DISCLAIMER: I don't own the characters represented in this work, those are owned by their creators, publishers, or distributors. No profit will be made. The first crossover of this story appears this chapter, I will wait till the chapter is over before disclosing it, so it remains a pleasant surprise.

- start -

Chapter 3

Waking up is Hard to do

or

Aren't You Suppose to be Badass

Ever since I lost my eye, I've had a particular affinity for blind awareness. With the loss of an eye comes the addition of a blind spot, and I've always felt that my mind compensated in different ways.

It's not ESP, or something outrageous like that, rather my spatial awareness seemed to have taken an impressive turn for the better; something which has saved my life more times than I'd care to experience. You see it all the time in people who lose one of their five senses, the others work to compensate for the loss.

A side effect of this is a heightened awareness when sleeping. Specifically, when waking up, I'm able to immediately discern where I am in a room and what's around me.

So forgive me for being frightened when I couldn't feel or see anything.

It might have been how dark it was; the first thing I noticed. All encompassing darkness, the kind that makes navigating your way in a desert by moonlight seem like a stroll in a commercial shopping center.

The second thing I noticed was the pain. And once I'd noticed that it was rather impossible to stop.

Leaving the state of sleep occurs differently for everyone, some are chipper and perky the instant their head leaves their pillow, others require copious amounts of coffee just to open their eyes. But everyone agrees that waking up after experiencing blunt force trauma induced unconsciousness is as much fun as listening to a collector of NAZI memorabilia wax poetic on his love of a man named Adolf. Your head feels cloudy and stuffed with cotton, and all your limbs feel as if they were sewn on by an amateur surgeon, who, instead of paying attention in medical school, did something else; like signing up for an experimental lobotomy.

Then it occurred to me, that beside badly formed metaphors, the pain in my head was from the fact that I was lying face down on a stone floor, good eye down, eye patch up. Which also explained the darkness.

It took a couple rocks back and forth to get enough speed, but somehow I managed to drudge up enough momentum to roll onto my back. I also manage to accomplish this feat looking like a particularly uncoordinated turtle. But then, it's not like I'm auditioning for Cirque du Soleil.

The room I'd been left in was a cold stone box, with a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling for illumination. Presumably the room was for holding targets of interest for the Watcher's Council, whatever demon of the week they're combating, or vampire they feel like interrogating.

The naked bulb and exposed fixture certainly set the mood, I could feel the shivers down my back.

Or wait it's actually just really damn cold and all I was wearing was a t-shirt and jeans.

That reminded me.

Quickly, I performed a thorough inventory. They'd left me in my boots, jeans, and t-shirt, but they removed the knives I kept by my ankle, and the folding knife I kept in my left pocket.

More importantly I grabbed my crotch.

Everything's still there. Thank God, that would be incredibly awkward.

I dragged myself over to the cot in the corner of the room, pulling myself up to sit on the thin, musky, mattress covered in unidentifiable substances. There's no toilet in the room, so I assume it's for short term prisoners only, or they forgot to leave a bucket. I don't want to know what the stains on the mattress are from.

Mattresses are like sponges.

In any case, there's really no point breaking free without hearing what they want first. I was under no illusion that the reason they knocked me unconscious and dragged me to an undisclosed location is to invite me to a tea party, but curiosity made me sit back and wait for the shoe to drop. Which is probably a mistake, but then it wouldn't be the first and it most certainly won't be the last.

Of course at this point the maximum amount of dramatic tension had passed since my awakening, and my captors have probably assumed that I've peaked in fear and nervousness. It's a pretty common tactic when kidnapping somebody, but it seems they neglected to stay till the end of the lecture, as this technique is entirely unhelpful when dealing with people who are experienced in kidnapping.

Not that I regularly kidnap people. It's more like a hobby.

The door swung inward, screaming on un-oiled hinges. Heavy soled English shoes stride confidently into the room, followed by size 12 combat boots, and then it's a three pairs of women's shoes I don't know the name of.

The first two are obvious, Giles, still dressed in tweed, this time a suit of rather impeccable tailoring, and Robin, every bit the armchair general in his overly dramatic tactical turtle neck. I had to force my head up to confirm the identity of the last three. Faith, Willow, Dawn; in that order.

"To what do I owe the pleasure." I drawled out, trying to look relaxed on the most uncomfortable mattress in the world

It's a welcome shock when Faith quips back "I was thinking of accessorizing with an eye patch. I wanted your fashion advice."

Dawn giggled, Robin's face twisted like he'd inhaled a lungful of fart. It was a good look.

"As charming as that would be, I believe it would be pertinent to focus on the actual reason that we brought you here." As expected Giles cut to the chase.

"Let me guess, you forgot to pay your phone bill, and you haven't learned how to email. Kidnapping is step three."

"It wasn't kidnapping." Willow protested, and as happy as I am to see her after all these years, the circumstances don't lend themselves to a heartfelt reunion.

"Not with Nancy Drew here doing the kidnapping." I twisted my head toward Dawn, "Who told you to hit me with a baseball bat? You could've given me a concussion."

"Not a bad thing" Robin muttered, Faith hit him.

"I read it in a book" Dawn protested, "They said if you wrap the baseball bat with a towel, you prevent internal bleeding."

"Which isn't the same as a concussion." Also I distinctly remember her not using a towel.

"Well excuse me, master of head injuries." She stopped, took one look at the eye patch. "Sorry."

"No, that was actually pretty funny."

Faith grinned; I glared at her with my one good eye.

"I'm also experienced with being choked." She stopped grinning.

I think at that point Robin wanted to step in to defend his girlfriends honor, but Giles cut him off before he could even begin.

"Please don't let Xander distract us from what's important."

"I'm pretty good at that."

It was his turn to glare, "Yes, yes you are."

Now, as I was saying: Xander, we need your help."

"And you thought kidnapping me would garner my eternal well wishes and cherished gratitude?" At this point I start letting my hands wander, scratching at the itches that seem to have cropped up since this conversation started; my body was starting to experience the pins and needles effect. "You're off to a great start."

"Yes, well, we figured you wouldn't be amiable to a conventional meeting. Robin believed this would be the only way to get your attention."

"And you thought he was a bastion of knowledge on diplomacy-"

"Hey, I don't have to take this!" Robin gnashed his teeth. Raising his voice in the stone chamber was akin to a roar. "We're giving you a chance to redeem yourself."

Now I really had to restrain myself from reaching over and pulling out his tongue. So I did the only thing I knew would make him mad.

I turned to Giles, "So what did you want?"

"Don't Ignore Me!-"

"Enough." It was barely a whisper. "Robin, I already told you how good he is at deflecting a conversation. If you don't want to look like a fool, don't let him play you like one. And Xander?" He turned and gave me the look a parent gives to their kid when they find the cookie jar open, and all but one of the cookies missing. "Would you please be serious."

"Fair enough... G-man" I said, resuming my scratching. "Please, continue your fascinating story."

He stifled a cough, sparing a glance at Robin before continuing. "We need your help bringing Buffy back to the Council."

I didn't quite understand that, "Me and Buff didn't exactly part on the best of terms, if you and everyone else she shares some form of emotional attachment to failed, how do you expect me to drag her back?"

"We don't expect you to convince her over a cup of tea. She's more than proven her disinterest in returning to fight. No, she's rather attached to her current beau, The Immortal."

"She's still hobnobbing with that undead Mafioso?"

"Yes, quite. She seems rather satisfied under his attention." Considering his wealth, who wouldn't be? Most women accessorize with jewelry, Buffy could choose between Ferraris.

"And what, Faith can't step up to fill the void?"

She bristled at that, "I can handle myself just fine."

"Yes," Giles continued, "Faiths competency is not at question, the issue is wasted resources. Buffy is the most senor slayer alive, she's a valuable asset that's being wasted by her refusal to leave her life of leisure."

"And you think it's unfair of her to want a break from the hardship of being a slayer?"

"While I'd be more than happy to grant her a reprieve, half a decade spent in the lap of luxury is a more than generous vacation."

I may not approve of her penchant for dating the undead, but even I'm not so cruel as to begrudge her a boyfriend.

"I'm not particularly interested in taking what little happiness Buffy has left." At this point my scratching has reached my stomach, I can't help but notice Dawn's eyes tracking the lift of my shirt. As painful as it was, Hostess going out of business provided an unexpected boon to my midsection.

"We'd offer you a spot in the Council."

"I quit, remember, I'm not interested in joining again."

"But you'd be safe!" Willow cried, and I knew instantly why she was here.

"You were the one who encouraged me to leave."

She scrunched her face in what she must have thought was her 'Resolve Face', "I thought you'd stop putting yourself in danger."

"Would you be surprised if I told you that job options for someone with an eye patch and little work experience outside fighting demons are staggeringly low?"

At that point my hand had trailed down to my crotch, I scratched shamelessly. That was enough to make the rest of the room collectively cringe.

And that was enough time for me to stuff my hand down the front of my jeans and pull out a handgun: a .380 calibre Walther PPK. I'd tell you the reason I favor this gun is for its light weight, slim design, and uncanny accuracy for a short barrel pistol, but you'd probably assume it's just because James Bond uses one.

You'd be right.

In any case, the gun got their attention and, as an added bonus, stopped the gagging.

"Alright chums, up against the wall."

Robin turned furiously to Dawn, "You said you searched him."

"I did." She said indignantly.

I cut in before he could continue his interesting and relevant line of inquiry, "Word of advice, no one's that hard when they're unconscious, unless they've swallowed a bottle of Viagra." Her face went red. Faith choked on her laugh.

By now my limbs were feeling pretty good and the pain in my head had long passed, I stood up easily."Everyone against the far wall please."

No one moved.

I flicked the safety off; cliché, but effective.

"I said please." Slowly they shuffled over. I carefully kept Faith out of range, placing Willow between us at all times. Giles and Robin were too contained by the others to pose a credible threat, and if Dawn's earlier competency was anything to go by, I wouldn't struggle much there.

Blame a subconscious reflex for gloating, but I couldn't help but throw in one last taunt, "It's been fun catching up, but I've got an episode of Hannibal on my PVR that just can't wait." Then I grabbed the door and slammed it closed.

The door was locked by a single sliding bolt. Following that, I secured the door strike reinforcers at each corner of the frame. Nought but half a second after, the door shook from the force of impact. It took three more ineffectual strikes before Faith gave up.

That left me in the basement, not really a surprise considering the lack of windows, and lack of evidence of it being a room that had been artificially sealed. The concrete walls and floors were clearly original, and the room was likely intended for storage. That would also explain the cold that permeated the room.

It was time to get my exploring on. Come on vamanos, everybody let's go.

- Explore! -

15 minutes later as I finished fiddling with the door, someone behind me coughed.

My hand gripped the Walther, pulling it from my waist, but before I could bring it to ready, a hand snaked around my own and tore it free. Attached to the hand was a slim arm, and following that back to its owner revealed Kennedy wearing the largest and widest shit eating grin I'd ever seen.

Stupid on my part, where Willow goes, she's sure to follow.

The gun disappeared.

"Not in the face?"

She punched me in the solar plexus, "Okay." And then she kneed me in the face.

So much for honesty.

While I remained a lump of bruised flesh curled on the floor, she stepped over me and unlocked the door. "Willow, are you okay?" I guess I couldn't blame her for being worried. It was almost touching; the concern she showed, the gentle embrace.

No wait, screw that.

Fuck! My stomach hurts so fucking much and my face too. Fuck.

As I was doing my best impression of a pill bug, Kennedy, because who else would, grabbed me and dragged me back into the room, with my face.

"Dumbass was fiddling with the door; he didn't even manage to jam the lock"

From my position on the floor my jaw scraped against cement, "If I wasn't in so much pain; I'd say something really witty."

She snorted.

Methinks she still doesn't like me.

A kick to the gut confirmed my theory.

"I hope those sweatpants are comfy, 'cause they aren't doing much for your thighs."

She kicked me again.

"Get up you piece of shit." Kennedy grabbed me by the neck and hauled me upright. The occupants of the room looked pretty amused.

"So," I said, moulding my face into a study on innocence, "you were talking about a benefits package?"

"You get your position back, no strings attached." Giles pushed his freshly polished glasses up the bridge of his nose.

"If you don't want me to talk Buffy in to returning, how do you expect her to leave-" realization hit me, like the soft sensation of an ocean breeze, the sudden and obvious truth surfaced. "You want me to kill The Immortal."

Robin grinned a very unpleasant grin, "thereby giving Buffy all the motivation she needs." He continued as if lecturing a classroom, "It won't be easy, but we believe you have the necessary skills to pull this off."

"And because my methods look nothing like the council's."

The grin got worse.

As if sensing this was a good time to press forward, Giles gestured towards Willow, "We've prepared a contract for you to sign. It basically states the conditions of your task, as well as the various obligations you would be liable for. It's a mere formality of course."

Willow presented a stack of papers from thin air, at least, there was no way she was hiding that in her jeans. She passed them to Giles, who immediately passed them to me.

"Please, Xander, It'd be better for everyone if you came back."

I think Robin would disagree; he's still giving me the stink eye.

The document was standard lawyer speak, filled with double negatives and recursive sentences designed to mislead and misdirect.

Delightful clauses such as:

Xander Harris will act under the oversight and direction of Robin Wood. Orders issued by Robin Wood will be considered equal to the clauses contained within this contract.

Xander Harris will keep Robin Wood, and by extension The Watcher's Council updated as to his actions and whereabouts.

Xander Harris will take all credit for his actions and will not state, imply, or otherwise implicate The Watcher's Council and its member's involvement in any of his actions.

Xander Harris must kill, terminate, eradicate, 'dust', eighty-six, the being known as 'The Immortal', the vampire currently dating, or involving himself romantically and/or sexually, with the Slayer known as Buffy Anne Summers.

Charming.

Further conditions detailed what would constitute completion. Basically, reporting back to Giles and giving a full debriefing. And all that didn't even cover the long paragraphs hidden in the fine print. Which, in a regular contract, probably involves signing away all of my earthly possessions. But this is a magical contract, so earthly possessions aren't worth nearly enough, it is highly likely that by signing this contract I'd be giving up my soul. Or testicles, it really depends.

Even more worrying was the magic energy practically humming off the pages. Magical contracts are as powerful as the Witch or Wizard who makes them. High level contracts require high level magi, to ensure the repercussions of violation are powerful enough to make the strongest demon afraid of breaking contract. To sum up: strong magic equals a strong contract.

As far as I know, Willow is still the most powerful Witch or Wizard in the world. Her nearest competitors are lakes to her oceans, which makes this contract particularly volatile, especially considering her penchant for instability.

Violating the terms of this contract would be tantamount to suicide, except in this case it's using a nuclear bomb in place of a tantō blade. I could expect the magical backlash to fry me from the inside out, effectively turning me into homebrew fish and chips. I don't know whether to feel flattered over the attention to detail, or horrified over the meticulous stipulations that are assuredly hiding in the fine print.

Capping off the legal document are the signatures of all the names involved, excluding Buffy's, The Immortal's, and my own. An empty line indicates where they'd like me to sign.

"You'll be bringing Kennedy with you." Giles said, "She's agreed to act as our liaison."

Judging from the look on her face, she wants to do it as much as I do.

"She looks old enough not to need a baby sitter."

"Fuck you."

Robin looked disapproving, or maybe constipated. More intriguing was Giles, who for all intents should look just as disgruntled, instead he had a somewhat pleased expression plastered on his face.

"That's too bad Xander." He waved for his posse to leave, "We'll give you a bit of time to reconsider." Then he plucked the contract from between my fingers and swaggered out.

Bizarre.

The rest followed him shortly, with Dawn and Willow spared me pleading looks that would have been enough to guilt trip me 5 years ago. Robin followed swiftly on Giles's heels, probably already soiling his nose. Kennedy sneered while unsubtly wrapping an arm around Willow.

That left Faith.

Once everyone was out of earshot, she broke the silence, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." Now that I can focus on her, I can see she's changed a lot in five years. Gone is the rebel biker look; instead of leathers that hug her curves like an overeager teenage boy, she's dressed like the respectable, but still daring, counterpart to Robin.

"No, you don' t understand I-"

"Robin wants you to quit, that's why the council needs Buffy."

She recoils like she's been slapped. "How did-"

"I'm guessing he wants to settle down and start a family, wants the trophy housewife he's always dreamed of."

"It's not like that." She says it like a sigh, and at that point I can see how tired she really is; behind the makeup and cocky grin, is someone worried about her friends.

"You stopped smoking; did he make you do that, part of his taming of the shrew?"

Her silence is an answer unto itself.

"But you're not done, are you? You want to keep on fighting."

Our relationship may have been estranged during her time in the darkness, but we buried the hatchet long ago. Between us something has always clicked, my desperate need to be important, her own insecurities involving her place as the second slayer. That need for recognition was something we had both experienced.

"Yes. I don't want to settle down, do the suburban thing. Kids, dog, white picket fence, It's not me."

"You have something you can do for the world."

"Exactly," She pushed herself off the wall, "But Robin won't listen, no matter how many times I tell him."

I'm always open to bashing Robin, but right now, something about that feels wrong.

"I'm sorry."

It's enough, "Don't be." She smiled a wry twist of her lips. There was a pause, a moment where she contemplated leaving, that awkward lull in conversation.

For some reason, the face of one of my old Slayer's resurfaced. Whether I was genuinely curious, or I just didn't want Faith to leave, I'll never tell.

"How's Farheen doing?"

"Who?" she said, a bit confused by the sudden question, "Oh, wait. Farheen? She's doing great, one of the best slayers we have."

"Good."

An idea hit her, "Were you the one who inspired her to become the walking arsenal?"

"I just helped her make it happen."

She laughed, full bore, cathartic. I couldn't keep myself from smiling if I tried. I knew then, whatever else I had done, repairing bridges with Faith had been truly worthwhile.

"That's great boy-toy. That's great." She pulled the door open, "I'll see you around boy-toy, good luck with The Immortal." Then she shut the door and locked it.

Thanks, Faith.

She must have known she was telling me she wasn't guarding the door, Dawn was definitely being pulled off field duty, for obvious reasons.

Which means it's Kennedy's pleasure to guard me.

I give that a non sarcastic perfect. It's time to make plans.

The room certainly has the essence of a prison, but whoever designed it aimed for fashion over function.

The door doesn't have a peep hole or food slot, meaning the jailers don't have the ability to observe the prisoner without opening the door. Additionally, as a holdover from when this room was not an illegal jail, the walls are insulated, preventing the escape of sound. It isolates the prisoner, but prevents the guards from listening in. There's also no camera, or microphone of any kind, I have enough experience with bugs to know where they'd be placed. The mattress is empty, the bed frame is not hollow, and the bricks are all real.

However, the most glaring mistake was the naked bulb hanging from the ceiling. That would be the fulcrum of my escape.

In fairness the walls may be insulated, but slayers are gifted with remarkable hearing. So still I tried to be as quiet as possible when dragging the bed underneath the light bulb. The metal bed frame scraped lightly on the stone floor, and I had to lift it as I pulled to reduce the noise.

Once positioned, I have just enough height to unscrew the bulb, which I placed gently on the mattress. A small chipped piece of stone was enough to remove the socket. I tucked the four screws into my back pockets as they came out. The socket I placed next to the light bulb.

Finally, I could get at the wiring, it's good stuff, the kind they used before metal and plastic got expensive, which makes it thick and sturdy. There's also extra left in the ceiling, no doubt the result of a cautious builder, I gently pulled out as much as I could, before it stopped tight. I pulled down hard, lifting my feet to get extra force. With a quick snap, the wire broke.

It must have caught on a nail; the end was frayed and torn. In any case, I was left with at least a meter of sturdy flexible wire.

I returned the bed and mattress back to their original location, then took the light bulb and smashed it in front of the door, though far away enough it wasn't in the arc of the door's swing. I stepped over it to the door.

"Hey Kennedy."

No response.

"How does it feel to know you'll never be as good as slayer Buffy."

There was a very audible sigh, "What are you talking about?"

"Well, I figure if you were as good a slayer as she was, you wouldn't need to bring her back."

"Hey, screw you, I'm twice the slayer Buffy was."

"Clearly you've been filling in just fine."

"I don't need to justify myself to you."

"Please, I could take you."

"You think so?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"Try again Harris. You're not making me come in there."

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

Damn. I'll have to take it up a notch.

"Fair enough..." I paused for dramatic tension, get that vibe right, "How does it feel to know I got to Willow first, and that she'll always put me first. I'm guessing she's the one who recommended me for the contract, made a big show of bringing me back."

Silence.

"Okay, Harris, you got your wish."

Perfect. To be honest, my taunts aren't really enough to annoy her, they're shallow and Kennedy's not nearly dumb enough to believe me. But she hardly needs an excuse to toss me around a bit more, and I don't have the brain power to come up with something genuinely clever.

I stepped back, over the remains of the light bulb, and tucked the wire in my back pocket. If I did this right, I wouldn't need the screws.

Kennedy is a phenomenal slayer, her instincts are good, and she trains herself to a peak level of fitness. She's faster than me, stronger than me, and thanks to the bleeding effect of slayer knowledge, her martial skill exceeds mine by a wide margin. Her exploits are well known among slayers, she's often touted as yardstick with which to be measured against.

There's no way she can win this fight.

She started with the smart move, slamming the door open, just in case I was hiding behind it.

"Yo she bitch, let's go."

She charges, lowering her shoulders for the tackle. I assume she's aiming for a takedown, where she'd be able to ground and pound to her hearts delight. She's anything but subtle.

Before she could reach me, her left foot slapped down on the glass, her right foot followed swiftly. Deep from her lungs she bellowed a cry of pain, stumbling forward as her legs gave out. Blood flowed across the stone floor, smearing like abstract art.

I lunged around her, pulling the wire out and looping it over her neck, I crossed my arms behind her head, pulling up while simultaneously pressing down on her back with my knee. Even disoriented with pain I didn't trust her not to be able to overpower me, her slayer strength is truly monstrous. As is, she squirmed violently, forcing me to pull even harder.

The pull upward is to cut off blood circulation; in other words, a blood choke.

Six seconds that felt like an hour passed and finally she stopped struggling. I don't intend to kill her, so I released the tension and collapsed to the floor.

Monstrous strength doesn't even begin to describe it; I don't think an inch of me wasn't sweating. I took ten seconds to breathe, just force air down my lungs. Once I caught my breath I used the wire to hog tie her, arms behind the back, connected to her feet.

I don't doubt she'll be able to break her bonds, but extra insurance never hurt.

Her person yielded nothing useful, neither cash nor car keys. So I left her on the floor, locked the room and closed the door reinforcers.

From my earlier exploring, I knew where the stairs were, and there wasn't anything else in the basement of interest.

The stairs were old and hardwood, which meant every second step let out a heart pounding squeak.

No one seemed to have noticed my escape, which made sense once I saw Dawn and Faith watching TV in the house's living room. The volume was cranked all the way to ear-splitting. I could have screamed my way up the stairs and they wouldn't have heard me.

According to the TV show Martha is a big whore, because Andrea's boyfriend cheated with her, but it's okay because Andrea's a bitch. Also Martha's vagina is a black hole that consumes men and swallows small woodland creatures.

I don't even.

Getting back to a more important topic, the house is a Georgian Revival style, probably mid 20th century if I know my construction as well as I think. The fixtures and details point towards it being a strict interpretation of Palladian Classical structure, but you probably don't care about the whys. In any case, that tells me they haven't taken me far from my apartment, the style is distinct for certain regions of Canada.

A music stand by the door was filled with random trinkets, including a key tray.

Bingo.

A quick sift and I found a set of car keys; they read Dodge. Detroit Iron, boo yah. I was praying for a muscle car.

Sneaking across a house while wearing boots feels as awkward as it looks; it's all Charlie Chapman miming as I tiptoe to the front door. Opening the door will chirp the alarm, there's no way around that, which means I have to sprint to the car faster than they'll respond.

I gave myself a second to catch my breath. Then I swallowed a last lungful of air and threw the door open.

The curtains were drawn closed, so I had no idea what time of day it was. But outside it was as bright as a newborn star. I forced my eye open and barreled out the door into the light. No distinction, just the color white.

Three steps and the alarm chirped, just an innocuous beep, but that would have been enough. I started to hear shouting.

As my vision returned, I almost ran off the porch, instead I took the steps by twos, thundering down them towards the street. An assault of Canadian maple and the warm sensation of sunlight encapsulated me.

No, no time for poetry, if they caught me, Willow would use some obscure magic to work me like a marionette, or Robin would shove an arm up my ass and work me like a puppet in exactly the same way.

I fought past the blindness, stumbling out to the sidewalk as voices from the house began to rise in volume. Desperately I mashed the unlock button on the remote. A triple trill sounded in front of me.

A minivan.

A white minivan.

A white V6 minivan. Oh wait.

It's not an ideal getaway vehicle, but it's probably the fastest minivan I'll ever drive. I threw the door open, jammed the key in and twisted till the car rumbled to life. Then I slammed on the gas and peeled away down the suburb streets. The traction control light blinked wildly as if screaming in protest. Soccer moms of suburban America would be proud.

It turns out they hadn't dragged me far from Toronto; I was in one of its numerous suburbs, not that I was planning on returning to my apartment. No, that avenue would be cut off; now that they knew I'd escaped.

I pulled the car into the parking lot of a fast food joint, I needed to find the quickest route to the airport, and Toronto was no longer safe.

As I reached over to the glove compartment to search for a map, a figure in the back of the car suddenly sat up from where they were hiding in the trunk.

"Hey Xander! Where are we headed?" Said Vi, with far too much enthusiasm.

No matter what anyone says, I did not scream. I released a manly yelp of surprise.

I screamed and maybe leaked a little.

"Holy Shit!" I said, "What the hell are you doing here?"

She shrugged, "Someone had to come with you, and Kennedy's in no condition to do it."

"What."

"I don't really know what you did, but I assume you knocked her out and locked her in the basement."

"How did-"

"Giles said you'd do that." And then she pulled out a very familiar stack of papers, "Congratulations on agreeing to the contract." She gestured to a specific piece of very small print.

Xander Harris acknowledges his agreement to this contract after reading, by taking possession of the 2010 Dodge Grand Caravan VIN #REDACTED# belonging to the Watcher's Council.

Below, my signature was burned onto the contract; the paper was yellowed from whatever mystical heat made the impression.

Unbelievable, they made me sign a contract by agreeing to a rental car clause.

I just got played like a fiddle. While the player tap danced and sang. What a blunder; I knew Giles looked too smug strutting out the room.

"Are you kidding me?"

"Do I look like I'm kidding?" She said, putting a very serious look upon her face.

"Yes."

"Oh... well, I'm not." She crawled up to the passenger seat and dropped herself in.

"Wait," I said. "Before we continue I have to ask you a question. Please be aware that the answer you give will severely affect my mood for the rest of our trip.

Was Kennedy in on it?" By the end of my tirade, my voice had raised to a desperate shout, and I was clutching her shoulders with talons instead of fingers.

"She had no clue."

"Oh thank god."

Vi seemed unsure of how to deal with my relief, displaying equal parts of irritation, for beating up Kennedy, and amusement, for beating up Kennedy.

"So Boss, what's the plan?"

"The plan is, I got to get my Big Mac on."

"What." Her turn to look surprised.

I gestured out the window at the golden arch hovering across the street, "I'm hungry, and I haven't had anything to eat since you knocked me out with a baseball bat. I'll be right back. You stay here, I'm parked illegally."

"Hey, I'm not supposed to leave you alone."

I leaned back in the minivan, "Do you really think I'm going to pull a fast one on you? That contract prevents any attempt at subverting its restrictions, which includes contacting a wizard of my own."

"Fine," She said, "Get me a coke."

I walked the distance to the front door quickly, holding it open to let a harried mother usher her three boys out to the car. Then I stepped into the building, the smell of fried food was like a second barrier. Manning the till was a thin teenager, who looked more interested in his co-workers ass than his job.

"Excuse me, could I borrow a phone? I'm having some car trouble outside."

The boy's face was pock marked, and when he spoke they moved like undulating waves across his face, "I don't know, that's against store policy."

I smiled genially, "Come on, I won't tell anyone. Help a guy out."

He looked uncertain, I turned up the smile, "Well, okay." He gestured over to the corner of the counter, where he pulled a corded phone from under the table. "Go ahead." He returned to admiring his co-worker.

"Thank you" I said, while tapping out a number.

The trick with information brokers is that you have to make it worth their time. It helps if you've saved their life and they owe you one.

As expected the man on the other end picked up immediately, "Yes? This is Anderson."

"Hey, it's Xander, I need some help."

"Again, Harris? What kind of trouble have you gotten into this time?"

"Bad trouble. I need to know everything you know about The Immortal."

"Undead vampire, head of a very prolific Mafia group."

"That's it?"

"He's old."

"You're an asshole."

"I know a guy in England, okay? His name's Professor Keaton, Hiraga Keaton, he's an expert on Europe, okay?"

"Okay."

Anderson rattled off a number, I wrote it on my palm using a pen I swiped from the other side of the counter.

"Now, listen Xander, I like you, okay. But if you're involved with The Immortal, I really can't be seen helping you, okay?" If he was clamming up on this, then no other information broker would even give me a lead to follow.

"Yeah, thanks for everything Anderson." I tapped the switch hook, the receiver spat out a dull hum. Then I dialled the number on my Palm.

"Hello? This is Daniel O'Connell." A deep voice, older, with a faint Irish accent.

"Hi, I'm looking for Hiraga Keaton."

"Ah," the man said, "Do you have a case open?"

"A case?"

"Yes, for our detective agency, of course." O'Connell chuckled, it came over the phone as static "Well, we're mostly retired now."

"No, I just want to ask him some questions about Italy."

The man snorted, "Oh, for his other job. Well, he's in Berlin right now, working a case; I can contact you when he returns."

I spared a glance at the door; it seemed Vi's suspicion's hadn't been raised. "It's rather urgent, is it possible that I could meet him in Berlin?"

O'Connell paused, "I'm sure that should be fine." He told me where Keaton was staying, and the email I could use to contact him. By now my hand was starting to look like a high school art project.

"Thank you very much."

"No problem." He said, "I hope he'll be of use."

I replaced the handset. "Hey, thanks."

The cashier shrugged, "its okay. Do you need anything else?"

"Sure, Big Mac and a coke."

- Scene Break -

"Took you a while." Vi grumbled.

"I had to pee." She took her coke wordlessly, with only a grimace to show her disgust.

I put the minivan back on the highway, one hand on the wheel, the other clutching my hamburger.

I'd asked the cashier for directions to the airport, and contrary to his appearance, his directions were both precise and concise. I was perfectly happy to travel in silence, taking the necessary time to contemplate and scheme my way out of this latest predicament.

Vi was much more inclined toward conversation.

"So where are we headed Boss?"

"Don't call me Boss."

"So where are we headed One-eye."

ಠ.ಠ

or rather:

ಠ.#

She grinned. "Boss good?"

"Boss is great." I groaned, "We're headed for Berlin."

"Not Rome?"

"We need information before we can act."

"That's why we're going to see Professor Keaton right?" The impish look on her face was only enhanced by the straw dangling from her lips.

"You're entirely too good at this."

She grinned. "I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

"Oh no, I'm definitely Bogart, you're Rains."

"How do you figure?"

"I'm the disgruntled anti-hero, you're the one shackled to a job."

"Shut up One-eye."

I could make this work.

- end chapter -

Disclaimer: I do not own Master Keaton and the characters within, those belong to Naoki Urasawa.

Story Notes:

Okay, that took a while. I'm not 100% on this chapter, but I wanted to get it out to finally get moving on the story.

This chapter wasn't full of action, but I'd like to think the interplay between characters more than made up for it. In particular I'm hoping the chemistry between Xander and Vi works, as you'll be seeing plenty more of it. Oh, and Farheen will be important in later chapters, remember that name.

No real historical or factual notes, other than my spiel about Georgian revival style houses. It's not all bullshit, as that style really does only mostly show up on the East or West coast of Canada and not typically in between (prairie provinces, where Georgian style houses are far more likely to be imitations). Not that this is a defined rule. I assume of course, that no reader really cares, and this is merely self indulgent wank on my part. Apologies.

As always, review, criticize; no seriously, tear this one to shreds, the next chapters must be better.