medical clinic, and averted his gaze hastily. "At least give her some clothing. And put female orderlies on, if she needs to be guarded."
"Subject Chase is a very dangerous young woman, Dr. Hartley," Margaret Walsh said, patiently. "Ask any number of members of the Sunnydale County Sheriff's Department and the California Highway Patrol – she was certainly the death of a number of them last night. She remains guarded at all times when she's not in a secure room. And she will be clothed. When she's placed in a secure room. Not before."
Hartley glared at her.
"Then, Doctor, perhaps she should be locked in a cell at the County Jail, awaiting arraignment," he said.
"She won't stand trial, ever. With her delusions? Please, Doctor, you heard her interview," Walsh said.
"I did. And I know that she's no more delusional than you are. Less, actually," Hartley said, snorting.
"Oh? And just what do you mean by that, Doctor?" Walsh said. She cocked her head, examining him curiously.
"That I saw that thing at the SPD station, and the aftermath," Hartley said, his voice exaggeratedly patient. "As did you. You know as well as I do that whatever else she and Alexander Harris might be, delusional on that particular topic, they are not."
Interesting, Walsh thought. Apparently, Hartley wasn't subject to the willful blindness and rationalization that so many others in this town were. That might have to be dealt with.
Not that anyone would ever believe him, of course.
"That wasn't precisely the part of your statement that my question was regarding, Dr. Hartley," Walsh said.
"I know," Hartley said, smiling thinly. "Sooner or later, you will have to produce Cordelia Chase for a competency hearing before an actual judge. And counsel will want to have an independent evaluation of her made by one of their medical experts, a request that you will have to grant."
"Perhaps," Walsh said, inclining her head. "We shall certainly see."
"Oh, it will happen. You can't keep a minor child involuntarily committed indefinitely, not without a legal guardian's consent, I believe. Or a very stringent judge's order." Hartley studied her curiously, and then the small, thin smile broadened slightly. "Oh, wait. You really do have no idea who you have incarcerated here, do you, now."
Walsh frowned. There was something... what? Hrmm. Probably not important, or else she'd remember it. She tossed her head, a bit irritably.
"I'm quite certain that you are wrong about the first, Dr. Hartley," Walsh said, finally. "And I'm equally certain that you'll inform me on the second, and take pleasure in relishing the error of my ways, as you see them."
"Oh, definitely on the pleasure part, Dr. Walsh. Just as I'll take great pleasure in watching you stripped of your license to practice in the state of California," Hartley said. "Let's see. Cordelia Desiree Chase. Daughter of Randall and Teresa Chase, currently deceased. Granddaughter of William Randolph Chase the Second."
"And I suppose that all of that should mean something to me?" Walsh raised her eyebrows. She did vaguely remember that now.
"It should. It will by the time that William Randolph and his battery of extremely expensive and high powered attorneys get finished with you," Hartley said. "And his connections – old friends, actually – in the State Legislature and the Senate. See, I do my research."
"I'm pleased for you. That is an admirable trait, Doctor," Walsh said. She smirked at him, and added, "And I'm afraid you over estimate the power of the elder Mr. Chase's money, lawyers, and connections here. I have the connections myself, including the Federal judge who signed my warrants and the commitment papers. And on the Senate, and in the Department of Defense, all of whom are highly interested in the research that I'm engaged in. And further," she leaned forward, smiling, "This hospital has lawyers as well. Perhaps you've heard of them. Wolfram and Hart?"
"No. But I have no doubt that I will before this is over," Hartley said, still smiling tightly. "As I'll be the medical expert for the opposing counsel, or at least one of them."
Walsh's smile froze briefly, but she merely nodded at him. "Your prerogative, Doctor," she said, her voice cold. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have duties to attend to, elsewhere."
"Of course, Doctor," Hartley said. "But at least have the girl moved to the secure room you mentioned, and some clothing given to her. If you won't, then I certainly will."
Standing, he began moving to the door of the examination room and medical bay. Walsh nodded, and the agent by the door, Broadhead, moved to intercept and block his way.
Hartley turned back to her, glaring. "I'm going to speak to the director of the clinic here, about your treatment of the patient, and your violations of medical ethics."
"By all means, Dr. Hartley," Walsh said. "But I believe that you'll find that Director Addison is far more interested in the rather massive federal grant monies that he receives, than he is in the hysterical protestations of one of his consulting psychologists. After all, consultants can be purchased for a dime a dozen."
Hartley rolled his eyes slightly, sighing. "That would stand to reason, I suppose."
She smiled at him, equally thinly. "Good day, Doctor. And don't bother to invite yourself to any of Subject Chase's future sessions. You won't be welcome." Jerking her head to the outer door, she said, "Broadhead? Show Dr. Hartley his way out and point him toward Director Addison's office, please."
Hartley nodded to her, and turned. "Don't bother. I believe I can still find my own way there."
Definitely a problem to attend to. She'd have to speak with Umbridge about the good Doctor Hartley.
Monday, November 3, 1997: Sunnydale MHMR, Old Salinas Hwy and Topanga Street, Sunnydale city limits, Morning 7:15am –
Reveling in the feeling of flight, and the view from way up here, Pooka Bell circled above the blocky military style vehicle as it pulled into the parking lot of the building below. She watched with interest as the men parked their contraption and headed inside, narrowing her eyes and sharpening her vision. Hrmm...
She could zip in past them, but there looked to be a double door down there, one, separated by a space, and then another. Be easy to get trapped, even for her.
She'd have to find another way in.
And, heya, at her size? And with fae magic? There were bound to be plenty.
An early riser of a red tailed hawk, circling so high it was a mere dot in the sky above, deciding that she looked close enough to snack size, stooped on her.
Pooka Bell heard the ripping of air through its wing feathers long before it even reached proper stooping speed. Pixie ears are acute.
She'd even heard Benjy's two calls for her, way out at the very limits of her range for that. And had ignored them: First Sergeant Major Benjy had already given her her orders. And further, she had her own.
The Irregulars did not leave their own behind. Not any more. First Scout 'Kat had said so.
Technically, Pooka had gone Off the Reservation at that point, whatever that meant, but... no matter. She was doing what the First Sergeant, Pooka's personal hero, had meant as well as what she had said.
Lady Cordelia was Tech-Sergeant Xander's. That meant that Lady Cordelia was theirs. They were getting her back.
And that, was that.
When the red tail hit where she was, Pooka Bell was no longer there. No go, too slow. Pooka blew it a raspberry from fifty feet higher and forty over as it went by, and gave it an upraised middle finger.
Shrieking angrily, the hawk pulled out of its stoop before it went all splat! and spiraled upward, glaring at her.
Pooka could have raced it down ahead of it and made it go splat!, but why?
It wasn't a bad guy. It was just doing what hawks did.
Oh-kay. Lady Cordelia was here, inside. She'd heard the men in the boxy military vehicle thing talking about it. That meant that Pooka needed to be inside, eventually.
Hrmmm. Pooka Bell went back to spiraling over and around the sprawling human building down below, keeping one ear peeled for that hawk, or any others. This was an interesting challenge.
And, she could stand to fuel up. Everything was harder in the daytime... pixies were, by nature and by choice, night time fae. And, after healing Tech-Sergeant Xander, Lady Cordelia, and the other one up as much as she'd been able, Pooka was pooped out. And, ratz. Pizza Barn and all of the other pizza places weren't open for a long time yet. Have to wait, then raid. Then move.
Huh. And, hrmm again. Allies would be helpful. She wondered...
Now that Private Scout Pooka Bell had demonstrated her primacy, several times over, she wondered if the two Losted Boys pixies would be interested in a truce and an alliance.
And then in a spot of raiding, followed by a spot of scouting and causing mischief and havoc.
Worth investigating.
Pooka swooped down close in and swept around the building at a leisurely ten miles per hour, paying close attention to windows, doors, vents, and other openings.
Ok. Now to go have a talk with some other pixies. Zooming up to near hawk circling level, giggling with ecstasy, Pooka Bell banked in a tight circle, found her bearings, and zoomed off at speed.
Straight for Adventure Lands Amusement Park, as the pixie flies.
Pooka Bell had a mission. Missions were important. 'Kat had said so.
Monday, November 3, 1997: South Marion Drive Sunnydale Medical Complex, Sunnydale, Morning 7:30am –
"You really need x-rays for that forearm. And everything thing else, as well," the dark complected doctor, who'd been introduced as Dr. Ramesh, said.
"Call out to Fort Halleck's medical, and they'll send 'em over," Michaela said. "Medics on site had a portable, and checked me over pretty thoroughly. Can't really take time to go to the x-ray lab. Can't really afford to take time to slow down at all, not right now."
"At some point, you will fall down, whether you have time to or not," Ramesh said. "I have a portable here. I'll have a nurse and an orderly wheel it in. I must see what damage you've done or aggravated since your previous treatment."
"Ah, right," Michaela said, nodding. "Haven't exactly been kind to my busted parts lately. Have, or had at least, a hairline fracture of the forearm bone, one of 'em, a sprained and bruised left wrist, and a wrenched left shoulder. Plus, a wrenched ankle and right knee."
"Ah. How did you manage such an interesting assortment of injuries, may I ask?"
"Crash landed in a helo after a bad guy blew it out of the air with a SMAW," Michaela said. "The skull bump was my own damned fault: I popped the canopy and tried to climb out before I was fully conscious again."
"Ah," Ramesh said again. "Well, whether you have or haven't aggravated the fracture, it will need to be encased in a permanent cast rather than that temporary."
"Do whatcha gotta do, Doc. Just do not impair my ability to flex and use my left hand," Michaela said. "Rate things are going, I need it to shoot with. And nothing to knock me out or dull my senses. I'll deal with the pain, if needed."
"Seems to be that kind of weekend, yes. I'll do my best," Ramesh said, agreeably. Standing and crossing to the examination room door, he opened it, called a nurse over, and instructed her to get the portable x-ray. Then he came back, sat, and began to cut away the temporary cast.
He closed the door securely, before turning away, Michaela noticed.
After a bit, he said, almost musingly, "You know. Even before Halloween, some of us have noticed over the past year that Alexander Harris, Buffy Summers, Willow Rosenberg, and Cordelia Chase have come in here with some interesting injuries on occasion. And it didn't completely go without notice that on Halloween night, Aura Breckenridge fought and overcame a gang member on PCP in the waiting room and chapel. As well, all of us have seen the FYI footage of Miss Breckenridge, Willow Rosenberg, and that Kendra girl fighting those gang members and that beast man. And the other footage." He glanced up, "Do you understand where I might be going with this?"
"I'm not sure, Doctor Ramesh," Michaela said, slowly. "You may have to spell it out. I'm kind of slow some days."
"Somehow, I doubt that," Ramesh said, smiling slightly. "Sunnydale General and the Marion Medical Complex has the best trauma care facility in this end of southern California. Perhaps in all of California, period. Our emergency room and trauma surgeons handled the survivors of that shooting incident on the Bronze, Friday night. And we, sometimes second hand through our EMT staff, heard the accounts of what happened there from the victims. The conscious and semi-conscious ones at least."
"I'll bet those were interesting," Michaela said, nodding.
"Quite. I could tell you some tales," Ramesh said, nodding back. "However, I'll merely state that slowly, it has become apparent to some few of us, that there are people in this town who do not ignore or look away from what goes on in the night out there. Some of them even do something about what they see. Sadly, they mostly seem to be our very youngest."
"That's usually the way of it," Michaela said. "The young fight the wars and do the dying."
"It shouldn't be that way. It shames me that my involvement is limited to attempting to patch up teenagers who should not be fighting things like that beast man," Ramesh said, shaking his head. "However, I am not a hero, not a soldier, and not a warrior. I do what I can, then."
"Hey, someone has to patch us up and get us back on the front lines, Doc," Michaela said.
Ramesh nodded. "Possibly. Be that as it may, it should be known that there are some who appreciate what you are trying to do here. We consider Alexander Harris, Buffy Summers, Kendra, Aura Breckenridge, Jonathan Levinson, Cordelia Chase, and Miss Rosenberg to be heroes. Especially after this weekend. I don't care what the CHP, Sunnydale County, and all of the Feds in the western U.S. have to say about them."
Feeling oddly touched, Michaela nodded. "Hell, I can go along with that. I'm kind of impressed with those kids myself."
Nodding, the doctor stood as there was a rap on the examination room door. "Let's get you patched up, then. It promises to be that kind of week as well."
"Yup. Sure does," Michaela said. "And hey, with you and Chief Stein in my corner, I got 'em all half whooped."
Monday, November 3, 1997: Sunnydale MHMR, Topanga Street, Sunnydale city limits, Morning 8:50am –
"So, where is the nice Dr. Hartley, Walsh?" Cordelia asked. She continued combing out her hair with her fingers as best as she could, considering that there were places that the cuffs wouldn't let her reach.
"Dr. Hartley is no longer permitted access to your case, Miss Chase," Dr. Maggie Walsh said, smirking at her. "And it is Doctor Walsh, please. Let us at least attempt to keep this on a professional basis."
"To-may-toe, to-mah-toe," Cordelia said, tossing her head and flipping a few stragglers away from her eyes. "When I find myself actually dealing with professionals, I will."
"As you wish," Walsh said. She looked down at her folders, open on the table in front of her.
"Heh. Westley you are not," Cordelia said.
Walsh gave her a curious look, with a raised eyebrow and an expectant expression.
"Sigh. The Princess Bride? Please don't tell me you're illiterate as well as stupid," Cordelia said.
"Reading lurid fiction for pleasure is not one of my vices, I'm afraid," Walsh stated. "And insulting me gains you absolutely nothing. I'm rather impervious to the insults of psychiatric subjects. It's a required job skill."
"You have yet to see me fully in top form, Walsh," Cordelia said, smirking back at her.
"I've seen a considerable amount of you, so far," Walsh said. "Although, you are probably correct. Not nearly your very best moments to date."
Bitch.
And the 'considerable amount' was literal, too, considering that they still hadn't given her any clothing. Unless you counted handcuffs or restraints, which, while those could be entertaining with the right partner, really didn't qualify as formal ensemble.
Without appearing to look over directly, Cordelia noted the 'Agent' and the uniformed orderly by the door roving their eyes over her tits.
Get a good eyeful, boys. You too, bitch. You do look like the type, Call-me-Maggie. Not that there's anything wrong with that, you understand. But, still, go rent a lesbian porn vid, finger fuck yourself to your black little heart's content, and get me some fucking clothes.
And a nice gun while you're at it. I promise I won't hurt anyone, much.
Just kill hell out of them.
Cordelia reflected that she probably made a slight miscalculation in letting her inner lahini out by putting a twelve gauge slug through Captain American Way Finn. The bitch wolf just didn't want to go back on her leash, now.
That's ok, though. She had the feeling she was going to continue needing that inner she wolf in order to survive this.
Cordelia had had a long time to consider things, strapped naked to that examination table in the medical clinic. Bitch Maggie fucking Walsh wanted to grind her down, and break her. That was the only thing that made sense.
First, there'd been the long period of being strapped down naked after her initial, uh, processing and intake, as they'd called it, followed by her medical treatment. Then being unstrapped, placed in cuffs, and given another groping, uh, search by the male agent and the orderly.
Oh, yeah. Like they figured she was going to unstrap herself, get a hold of a scalpel or something, hide it up her ass or her twat, and then strap herself back down. Right. You bet.
It was all designed for the humiliation.
Just like this little naked interview session.
Well, gee, newsflash for you, Doctor Director Margaret Call-me-Maggie fucking Walsh.
Cordelia Desiree Chase doesn't break easily. If vampires, demons, grave robbers, the Hellmouth Beast, Larry-bot the Terminator, and seeing her date and Aphrodesia and a bunch of other people killed in front of her, and looking down at the bodies of her dead parents and maid couldn't do it, you don't have a prayer.
Of course, that might not stop her from acting broken, if and when she decided that that might be useful. But for now...
"So. Do I get some clothing? Or am I Miss Nude Naked Exhibit from now on?" Cordelia said.
"Yes. You will receive clothing, once this session is concluded and you are transferred to a secure room," Walsh said, still reading her papers. Or maybe Cordelia's papers.
"Ah." Yawning, Cordelia stretched, raising her arms above her head and wriggling in the cold, vinyl seat in a vain attempt to make her butt comfortable. She smirked at the way the upper torso movement riveted the attention of the agent and the orderly. Geeze. Men. All of them such boys. "I see."
She kept her eyes riveted on Walsh, only viewing the two door guards via peripheral vision. Watch the main enemy.
"Do you?" Walsh's eye flickered up, her gaze clinical and disinterested.
"Why, yes," Cordelia said. She smiled lasciviously, and ran her tongue slowly across her lip. "So, after a session, do you head back to your office and finger yourself off? Or do you have one of those big vibrators with the ribs and bumps?" She saw Walsh's back stiffen when the orderly snickered audibly by the doorway. "Oh, and do you video tape all of this for your 'agents' and orderlies to jerk off to? Or do they get to go to your office and watch you make yourself cum?"
"Hey," the agent type said, warningly. He straightened and stiffened at his post. Well, stiffened his posture. It was obvious he was already stiff elsewhere. Eww. "Watch your mouth."
"Why? You're watching it enough for both of us. Oh, wait... those aren't my lips... " Cordelia said. She tossed her hair again, and added, "So, did you let your guys rape Barkley's corpse when they were done killing her? They do seem the type."
"Hey!" Mr. Fake DIA goon uncoiled from the wall, and started over to them.
Walsh jerked her head around, and said, "Umbridge. Stand. Down." Sighing, she added, "Don't let her get to you."
Glaring at her, Agent Umbridge – and hey, nice to have a name – went back to his perch.
"Not possible for him to not," Cordelia said. Of course not. Umbridge wasn't Xander Harris, and he couldn't take her best shots, roll with them, and sally back in kind. "I'll bet you watched, too. You seem to be that type, also."
Walsh's head snapped up a bit too abruptly, and a very faint flush appeared. Ooh. Struck a nerve. Noted and marked.
"You seem to think that you are very funny," Walsh said, recovering her clinical detachment very quickly. "You are aware that you are being recorded, correct?"
"Video too, I hope," Cordelia said, smiling brightly. "It should make wonderful listening, and viewing, at my hearing."
"It very possibly would," Walsh said, nodding.
"Oh?" Cordelia raised an eyebrow.
Walsh merely smiled. Instead of responding to that, she said, "Oddly, I was given the impression that you were a debutante and a wealthy daughter from a very upper class family. Or at least a nouveau riche one, who are always even more prone to adopting refined airs than the actual gentility. And yet... you seem to be extremely vulgar and common."
Interesting. No hearing, huh? Implication was, at least.
"We're not nouveau riche, Maggie," Cordelia said, her voice all syrupy sweet. "My family has had money since before my very distant great grandparent made his second fortune sailing with Jacques LaVelle in the mid seventeen hundreds."
"Well, good to know then," Dr. Walsh said, nodding. "Apparently, he also adopted the boorish manner of his, ah, privateer associates. And then passed them along to his descendents."
The faux DIA Agent, Umbridge, snickered over by the door. Enjoying hearing Walsh take down the smart mouth rich bitch a peg with a bit of her own medicine, no doubt...
Silly boy.
Call me Maggie is out of her weight class. And Morgan Winslow Chase and Jacques Julian LaVelle would have eaten you and all of your fellow agents and toy soldiers for breakfast, and used your bones to pick their teeth with.
And then have gone on to sack and scuttle a couple of British East Indiamen before lunch, once their appetites had been properly whetted.
Cordelia Persephone Chase and Kid Harris would have merely shot all of you out of hand.
The thousand watt Pepsodent smile that spread across Cordelia's lips was more a baring of teeth than an actual smile. Predator's teeth. It didn't even remotely touch her eyes, no more than it ever had during a beauty contest or sitting on a float in some parade or festival.
"I seem to have lost all of my refinement when you let my boyfriend lay there bleeding out on a gurney, blocking those Army medics from air lifting him out," Cordelia said, her tone pleasant and even. "And left my friend and Master Sergeant bleeding out inside that helicopter."
Yeah. Stripped away all of the carefully trained in refinement and faux gentility and left behind a core of something that even Cordelia hadn't really been aware was down there below it.
Her ancestors and Xander's: pirates, privateers, gunfighters, horse thieves, land barons, rail barons, explorers, industry moguls, and soldiers of fortune and mercenaries one and all, would have recognized it instantly.
Oh well. Cordelia Chase's thin veneer of civilization had always been merely skin deep, anyway. Just ask Xander.
Walsh nodded. "I'm given to understand that the former expired on the operating table this morning at, ah," she looked at her notes, "Six seventeen AM this morning. Due to complications from injuries and blood loss."
It was like a blow to the solar plexus, only a thousand times worse.
Cordelia got her breath back, slowly, and her heart restarted. Ok. Don't play with this woman. She plays hardball. Oh, wait. Never mind. This isn't a game, and we are not playing. Sorry, lost my copy of the script for a moment.
Back on track now.
"You are lying," Cordelia said, her eyes narrowing. "Definitely."
"Oh? Am I?" Walsh raised her eyebrows, her clinical detached expression securely in place. Taking notes behind those reptilian eyes, damn her. "See for yourself."
Walsh turned the uppermost, slenderest folder around, and slid it across the interview table. Cordelia pulled it to her with her cuffed hands, reading it carefully, her face as expressionless as stone.
Alexander LaVelle Harris. Pronounced dead on operating table at 6:17:05 AM. Ridiculous level of precision, huh? Cause of death. Cardiac arrest due to blood loss from injuries and accumulated trauma. List of assorted traumas and damages. My, that explosion and the shrapnel did do a number on him, if this was accurate. Attempts at resuscitation unsuccessful.
Cordelia shrugged, and shoved the folder back across, resisting the impulse to crumple the medical sheet.
"Anyone can print out a medical document. And even make it look authentic," Cordelia said. "And psychiatrists are medical doctors. You would know how."
"Interesting," Walsh said. "Your delusional state even extends to viewing and dismissing actual evidence that contraindicates it."
"Xander isn't dead, and that document is a lie," Cordelia stated, her voice flat and without compromise. "I would know."
"I'm certain you would."
"I would." Cordelia cocked her head, studying her adversary intently. "Xander will recover. It may take him a bit," but not as long as you think, possibly – Xander's always healed a bit faster than normal, especially lately – "And then he will come for me. He and Cheng. And then you will die."
"It won't happen, I can assure you," Walsh said, smiling at her.
"It will. And if not? Chief Michaela will." Cordelia shrugged. "And... You will have to produce me for a court hearing at some point. My grandfather will see to that. Or his attorneys will, at least."
"I fear that you are delusional in that respect also," Walsh stated, her eyes watching Cordelia intently. "Just as you are in your firm, and rather detailed, belief that an unstoppable Terminator from the movie universe came after you with homicidal intent, and that your young paramour was sent back from the future to stop it. A truly fascinating construct in its apparent verisimilitude and the un-shakeability of your fixation upon it."
"I am not delusional, not on any of that. You, however, may be," Cordelia said. "No. You are not. You saw the thing. Paul Stein saw it. Dr. Hartley saw it. Master Sergeant Cheng saw it. So did a number of other people. Your people recovered the parts. And, Xander is not dead. He will be coming for me. And he will kill you and a number of your agents for this."
"Do you actually believe that any of them will be believed, if they prove to indeed share your delusional world construct, and they attempt to tell anyone about it?" Walsh snorted.
"I am not delusional. Nor are you," Cordelia said. "You are psychotic and probably a sociopath, but delusional you are not."
"Fascinating. Your diction improves and your vocabulary increases, in direct proportion to the amount that your vapid, California socialite personae drops away," Walsh said, her eyebrows rising. "Were you aware of this?"
"Why yes, I was," Cordelia said. "My personae, as you call it, drops away in direct proportion to the amount that I am annoyed or provoked."
"Ah. Then you are admitting that I am succeeding in angering you," Walsh said. "I was beginning to wonder if you had emotional responses."
Oh, boy do I have emotions, Bitch. You haven't even begun to see them.
And you won't live to.
"Nope. You are not angering me," Cordelia said, smiling sweetly. "By the way. Is it possible to die of constipation? I'm becoming rather concerned by how full of shit you seem to be."
The orderly snickered again, and Walsh stiffened slightly, again. Score.
"Again, you seem to find yourself amusing," Walsh said. "I can assure you, no one else does. But please, do continue."
"Oh? Is that a challenge?" Cordelia asked, raising an eyebrow. "Because, I haven't yet let myself go. In fact, I was tempted to also call you a cunt, and then I realized that you lack both the depth and the warmth."
The snicker by the door was louder this time. And the glare across the doorway from Agent Umbridge was longer and more intense.
Walsh's eyes narrowed, and then she reached out deliberately and snapped off her recorder. Turning in her seat, she motioned to Agent Umbridge, who nodded, opened the door, and stuck his head out to speak quietly to someone outside. He drew back in and closed it, nodding.
"Let's go off the record here, shall we?" Walsh said, folding her arms on the table and leaning forward.
"On, off, I don't care," Cordelia said. She couldn't fold her arms, so she placed her forearms flat on the table, clasped her hands, and leaned forward on her elbows and let her eyes widen. "So, what did you wish to talk about."
Hey, the kid gloves are off now, huh? And maybe, just maybe, some real and no bullshit information now.
"You do seem to be delusional on several points, albeit not on the ones that are going on record," Walsh said. "Yes, I am aware that your Terminator is not a delusion. And that would mean that your young paramour's delusions are not, either, and he is what he says that he was."
"Oh?"
Are? Is? Interesting choice of words, doc...
"Yes, oh," Walsh said. "I am a Doctor of Psychiatry. However, I am also the Director of a research project into future weapons technologies, and into bioenhancement techniques and modifications. Therefore, no. There will be no hearing for you. You are in my custody to stay for as long as I deem it necessary. Your Master Chief Warrant Officer Michaela Reeves or whatever she is will not be securing your release. She, and her secretive and very specialized and nonexistent group will simply not be allowed to. Extremely highly placed and powerful people and interests who are very interested in my program, and my results, will see to that. If they attempt to do so, they will cease to exist as a functioning entity. Do you understand all of this?"
Perfectly, bitch. My reading and comprehension skills are top notch. And you are also the bitch that creates Skynet, but I'm not going to bother warning you of that.
"I understand perfectly, Doctor Bitch," Cordelia said aloud. "I understand now just exactly which of the two of us is suffering from massive delusions."
"If you assume it to be me, you are badly mistaken," Walsh said, smirking. "Further, if your grandfather, Dr. Hartley, Chief Stein, or anyone else attempts to secure your release and actually does manage to become a problem, they will simply be removed from the equation. Is that understood?"
"Perfectly."
Here you go, have a bigger shovel. I'm enjoying watching you did your own grave.
Walsh let the smirk turn into a full blown malevolent smile. It didn't touch her eyes any more than any of Cordelia's had, earlier. "And finally, I do hope that your paramour comes for you. He won't make it far. And I would dearly enjoy speaking with him at length also, using whatever means of persuasion are necessary."
Yes! Xander is alive. Oh, thank you gods, all of you. I'd burn an offering to that Janus character if I had one and could. Thank you, thank you... thank you. Yes!
"I knew you were lying," Cordelia said. She tilted her head, studying the other woman again carefully. "You know, you're really not as good at this as you seem to think you are. It's a problem a lot of geniuses have, of being so smart that they're stupid."
Walsh's smile slipped just a bit. Score! "Oh? Is that so."
"Why, yes," Cordelia said, nodding. "I first noticed it in Willow when we were seven. It makes for easy manipulation once one recognizes it in someone. Welcome to the big leagues, Doctor Bitch."
The smile slipped just a tiny bit more on Walsh's face, and her eyes went colder. "You, young woman, have been in the big leagues since you arrived in my hands."
"Bitch, I've been the big leagues since I was six fucking years old. Welcome, sister, we've been expecting you." Cordelia leaned forward just a bit more, and her smile went absolutely malevolent. "Now, let me read you a few home truths. You cannot break me. You cannot bend me. And you can not beat me," she said. "All you can do, eventually, is kill me. If Xander can't come for me, and Michaela won't be allowed to, then I'll just have to rescue myself." Cordelia's eyes narrowed, and she added, "And then I will deal with you personally, just as I did the Larry-bot. Now, turn the fucking recorders back on whenever you want, and let's play."
Lahini. The meat is near to the bone, but not near enough yet.
"We will," Walsh said. "I suddenly find myself extremely intrigued. However," she reached over and replaced the tape in her table recorder with another one, "We'll do it without the official recordings."
"As you wish," Cordelia said, nodding. "Just keep in mind: I, am not left handed."
"Whatever that means," Walsh said, all business now and unsmiling. "Now, tell me about this Terminator of yours... "
Fucking illiterate bitch.
"Certainly, Doctor," Cordelia said. "May I have my hand puppets and crayons back so I can put it in terms you can understand?"
.