Chapter Fifty-nine: In Enemy Hands Too...
Monday, November 3, 1997: Beneath Lowell House, UCS Campus, Sunnydale, Afternoon 12:55pm –
ZRAZZTTZ! Followed by a horrid fucking coughing roar.
Tigers make coughing roars like that. So do lions. And jaguars.
ZRAZZTTZ! Rrrrrrroowwlll...
She wasn't certain if it was real, or yet another part of the awful fucking dream she'd been having. Something about being trapped underground, with things that looked like men and weren't coming at her, and a big revolver and a heavy automatic bucking in her hands... knowing that she'd run out of bullets before they ran out of things to send against her. And singing.
Oh. Wait. That wasn't a nightmare.
That had been reality.
ZRAZZTTZ! Rrrrrrroowwlll...
Lieutenant Keisha Barkley, combat effective, Surveillance Systems Expert, EWACS, computers, and weapons technologies expert and gunfighter of the Bravo Heavy Combat Team of the Black Company, slitted open her eyes, closing them almost immediately. She realized three things immediately. One) she was lying down with tubes stuck in her arm, and she felt a lot better than she had any right to expect. Two) she was in a cell. She knew that without needing to see the doorway. The industrial and institutional puke colored paint scheme was enough to tell her this.
And three) she was naked.
Jesus Christ on crutches. What was it about a certain type of male bad guy that liked keeping prisoners naked? Yeah yeah yeah. She'd been through the mill in the roughest training centers in the world. She knew perfectly well that it was for psychological purposes. Take away the dignity, and increase the sense of helplessness.
It was especially effective on males. Men always felt a great deal more vulnerable without their pants on. Most should feel more vulnerable, really.
To laughter, pointing, and snickering.
It didn't work all that well on trained professionals. Fucking amateurs. Besides, Keisha Barkley knew she had a seriously good body, and was proud of it. She'd been going to nude beaches when the occasion allowed since she was eighteen. Being stared at and ogled by men or women was complimentary, not a sign of shame.
ZRAZZTTZ! Rrrrrrroowwlll...
Oh, and four) that horrible electric sound and that equally nasty sounding snarling, coughing roaring sound was also real, not a part of the dreams.
Huh. Time to crack open the eyelids again. Ok. Painful, but not debilitating. She bet that they left the lights on constantly. Another part of the process. No visible cameras, but she had zero doubts that they were there.
ZRAZZTTZ! Rrrrrrroowwlll...
Raise the head, just a touch. Ow. Wait a bit before repeating that experiment. But – bandages, with blood spotting. Not as large as she'd expect. An expert trauma surgeon, then. And an IV bag on a standing rack with something pale in it. Glucose, probably. Maybe.
ZRAZZTTZ! Rrrrrrroowwlll...
Not strapped down. Let's see if we can raise up now. Gonna hurt like hell. FIDO.
Fuck it, drive on.
ZRAZZTTZ! Rrrrrrroowwlll...
Oh-kay. And, oww. But she was up onto her elbows now, with her head raised. Bare room with a metal toilet and basin in one corner. Pallet and bare floor under it, not a hospital bed. The awful fucking sounds were coming from the cell across the way from hers, and from a blonde guy throwing himself repeatedly at the partition, drawing a shower of sparks, a ripple of coruscating green-white light, and a pained roar with every impact. And not much else.
Really, really big guy. And leanly built in places, but with massive rippling musculature. And teeth like a lion, blazing yellow eyes, and claws as long as Keisha's fingers. Just covered in hair, almost as much as freaking Merrill, only yellow blonde, not black and brown.
And boy oh boy. That 'let's strip him and make him feel vulnerable and embarrassed' thing really backfired with this one.
Keisha resisted an impulse to wolf whistle. It would probably hurt.
At some point when she felt better, she really needed to get laid. After she killed everyone else in this fucking base or hospital or whatever it was.
ZRAZZTTZ! Rrrrrrroowwlll...
Barkley watched the ongoing process for a few more repetitions, admiring the man's determination, stubbornness and sheer lack of quit even if not his obvious lack of intelligence. Every impact and zorch threw him back across the cell, where he'd hit the wall, bounce, then the ground, shake that massive and shaggy head, and then roll to his feet. And do it again. And again.
"That just looks awfully fucking painful," Barkley ventured, finally. Her voice sounded hoarse, cracked, and rough, like it hadn't been used in a long time. Maybe it hadn't.
She could really use some water, or some cracked ice, even. Didn't seem to be an option right now.
Fuck it, drive on.
The comment did arrest the process, though. After he hit the wall and floor that last time, he rolled easily to his feet, and stared at her. Finally, the lambent glow died away, leaving a pair of golden yellow irised eyes.
"Tempered extra heavy duty glass, or maybe transparent steel. Electrified force field of some sort, with a stunning component. Voltage probably about six times what a taser puts out."
Oh-kay. Not stupid, nor just a brute. Too much sharp intelligence in those yellow eyes. Just stubborn. And determined.
"So, in short, hurts like a motherfucker, huh?"
The lips over there peeled back from very sharp teeth and fangs in a lopsided and way too engaging grin.
"Like a blazing blue fucking bitch, yeah," he said.
"Think I may know the answer to this, but," Barkley said, "Just in case my brain got rattled while the rest of me got riddled, who the fuck are you?"
"Am fucking Victor Creed. Sabretooth," he said. "You gotta name, frail?"
"Heh. Frail is peculiarly apt right now," Keisha said, grinning painfully. "Lieutenant Keisha Barkley, United States Army, currently of Bravo Heavy Combat Team of the Black Company. Whatever might currently be left of it, anyway."
"Never heard of you guys," Creed said. "But I gathered you were military from what the dumb ass brigade was saying."
"Yup." Keisha didn't nod. It would be too painful. "Came here hunting something. And you."
"Well, gee, Lieutenant, looks like you found me," Creed said. "Now let's see you take me down."
"Hah! And please don't do that," Barkley said. "Laughing is painful right now."
"Join the fucking club, frail," Creed said. "So, how many did you get before they dropped you? Seein' as to how you are alive after all."
"Lemme get back to you on that alive thing. Not so sure about that right now," Barkley said. She smiled. It wasn't a very nice smile, and it was echoed from the other cell. "By myself, or in concert?"
"Either."
"Let's see, counting the two I dropped immediately, at least twelve in concert," Barkley said. "Singly? I think at least seven. I'm marginally better than Allred was. You?"
"Good to know. And good for you," Creed said. "And me, lost count after six. Lots. Was a bit too busy to keep track. Two of 'em don't count, though," he paused to grin malevolently. Barkley really liked that grin. "They got blowed up when their stupid electron rifles they were using overloaded and exploded on them. Poor babies."
"Nice to know. Trapped by their own booby," Barkley said, trying to suppress the laugh that wanted to bubble up. "Saw you on video, against that guy in the green and gold long johns. Not just a brute brawler. You're trained."
Not braggadocio exchanges, bad ass boasting, or anything of the kind. Nor idle curiosity. Just two trained and professional killers in dire straits trading resumes.
"Not military. But I've done the military black ops thing and the super secret agent bit, yeah. Been through the mill," Creed said, nodding. "Studied martial arts and blades from the best of the best in Asia." Without an ounce of braggadocio, he added, "I'm the best there is in the fucking world at what I do best. Killing people and breaking things."
"Good to know. And I'm gonna be nice and refrain from mentioning that apparently the kid who put you through a stone wall is slightly better," Barkley said.
"Hell, why bother with nice?" Creed threw his head back, laughing. "Iron Fist is good. Real good. But he ain't a killer like us."
"True enough." She studied him for a long minute, and watched him study her back. "You're a bad guy."
"Been called worse, girlie. And there ain't none badder, no," Creed said. "So?"
"I am not nice people."
"Good to know. So?"
"I plan on leaving. Have work to do yet. Places to go, people to kill. Bargain?"
Barkley wasn't worried about the cameras and recorders picking up the conversation. Knowing they were planning to escape wouldn't help their jailers any. And besides, if they didn't realize that trained and dangerous people would attempt escape and evasion, they were too fucking stupid to be any real threat.
"I'm listening," Creed said. "You ain't lost me on the curves, yet."
"Team up. Break out together," Barkley said. "Afterward, go our separate ways if you want."
Creed nodded. "Know that if a chance comes up and you ain't done healing, I won't wait for you."
"Hell, I wouldn't for you," Barkley said.
"Just how good are you, frail?" Creed snorted, and made an impatient gesture, and said, "Meaning, when you're not FUBAR."
It was a slightly different question than the resume exchange from earlier...
"We tend to call it NFG for 'No Fucking Good'," Barkley said. "Huh. I'm not quite in Michaela Reeves category in hand to hand and close quarters combat, but I'm not far behind. Won't even pretend that I'm in your or Iron Fist's weight class."
"Not many are. Go on."
"But I am mean, tough, fast, and deadly. And now that Bill Jordan is dead, put a pistol in my hands, and the only person that can match me is Michaela Reeves, one of ours. I'm faster, she's more accurate. Wouldn't want to live on the margin between us. I'm not too shabby with a battle rifle, either," Barkley said.
"And you even know what to call it, yeah," Creed said, nodding. "So, you're a pro."
"Check and double check."
"You bein' a pro an' all, girlie," Creed said, his yellow-gold eyes beginning to dance merrily, "How'd you end up in here?"
Barkley gave a slight shrug – very slight, 'cause a big one would hurt – and said, "Just lucky, I guess. Orders changed, bad guys din't like our new ones, every little thang went all sideways all sudden-like. And then gone FUGAZI."
"Hah!" Creed threw back his head, laughing. "I'm thinking you done messed up on the zipped in part 'o that."
Keisha felt a slow, broad smile slide across her lips. "My. You have been through the mill, huh?"
"I know your damn' acronyms, yeah," Creed said, still chuckling.
Barkley nodded slightly, "Hey, shit happens an' all," she said. "So?" Keisha arched an eyebrow and gave him an inquisitive look.
"You gotta deal, frail," Creed said. "I'll even give you my word not to kill you once we're out of here."
"Good to know," Barkley said. "Got any idea where here is... "
She never heard the answer, if there was one, for blackness came in from around the edges and then engulfed her and swallowed her whole again.
Monday, November 3, 1997: Sunnydale MHMR, Topanga Street, Sunnydale city limits, Afternoon 12:55am –
Ow. Getting too smart assed was so very much not a good idea. Whatever kind of cattle prods those agents and orderlies had built into those fucking batons hurt like hell. And they didn't leave a mark, either.
Oh well. Old cheerleader maxim: that which does not kill me hurts like a son of a bitch. Wake up your inner hard core bitch and carry on.
Cordelia wondered if those Black Company people had any equivalent sayings?
At least they let her go to the freaking bathroom finally, after freaking hours of Dr. Bitch Call-me-fucking-Maggie's 'interview' session. They probably just didn't want to clean up Cordelia pee from the chair and floor. Or try to make her clean it up.
Cordelia suspected that she had gotten a lot more potentially useful information out of that than Maggie had. Not immediately useful in the 'get me out of here' or 'helps me escape' sense, but still... interesting. She wanted more of those 'off the official record' sessions.
Maggie really wasn't as smart or as good as she thought she was. Or, more accurate, she was just as intelligent as she thought she was. And with all of the blind arrogance that that gave to the true geniuses amongst us.
Read: manipulable by someone who was smart, only half as arrogant, and who had excelled at manipulation from the age of around seven or eight. And who had been trained in it by an expert: Cordelia's daddy, Randall Chase.
Dammit. She was so not gonna cry for her parents and maid again. Not where these... people could see her do it.
The fact that a male guard hadn't come in to watch her piss and crap told her volumes. It said that there were cameras in here as well.
Cordelia rinsed her face in cold water again, relishing the relative alone time. Relative was all she was going to get from now on. No moisturizer. Her complexion was going to be a wreck if this lasted for very long.
No weapons in here either.
Oh well.
And, huh? Was that a very small, bright green flash shooting down and across the freaking bathroom? And hey, there was something in her hair!
A tiny, female voice piped up right in her ear, and Cordelia let out a small shriek and jump.
"Hi! Lady Cordelia! Private Scout Pooka reporting!"
Yikes! The something in her hair could talk! Oh, wait... "Uh, Pooka? Pooka the pixie?" Cordelia ventured, very quietly, trying not to move her lips at all if possible.
"Yes. Duh. And heya, are you ok?"
"No. But I'm making it. Jeeze, you scared me to death!"
"Sorry," the diminutive faerie said. She didn't sound sorry, and the tiny giggle was a dead give away. Cordelia began to wash her hands, doing a slow and thorough job of it. "We want to let you know we're around."
"We?" Cordelia said, blinking.
"The First Scouts, duh," Pooka said. "Of the First Sunnydale Irregulars, Tech-comm. Resistance."
Wow. Oh-kay... uh, waitammint. Xander's junior freaking soldier brigade? Those Irregulars?
"Uh. Ok. Umm... hey. Be very careful, kids. These are bad, bad people."
"Uh huh!" Pooka said, cheerfully. "We are too! Bad to our bones! Got a message?"
"Huh? Message?"
"For Tech-sergeant Xander, duh! Message!"
Oh, gods yes, did she ever. She had so many messages and so much to say to him that she could never, ever fit it into the time she had here for talking...
"Oh, God's teeth yes. Is he all right?"
"Hurt! Hurt bad. But gonna get better. Message?"
Oh, thank gods. "Tell him... tell him that I'm all right, and I am coming to him just as soon as I can get out of here. And that Walsh is waiting so she can capture him, too. Stay away from her. And... and he already knows everything else I want to say. I'll tell him in person."
Oh hell yes, she would. Hours and hours of pillow talk, before, between, and after long bouts of freaking wild hot steamy sex.
"Okay!"
"You got all of that?" Cordelia said, quietly.
"Uh huh! Pooka Bell Scout. Have good memory, you bet!"
"Good. Uh, will I see you again?"
"Sure! Just call."
"Call?"
"My name, duh. Don't have to be loud."
Good to know. And Cordelia suddenly felt immeasurably better, and immensely cheered. She wasn't alone now, even if she was captured and in enemy hands. And even if her allies were little kids.
Hey. If what Aura had said was true, they were the most dangerous little kids in Sunnydale. Thank you, Ethan Rayne.
Hell, she might have one of his children one of these days, just for this.
"Chase! Out!" the door opened and Umbridge, her personal pestilence, stuck his head in, smirking. "Douche on your own time."
"It's ok. I don't have a douche bag," Cordelia said, drying her hands hurriedly. "May I use you?"
"Out!" he said, crossing the three steps and grabbing her by the upper arm to haul her out. He just barely caressed her with that damned baton, sending screaming agony through her lower back.
Cordelia did her best to bite back a scream, but a small involuntary shriek came out anyway.
"You certainly took your time," Walsh said, smirking as Cordelia was dragged out to face her. "And here I was thinking that you were in a hurry to get some clothing on."
"Had to take a dump. Oddly, it greatly resembled you," Cordelia said. "Do you have a twin?"
Yikes! Day-um, that hurt. Umbridge gave her just a touch more of the baton, high on the inner thigh. Cordelia was suddenly in way too much pain to shriek, or even to scream. She just gasped and bent forward a bit...
And a small furiously glowing green blur came out of her hair, screaming shrilly in rage, and kicked a startled and frantically backpedaling Umbridge right in the nose. It then yelled, "Air Raid!" at the top of its tiny lungs, lunged –
– And stuck a small sword right into Umbridge's left eye.
The entire room near the bathrooms was suddenly filled with tiny, fast moving, glowing blurs. All of them screaming things like "Kowabonga!", "Bool-ya!", and "Yippee Kiyi Mutherfuck!"
Director Doctor Margaret Call-me-Maggie fucking Walsh was caught flat footed, leaning, and frozen in full on gape mouthed astonishment, her eyes wide and her mouth working like a fish out of water's.
Cordelia grinned like a she wolf, bent over further, and lunged forward, slamming the top of her head into Maggie Walsh's upper abdomen. The breath went out of her in a whoulf! - Maggie's breath, not Cordelia's. Cordelia straightened, bringing her knee up sharply between Walsh's legs in the bad place. She'd learned in the school yard that that hurt girls as badly as it did boys. And then she brought the other knee up at the same time as her clenched, cuffed hands came down like a club on Walsh's neck.
She felt something crunch and squish under the knee, she wasn't sure what.
Umbridge was staggering around like an idiot, waving his baton around with a hand clapped to his bleeding eye socket. Tiny blurred, glowing streaks were zooming around the room at high speed, attacking every orderly, nurse, and Maggie Walsh Agent in sight. Pandemonium wasn't quite yet reigning, but it wasn't far off.
Well, let's just do something about that.
Cordelia gauged her timing with a practiced and professional cheerleader's eye, and latched onto Umbridge's baton forearm with both cuffed hands and sank her teeth into his wrist. He screamed, dropping the glowing ended baton, starting to turn his head toward her.
It was just natural then to reach in and yank the pistol out of his open belt holster. It was right there, butt turned toward her.
The muzzle went up as she skipped back and away, barefoot, and the first round took out his other eye.
No safety. Good to know.
Cordelia turned toward the other orderlies and the two, count 'em, two armed agents, her lips peeled back from her teeth in her best beauty queen smile. Except it wasn't a smile, it was a feral grin of triumph.
Lahini.
The two agents tried, they really did. Even beset and beleaguered by three small glowing and shrieking maniacs, one with a pair of small swords, they tried. It didn't help any, and it did them no good at all.
Cordelia turned the pistol on them, both cuffed hands on the grips in a two handed grip, and centered the sights on the most dangerous looking one. The one with the pistol closest to coming toward her, not the one blindly firing into the air and ceiling trying to hit the pixies. Just the way that Daddy had taught her to, long ago.
He caught the first round somewhere amidships, and she kept squeezing the trigger until he went over and down, dropping his handgun. It went off when it hit the tiled floor, and she never knew where the bullet went. It didn't hit her, and that's all that mattered.
Number two caught the rest of the magazine until the gun clicked empty with the slide locked back and he went down. Orderlies were screaming, yelling, cowering, and diving behind or under any cover they could find.
Cordelia knelt, reached, and pulled the two magazines from dead Umbridge's belt pouch, and reloaded awkwardly.
Bitch Walsh recovered fast at the sound of gunfire, damn her. She was heading out the door all a scramble, screaming; gone before Cordelia had finished reloading. Dammit.
Ah well. Target rich environment, as the action movie guys would say. No end of things to waste bullets on while she was busy hunting down Walsh.
Speaking of...
Mr. Gropey Hands and Pocket Pool was doing his best to hide under an end table, seemingly unaware that it wasn't even concealment, much less cover.
"Hi there," Cordelia said, looking down at him. She tossed her tangled hair, giving him her best and most brilliant smile. "You miss me? Wanna cop another feel?"
He screamed, covered his head with his arms, and pissed his pants.
Three rounds down out of this magazine. Maybe the other orderlies would learn from his bad example. She picked up the dropped handguns, ejected the magazines, and bent to pick them up, laying the pistols down where they had fallen.
Lahini. The meat is getting pretty near the bone, but the bone is not yet cracked.
"Come on! Come on! Come on!" Pooka Bell shrilled, doing loops by the door.
Cordelia nodded and went. Screw Walsh. Time to leave... Orderlies and nurses she ignored, unless they were stupid enough to come at, rather than run away or dive for cover. Security guards, suited Agents, and Walsh goons were fair game. Cordelia wasn't the world's best shot with a handgun, especially an unfamiliar one, but the ranges were very short. And they were distracted by kamikaze pixies...
And she was in the grip of an icy cold berzerker rage that carried its own peculiar calm and deadly certainty with it.
Cordelia now kind of wished she'd paid more attention at that course at that ranch, whatever, in Arizona, but... oh well. Too late now.
Once she was out of here, she'd have to get Chief Warrant Officer Michaela to teach her how to do it right.
With the three pixies leading, scouting, and calling out, one violet glowing, and two green, Cordelia almost made it to the reception and intake area. One magazine empty, one halfway or more. She'd lost count. One with three rounds missing...
And then there was a massive ZORCH sound, and a brilliant ozone smelling bolt of pure incandescent pain struck her, and blackness came over all of a sudden.
She was still smiling when she hit the ground, limp, and with unconsciousness closing in from around the edges.
Lahini.
Fuck you, assholes. Die a little.
Monday, November 3, 1997: 1630 Revello Drive, Sunnydale, Afternoon 1:15pm –
Urgh. There was something or someone pounding on the inside of her brain. No, wait... it was outside of her brain. Whew.
Wait, pounding? Tapping... and a small, shrill shrieking voice. Shrieking? Oh, crap.
Dawn cracked open her eyes, rolling out of the puppy pile she was sharing with 'Kat, Chessie, and Devila in their bed in the den. Mom had kinda given up on that one, probably just too exhausted to fight with Dawn any more.
'Kat, Chessie, Cap, and Devila wouldn't fight. or argue. They just did their best to explain in calm and reasoned voices, or maintained a stony silence when that didn't work until Joyce gave up on yelling at them. Dawn did her best to argue back.
As a result of which, she was probably grounded until Graduation. From high school. Maybe college.
Oh well. Dawn was rapidly learning that there were prices to be paid for trying to be an eleven year old grownup. And a lot of them weren't pleasant ones. Dawn also knew that a lot of it came from her mother being worried half sick about Buffy being in the hospital with everything going on up there surrounding Xander, and Michaela's people.
Knowing that didn't help.
Yawning, Dawn padded rapidly over to the den window and raised it. A small, green glow shot in through the gap at high speed, screaming, "Mom! Mom! Momma Joyce! Mom! Mom!" and headed out the door for points beyond.
"Pooka?" Dawn ran out of the den after the blurring, hysterical pixie Scout, wondering just what the hell, uh, heck had her in such an uproar. Oh, gods. Cordelia. Oh God no...
Heads popped up all over the den from under blankets and covers as she went by after Pook, blinking and scrambling out of bed.
"Mom! They have Lady Cordelia at that place and they were mean to her! And they hurt her and I jabbed one of 'em in the eye and then Lady Cordelia was shooting and running and then they hit her with lightning and she fell and didn't move and... "
Joyce was standing in the living room, covered in some kind of batter and flour, and trying to wipe her hands on a dish rag that she didn't have while listening to the rush of words. With her eyes wide, and a shocked and terrified look on her face.
Cap, Wicked, Sav, and the rest of the Irregular's Scout division crowded into the living room from the den hallway and the family room, equally wide eyed.
"Pook! Slow down, report!" 'Kat demanded. It didn't help any.
Cap tried as well, with her best command tones. It didn't help either.
"And I have a message that she's ok and that she's coming for him and not to go because they're waiting but the Tech-sergeant is locked up and everyone's asleep and I couldn't get in and... " Pooka Bell was doing tight spiraling loops in a kind of a jittery hover, right in front of Joyce, and about three feet away.
Dawn ran on into the kitchen, grabbed a dish towel and wet it, grabbed another, dry one, spun and ran back. She handed both of them to her mom, who said, absently, "Thanks dear," and began using the moist one to clean up with, draping the dry one over her shoulder. It hit the ground behind her.
"Pook! Halt! Report, Scout," Dawn said. "Slow down, please, Pooka. We can't understand you. Please."
Pooka Bell snapped her head around, wide eyed. She nodded slowly, took a really deep breath and let it out. And then another. "Ho-kay."
"How did you do that, Dawn?" Cap said, shaking her head. Dawn shrugged, as mystified as Cap.
"Pooka? What in the world? What's wrong, dear?" Joyce said, finally, using her best 'soothing the terrified kid' tones. Dawn picked up the dry towel again and handed it to her. This time it went over the shoulder and stayed.
Taking another deep breath and letting it out, Pooka began repeating her report again, slowly and precisely, obviously doing her best to not go into hysterics again.
" ... and she went down, and we don't know if she's alive 'cause we had to go go go, and then I was out and going hospital, and then here. Home," Pooka finished up. She took a deep breath again, and let it out slowly, and said, clearly and precisely. "You have to radio in to the Chief Warrant Officer Captain and let her know and the Tech-comm Colonel Sir and let them know. I couldn't wake 'em up, either of 'em."
"Who's we, Pook?" Aura said from over at the foot of the stairs. She'd stayed over after the Lieutenant Colonel had dropped the rest of the kids off, and had taken a quick nap in Buffy's room. Apparently, all the commotion had woken her.
Well, yeah, gee, Dawn, of course it had. It probably woke up people for six blocks around.
It's a wonder that Pooka Bell didn't shatter windows on the way in with a sonic boom, as agitated as she was...
"The Losted Boys pixies, duh."
Dawn felt her lips twitch at the corners, and saw 'Kat and Chessie's ears come up. If Pook could be sarcastic, then she was recovering fast.
"And Cordelia shot people?" Joyce was saying, her eyes wide.
"Uh huh!" Pooka nodded vigorously. "She grabbed a gun thing from the mean guy with the glowing wand who hurt her after I stuck him in the eye, and then bang bang bang bang bang!"
"Good for her," Aura said. Joyce shot her a quelling look, but didn't contradict the sentiment.
"You shouldn't stick people in the eye, Pooka," Joyce said. "Even if they do have it coming."
"He hurt Lady Cordelia," Pooka said, folding her arms across her chest and sticking her lower lip out stubbornly. "He was bad."
Give it up, mom. You are just not going to change any Irregulars' minds on that one. Hurt one of ours at your own risk.
"I've got... oh crap," Aura said.
"Oh crap?" Dawn and everyone else was looking over at her, including Pooka and Joyce. Oh crap usually signaled a not good thing...
"I don't know if I can wake up Michaela. Or should," Aura said, biting at her lower lip. "She was hurting bad, and seriously out on her feet when we left."
Cap, 'Kat, Chessie, and Devila nodded. "She was, really," Devila said. "Fall down and go boom out."
"Is there anyone else we can call?" Joyce said. "We have to do something."
"We may not be able to," Cap said, her eyes going wider. "The Captain was ordered not to do anything about Cordelia."
"Crap, you're right," Aura said, scowling. "And if she's woken up, she'll grab a gun and go charging in, and either get killed or fired. Or thrown in prison. Dammit."
"Aura. Not in front of the kids," Joyce said. But she looked like she wanted to use stronger language herself. Dawn sure did. "How could they order her not to do anything? Even on something like, like... this?"
"Legal stuff, Mrs. Summers," Aura said. "Apparently, this Walsh woman has seriously powerful friends and backers. More powerful than the Black Company's or Michaela's colonel does."
"Well, that's just not right," Joyce said.
"I agree," Aura said, nodding. "But it is."
"We'll have to do it ourselves," 'Kat said.
"No!" Joyce, Aura, and Dawn all snapped out, more or less at the same time. 'Kat's ears flattened, her pupils went huge, and her tail turned into a bottle brush and started lashing back and forth.
"Sorry, 'Kat," Dawn said, holding her hands out, palms outward. "But we can't. We'll get killed. Or worse, we might get Cordelia killed. Would you want that? Would Xander want that?"
"No. Wouldn't," 'Kat said, finally. Still lashing her tail.
"This one's not something we can do right now, Private," Cap said, shaking her head slowly. "Dawn's right."
'Kat made that sneezing, coughing, bullshit sound, and then said, "Crap," very distinctly.
"I agree," Aura said. "Oh! I think that Air Force Colonel gave me his number, too. He probably isn't quite so dead to the world. I can at least tell him what happened, even if he can't do anything."
"We need to call Mr. Giles, too," Dawn said slowly, thinking things through. "He may not be able to do anything but he needs to know. And our Colonel and the First Sergeant as well."
"Way ahead of you on that one, Private Dawn," Aura said. "They're next on my list. Tam's dad after them."
"Tam's dad?" Joyce said, looking puzzled.
"Tamara St. Marins, one of the Cordettes. She and Jonathan were involved in that shooting at the Bronze, and almost victims," Aura said, pausing with her thumb over the 'send' key. "Her dad is in the know, now, and while he's not military or even an American, he owns St. Marins Petroleum. And he has a lot of powerful friends and connections. Wealthy oil people always do. They have to."
"Oh." Joyce said, nodding. "Ok."
"We're having that meeting you're invited to at their house tonight," Aura said. "That Tam. I'd call Cordelia's grandfather, too, if I had his number." She pressed send and held up a hand.
"Maybe Giles will, or the school," Dawn said.
Aura nodded, and then, after a couple of long minutes, said, "Hello, Colonel Brock? Aura. Sorry to wake you, but we have a huge problem..."
Monday, November 3, 1997: Sunnydale MHMR, Topanga Street, Sunnydale city limits, Afternoon 1:45pm –
Dr. Margaret Walsh sat behind the desk in her office at Sunnydale County MHMR, trying to get her nerves and her still periodically trembling hands under control. She had a metal splint and gauze over her broken and flattened nose – which still throbbed even after being set with a local – and an ice pack to the bruise on the back of her neck.
What was wrong with these people?
She could expect something like a brutal assault from someone like that, that soldier woman, she supposed. And the other two soldiers. And understand it, even. The poor things were the product of a brutal environment and training, and probably not really capable of understanding anything except violence, or dealing with people in any other than a brutal manner.
But Cordelia Chase was the product of a good, wealthy family. And well raised, by all accounts, and with absolutely zero incidents or indications in her records of criminal or violent behavior. No record of any training in violence, or in martial arts, either, for that matter.
Well, except for one, possibly.
She had taken the Heckler & Koch executive protection course at one point, at the insistence of her father, apparently. And the anti-kidnapping course at something called "L.F.I.". Back when all that furor was in the news about violent kidnappings, extortion, and killings of dependents of wealthy businessmen in Latin America and the lower Caribbean. Apparently her family traveled down there frequently on business and vacations. Also a course at something called "Gunsite" in Arizona, whatever that was.
Walsh was going to have to look into both of those courses, apparently, and determine precisely what they entailed, especially for psychological behavior evaluation purposes. Know thy subject.
Apparently, she hadn't known Cordelia Chase well enough.
And, of course, there was a mention in Chase's file that she had been a skeet and trap shooter from a fairly young age. Even had won several trophies in competitions. However, that did not train one in sudden and irrevocable violence. Not like the military or police did.
Margaret Walsh had shot trap and skeet before, herself. She had found it barbaric, but fun and a bit relaxing, in an odd sort of way.
It hadn't turned her into someone capable of an explosion of sudden and lethal violence...
She really, really didn't understand this. Nor this... Chase woman, and what drove her to be like this. It was an aberration that she hadn't really encountered during her career as a clinical psychiatrist, except in violent criminals and so called street gang members. Not in children from good families and wealthy social backgrounds.
Christ, Walsh thought, taking a sip of the Scotch she had poured herself. Strictly medicinal, of course.
Umbridge dead. Four other agents dead. One agent, the one who had finally gotten Chase with a PEBW, completely blinded. Two security guards, one male, one female, dead. And that orderly, what was his name, the one that Walsh's scrutiny of his records had indicated he was ideal to her purposes... also dead.
That one had been shot deliberately and coldly, with Chase looking down at him while he cowered unarmed under a table.
Well, if she had needed any more evidence that Chase was violently insane and delusional, she now had it. On the security video tapes.
They would, of course, need to be carefully edited by an expert to remove any frames and scenes that might be viewed as... provocative by outsiders. Or as provocation.
But that was easily done. The DRI had technicians skilled at that. So did the Company, and so did any number of her backers.
Thankfully, no one had had the occasion to call the police or Sheriff's Department before Walsh had run to her office and shut down the outside phone lines and turned on the Initiative communications scrambler for cell phones. Walsh had time now to place the proper calls and make sure the County response was controlled, appropriate, and... discrete.
And, good gods. What were those little green glowing things?
Margaret Walsh was beginning to detest this pestilent town with its infestation of HSTs, both large and small. A pity that it was such a mecca for the things, and thus for her research. Else she'd be sorely tempted to recommend that Sunnydale be nuked.
Screw it. She took another painkiller and washed it down with the rest of her Scotch. Call the local Sheriff, and set the stage and legalities in motion. Then, time to call it an early day and go home to her UCS campus apartment. Plenty of time tomorrow to deal with Cordelia Chase, and with that Barkley woman. And to start experiments on that Creed fellow.
None of them were going anywhere.
And Chase could stew in her restraints all day and night, unfed. It wouldn't harm her any, and it might do her attitude some good.
Shaking her head, Dr. Walsh pulled her keyboard over and began to add to and amend her report.
It never occurred to Dr. Margaret Walsh that some civilians don't really like being pushed around. And when they are, eventually, they'll push back. Hard.
And some have a lower tolerance for it than others...
Some civilians are even familiar with firearms. And an awful lot of the time, they tend to be better shots than the police, or security guards. They enjoy shooting, and they practice.
And more than a few civilian women have a seriously low tolerance for sexual abuse. Some of them will even react violently to it, one might say.
SUBJECT: CORDELIA DESIREE CHASE
OBSERVATIONS: Subject displays classic signs of clinical psychosis, inclusive of a detailed and comprehensive aberrant subjective world view. Subject's aberrational state displays an extreme flexibility, including the ability to incorporate seemingly contradictory elements of normal consensual reality into the subjective state such that any and all conflicting input are able to be rationalized and explained away without violating the internal logical consistency of the delusional state.
Initial observation and interviews demonstrate that subject believes that a murderous, unstoppable humanoid android from the distant future has returned to the past seeking her death and the death of her paramour, Alexander Lavelle Harris (see attached supplement). Further, subject apparently believes said paramour to be a temporally displaced trained combat soldier sent to protect and to save her from the aforementioned "killer cyborg". The object fact of this future savior's physical indistinguishability from her childhood acquaintance is thoroughly rationalized via the delusional certainty that his "future soldier" alter ego "jumped" into Alexander Harris' body and either subsumed or displaced the previous owner's personality and self identification.
The subject's delusions include a detailed account of said supposedly indestructible creature's destruction at her hands and those of her companions via a combination of heavy weaponry, persistence, and imaginative use of environmental factors. It should be noted that neither the weaponry that the subject stated to have used for these purposes, nor any corroborative evidence or remains of such a creature were found within the vicinity of the subject when she was apprehended shortly after said altercation supposedly occurred.
While it is true that subsequent events have demonstrated that subject Chase was being pursued by yet another childhood acquaintance who apparently seeks to commit homicide upon her person, this should not be taken as verification of the verisimilitude of her subjective reality. The events at the local teen establishment known as "The Bronze" and the Sunnydale police headquarters can be readily explained by a combination of factors not excluding 1) military grade ballistic armor 2) pain and sense deadening drugs such as PCP and various psychotropic compounds and finally, 3) simple bad aim on the part of police officers and the local firearms users at the club.
DIAGNOSIS: Clinical psychosis, in conjunction with violent pseudo schizophrenic delusional state, paranoid delusions, martyr complex, and severe antisocial personality disorder. Subject is qualitatively non compos mentis, and unable to function safely or effectively within the boundaries of nonclinical society.
ADDENDUM: Delusional state and advanced antisocial personality disorder coupled with an extreme level of self absorption has led to subject being complicit in multiple deaths inclusive of several teen acquaintances, numerous law enforcement and military personnel, as well as several MHMR clinical staff members. Subject is to be considered exremely dangerous.
RECOMMENDATION: Involuntary commitment for an unspecified duration for purposes of observation and treatment. It is this expert's professional opinion that subject is currently not psychologically competent to stand trial, nor able to manage her own affairs. Further, based upon both clinical observation and the recorded evidence, the subject's violent outbursts and homicidal tendencies indicate that she presents a very clear and present danger both to herself and to society as a whole. (See the attached Sunnydale County Law Enforcement incident report describing the subject's recent attempts to escape confinement.)
ATTENDING PHYSICIAN: Dr. Margaret Walsh, MD., DPM.
Monday, November 3, 1997: Sunnydale MHMR, Topanga Street, Sunnydale city limits, Afternoon 4:00pm –
"ooohhh... "
And, crap. What hit me?
Oh. That. Some sort of weird, awful, painful thing. Like a bright flash... Ow, ow, ow. Goddamn that hurts. All over, but especially the head.
So. Maggie's boys have a long range version of that stun pain wand cattle prod thing, huh? Good to know. Just so not good finding out about it the hard way.
And, dammit all to hell. She was almost gone from here. Just had needed past the electronic doors and out through intake and receptions, dammit.
So, how long was she out? Ah, hell. Didn't matter.
In a bed, in a room, and, duh, strapped down and in restraints again. And, of course, naked. Fuck 'em.
She had nearly escaped stark naked and unarmed once already, with nothing but a tiny pixie for a weapon, and two more as a diversion. She could do it again.
A pity that she hadn't gotten to kill Walsh before she went down. Shoulda gone looking for her hidey hole.
Bet they were a lot more careful from now on. And she'd bet they were a bit less gropey.
Naw. Idiots like that never learned. They always blamed the victim when one of said victims got fed up, decided not to take it any more, and decided to fight back, even to the death. Wah! It's not fair! You're supposed to roll over and let us pick on you.
Just like a damned schoolyard bully.
Fuck you. Newsflash. Some of us aren't doormats. Film at eleven.
Some of us don't care what kind of writs and warrants and shiny badges and supposed authority you have. Some of us think that thugs with badges and uniforms are just another kind of bully, and you bleed just like the ones without. And die just like them, too.
They were, no doubt, going to take this out of her ass. Thugs and bullies always do.
Gods. She hoped that Pooka Bell got away, and wasn't hurt. So was not gonna try to call her and find out. Not yet.
And, oh, gods... please, please, please Xander. Stay away from these people. Stay away from this insane bitch. Get killed on me, and I swear I am coming in after you and taking you back. I didn't spend nearly eleven years to get to this point just to have you go and die on me. I am not going to die on you.
Maggie Walsh is. Sooner or later.
Closing her eyes again, Cordelia Chase attempted to get at least semi comfortable and try to get some more sleep. She had the feeling it was going to be a long, long night, and a long several days after it.
Monday, November 3, 1997: South Marion Drive Sunnydale Medical Complex, Sunnydale, Afternoon 4:30pm –
Grrff. But, except for having a mouth like an ash tray, and a slight throb in her ankle and her forearm, Michaela Reeves felt surprisingly good.
Amazing what at least eight hours sleep will do for you. She glanced at the wall clock in the room. Ok, eight hours and forty-five minutes. Groovy.
"I see you're awake, dead person," her Zoomie Colonel said.
"Yup. The dead walk," Michaela said. "Or at least rise from their graves in preparation for walking." So saying, she unfolded herself from around her .416 caliber snuggly toy, and sat up. Slowly and carefully.
Cool. She figured she might actually survive standing in a little while.
Zoomie Colonel handed her a to go cup of coffee. Warm, rather than hot, but serviceable. She sipped at it, noting that he had one of his own, and was dressed back into a clean set of Air Force black fatigues.
"How long you been up? And how'd you know when I would be?" Michaela said, gratefully sucking down more coffee.
Brockhurst snorted. "As long as we've both been in? I've noticed that the habit of sleeping just about eight hours uninterrupted, and very little more or less gets ingrained for some types of us. I figured you were one of them. And, about thirty minutes longer than you."
Michaela nodded. Glancing over at the other bed with the still apparently either sleeping or unconscious Harris, she said, "Developments?"
"Why, yes. And you are not going to like several of them," Brockhurst said, his face set like granite. "I know, because I am not very fond of at least one of them."
"I haven't liked most developments over the past twenty four hours, Colonel," Michaela said. "Hit me."
"You asked for it."
Brockhurst's report was concise, in very plain and simple language, and left nothing to the imagination. Michaela was quiet for a long time, and then she nodded carefully, and had some more coffee. Finishing her cup, she pointed at the other unopened one, and said, mildly, "Is that one for me also?"
Nodding, Brockhurst handed it to her, and said, "I am amazed."
"What, you expected me to jump out of bed screaming, grab my battle rifle, and charge off in my underwear to the rescue?"
"Something like that, yes," he said.
"FIIGMO," Michaela said. "Fuck it, I got my orders. There is absolutely nothing I can do about or for Cordelia Chase right at this moment. I am not allowed to, and I have been pointedly told I am not allowed to. Maggie Walsh and Cordelia Chase are off fucking limits to me."
"Ok, now I am worried," Brockhurst said, frowning. "There's a detonation lurking in here somewhere, I just know it."
Michaela grinned at him. There was very little humor in that grin. "Naw. I'm gone icy cold now. Amazing what a quick patch job and eight of forty will do for you. I am centered and lethal now, rather than running on and past the ragged edge like I was all last night."
"Ah. I see."
"Do know this, however," Michaela said. "While I will not go off the rez yet, at some point, Margaret Walsh's immunity will end. And then she will die. I would like to do it with my hands, but slow is not necessary. A hollow point between the eyes from a precision rifle kills them just as dead, and is just as satisfying."
"Ah. That sounds more like the Michaela Reeves I am coming to know and tolerate," Brockhurst said, nodding. "Was worried for a bit. Welcome back, Captain."
"Thank you. And, aww. You missed me?"
"Not so much, no," Brockhurst said, and they both broke out into quiet laughter for a minute or so. "I did mention, I believe, that Chase accounted for at least four of Walsh's goons, a couple or three security guards, and an orderly or two. Inclusive of Umbridge." He snorted softly, "I understand that once they managed to calm her down, Pooka Bell's report was descriptive and very precise."
"I am more and more impressed with those kids," Michaela said. "And I have to say, they scare hell out of me, both of, and especially for them."
"Yeah. This isn't the Congo or Côte d'Ivoire," Brockhurst said. "Child soldiers here in the U.S. of A. are disconcerting."
Harris groaned in the next bed, and they both looked over at him. There were no more sounds or movement from him, however. Just more slow and steady breathing.
"Uh huh, they are," Michaela said. "Just recall, though: Farragut was awarded his first prize command for valor in combat at age twelve. Audie Murphy enlisted at seventeen, and would have at fifteen or sixteen if they'd of let him. Child soldiers are not a new thing. I just hate to see kids grow up that fast, and that hard."
"We all do."
"And, did I happen to mention that I really, really like that Chase girl," Michaela said.
"It may have crossed your lips once or twice, yes," Brockhurst said.
"Yeah. Civilian, hell. She was born to be one of the Black Company."
"What? Insubordinate, stubborn, too dense to know when she's outgunned, dangerous and outright homicidal?" Brockhurst said, smiling.
"And those are her good qualities," Michaela said, smiling back. "Other developments, please. Now that I am semi awake."
"All right, in précis form," Brockhurst said. "Pooka also came back with a message for Harris from Chase. I have it written down. Harris woke briefly, twice. Doctors and nurses checked him over both times, somehow without waking you. They believe that he'll be able to be moved safely tomorrow evening if he continues to improve."
"Groovy. Means we can move him unsafely before that if an emergency arises tomorrow," Michaela said, nodding. "Next?"
"Both times he went back under without speaking, and without seeming to be really aware. Not unusual in blast concussion cases, I'm given to understand. Your Major also awoke briefly, I understand. Your Master Sergeant has not, as of yet. And, your two backups and your legal advisors arrived shortly after I got the call from Aura."
"Also groovy."
"They have been spelling your MP guards here off and on," Brockhurst said. "Also, my chopper is back, along with some of my gear and assorted items, fully fueled and prepped. Ammo was located and brought for your big rifle, handgun, and my rifle in trust. I did not ask where it was acquired from. Thought it safer not to know. And, finally, our meeting is set for eight PM, civilian time."
"Probably right on that. You give good précis, Colonel," Michaela said. "Ok. I'm gonna throw on some old, comfortable battle dress, and then let's go meet my new pet killers and my JAG and CID weenies."
"Can hardly wait."
"And then I need food, a shower, more coffee, and some real clothes, not necessarily in that order."
Michaela slid out of bed, and began going through the items that her MP guys had scrounged for her. For all of her talk of not wanting Air Farce to see her in her OD skivvies, she didn't bother being coy or modest. Wasn't the way that troops in a combat zone acted, male or female.
If Brockhurst wanted to catch a thrill from it, more power to him.
Michaela hadn't fully decided whether she wanted to take him for a tumble at some point or not, yet, anyway. Girls will be boys, and boys will be girls, even on the battle field, and fuck it. He wasn't a subordinate, nor in her chain of command, anyway.
.