Victor D. Infante is a poet, screenwriter, and journalist. More information and other works by the author can be found at his Web site.
"In the city there's a thousand things I want to say to you..." -The Jam
This was not her city.
Up and down the alleyway, small bonfires burned. She'd run for miles, it seemed, block after block engulfed in flame. She ventured from the shadows to the street, where men wept openly, their heads in their hands.
They had lost something. She had lost something.
She was surrounded by small sobs. The sound of shrieking echoed from all directions.
She pushed forward. Cars were overturned. Someone had tossed a lit trashcan into an electronics store. Forward. The windows of a Mexican restaurant exploded into a million shards. Forward. Someone was firing bullets into the air. Forward.
Stop. She was suddenly still. Beyond her, beyond the mass of humanity filling the street, beyond the flame and shattering glass, she heard a scream, saw a woman dragged into the alley's shadow.
Without another thought, she was running toward the alleyway, pushing past the parade of misery, leaping over the bonfires.
Vampire, she thought, and the word seared into her brain. She scarcely recalled the previous days, now, where she'd not thought the word at all. She'd been at peace for a moment, but that was then. Now, there was the hunt.
She hit the shadows and followed the sound of screams. The girl was kicking and flailing her arms. There were three of them, struggling to hold her down. Why were they having such trouble?
She didn't stop to think, her fist instead plowing into one of their faces. She heard bone being crushed, she thought, and blood was leaking from its head. Forward, she thought, and swung her leg into another one's midsection. She heard ribs crumple, she thought. She heard it gasp for breath. Why is it gasping...
"You're. Human," she said, and realized it was the first words she'd said out loud in days. The third man leaped at her, smashing a beer bottle down on her head. She fell to the ground. Her head felt wet. She heard the girl scream again, saw the other two stagger to their feet.
"Human," she said again, as their blows began to pound on her, as the light began to twinkle out. "Human."
And then it was black. And then she saw something, an army of monsters beneath the earth, an army of women standing fast against them. She saw an axe being passed from hand to hand. She looked into the axe's glimmering surface, and saw herself reflected in the blade.
Her eyes snapped open then, and with new energy, she flipped upward to her feet, her fists connecting again with her assailants. She heard one fall, then spun and swung. She heard his skull fracture. As her vision returned, she saw him fall.
Her eyes were clear now. She saw the third attacker stumble back against the wall. He was blubbering. She sneered at him.
"Don't... don't hurt me," he said, and she could see him clearly now, see how small he was. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the girl huddled against the wall, frightened out of her mind.
She looked at the man again, and without a word, she kicked him hard in the head. She didn't bother to check if he was still breathing.
She stooped down to look at the girl, her face stained with tears, her whole body quivering with fright.
"Are you all right," she asked, feeling her mind clear for the first time in what seemed like weeks.
"You... You were incredible," said the girl, and she realized the girl was a bit older than she thought. Maybe fourteen. "Who... who are you?"
She hesitated, like she wasn't sure. So much had happened.
"My name's Justine," she said. "I'm here to help."
Giles pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He could feel the soldier's stare boring into him, although the man's face betrayed nothing. Giles put his glasses back on and focused on the map adorning his wall, which had become increasingly covered with colored stickpins.
"What you're proposing is out of the question, Agent Miller," said Giles, not meeting the young man's gaze. We have a heavy responsibility. To the world, not just to the United States. Our resources are ... stretched thin."
Giles sighed and finally turned to look at the soldier standing rigidly in front of his desk.
"And of course, you understand, we don't have an easy relationship with the organization you represent."
"Used to represent," said Agent Miller, matter of factly. The Initiative's been closed for years."
"As you say," said Giles.
"And you didn't have a good relationship with the Watchers Council, either. Sir." Giles flinched at that, and looked to Buffy and Xander, sitting off to the side, for support.
"He has a point," said Xander, shrugging. Buffy, however, was less blasé about the whole affair.
"She tried to kill him," she said, her voice subdued, but Giles could tell she was getting upset.
"Well, yeah," said Xander, but who hasn't?"
Buffy shot him a look that could shatter steel, but Xander just smiled. She turned her attention back to the soldier.
"Graham, you know if I could help you, I would, but this..."
"We're not asking you for much," said Graham, his voice softening. "Tactical advice. Sharing information."
"And in return..." said Giles, coolly.
"We, likewise, share information."
Graham removed a small stack of files from his briefcase, and set them on the desk. The names on the files sang like headstones:
"Wesley Wyndam-Pryce," deceased;
"Charles Gunn," missing in action;
"Winifred Burkle/Illyria," deceased/missing in action;
"William the Bloody, aka Spike, Real Name Unknown," missing in action;
"Angel/Angelus, Real Name Unknown," missing in action.
"Everything we know about the Wolfram & Hart affair," said Graham.
Giles, Buffy and Xander exchanged looks. The disappearance of Angel and his team had weighed heavily on them. And here was someone—someone more or less trusted, if not a friend—offering them information.
"But this ... plan," said Giles, spitting out the last word as though he hesitated to call it that, "this woman..."
"She's resisted your efforts to bring her into the council," said Graham.
"Yes," said Giles. "She wants nothing to do with us. And what do you propose to offer her?"
"Closure."
The moments perched above the alleyways hovered like a magician's card trick. Time hovered impossibly, the moments blending into one. It could be hours, minutes. She couldn't tell.
Then time snapped like an elastic band, and she was moving before her conscious mind registered what was happening. When reflecting upon it later—and she always reflected upon it later—she'd swear she never heard the screams until after she was moving.
The woman had fallen to the ground, her arms raised ineffectually above her as the vampires clawed at her. Her voice was raw from screaming, so raw that sound was no longer emerging from her mouth, but that didn't stop her. She screamed silently while the monsters glowered. She was still screaming when the first monster dissolved to dust in front of her.
The second vampire turned to face Justine.
"Well," he said, "looks like this will be exciting after all."
Justine said nothing. The vampire's fist came barreling toward her, and she blocked it effortlessly with her arm. Spinning, her leg kicked out, the impact near shattering the monster's knees.
With another fluid motion, the stake thrust through the vampire's heart. She felt she should say something witty, some expression of triumph, but all there was here, she thought, was emptiness and dust. Her eyes fell on the woman.
"You OK to get home?" said Justine, without much feeling.
"Ye...yes," said the woman. "My God... that thing... you saved me."
"Go home," said Justine, turning and leaving. "Stay out of the dark." Justine stepped back into the shadows.
"Good advice," said a voice, pleasantly, behind her. "It's not safe."
Justine swung around, ready to fight. Behind her stood a short young man, his hair dyed bright blue, in jeans and a bowling shirt. His hands were thrust deep into his pockets, and Justine could tell immediately he wasn't looking for a fight. Still, she kept her distance.
"Easy," said the man. "I'm a member of the hair club for humans, just like you." Justine thought absently about her hair then, realized how matted it must have become. For the first time in ages she realized how filthy she must be.
"Who are you?" she said. "Are you from the Council? I told them ..."
"No," said the man. "I'm not Council, although I know 'em."
"Then who are you?"
"Oh. Name's Oz. I'm just here to talk."
Oz knitted his brow in concern.
"And, maybe, we should get some real food in you."
The two of them walked to a nearby diner. At first the staff bristled at Justine's presence, but a smile and the slipping of greenbacks kept everything mellow. Justine remarked on how the man seemed to exude mellowness, as if the world simply calmed down around him.
She plowed through a salad and a burger with Oz not really saying much of anything before she finally spoke. And when she told her story, she told all of it, as best as she could remember—she found it odd how many details seemed to be missing. Oz didn't flinch a bit.
When she finished Oz took another sip of coffee, and then folded his arms on the table. "Rough story," he said. "Sounds like you've gone through a world of hurt. Regret any of it?"
"Some," she said. "None of it. It's hard to say."
"I get that," he said. "How long have you been out here alone?"
"I thought you said you weren't from the Council."
"I'm not. I'm just doing a few favors for a friend."
"I can't take their 'sacred destiny' bullshit. I've done destiny. I've seen what a crock the prophecies are. I'm not buying what they're selling."
"But you still slay vampires..."
"Yes."
"Well, here's the offer. No sacred calling. No destiny. Just a paycheck, food and a place to crash."
Justine watched Oz's eyes. She had questions burning at her, but for the first time in a year, maybe more, she didn't feel like her sanity was teetering on the edge. She sipped her coffee."
"This friend," she said. "What did he do to get you to play errand boy?"
"Saved my life a few years back." He then seemed to re-evaluate that sentence. "Well, tried to. Close enough."
Justine's eyes were locked on the man, now. The things she'd done and seen were terrible, and he didn't even blink at them.
"I'm not going to say it'll all be pleasant," he said. "Quite the contrary. A lot of it'll suck. They're pretty upfront about that."
Justine pondered. Just that second, going back into the cold sounded less than appealing.
"Fine," she said. "I'm in."
Justine sat silently in the passenger seat of Oz's van, listening to some LA band she'd never heard of crooning through the speakers. "In Los Angeles/only God believes/What he thinks he sees ... and I can't believe/that he died for me/just like on TV ... even the Holy Ghost/has got a billboard on Sunset..."
Oz nodded in time to the music. He really didn't talk all that much. She didn't know why she was going with him. It would be nothing but trouble.
She looked sideways at the placid young man, and a thought she couldn't articulate formed. All she could think of was the layer of filth that seemed caked onto her skin.
She'd been living wild for months, maybe more than a year, but now was the first time she'd noticed it.
She felt like a fog was lifting.
She listened to the band she didn't recognize, and watched the city roll by. They rolled down the 405, then off onto side streets. Torrance she figured. Hawthorne. Somewhere like that. The van pulled up to a bombed-out warehouse, and Oz pulled out a cell phone.
"Base, this is Rover. I'm in."
"Rover?" asked Justine.
"It's kind of an inside joke. They won't let me change it."
The garage door lifted, and Oz drove the van inside. A tall, blonde man in black was leaning against the wall. He and Oz nodded taciturn hellos at each other.
"This our girl?" said the man, stepping forward. Justine felt her lip curl, a feral growl building beneath her tongue.
"Woman," said Oz. "Not girl."
Justine looked sideways at Oz again, and relaxed.
"Right," said the man. "My apologies. Are you Justine?'
Justine just nodded. The man didn't step forward.
"I'm Special Agent Finn. Welcome. Make yourself at home. We'll talk after you're settled in.
A door slid opened, revealing an elevator. Justine glanced nervously at it, but Oz—seemingly catching her distress—simply touched her arm.
"It's cool. It'll be fine."
She and Oz followed Finn into the elevator, and within moments, she found herself in a fluorescent-lit underground bunker filled with uniformed men and women.
"How many of these things did you guys build?" asked Oz. "A whole bunch," said Finn, "But this isn't the Initiative. Much smaller, no research. Just response."
"And you're in charge?" asked Justine.
"Sort of," said Finn. "This is your room. Someone will be by in an hour or so."
Justine looked in the room. A bed, a dresser filled with clothes—jeans, jumpers, sweat shirts. Nothing flashy or expensive. Practical. All purpose. There was a computer—which she really didn't know how to use—on a desk. There was a TV. There was a small bathroom, with a shower.
She turned the hot water on, and her fingers trembled as they extended into the spray. Tentatively, she undressed and stepped into the shower. This was dangerous. She was surrounded by armed soldiers.
The water nearly seared her skin. She turned the temperature up. Soap, shampoo. Her hair was knotted in so many places, she figured she'd be better off shaving it. Another time.
When she finished, she looked at herself in the mirror. It was the first time she'd looked at herself in ages. She looked human. She looked almost clean.
She dressed quickly. She realized all the clothes they'd left her fit loosely. They were all clothes she could fight in. That was good. No weapons, at least, not here. She had her stake from earlier in her hand. She tucked it into her belt, but it didn't really matter. Anything was a weapon in her hands.
She thought about Holtz, and it seemed very distant. Another life. She looked at herself in the mirror.
"My name is Justine," she said, quietly, hesitantly. "My name is Justine. The vampire slayer."
Her hair was a mess, but the jeans fit, and the tank top she found in the dresser suited her. She could feel the air-conditioning chill her skin. She was alive.
A knock came at the door. She stiffened defensively.
"Not everything's an attack," she thought, and then corrected herself. She really didn't know where she was. She really wasn't safe.
"You decent?" said a voice from behind the door. It was Oz.
"Yes," she said, noncommittally.
Oz opened the door and peered in. "Cool. Riley wants to talk to you."
"Riley?"
"Special Agent Finn."
"Oh."
She didn't like Finn. She couldn't put her finger on it, but he made her edgy. But then, everything made her edgy. Everything except...
"So," she said, looking Oz in the eyes, "what are you? An errand boy for the Army?"
Oz pondered.
"Something like that."
She followed him down the hall. They walked in silence to what appeared to be a living room. There were couches and a television set, and a large coffee table in the center. Riley sat in a comfy-looking chair at one end of the table, reading a file. A young blonde woman sat on the couch, absently flipping through a magazine.
"Justine," said Riley. "Settle in OK?"
"Fine," said Justine.
"Good," said Riley. "So, I bet you're all wondering why I gathered you here."
Justine, Oz and the young woman on the couch stared blankly at him.
"Comedy," said Oz, after a moment. "Not your strong suit."
"Right," Said Riley. "I just always wanted to say that. Anyway..."
"Who's the new girl?' said the woman on the couch. "And who's her barber? He should be shot."
Justine felt her fist clenching, but Oz stepped casually between the two women.
"Justine," he said, "this is Amy."
Amy smiled, and Justine found herself immensely uncomfortable. Finn annoyed her, but this woman..."
"So you found yourself a slayer, huh?" said Amy. "Got yourself another replacement for the real thing?"
"You're not a replacement for Willow, Amy."
"I could be."
"As I was saying," interjected Riley, hitting a button the TV's remote control. "You three have been gathered as members of a response team."
An image of a skyscraper appeared on the TV screen.
"Wolfram & Hart," said Justine, under her breath.
"Right," said Riley. "Headquarters of some major movers and shakers in the occult world. Also, the last known place this man was sighted.
Justine could feel her skin tighten at the man's image.
"Angel," she said.
"I understand you have a history with him," said Riley, rather coolly. "That's not going to be a problem, is it?"
Justine looked at the picture of the man, then glanced at Oz, who was watching her. She looked back at Riley.
"What do you want me to do?"
"It's our job to find out what happened to him. And, if possible, rescue him."
Justine shuddered. She could feel her teeth begin to clatter, so she clenched them tight. Riley flipped through pictures of the rest of Angel's team. Some she recognized, some she didn't. The picture of Wesley Wyndam-Pryce flipped past, and she nearly leapt out of her skin. She couldn't understand why she was having such a reaction to just the thought of the man.
Riley turned off the TV.
"Our ... commander," Justine noted the hesitation on the words, "the man in charge of this mission, he told me to expect this reaction."
Justine wanted to leave. Now. Go back to the city and live on the streets again. She didn't care. She wanted...
"I don't know exactly what happened with you and Angel," said Riley. "I never much liked the guy, either."
"That's because Angel used to bang his ex-girlfriend," said Amy. Riley ignored her.
"But the boss says this is a chance to wipe the slate clean—for both you and him. I don't know what that means, exactly, but I think he may be right."
Justine relaxed.
"Fine," she says. "I'll do it. But why me? Why us?
Riley leaned back in his chair.
"Boss says that, all he knows, is that there's been a battle foretold—a slayer and her allies. We thought it was the original. I mean, Buffy."
"The chick he used to bang," said Amy. "You turn such an interesting sort of red, you know that?"
Riley ignored her, as best he could.
"So anyway," said Amy, seizing the moment. "Buffy and her pals turned the Army down flat. Bad blood. So GI Joe here put together a bunch of replacements. I get to fill in for the witch," she smiled at Oz again, "Oz there gets to fill in for their gopher," Oz cocked an eyebrow, but said nothing, "and you get to be Buffy's stunt double." Everyone let this sink in.
"This is going to be so much fun. Now all we need is a watcher and a vampire with a soul, and it'll be just like old times.
"We're working on it," said Riley.
Justine followed Oz back down the hallway toward her room.
"Any more surprises I should brace for," she asked.
"Definitely," he said, handing her a file and a small stack of forms.
Clipped to the file was a photo of a teenaged boy.
"Who's this?" she asked, "he looks familiar."
"You don't know him?" asked Oz, but it was one of those questions where you know the asker already knows the answer.
"Should I?"
"Yeah," said Oz, taking the file back. "You should. He's going to remember you."
"So why don't you tell me about it?"
"I'm working on it. Docs say you have a traumatic memory loss. Amy says differently. Says your memories have been magically altered."
"You trust her?"
"Not really. Went to high school with her for a while. Had it kind of rough. Her mom was a witch who traded bodies with her to make the cheerleading team."
"That's ... really weird."
"And then she turned herself into a rat and was stuck like that for years."
"And just when I thought I had it bad."
"She still has a thing for cheese."
Justine laughed, first time she'd laughed in ages. Maybe years.
"And what about you?" she said. "What's your story?"
"That's ... complicated."
"I've got time."
The moment hovered for a moment.
"I don't," said Oz. "Get some rest. I'll see you tomorrow."
Justine watched him walk away, and then turned and scanned her new room. It could be any soldier's room, she thought. Anywhere.
Cautiously, she climbed onto the mattress and laid her head on the pillow, and for the first time in as long as she could remember, she slept.
Justine took the point as she and her two companions wandered the halls of what were once the Wolfram & Hart offices.
There had been a battle here, Riley had explained to them — one big enough to shake the foundation. Wolfram & Hart chose to not rebuild. The building was scheduled for demolition, but that seemed to keep getting delayed.
"Good for us," said Amy. "Else we'd never be having this swell time."
Oz shined his flashlight ahead of them. Justine could sense something wrong. They were still on the ground floor, but the hallway past the lobby seemed to go on for too long.
"There's still a lot of magic here," said Amy, suddenly serious. "Can't you two feel it?"
"I feel it," said Oz," pushing forward. Amy just sighed.
"You never take me anywhere nice."
Justine heard a crick somewhere behind them, a tiny rustle. She pulled her stake and waited for movement. None came.
She turned, and found Oz was also looking back where they came from.
"You hear it too?" she asked.
"Yeah," he said. "It's gone."
"Uh, guys," said Amy. They turned in unison to look at her, and saw her pointing toward a small crowd of skeletons wearing the remains of three-piece suits, all of which were now beginning to walk toward them.
Justine didn't hesitate. She leapt into the crowd, and began knocking skulls as skeletal hands reached toward her. Oz and Amy fell back.
"You going to do something," asked Oz, patiently.
"I'm ... I ... need a few minutes."
"Done."
Oz picked up a broken chair leg, and began to swing at the crowd. They didn't fall down. Amy began to chant under her breath, then stronger and louder, but Justine could tell she needed more time.
She kept hitting skeletons.
One broke past her guard and landed a bony punch on her head. She fell, dazed. The skeleton hefted an abandoned desk above his head, ready to finish her off. Oz screamed, but it all sounded very far away.
She rolled, hoping her shoulder would take the brunt of the blow. There was a pneumatic pop, barely audible, and the skeleton's skull exploded. The desk fell upon its collapsing bones.
Justine looked up, saw Oz about to be overwhelmed, and leaped toward him, rattling the skeletons' rotting bones. Finally, Amy finished what she was trying to do, and the remaining skeletons caught fire and disintegrated.
The three caught their breath wordlessly. For a moment there was silence, and then a slow, almost-mocking clap.
They looked up to see the teenager Justine had seen in the picture, perched upon a fallen beam. Relaxed, but ready to spring if need be.
"Connor," said Oz, under his breath. Justine tried desperately to place the name, but nothing came.
"Not bad," said the boy. "Not bad at all."
"Could have leant a hand," said Oz.
"I got you here, didn't I? The last place I saw Angel alive. Well, you know what I mean."
"Thought you weren't going to join us," said Oz. "You sounded pretty certain."
"Oh, I'm not," he said. "Joining. But I'll be keeping an eye on you."
The boy then leapt backward into the shadows, and disappeared.
"That's a really neat trick," said Amy. "How come none of us can do that?"
There was a muffled giggling, coming from somewhere off in the distance.
"I think that's enough for recon," said Oz.
"Time to go talk to the watcher," said Amy, mockingly. Justine didn't get the reference.
"More like talked to the watched, said Oz.
They rode home back to the base in silence, although Amy insisted on riding shotgun and fiddling with the radio. Justine figured Oz must be deep in concentration to let her flip through channels—she had the impression that he was fond of his music.
For her part, Justine couldn't get her mind off the boy. People around her knew things she didn't. They told her as much, they weren't even hiding it. Oz seemed concerned about how her memories would come back—told her it was best to let them come. Still...
When they returned to base, Justine and Amy followed Oz as he made his way through the hallways. Everyone kept saying the Initiative—whatever that was—was bigger. This was big enough for her. She couldn't help but notice how warily the soldiers regarded them. Not just her—even Oz. Why did they think Oz was so dangerous?
She looked at the man. As always, his expression was utterly unreadable.
They came upon a door marked, "library."
"Are we doing research?" Justine asked.
"We've got someone for that," said Oz, plainly.
Inside was a lot more lush and expansive than other rooms she'd seen. Long rows of books lined the walls, and a large oak desk sat off to one corner. At the desk sat a lanky, older-looking man, writing in a ledger.
"Ah," said the man. Justine took note of his English accent. "Daniel. Come by for a chat?"
"Ethan," said Oz, and Justine noted the distrust in his voice. "We've checked out the scene."
"There were skeletons," said Amy, annoyed. "No one told us there would be skeletons."
"I see," said Ethan. "Were they lying still or chasing after you with sabers?"
"Briefcases, actually," said Oz, all business. "Corporate zombie ... things."
"Ah, yes," said Ethan. "Probably a defense mechanism. Sorry. Didn't know."
Justine regarded the man, and the way Oz interacted with him. Both she and Amy had done bad things. She knew this, and knew Oz knew this, but Oz didn't seem to be overly concerned with that. This man, however, he seemed to hold this man in utter contempt, and only made the barest effort to disguise it.
She looked at Ethan's wrist, and saw a metal bracelet with blinking green lights affixed to it. She looked at the man's face, and saw he was watching her watch him.
"Do you like my accessory," he said, cheerfully. "A gift from the U.S. Army."
"Ethan's a wizard," said Oz. "Riley and Buffy caught him causing mischief up in Sunnydale. Riley thought the government was going to put him prison."
"Instead, said Ethan, "they gave me a job. And if I wander too far afield from it, my wrist blows up."
"All very 'Suicide Squad,'" said Oz.
"But you didn't come here to talk about me," said Ethan. "Fascinating though I may be. No, you want to talk about the rip in reality."
Justine stiffened at that. A vision flashed before her, Holtz leaping through a portal to another dimension. Swaddling something in his arms ...
"For the past decade odd," lectured Ethan, "a variety of ne'er-do-wells have used an excessive amount of magic for a variety of effects—destroying the world, changing the world. You name it. A good deal of this effort has centered here in Southern California.
"Young Daniel, here, for instance, vividly remembers a young girl named Dawn Summers, the sister of an old friend. A few years ago, no such girl existed. Someone rewrote reality to insert her into it. Likewise, more recently, our friends at Wolfram & Hart rewrote reality to extract someone from it. Giving that person an entirely new life.
"Connor," said Justine, warily. She noted Oz looking at her out of the corner of his eye.
"Yes," said Ethan, pleasantly. Moreover, in a short period of time, a number of beings which we can only refer to as "gods" have walked the Earth. One, named Glorificus, caused a great deal of trouble in Sunnydale. Another, whom the locals named "Jasmine," was defeated while trying to impose an order on the world, at the expense of free will. I'm rather grateful for that one, actually. The last, called only the First Evil, was defeated trying to create a corporeal form for itself, bringing an age of death and destruction to humanity. It was all very thrilling, I'm sure."
"So what does all this mean to us?" said Oz.
"What it means, young Daniel, is that reality has become very, very brittle. Too many energies thrown around too close together. It created a sort of inter-dimensional circuit, if you will. This circuit was closed when another of the old ones—the gods, if you will— by the name of Illyria, was risen from its slumber in the Deeper Well, only to vanish assisting Angel's final act: the destruction of the Circle of the Black Thorn, an act which not only swayed the balance between order and chaos," Ethan was smirking now, "but also rained fire and brimstone and the armies of the damned down on him and his colleagues."
"So they are alive," said Oz.
"Possibly," said Ethan. "Very possibly. But, assuming they are, extracting them could prove very difficult. If what I'm seeing is correct—and it is—then they exist within a singularity, a moment repeating itself perpetually in time. Saving them may well doom the entire universe. And not saving them almost certainly will."
"What do you mean," asked Justine.
"What he means," said Amy, surprisingly subdued, "is that, if we don't close the singularity, it'll eventually wear down the already thin walls between dimensions."
"Smart girl," said Ethan. "That's exactly what it means."
"So if we don't rescue Angel..." said Justine.
"Then all the gods and demons," said Ethan, "will be free to walk the Earth."
Oz gulped.
"No pressure."
Ethan's revelation pretty much took the wind out of their sails. The three of them stood motionless for what seemed like hours, staring at Ethan's smug, smiling face.
"Well," he said, after what seemed an eternity. "Don't you heroes have a world to save?"
They lingered a moment longer, unsure of what to say. Justine and Oz eyed each other nervously.
"I want sushi," said Amy, snapping out of it. "Anyone else want sushi? Oz?"
"Yeah," he said. "I'll meet you at the elevator." He then turned to Justine. "You coming?"
"Out? But..."
"You're not a prisoner, Justine," said Oz, kindly. "You can come and go as you please."
Justine seemed to weigh that idea. Reluctantly—almost despite herself—she found her head nodding.
"Right," said Amy, rolling her eyes. I'll see you in a few."
Amy walked away, Justine and Oz stood silently for a second. Everything that was flashing through her head was too much to take. She needed to say something, but it all clashed together in her throat.
"Your real name is Daniel?" she asked. It was the only thing that she could verbalize.
"Yeah," said Oz. "Daniel Osbourne."
"I knew a Daniel once."
"Holtz."
"That's not fair!" snapped Justine. "You know everything about me! You know things about me even I don't know! You know I stole..."
"Connor. Angel's baby. And slit Wesley's throat. Yeah, I know all that. And you framed Angel for Holtz's death, so Connor would kill him."
"How did..." Justine began to wobble. It was as though a fog was lifting in her head. "I did all those things. Angel was ..."
"Angel used to be a bad cat," said Oz. "No doubt about it. Saw a bit of that myself. And then he was a good guy. And none of it matters anymore. Just try to hang on. Try to focus on what's here now."
Justine's head was swimming. She tried to stand up straight. Tried to focus. The memories were racing, but they seemed distant now, too. Like they happened to someone else.
"I slit his..."
"Be here now," said Oz, shrugging, hands shoved in his pockets. She wanted to run. She wanted to cry. She stood motionless.
"Sushi," she said, finally. "I've never had sushi."
"It's good," said Oz. "You'll like it. And you'll love wasabi."
They were sitting in a trendy sushi joint in Santa Monica. The people milling about looked like they'd stepped off a movie screen. Justine felt awkward and out of place.
And Amy was talking. Amy was always talking.
"...so there I was, making my way out of Sunnydale, stop and go traffic for miles, and my car overheats. Dies, right there on the highway. And does anyone stop to help? Hell, no. OK, fleeing an impending Apocalypse, sure. I get it. I mean, I was running, too. But that's no reason not to be neighborly!
If she could, Justine thought, she'd slit her throat right ... she didn't mean that. She didn't want to be that person. She looked at Oz. Oz was nodding patiently. Listening. He was from Sunnydale, too, wasn't he?
"Shame about the town," he said, when she wound down. "I mean, it's not surprising. Just sad."
"What was it about the town? The town you're from," said Justine, hesitantly. Conversation seemed to be an act she was putting on. A disguise. She wasn't at all sure she liked it.
"It was on the mouth of Hell," said Oz. "Weird place."
"And that's where you met Angel?" Justine asked.
"Angel, Willow, Buffy," he said. "The whole crew."
"And Wesley?"
"Him too."
"You don't seem the type."
"Type?"
"Battling evil. Fighting demons."
"I'm not, really," said Oz. "I'm a bassist. But I needed the cash, and Riley needed someone he could trust."
"There's easier ways to get cash," said Amy.
"True," said Oz. "But, hey. Sounded interesting. And here I am."
"Join Finn's army, see the world," said Amy. "Meet interesting people, and have them feast on your brains."
"Finn trusts you?" asked Justine.
"I guess."
"And what do you do? I mean, you held your own against the skeletons, but..."
"But I'm not a fighter. I get that. But I've dealt with this stuff before. And Angel knows me. He won't assume I'm a threat right away, if we catch up to him."
"He's here to keep an eye on us," said Amy.
"True. Finn's boss doesn't trust you."
"Why not?" asked Justine.
"Well," said Oz, "Ethan's a supervillain, and Amy's got a thing for malicious mischief."
"This is true," said Amy.
"And you..."
"I know what I've done," said Justine.
"Good," said Oz. "Progress."
"So if there's a contingency plan," said Amy, "Why do you need to keep tabs on us?"
"I don't," said Oz. "I keep tabs on the contingency plan."
He grinned at Justine, then swallowed a California roll.
Justine felt a smile beginning to stretch upon her face, which turned to horror as she saw Holtz hovering above Oz, knife in hand. In one fell swoop, the blade slid across his neck, and he fell lifelessly to the table.
Justine began to scream, and in that instance blinked, and everything was as it was, Oz and Amy talking lightly, then stopping and looking at her with concern. Well, Oz with concern. Amy looked mostly annoyed..
Justine excused herself for the restroom, and, once alone, she began to cry.
Oz dropped Amy and Justine off at the base, then walked to meet Riley at a nearby bar. The evening weighed heavy on him—one moment, it seemed they were finally gelling as a team, the next, he could tell they were a miasma of neuroses. Then he thought about the word, "miasma," and decided he liked it. It means, "an influence or atmosphere that tends to deplete or corrupt."
"Huh," he thought. "So what do you do when everyone you started with was corrupted to begin with? Well, everyone except ..."
The bar didn't have a sign out front, and no one seemed to give a damn about California smoking regulations. Which annoyed him—he had a sensitive nose. There were a few scattered patrons, and Oz could tell from the moment he entered the room that the beer was watered down, and there were no fewer than five illegal narcotics that he could identify.
"Well, if this gig pans out," he thought, "Maybe I can go be a police dog."
Riley was holed up at a back booth. Which must have took some doing, in this joint. Oz imagined that everyone wanted the back booth. But then, he figured, no one around was listening to anyone else, anyway. This was a place where you were better off not knowing what was going on. Not that he had any choice. He heard damn near everything.
Riley had a bottle of Miller Genuine Draft and a copy of the LA Times. Oz, likewise, got himself a Miller. Not his favorite, but this joint didn't have a lot of options.
"Hey," said Oz.
"Hey," said Riley. "How's the team coming?"
Oz thought before answering, then took a sip of beer. Which tasted remarkably good at just this moment.
"Ethan will try to kill us as soon as possible," he said, finally. "Amy could sell us all out, or just leave when she's bored. Justine's OK, but she's cracking up. I don't know why Connor's hanging around, but I'm not sure it's all good, and then there's ..."
Oz let the thought trail off. "Yeah," said Riley. "Told you it would be tough."
"You did," said Oz. "And I believed you. But man. This is something else. Riley, why am I doing this?"
"You were the best man for the job."
"Thanks, but ... look. Why aren't you out in front? Or better yet, why don't we just ..."
"Go running to Buffy?"
"Well, yeah. You have to admit, she's better qualified."
"Thought about it. I mean, if we went and asked again nice enough, I'm pretty sure they'd capitulate."
Capitulate was also a good word, thought Oz. Kudos.
"But the boss picked this team very specifically, and very specifically ordered me off the field," said Riley. "He was quite clear."
"That's another thing," said Oz, taking another sip of beer. "Who is this guy? He's not military, I've figured that much out. How does he know so much about us?"
Riley smiled that broad, farm boy smile of us—a smile as wide and open as a Nebraska field.
"You know the rules, Oz. The boss needs his secrecy."
"Well," said Oz, "That's the thing about secrets. Hold 'em too tight and they bubble out at the wrong time ... Wait."
Oz stood suddenly, spinning toward the bar. Seeing his reaction, Riley stood also, reaching for his gun. "Inconspicuous?" thought Oz. "No time for that right now."
A tall, leather-clad brunette was at the bar, hanging off a shaved-headed biker. She kissed the man on the lips, and then flung him into the wall. She turned to face them.
"Faith," said Oz, barely audible enough to hear.
Oz hadn't seen Faith in a while. Last he saw her, in fact, she had her crazy on something fierce. That's how she looked now—ready to fuck or kill anything that moved, and she didn't particularly care which. People had told him Faith had reformed, but that's not what it looked like, here.
"Oz, old buddy," she said. "Heard you were back in the game. And Riley Finn. How's it hanging, lover boy?"
Oz didn't dare turn around to see the look on Riley's face, but he could pretty much guess. Pheromones were flying, and he could taste blood in the air already. Then he saw the knife she was using, and knew something was wrong.
Riley had his pistol out now. This was going to end badly.
"What's up, Faith," said Oz. "Thought you were one of the good guys again."
"You thought wrong," said Faith, slinking forward, ever so slowly. "The bitch is back."
She leapt at them, and Riley fired without hesitation, straight into her chest. Faith fell, laughing the entire time, then rolled when she hit the floor, and sprung immediately to her feet. Oz stepped backward.
"Heh, don't worry, boys," said Faith, smiling and bleeding. "This is just a warning. Whatever you're doing? Back off. Now."
And then, suddenly, she was gone, leaving a bar full of startled hoodlums looking nervously at Oz and Riley.
"I think it's time to leave," said Riley.
"Definitely," said Oz.
There was one thing on God's green Earth that Riley didn't want to do at this moment, and that was to go running to Buffy for help. Nonetheless, his fingers were dialing her number as soon as he reached the phone.
"Buffy," he said, urgently. "It's ... yeah, I know what time it is there ... No, I wouldn't be calling if it wasn't ...'
Oz watched impassively—arms folded, leaning against a support beam. From the beginning, he'd figured this whole scheme was a disaster. But Faith ... gone bad again. There was a spark of panic electrifying his spine. He's seen what she could do.
"I'm telling you Buffy, it was ... What do you mean she's not in America? When did you see her last? .... Two months? ... Well a lot can happen in ..."
Oz hit a button on a counsel, and green lights flittered to life. Green for advance team, red for full staff. He hated to admit it, but this super spook business was actually kind of agreeing with him - for a while, at least.
He looked at Riley: not really panicking, but hyperactively practical. They didn't really know each other—Oz knew he had wife somewhere. A government agent, like himself. He knew Riley and Buffy used to be an item.
Buffy was obviously not swayed. Riley slammed down the receiver.
Amy woke with a start as the buzzer erupted. She tried to lay back down, to ignore it, but she knew better.
"So much for an early night," she thought, quickly rising and grabbing a pair of sweats from where she'd kicked them off. The buzzer pounded in her ears. "Damnation," she thought. "The money's good at this gig, but this? This is ..."
She wasn't alone in the room.
"Illuminate," she intoned, waving an open palm in a semicircular arc. The room exploded with light, and there stood Willow. Her hair black as a velvet painting, the veins showing through her translucent skin.
"There's this thing," said Willow, taking one step toward her. "It's like an itch—hovering right there at the base of my neck."
Amy was frozen with fear. Whatever was up with Willow, it was dangerous. Amy could see the aura of power that was pulsing through her. The tiny woman in black standing in front of her was a veritable nuclear reactor."
"Y'see," said Willow, edging even closer. "All I need to do is get you out of the way. Just snap your neck, right here, and ..."
And there was a crash as Justine came barreling through the door, her fist connecting with Willow's jaw in a rain of splinter. Willow slammed backward into the wall.
"Ow," she said, steadying herself. "That really hurt! Bitch!"
Justine threw another punch, this time to the stomach.
"Burn," said Willow, and suddenly Justine's clothes combusted. Amy tried to cast a spell to shield Justine from any more attacks, but to no avail. Justine fell screaming to the floor."
"We have a good deal of catching up to do," said Willow, confidently—but not today. Today's message is, "get the fuck out."
And with that, Willow was gone.
The city stretched for miles. As far as he could see, and he could see far. His eyes were sharper than one would think.
No one came here—or at least, no one came here often. And what visitors there were, came from very, very far away. The stillness was as terrifying and captivating as the architecture—mile upon mile of stone arches and pillars, some rising miles into the ashen-black sky.
The man rested his hands in his pockets, and began to whistle. Gershwin tune, he figured. Couldn't remember the name. "Amazing how songs just spring to mind, sometimes, isn't it?" he said aloud. Not that there was anybody here to hear him.
The man wandered the empty streets until he found the temple—a gargantuan, Gothic thing. He'd seen towns smaller than this place. He stopped to wipe his glasses, straighten his tie. It's not like there was anyone inside to impress—not anymore, anyway. But still, a holy place was a holy place, he reasoned. And soon ... soon...
"I'd like to add his initial to my monogram," he began to sing, lightly, finding the tune as he stepped into the building. "Tell me, where is the shepherd for this lost lamb?" He laughed—it was hardly a hymn, after all. But it would do.
This place was chilly, no doubting it. Even if there were a sun shining down to warm the stones, he doubted it could get warmer. This was, after all, a place where Gods came to die.
Diamonds and gems were imbedded in the walls, but there was so little light that they barely glistened at all. Cautiously, he pried one from its socket, and inspected it for flaws—of which he knew full well there were none.
"There's a somebody I'm longin' to see," he sang, a smile spreading across his face. "I hope that he, turns out to be ... Someone who'll watch over me."
Oz was running. He knew she was there the moment she appeared. Willow. Something bad was happening. There was fire. Burning flesh. Run. Someone ... Amy ... was screaming. Run. The door to Amy's room was shattered.
Amy was inside, smothering a fire with a blanket. Justine. Justine was on fire.
"Oz," said Amy, looking up. Oz, it was her. It was..."
"Willow."
"Yeah," said Amy. "How..."
"I can sense when she's close," said Oz, flatly. Justine looked up at that. The pain of her burns was etched across her face, her lips stretched into a grimace.
"Your ex-girlfriend did this?" she said, coldly. Her and Oz locked stares.
"Yeah," said Oz, crouching down beside her. "looks like she did."
Amy straightened her posture and folded her arms. Oz felt the hair on the back of his neck stiffen. There was a magical charge in the air.
"Amy..."
"No, Oz. You weren't there. You weren't in Sunnydale when she went Wicked Witch of the West."
Oz said nothing. Amy seemed different all of the sudden. More confident, more detached.
"She nearly destroyed the world, Oz. She went on a rampage and even Buffy couldn't stop her. She ..."
"And what did you do?" asked Oz. Amy marveled at how little condescension Oz was able to pack into such a loaded question.
"The only sensible thing," said Amy. "I ran and hid."
"You hiding now?'
Amy pondered the question for a moment.
"No."
"Good. We're meeting in ten in the conference room. Justine, I'll get you to medical."
"No," said Justine, rising shakily. "I'm fine."
Oz could feel the anger in the room. He knew full well that if either of these women had an opportunity, Willow would be dead in a heartbeat.
"Cool," said Oz, his voice revealing nothing. "Let's do this."
The conference room—which previously looked like a comfortable rec room—was now transformed into a military planning center. The sofas and the comfy chair were still there, but the TV displayed schematics of the Wolfram & Hart building, and files and maps rested on the coffee table.
Riley, commandeering the comfy chair, looked stern and pensive, lost in thought. Ethan looked indignant on the couch—two soldiers hovering above him. Oz recognized one of the soldiers—Graham Miller. Before hooking up with this job, Oz had last seen him at the Initiative—one of the soldiers that had imprisoned him. He and Oz had talked it out when Oz arrived, but still...
Justine and Oz stayed standing. Amy sat down on the couch next to Ethan, who turned to smile at her. She shot him a withering glance, and he turned instead back to Riley.
"So," said Ethan. "Mighty commander. What's our glorious mission for Queen and Country?"
"This is America," said Graham. "We don't have a queen."
"Don't be so certain. I've seen the pictures of your president as a cheerleader."
"If you're finished," said Riley, "Let's get this started." Oz noted the edge to Riley's voice. The man was not pleased.
"I've talked to both Buffy and Rupert Giles, and their ... credulous of the idea that both Faith and Willow have gone back to the dark side.
"'Credulous' was Giles' word, wasn't it?" asked Oz. Riley just gave him a dog-tired stare, and then pushed forward.
"I don't know about Faith, but I have trouble believing Willow's gone bad," said Riley. "I mean, I know her. She's not ..."
"She skinned a guy alive, once," said Amy. "The guy who killed Tara Maclay?"
Riley went pale.
"And then she tried to destroy the world," continued Amy, as Oz bristled. "Oh, sure. I've done some bad things in my day, but trust me, Srgt. Rock-Hard Abs, you don't know her nearly as well as I do."
"And you don't know her as well as me," said Oz, a low growl building at the back of his throat. Amy swung around to look at him.
"And am I really so wrong?" she said. Oz had no reply.
"Giles' people are looking for them," said Riley, breaking the tension. "But someone's working overtime to make sure we're kept away from our mission. People who, a few days ago, we thought were allies are attacking us. That is, if it's really ..."
"It's really them," said Oz "I can't be fooled."
"Right," said Riley, rubbing his forehead. "You're going back into Wolfram & Hart by morning. The schematics are being downloaded into a command bracelet. Oz, that'll be yours."
Graham handed Oz something that looked like a thin gauntlet with a Dell embedded in it. "Cool," said Oz. "Very Dick Tracy."
"Have fun," said Ethan. "Because going in there worked so well last time."
"You're going with them, Ethan," said Riley. "We suspect there's some document, ancient texts, mystical artifacts. Things we'll need examined on the spot." There was a moment of silence as Ethan absorbed that thought. "Oz's bracelet can also trigger your explosive device, so no funny stuff if you want to keep your spell-casting arm. This is the big one. Most of you aren't conscripts, so if you want out, the door's open."
Ethan raised his hand. "Not you," said Riley. No one else budged, although Amy looked pensive. "Right. OK, we meet here at 8 a.m. tomorrow, and move on from there." We've put files together for you, the best we can. Study them, and get some rest."
Riley stood up and slowly examined the rag-tag team, and made a smile that seemed less happy than Oz imagined it was meant to be.
"We can win this," said Riley. "We have to."
The team dispersed back to their quarters, with a temporary room being arranged for Amy. Oz lingered a bit behind, looking at the hastily put together files. One had a picture of Willow clipped to it. It was her senior picture. Oz had a copy of it himself in his wallet.
"You miss her," said Justine, from behind him. Oz didn't usually get snuck up on. He realized how distracted he must be.
"Yeah," said Oz. "You OK?"
"The burns weren't as bad as they looked, and I heal fast."
"Slayer healing powers. I've seen it before."
"Yeah."
There was a lingering silence. Which, thought Oz, was the norm for the two of them, both being the taciturn sort as they were.
"Are we coming back from this, tomorrow?"
Oz thought about it. "Wish I knew," he said. "I plan to."
"That's good," said Justine. "Honest."
"Yeah."
She stepped closer, and looked at the picture of Willow.
"She's pretty."
Oz smiled, but was doing a terrible job of hiding all the pain behind the smile, and Justine knew it.
"You should go to bed," he said. "Big day tomorrow."
"Possibly our last day."
Justine took the file from Oz, and closed it. Tentatively, she raised her palm to his cheek. She practically towered over him.
"Justine," said Oz, but then he stopped, and she was kissing him.
And for a moment, the night and the battles and the fear fell away.
Justine stirred for a moment, and pulled her lover close to her. He seemed so fragile laying there, his brow furrowed, as though dreaming. She kissed him lightly, pulled him close, and then, she too fell asleep.
In her dream, she was in the shadows of the city again, the night bathing everything as time stood still for her, her senses extending outward for her prey, stirring in the darkness below. She swooped downward when she saw it move, it's monstrous form buckling under the weight of her attack. When time snapped back into place, she could see the monster's slight frame, and without mercy, she slit its throat. Somewhere, in the distance, she heard a baby cry, but she couldn't see from where.
Oz slept fitfully, the beast digging its way through his skin, placated briefly by the touch of the woman beside him. In her arms, he dreamed of dense woods in winter, of running for miles after the scent of blood drifting on the breeze. The moon cast a dim blue light across the forest. He felt the power of his muscles unrestrained in the wild. The blood smelled familiar.
In her dream, Amy was in the center of an alien city that seemed to stretch for infinity in all directions, as lifeless as pebbles. There was no breeze against her skin, and what light there was seemed to come from nowhere in particular. No orb shined in the sky. No stars.
"Choose a side," said a voice, in almost polite whispers. She'd heard that voice before, and like she'd done before, she ran until her body forced her to stop.
And Ethan didn't sleep. Instead, he stared at the leaves at the bottom of his teacup. The soldiers above permitted him no weapons, but then, he didn't need them. He blew out the candle on his night stand, closed his eyes and folded his legs, his fingers resting on his knees. He watched time bend and stretch, like putty. He watched the beast emerge from frail flesh. He heard the voice of evil whisper on the wind, and then his eyes snapped open, and at last he understood.
"For these things only die in flesh," he said, in a voice that was not his own, and no reckoning by man shall bind them to the shadow realms"
"And what was sundered by the swords of heroes," said another voice, across the darkness from him, "must be bound by unclean hands."
Ethan skittered away from the voice, desperately seeking to reach the lamp.
A thin, dark man emerged from the shadows. Ethan didn't recognize him.
"Hello, Ethan," said the man, his voice low and lilting. "It's time we two spoke."
Rupert Giles sat behind his oaken desk piled with papers and nursed a glass of Scotch. It killed him to turn a deaf ear to Riley Finn's troubles—he had issues with the lad, certainly, but he still quite cared about him, as he cared about all of the young people who'd come under his watch over the years. So many gone now: Cordelia Chase, Tara Maclay, Anya Jenkins.
He smiled a bit as that last name crossed his thoughts ... he'd gotten rather adjusted to thinking of her as a young woman. But then, none of the monsters he dealt with regularly seemed so ... monstrous ... when you spoke to them nearly every day. Not even Angel. Not even Spike.
Buffy knew he was hiding something, but then, he made little effort to hide that fact. He knew that she knew that he was no longer of the habit of concealing things without reason. Still, she was anxious about what was happening in Los Angeles, and Faith and Willow were missing. He had every resource at his disposal searching for them, but he knew that he'd not find them without turning his eye toward Los Angeles. And what then? Did he dare to break his word?
"It's hard, ain't it?" said a woman's voice. Startled, Giles looked up to see Samantha Finn standing in his office. Her face worn with care, but still looking every inch the secret agent she had in their earlier meetings. "I didn't hear you enter," said Giles, pouring Samantha a glass. She smiled a worn smile and accepted, sipping lightly.
"No one ever does," she said. "This must be Hell for her," Giles thought. She was a lot like Buffy, actually. That didn't surprise him.
"Yes, well, I'm glad you're here. Have you had any contact with your husband's team?"
"None. Have you found your missing people?"
"No."
The two sipped in silence. If he let himself, it was easy for him to write off most of those in the most direct way of harm—Ethan Rayne, particularly, had caused him no end of trouble over the years. But Samantha Finn's presence here in London, her forced exile away from her husband, served as a grim reminder of the stakes in front of them, and that their futures rested on the shoulders of Riley Finn, Daniel Osbourne, and a hastily assembled group of people who, mostly, had spent time trying to kill either himself or people he cared about.
"To monsters," he toasted, Samantha clinking his glass cautiously. "They say God has a reason for everything under the sun. Perhaps then monsters, too, have their place."
Let's hope," said Samantha. "Let's hope."
Connor marveled at how the wind felt against his skin as he leapt from rooftop to rooftop. He'd forgotten it when his memories were rewritten. Come to think of it, he didn't ever really appreciate it before that, either.
He had the best of both worlds, now. He knew that—just like he knew his parents were home and thinking he was down here in LA visiting friends. Which was, technically, true.
He entered the building through a skylight. Inside, a small coven of scale-faced demons was huddled by a heater. The air smelled like stale feces. "What were these freaks living on?" he wondered. Didn't matter. He fell gracefully to the floor, landing in a battle crouch, ready to spring.
"The Destroyer!" shouted one, as the others scampered behind him.
"Yeah, right," said Connor. "The Destroyer."
"Leave here now or we'll..."
"Piss yourselves on my shoe?" The demons whispered and conferred in a language Connor didn't speak, turning again to face him.
"What do you want?" asked the one who was obviously the leader.
"There's big things happening here in Los Angeles," said Connor, coolly. "You things are brokers to the netherworld. Small-time, true, but..."
"We're not small-time, you whelp!" Connor started forward, and they cowered. "Well, OK, there's bigger."
"I want to know who's using Wolfram & Hart's L.A. resources," said Connor. "I want to know what happened to Angel."
Connor had never seen anyone turn greener before. The thing was obviously freaked. He was amazed how easy this part of it was—the memories of being "the Destroyer" were so distant, they seemed like another person.
"I don't know," said the leader, after some contemplation. "I don't know who you're looking for. There's rumors of a shaman of some sort, but..."
"Where can I find him?"
"I don't know."
"Can you find out?"
"What's in it for us if we do?"
"You get to live," said Connor. The thing turned greener still. He could get used to this.
"Come back tomorrow," and I'll have information for you." Said the leader.
"Tomorrow, then," said Connor. "It's a date."
With a bound, Connor leapt through the open skylight into the night sky. This was exhilarating.
"Of course," said a voice, "When you get here tomorrow, they'll have all kinds of bad-ass troll thingies and stuff to gang up on you."
Connor swung around to face the voice, grabbing his knife from its sheathe as he turned. Behind him stood a man with an eye patch in a sharp, black suit.
"Hey, easy on the fisticuffs," said the man. "I'm a Superfriend!"
"Who are you?"
"I was a friend of your father's. Well, OK, friend is a strong term. We knew each other, anyway."
The man stepped forward, and put out his hand.
"My name's Xander Harris. We should talk."
The diner looked like the one they shot "Pulp Fiction" in, but Xander was quick to point out that that diner was actually in Hawthorne, and it wasn't even open when they shot the film, but it re-opened afterward to cash in on movie geeks.
"You went there, right?"
"Just a burger and a Coke."
Xander seemed all right. The eye patch made him look kind of secret agenty, but really, he was pretty laid back. Of course, Connor was anxious to hear what he had to say about his father.
"I don't really know anything," said Xander, sipping his soda. I know the government put together a team of mostly former bad guys to deal with the situation—which is OK, in a "Mod Squad" kind of way—but I've got a couple friends hooked up in the gig.
"I know this part," said Connor. "They asked me to join, but I didn't trust them. The whole thing was just ..."
"Intense. I get that. But let me ask you a question...."
Xander had a way from shifting from ... well, goofy... to serious in a heartbeat. His whole demeanor changed, and for a second, Connor realized that he kind of was a mystical secret agent sort of ... guy. He didn't have a name for it. Xander called himself a "Watcher," but Connor didn't know what that was supposed to mean.
"Why were those demons back there so afraid of you?"
"I guess they remember me from... oh"
Xander smiled, but there was a something both warm and terribly sad in that smile. Like he had figured something out, and was sorry that you had to know it, too.
"Right. No one's supposed to remember you. I didn't find out about you until the other day, and I'm pretty sure I'd have heard about Angel having a kid. So how did..."
"So how did the government know who I really was?"
"You want dessert?" asked Xander. "I want dessert." Xander turned to flag the waitress while Connor processed the information. But as Xander turned, a thin, graying man in glasses was suddenly standing behind him.
"I'm sorry," said the man. "I didn't mean to startle you."
Xander began sliding back against the seat, quickly drawing a revolver concealed beneath his jacket.
"You."
"Now, now boys. If I'd come to fight, you'd already be dead. I just figured I'd come to extend an invitation."
"Connor, run."
"Connor, sit."
Connor was paralyzed with indecision. This man seemed frail and genial, but Xander was clearly panicking, the gun aimed unsteadily in his shaking hand.
"You can call me, Doc, Connor. We'll get along famously. I know a lot about losing loved ones."
"Connor..."
"Don't listen to him, boy," said Doc, a blade quickly appearing in his hand. "This really doesn't need to be a drama. I just want to have a nice, civilized discussion."
Everything then happened at once. Xander fired, and the bullet's impact seemed to stagger the old man, but not knock him down. Xander then leapt from the booth at the old man, who clasped his left hand around Xander's throat while the right one stabbed the blade into his torso. Xander screamed in pain, dropping the revolver.
Connor stood to attack, but could see Xander—dazed and battered—mouthing the word to him.
"Run."
And without another word, Connor leapt through the diner window, and in a symphony of glass, escaped into the night.
There's some sort of rule that says these things have to happen at midnight. Ethan could explain it, if he was inclined, but he was otherwise engaged. His face was stony as he finger-painted symbols onto his bare chest. The night fell around him like rain. He could feel the way the wind shifted direction for no reason.
Amy awoke from a dream of cities, her skin clammy and drenched in sweat. Her throat was chalk. Speech was beyond her. She could feel the energies converging. It was familiar to her. It was ...
"Oh my God," she said, pulling the blanket to her chest as she sat upright. "I understand."
Samantha Finn sat in Rupert Giles' office, neither drunk from last night's whiskey nor tired. She and Giles had watched the sunrise, two soldiers reduced to the role of fretting from the sidelines, although he had finally succumbed to dozing off. She, on the other hand, was far too tired to sleep. She was startled to hear the ring on her Blackberry. Rapidly, she pulled the machine from its belt holster and read the e-mail—the first she'd received at this address in weeks.
"Rupert," she said, shaking the man awake. "We need to go. We need to get Buffy, and we need to go."
And Connor ran. The streets seemed labyrinthine and unfamiliar, towering above him like mountains in the shadows. Like gods in the shadows. And when that thought hit him it struck like a thunderclap, stopping him in his tracks.
"Jasmine," he said, the force of the name causing his teeth to quiver. "But it..."
A fist connected with his jaw, knocking him a full ten feet into the side of a building.
"Hey kid," said Faith, sliding calmly toward him, like a cat. "First rule of running away? Don't stop."
"You," said Connor, rising shakily to his feet. "I know you."
"Aw, I don't think so," said Faith. "I'd remember a cutie like you." She pounced, an ornate knife appearing in her hand, as if by magic. Connor had never seen anyone move that fast. Not even his father. He barely moved out of her way, but she was barely even disoriented. He rolled to the side, but she landed next to him, spinning to face him as she hit the ground. Moving faster than he could think, he spun and kicked, his foot connecting with her head and knocking her into the wall.
It wouldn't stop her long. He turned and ran again, unsure exactly where to go. Oz's team was in Hawthorne, too far to run. He'd never make it. He decided to worry about it later. Survive first. Run. A wall of flames ignited in front of him, bursting from the ground. He could feel his heart racing faster as he watched a silhouette step through the flames—a lithe woman in black, her skin so pale her veins showed through, her hair and eyes obsidian.
"I ... I know you," said Connor. "You're Angel's friend. Willow."
"Ah," said Willow. "I need to tip my publicist good this Christmas. Word of mouth is getting around."
With a wave of her hand, Connor was propelled backward, landing at Faith's feet.
"Gee, Morticia," said Faith, smiling and rubbing the flat of her blade against her cheek. "I didn't get you anything."
Faith kicked Connor in the chin. Blood was beginning to cloud his vision. He was pretty sure that wasn't a good thing.
"Now ladies," said a voice. "Leave a piece of him for me."
Connor looked up to see Xander Harris standing above him. At least, He thought it was Xander. He seemed younger, and the eye patch was missing. There was something different about the way he held himself. Those sudden moments of intensity he'd earlier displayed seemed to have manifested completely. There was something different in his aura. Something savage.
Connor clenched his hands into fists, and prepared himself to go down fighting. Suddenly, there was a bright flash of light, and all of them turned to see its source.
Amy Madison stood at the end of the alleyway. Her hair unkempt, wearing hastily thrown on sweats—she looked as if she'd been dragged from bed. Flanking her on either side were Oz and Justine, who also looked like they'd been awoken hastily.
A nexus of energy swirled around Amy's hand.
"Step away from the kid," she said. "We've got a lot of catching up to do."
"Oz," said Willow, savoring the taste of the words. "Good to see you lover."
"Will," said Oz, panic spreading across his face. "We need to decelerate this, Will."
"Why," said Willow. "Don't you wanna dance?"
"Enough of this," said Amy. "This bitch and I have scores to settle." With a wave of Amy's hand, Willow was battered in a rain of trash cans and loose bricks, staggering her backward into the fire.
Justine moved next, leaping toward Faith. Their fists collided with each other's faces brutal explosions.
"Not a full moon," said Xander, his eyes fixed on Oz. "Kind of keeps you at the kids' table, doesn't it."
Oz gulped as Xander pounced at him. Normally, he knew he could wipe the floor with Xander. If he wanted to—which, admittedly, wasn't often. But something was different about him. He was stronger, bestial. He was ...
"You're possessed by a hyena spirit, aren't you?"
Xander bared his teeth, his lips curling into a snarl. Oz kicked him in the face.
"You know," said Oz, catching his breath. "I was really hoping not to do this.
Oz's skin began to contort, his skin quivering as the muscles swelled. His bones bent and his teeth grew and sharpened into fangs.
Everything stopped for a moment, as the combatants were momentarily entranced by the transformation. Fully revealed, the wolf leapt toward Xander, the two locked in a feral embrace, clawing and scratching at one another.
"He's a werewolf," said Justine. "I'm sleeping with a werewolf."
Faith pummeled her upside the head.
"Honey," said Faith, "I think you're the only one here who didn't know."
"Now that's the guy I used to love," said Willow, waving her hand and funneling the rampant flames toward Amy, who screamed in terror as she deflected them. "You people couldn't beat us when we were nice. What makes you think you can take us now?
There was the bang of pistol fire, and a bullet tore through Willow's shoulder. There was a light giggle in the air. Justine took the distraction to leap away from Faith, pouncing toward Willow and clocking her in the jaw.
"Team spirit," said Justine. "That's how we'll win."
Amy got the clue, and with a thought hurdled Xander into Faith, knocking the two of them off balance. Connor, who had forced himself to a stand, took advantage of the moment to land another punch on Faith.
"Keep them off balance!" shouted Justine, but Willow had gotten her bearings again. A blue, electrified mist seemed to rise up around Justine, freezing her in place. She turned to face Oz.
"Puppy" she shouted, her voice deliriously happy. "You've been a very bad dog."
Oz could feel the wolf side of his personality reeling, looking to escape as Willow strode toward him, but then she stopped, and looked into a patch of empty air. Inside his head, the human side of Oz's personality was screaming.
"I see invisible things," said Willow, a bolt of energy crackling fro her fingertips. There was a thud—meat falling limp to the ground. Willow turned again toward Oz. "And now for you," she said. "Lie down." Oz felt his legs buckle, felt himself fall over. "Sleep." And with that, he was out.
Amy gasped. She was running out of power, and there was only one source for her to siphon from. But if she didn't try...
Madly, she leapt toward Willow, grabbing her head in her hands. There was a circuit of force running between them, but it was more than Amy had bargained for—it was overwhelming her.
As she screamed in pain, she felt Xander's fist slam into the back of her head. Before she blacked out, the last thing she saw was his predatory leer.
Justine, her mobility returned, and Connor fell back to back as Willow, Xander and Faith converged on them.
Connor moved first, leaping at Faith, who didn't even dodge. He flew straight into her fist, and then hit him again, and again, and again, until he was a bloody pulp.
Justine leapt toward Xander, knocking him down with a single blow. She weighed the odds, and realized she couldn't win. She needed help. Riley, maybe. Maybe the real slayer. She began to run, but found herself colliding with an old man's cane.
"Sorry, young lady," said Doc, a kindly smile plastered across his face. "But the party's only starting. What kind of hosts would we be if we let you leave without dessert?"
She felt his fist knock across her head. And then there was only darkness.
Although she visited London often, Buffy Summers and her sister, Dawn, called Venice home. And on a day like today, the sun blazing down on Duomo's Square, she remembered why. Best of all? Barely a vampire in the whole damn city. Sure, she had some administrative work to do—and that whole messy affair with the Immortal ended up with some drama, certainly—but for the most part, she was free to do what she wanted to do, when she wanted to do it.
"So why on Earth," she thought, "am I here in front of my house watching my ex-boyfriend's wife rappel out of an unmarked U.S. government helicopter?"
Buffy sighed, although the realization that Giles was right behind her in that helicopter made her giggle a bit—he was a lot of things, but paratrooper wasn't one of them. Still, Sam Finn wasn't one to be easily alarmed.
The three of them—Giles mildly airsick—made their way into the spacious apartment, where Dawn was waiting for them, with coffee and biscotti.
"OK," said Buffy, as everyone settled in to work. "What the Hell has you two in such a fluster? And if one of you says it's the end of the world, I'm going to sceam."
Giles looked uneasy. Buffy could tell that it really was the end of the world. She had a sense about these things. Sam said nothing, but instead handed her a printout of the e-mail that had been sent to her. Buffy read it with intense concentration.
"If this is true..." started Buffy, letting the sentence trail off as she considered the implications.
"Then the situation is even more dire than we thought," said Giles.
"What are you guys talking about?" asked Dawn.
"Our friends are in deep trouble," said Sam. "Buffy, will you help?"
Buffy looked to Dawn, who nodded at her.
"Of course," said Buffy. "I'm ready to go now. Giles, can you look after Dawn while we're gone."
"Of course," said Giles. "In the meantime, I'll utilize the Council's resources, see if we can find out more information."
A few minutes later, Buffy and Sam were headed for America, leaving Giles and Dawn behind.
"So what is it?" asked Dawn. "What has Buffy and Sam so spooked?"
Giles didn't look at her. Instead, he focused on the small wine collection Buffy had accumulated.
"Our friends do indeed seem to have been turned to evil," said Giles. "And Riley Finn is working for a dead man."
"Oh," said Dawn. "So, uhm, have you had lunch?"
"There's a lot of good eateries in this neighborhood, as I recall," said Giles, thankful Dawn had let him off the hook.
Dawn started to reply, but she was interrupted by the sudden appearance of Willow in the room, accompanied by a frail old man.
"Doc," said Dawn, her eyes widening in the memory of the demon slicing a knife into her skin. "Small, shallow cuts." She remembered it all to well.
"Ms. Summers," said Doc. "Good to see you again. Gosh, I'd have never figured you'd head off to Italy. Lovely part of the world."
Giles began to move toward the two of them, but Willow intervened.
"Immobilize," she said, and both Dawn and Giles were frozen in their tracks.
"Heh," laughed Willow. "These two are easy. We should go after the slayer."
"Now, now," said Doc. "All in good time. First, though, we have big plans for this girl."
He then turned to Giles.
"And he could be useful too," said Doc, "now that I think of it."
Dawn watched as Doc gently laid his palm onto Giles' torso. There was a flash of energy, and suddenly decades seemed to strip off Giles' face, and his clothes seemed to morph from a sharp jumper and slacks to torn jeans and a "Who" T-shirt. His hair turned thick and spiky.
"Giles," said Dawn, cautiously, not entirely sure that his was, indeed, still Giles.
Giles turned to look at her, a swagger in his posture that hadn't been there previously.
"Giles? That's my old man," he said. "You can call me ... Ripper."
Dawn felt the familiar pull of the world spinning around here, her stomach sinking churning as the planet spun around her in flashes. One moment, she was in her apartment in Italy, and now ... Giles, Willow ... they stood beside the demon Doc, near-radiating evil. She tried not to look at them, instead daring to look at the world spinning around her. There was a scene playing out, as though the sky were a movie. Angel was standing in an alley, Spike beside him. Other people she didn't know. There is an army closing in on them, a dragon circling above. At Angel's command the four launch into battle against the seemingly endless armada before them.
Dawn tried to call out to Spike, but she knows he can't hear her. The world stops spinning, and suddenly, they're somewhere else—a city made of stone, stretching for as far as the eye can see. Enough light tinges the sky to see by, but no more.
"What was that," asks Dawn, her voice barely a whisper. "Where are we?"
"That?" said Doc. "That was pretty nifty, wasn't it? Heroes locked in eternal battle. It's all very Valhalla. But I guess you're too young for Wagner. Pity."
"And where is this?" she asked, rage starting to steady her voice.
"Oh," said Doc. "This is the Ragnarok. This is where gods come to die."
"Dawn," said a weak voice. Dawn turned her head to look, and saw Willow's old boyfriend, Oz, chained to a pole. Beside him was Amy Madison, whom she recognized from Sunnydale. She didn't know who the other woman was, or the boy chained to the stone slab. Then she realized there was a second set of shackles attached to the slab, and she began to struggle.
Giles—Ripper, whatever his name was—held her in place, preventing her from running.
"Hold still," he said, "this is gonna be a bumpy ride."
Xander and Faith approached, seemingly from nowhere.
"The invisible chick took off in the confusion," said Xander, not even looking at her. "Her trail's long dead."
Dawn couldn't believe how young Xander looked. It was like when they first met. And Faith looked ...
"What did you do them?" asked Dawn, now livid with rage. "What did you do? Oz was watching intently. He clearly wanted to know the answer to that question, himself.
"Funny story, that" said Doc. "You see, when your sister defeated the Beast, I was pretty much at loose ends. Not much call for an aging acolyte, after all. The gods always want young converts these days. And frankly, I was rather attached to Glorificus."
Doc sat on a stone, and cupped his chin in his hand.
"But you don't wanna know this story, do ya?"
"I do," said Dawn.
"OK," said Doc. "You see, Glorificus was dead, but gods don't really die that easy. Way I figured it, if I thought long and hard about it, I'd find a way to bring her back."
Dawn's stomach knotted at the thought of Glory returning, her body reflexively recalling the terror of the time she held her prisoner.
"So," continued Doc, "after a long journey across dimensions and across the Earth, I ended up making a deal with the Wolf, Ram and Hart, and they gave me access to this place."
Doc threw his arms open wide, as though he were revealing a grand present.
"Isn't it nice?"
"It's lovely."
"Aw, you're just being nice. But anyway, this place used to belong to an elder being named Illyria, who, for various reasons, wasn't using it anymore. And there's a temple here where small slivers of the essence of fallen gods are retained."
"And you can bring her back, just like that?
"Well, no, actually. There's a few things in the way of that. You might have noticed this, but there's a few rules to bringing back the dead. It's tricky. And dead gods? They're the trickiest."
"So what did you do?"
"Well, I'm not a proud man, so I asked around for help."
"And who did you ask for help?"
" That would be me," said a new voice, and Dawn's blood froze at the sound of it.
There beside her, her arms folded, stood Buffy, a thin, wicked grin plastered across her face.
Marcie had a Blackberry and a private e-mail address, but the only messages on which she received were instructions. Of course, those were the only e-mails she got, period. She had a cell phone number, which no one called. Her supervisors preferred to communicate by e-mail. She rarely ever spoke.
So perhaps it shouldn't have surprised her that Riley didn't recognize her voice. He'd known she was there, of course. He and Oz—she was their "secret weapon," the one who would take out Justine or Amy or Ethan if they fell out of line. The one who'd not hesitate to put a bullet in the back of their heads.
It was a living.
The funny thing was, she'd kind of liked them, kind of felt like she was part of the team. She'd gone to high school with Oz and Amy after all, even if she didn't really know them. And Oz was kind. He couldn't let on that he knew she was there, but sometimes he'd sit quietly with her, while he read in the break room or listened to music. He always knew where she was, of course. It was his job to kill her if she fell out of line. She didn't think he saw that as a living. She was pretty sure he was hoping to avoid that decision. That didn't bug her.
But that scene behind her? That had been messed up.
Riley told her not to rendezvous at the headquarters, which was good because, far. She was supposed to meet up with a field team at an abandoned hotel called the Hyperion. Evidently, Ethan had been able to pinpoint the exact location Angel and the others had disappeared. She remembered Angel from Sunnydale. He was handsome.
She walked past the soldiers securing the location. They never knew she was there. No one ever did. Riley was talking to Ethan by what must have been the old check-in desk. There was a thin man talking to them. Glasses, dark hair. A neatly pressed shirt and slacks. No tie. "Not a company man then," she thought.
She leaned into Riley's ear, and whispered, "Special Agent Marcie Ross, reporting for duty sir." Riley jumped but, to his credit, didn't scream. She giggled, and that seemed to disturb him more. No one seemed to like her laugh.
"Marcie, I'm glad you could join us," said the thin man. She stood silently. He didn't seem shocked that she was there and, well, invisible.
"Who the bloody hell are you talking to?" said Ethan, who looked very, very tired.
"I guess the cat's out of the bag," said Riley, hesitantly. "Ethan Rayne, meet Marcie Ross. Marcie's a government-trained invisible assassin, who's been assigned to your team since the start."
"Charmed," said Ethan, incredulously. "Really."
"Ms. Ross, you'll not be surprised to find, attended Sunnydale High School, before her unique condition set in," said the thin man who, like Ethan, had an English accent.
"Well that figures," said Ethan. "Is there anyone in that town you didn't hire?"
"Marcie," said Riley, "this is our mysterious superior, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce."
"Hee," giggled Marcie. "I've read your file. You're supposed to be a dead man."
"I'm afraid I am," said Wesley. "Stabbed in the gut by an old demon sorcerer. But then, I had a feeling something like that might happen, so I made ... arrangements."
"What sort of arrangements?" asked Marcie.
"A truly staggering web of legal red-tape and bureaucracy," said the voice of a woman whom Marcie hadn't notice before. The soldiers evidently hadn't noticed her either, as they were startled and drawing beads.
"Stand down, men," said Wesley. "Lilah. How good to see you, again."
"Wesley," said Lilah, "Do you have any idea how upset the senior partners are with you. The abuse of company resources alone..."
"Was all on the up and up, Lilah. I cashed in every debt owed to me—including, you'll check the fine print on the contracts I signed—my company stock options and any claim to an afterlife—to see to it that the government had no choice but to carry through a reclamation effort."
Wesley softened somewhat, as the two of them locked stares.
"It's basically the same deal you signed, accept that I'm not bound to servitude."
"And what happens to you when you're done here, Wesley? Are you going to be just another ghost, haunting the world?"
"Lilah, that's all I ever was when I was alive."
The sadness between the two of them was palpable, thought Marcie—two dead souls, locked into roles they'd long cast themselves into. And she could certainly relate to haunting the world. That's all she'd ever done, after all, and she was very much alive.
"So what, exactly, are we doing here?" asked Marcie, eager to get back to work.
"Yes, I rather wonder about that myself," said Ethan.
"Yes," said Wesley, as Lilah glared at him. "You see, it all started when the old one Illyria—you'll remember her from your briefing—was released from the Deeper Well, and consumed the form of Winifred Burkle, not only killing her, but rending her soul into pieces."
"Right," said Ethan. "I remember that bit from the files. Even the same magic that binds Angelus's soul to his vampyric body can't be used to put Humpty Dumpty together again."
Wesley shot him a cool look, and then rubbed his forehead.
"More or less," said Wesley, but something happened that ... complicated matters. Shortly after Fred's death, we used a device to shed some of Illyria's extra power. It allowed her to walk this world more or less safely, preventing her from destroying her current form and, consequently, a goodly portion of the western seaboard."
Wesley laughed a little bit at that, and Marcie suddenly understood why people found her laugh unsettling.
"Illyria's powers center strongly on the manipulation of time and space. What we didn't know is that, as her essence was bound to Fred's form, her excess power acted as a magnet to Fred's soul, drawing the disparate pieces back together again."
"So her soul can be saved?" asked Riley.
"Well," said Wesley, "it's hard to say. What happened, then, was that it became a sort of null point in space and time—an endless loop containing nothing save a vague sentience and near-limitless power. Quite possibly, it would have simply recycled itself throughout creation forever."
"Until Illyria died," said Ethan, catching on.
"Yes," said Wesley, his voice so cold now that Marcie truly believed he was dead. "But Illyria is, for all intents and purposes, a god, and gods don't die easily. The four of them, and the armies of the Wolf, Ram and hart, were sucked into the null point at the moment of her death, where they would relive that battle endlessly, if something weren't siphoning some of Illyria's power."
"Xander and Willow," said Marcie. "They looked younger—like back when we were in school."
"Yes," said Wesley. "Someone is stealing bits of Illyria's power, and seems to be using it to manipulate the slayer's friends. And that someone is a client of Wolfram & Hart."
All eyes turned toward Lilah.
"Any deals with said client have to remain confidential," said Lilah, obviously annoyed, "and were made before we knew the extent of his plans. And yours. That being said, we'd be willing to withdraw our support."
"But at a price," said Wesley.
"Yes," said Lilah. "There's always a price."
She handed Wesley a file, which he read intently. Wordlessly, he pulled a pen from his pocket, and signed the document.
"These terms are acceptable to me," he said, handing the file back to her.
"Good," said Lilah, turning toward the door.
"Make this one count, Wes," she said, the sadness in her voice reverberating. "You've no idea what you've unleashed here."
Without another word, she left. Wesley stared at the door several moments after she'd disappeared.
"I rather think I do," he said.
Dawn stared slack-jawed at the visage of her sister standing before her, next to Doc. The way she folded her arms and cocked her head, her posture and the way her hair fell along her shoulders—it was all perfect. It was a lie.
"You're not my sister," said Dawn, and then realization fell on her like a sudden thunderstorm, and her bones near-cracked from chilling. "I know who you are."
"What, you're not going to say my name, bitch?" said the thing wearing Buffy's face.
"The First."
"Yes." Doc chuckled. "Yes, the First and I have come to a small arrangement. I get a small modicum of power, enough to resurrect the Beast, and it gets a new army of soldiers to replace the ones the slayer broke."
"You mean us," said Dawn, spitting the words.
"No, honey," said the First. "You get to be a sacrifice."
"Again," said Dawn, trying to sound braver than she felt. "That trick never works."
"It will this time," said the First. "I can no longer act in your world, but certain rituals allowed me to grant old Doc here power over things that go bump in the night. If it's touched by evil, Doc can control it. And by borrowing some of Illyria's ambient power, he can bend time to find the points in history when they were touched."
"Everybody's touched by evil, said Doc. "But not everybody's truly immersed in it, and I'm afraid it takes a certain immersion for this power to be truly effective."
"So that's why Willow's the wicked witch again and Xander's possessed by a hyena spirit again?" said Oz.
"Bingo," said Doc.
"But what about Giles?" asked Oz. "He was pretty wild, but he wasn't really evil."
"Giles?" said Doc. "Oh, I'm sorry. You misunderstand. This isn't Rupert Giles, is it Ripper?"
Giles' face shook and contorted, growing narrower and Reptilian.
"Eyghon," said Dawn. "The demon's name was Eyghon."
"Doc tells me that the slayer and the vampire with a soul managed to destroy me," said Ripper. "But guess what kids? I'm back, and I'm bad."
"But wait," said Amy, who'd been listening quietly until this time. "If you're draining Illyria's power..."
"You catch on quick," said Doc. "Yes, it's my draining of Illyria's energies that's endangering the time pocket. Soon, it will wear though the dimensional walls, allowing gods and old ones and the like long bound from Earth to walk it again. In that moment, we'll sacrifice the Key and the sire of Jasmine's mortal form, and the time-lost remains of Illyria's essence, and use the power from that to resurrect Glorificus."
"We need you, Dawnie, because you're tied to Glory, even if you don't do anything spectacular anymore," said the First, now walking between the chained prisoners and inspecting them. "Not that you ever did, babe. And it's never a one for one trade with resurrecting gods. We need to sever two gods' connections to the mortal plane before we can bring one back. Jasmine and Illyria seemed to be the ones that would object the least. Plus, it hurts you people, which-let me tell you—bonus."
"But first things first," said Doc, stepping beside the First. "The dimensional walls are thinning, and we'll have company soon."
Doc raised his right hand, and a dark, nebulous energy swirled around it. Justine, chained stoically felt a wash of loss and depression wash over her. Her shoulders slumped, and suddenly, she was filled with a mindless rage. Amy was consumed by an overwhelming anger and jealousy and her eyes turned jet black in rage. Oz convulsed, the wolf stealing his form so rapidly it hurt. Doc snapped his fingers, and the three were released. They stood with Faith, Xander and Willow, now part of Doc's growing army.
Doc looked off in the distance, where a light shimmered and faded.
"They're here," said Doc. "It's show time."
Walking across dimensional barriers was like having electrical current pulse through your veins, and the effort left Ethan tremendously dazed. Wesley had little sympathy. The two of them were tremendously vulnerable, here.
"So why didn't we bring the bloody tin soldiers?" asked Ethan, annoyed.
"Two reasons," said Wesley, scanning the city's seemingly infinite skyline. "In the first instance, there's some sort of spell on this place, it seems. Only those marked by evil can pass into the city. That leaves Finn and his soldiers out."
"But not us," sniffed Ethan.
"I'm dead and you're a supervillain," said Wesley. "It seemed natural."
"And what's the second reason?"
"I didn't want them to get hurt," said Wesley, now walking on. Ethan sighed and hurried after.
"So where the bloody Hell are we?"
"It's been known by many names," said Wesley. "When Illyria controlled it, it was called Vahla Ha'nesh. When she was trapped in the Deeper Well, her forces stayed here in stasis, until they passed, too. The shades of these creatures were reflected on Earth as nightmares. In opium-fueled dazes, writers and shamans would see reflections of it—one city that hid the ghosts of everything sacred and everything terrible buried in the recesses of their brains. To them, it was called R'lyeh."
Ethan froze. The two walked another minute in near silence, save for Ethan grumbling underneath his breath.
"Come, now," said Wesley. "You're not scared, are you?"
"Nonsense."
"You should be."
Ethan looked up to see Willow, crackling with power, hovering above them. The air—totally still since their arrival—was now swirling around them. Ahead of them stood Amy, her eyes jet black, dust dancing in a swirl around her.
"Well, now," said Ethan, his forehead sweating. "Looks like our Amy is all grown up."
Ethan and Wesley flew backward with sudden force.
"The name's not Amy, buddy," said the young woman. "It's Catherine."
Ethan and Wesley struggled to their feet, but an invisible force was holding them down.
"Catherine was her mother, right?" said Ethan.
"Yes," said Wesley. "I guess you did pay attention in briefings.
Willow landed on the ground next to Catherine, and the others followed suit. Faith and Justine first, walking side by side, brandishing weapons. Then the werewolf Oz, snarling at them, primed to pounce. Finally Xander and the demon, Eyghon.
"Hello, Ripper," said Ethan, quietly. The demon wearing Giles' body loomed above them, smirking.
"Ethan," he hissed. "Didn't think we'd have a chance to connect. You have no idea how happy I am to see you."
"You're completely outnumbered here, Wes," said Faith, stepping to the fore. "You lost your entire team already. But then, that's pretty much what you do, isn't it. Lose people."
Wesley lips pulled into a thin, dangerous smile.
"Hello, Faith," he said. "What are you so happy about?" she asked. "You lost your entire team and then came in here with a past-his-prime Houdini knock off? What the fuck were you thinking?"
"I don't know," said Wesley. "Figured I'd just roll the dice."
Suddenly, Oz turned and leapt on Faith, his weight pinning her down. Instinctively, she lifted her arms to shield her face from his fangs.
"Trickster Gods," invoked Ethan, flinging dust from a pouch tied to his belt. "I bid you now, rid these forms of the spirits who ride them."
Amy's and Giles' bodies convulsed, and they both fell quivering to their knees as dark energy rose out of them. Willow, confused, rose her hand to cast a spell, but she was stunned as the butt of a pistol slammed down on her head, accompanied by the sound of maniacal giggling.
Wesley rose quickly to his feet.
"Amy," he said. "If you'd be so kind."
Dazed, mumbled words dripped from her mouth, as Oz leapt between her and the remaining combatants. Suddenly, there was a flash of light, and she, Oz, Ethan, Giles and Wesley were gone.
"So it's true," said Giles, rubbing his forehead. "You're alive."
"Not quite," said Wesley. "Although I can see where you'd make that mistake."
The team had taken shelter in what appeared to be an immense temple, the walls adorned with seemingly millions of diamonds, each one glistening despite the relative lack of light.
"Wesley Wyndam-Pryce," whispered Oz, as memories came back to him. Oz thought of the time he first met the ex-Watcher, about how he was willing to sacrifice Willow to stop the Mayor's Ascension. "So you're the mysterious mastermind?"
"Yes," said Wesley, who seemed to be absently looking at the glistening walls. "And since you're too polite to ask: no, I don't intend to throw any of us to the wolves this time. Pardon the expression."
"No offense taken," said Oz. "Glad to be clear. But why us? Why me?"
"We don't have time for that now," said Giles, cracking a kink out of his neck. "We need to worry about ..."
"No," interrupted Wesley. "We have a moment. I needed you, Oz, because I needed somebody trustworthy with the team, and who'd be able to resist Doc's power."
"How'd you know?"
"About the training you undertook in Tibet? The training that allows you to control your transformations? I knew that would allow you to circumvent the spell. You alone, out of everyone here, are in complete control of yourself."
"So how do we get Willow and Justine back?" asked Oz.
"We don't," said Wesley. "I knew I could drive the possession away from Amy, and catching Giles was just pure luck. If we'd been a bit quicker, we might have been able to save Xander, also. But that was all my planning, right there. We won't get another shot."
"But I thought you said ... " started Giles.
"We're not leaving any of them behind," said Wesley, testily. He was all too aware of how little trust he'd engendered with these people. "What we need to do is interrupt Doc's drain on Illyria's ambient power."
"And how do we do that?" said Amy.
"You, myself, Ethan and Rupert are mystics," said Wesley. "Do you know where we are?"
No one answered.
"This entire planet is one structure," said Wesley, "A house of many mansions, if you will. One giant temple to Illyria, carved in a small sliver of time thinner than a pinpoint. In a very real sense, we're also standing in downtown Los Angeles right now. But this particular mansion has a special purpose. In each of these diamonds is a sliver of every god or ancient one who touched the Earth. From here, we can reach the fold in time where Angel and the others are trapped."
"We can rescue them," said Giles.
"Yes," said Wesley. "But we four need to stay here to work the magic."
Wesley turned and looked Oz in the eyes.
"You need to go in and bring them out."
"Alone" asked Oz. "This is doing my head in. You want me to go in and bring them out by myself? And what about Dawn and Connor?"
"You won't be alone," said Wesley. "And as for our young friends ... That's taken care of."
There was a piece of Justine that observed herself from a distance—the feral stance, the wild, side-to-side nervous glance. She was wound like a spring, ready to fight, but something was missing.
Faith fascinated her, she watched the power in her stride, the way her every movement sent small ripples through the air. There was something about her power that was ... familiar. There was something there she wanted, but couldn't articulate.
The two children tied to the stone were barely conscious. The girl was unfamiliar. The boy ... yes. She had seen the boy somewhere, but couldn't place him. And she hated him. That much she knew. If she were able, she'd slit the boy's throat right now. Why did she feel that?
Not for the first time, she thought of Holtz, and clenched her hand so her nails cut her skin. She wanted to run away from all this, these people. But she was compelled to stay—she didn't know how or why, just that it was important. That Holtz wanted it.
The strange man, Doc, was looking at his watch and watching the sky. She tried hard not to think about time—it seemed wrong here. The other two, Xander and Willow, had been gone for what seemed like hours, searching for Wesley. Outside her own head, she could see herself slitting the man's throat like it was minutes ago, but it had to be longer than that. He looked so different. So pale. Someone said he was dead. Maybe he was a ghost. She didn't know.
The boy, Connor, was stirring, looking up at her now.
"Justine," he said. "Do you remember me?"
"No."
"No," said Connor. "Didn't think so."
"Should I?"
"Yeah," said Connor. "You should. I'm Angel's son."
"Angel ... has a son?"
"Yeah. You helped kidnap me. I got trapped in another dimension. There was a spell. Everyone forgot."
"I didn't ... "
"Heh. You're confused right," said a sing-song voice that seemed to come from nowhere. "Poor little lost girl, her memory is gone. All gone."
"Who's there?" said Justine. "Who the fuck..."
"You're out of synch," said Connor. "I get that. Not only has the spell screwed up your memory, you've also been moved through time. Things have changed, Justine."
"Nobody loves you here," said the voice. "Nobody loves Justine."
"I don't know what ..." started Justine, but she was haunted by a giggle that came from nowhere. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Justine is losing her miiii-nnnd," sang the voice. "Justine is losing her ..."
"STOP IT!!! STOP ... "
Justine couldn't see the gun being held to her head, but she could feel it.
"Don't move," said Connor. "The voices in your head are about to get tetchy."
Justine froze, and looked at Connor. His manacles were undone, as were Dawn's. The two of them were rising shakily.
"Like I said," said Connor. "I know two things. You're head's not all there...." An invisible pistol smacked against he back of Justine's head. "And you're not a slayer right now, are you?"
Justine fell. Connor fell beside her to make sure she was all right.
"That's gonna bruise," said Dawn.
"Yeah," said a voice. "So is this."
A fist was slammed into Dawn's jaw, and she fell on impact. Connor turned to face Faith.
"Well, kid," said Faith. "Looks like it's you and me."
There was a whirlwind of colors surrounding him, an ephemeral light that seemed to grow and then contract for an instant, and then, suddenly, he was somewhere else. He knew it was Los Angeles the minute he hit the pavement—the chemical-scented, polluted air, the distant tang of salt. He knew where he was, but couldn't identify the source of the rumbling thunder that seemed to echo from everywhere.
Then he looked up, and saw an army of monsters approaching from all directions, as above swooped enormous, reptilian wings.
"Well, I don't know about you," said Angel, in front of him, "But I kind of want to slay the dragon. All right. Let's get to work."
"They are alive here," thought Oz. Angel and Spike he knew, the other two had to be Gunn and Illyria. Spike was battered and bleeding. Gunn looked like he was about to collapse. They didn't realize they'd been fighting this battle, over and over again, for months.
"Angel!" shouted Oz, before the vampire leapt into battle. Angel turned and looked at him.
"Oz," he said. 'Hey."
"Hey."
There was an awkward silence as everyone stared at him.
"Oz," said Spike. "You come to pitch a hand, because a werewolf would be handy right now. Assuming it's housebroken."
"What are you doing here," asked Angel. "This isn't your fight."
"Uh, guys," said Gunn. "The Army of Darkness is on the march."
"Look, guys," said Oz. "This isn't real. I mean, it's real, but you're trapped in a loop in time, you keep fighting this battle over and over, and when the loop burns out, all reality's going to collapse."
But it was too late. The monsters were on them, and Illyria and Spike were already swinging at them, their fists slamming like crowbars into the torsos of orclike things. Gunn, shaky hands clenching a bat, began swatting at creatures as they swarmed. Angel turned to aid his colleagues, but Oz grabbed his shoulder.
"Angel!" shouted Oz. "I'm telling the truth. Wesley sent me! He worked it all out!"
"Wesley's dead," said Angel. Oz noted that Illyria, even as she flailed at her enemies, was listening intently.
"Well, yeah," said Oz. "But he set it up so..."
With a shriek, the dragon dived at them, a breath of flame engulfing the troops. Spike let out a scream as he was engulfed in flame. Gunn was pulled beneath the king-hell tide, and Oz watched in horror as his skull was split open by a mace.
"This battle has happened before," said Illyria, stopping amid the carnage. "The child is correct. Angel..."
The dragon swooped again, and a wall of flame engulfed Illyria. As she died, a scream escaped her lips, like a chorus of banshees singing into the night sky. Every piece of glass in sight shattered.
"This isn't real?" said Angel, turning his back once again on Oz. "This fight just repeats and repeats, until the end of time?"
Angel swung at the encroaching hoard, but didn't push forward.
"Yeah," said Oz. "This is all going to happen again."
"Then in the next life, convince me," said Angel, leaping at the forces in front of him. Oz gritted his teeth, and allowed the wolf to come forward. Edgy and knowing the inevitable result ahead of him, Oz leapt into the fray.
And within moments, he, too, was gone.
Amy fell back exhausted as Oz disappeared into the portal. She'd never channeled that much energy through her body before. She could still feel lightning pulsating through her blood. Her throat was parched—it felt like there was no water left inside her body, that she was just flesh containing a void that stretched out into infinity. She closed her eyes for a second, then opened them, and saw the diamonds embedded in the walls sparkle like stars.
"Wow," she muttered. "It's like staring into the Milky Way from space."
On her sides, Ethan and Giles were, likewise, haggard from the exertion—their gaunt bodies shivering in the preternatural chill that had fallen on the temple.
"We sent him into a pocket in time," said Giles, rhetorically. "Into an endless war. Dear God..."
"Oh, don't over-dramatize, you old ham," said Ethan, who had turned dangerously pale after the spell, and looked set to collapse. "He can't die there. That's the whole point of the place. Besides, you've sent soldiers off to die before."
Giles lurched forward, his fist careening toward Ethan's face. Suddenly, Wesley was between them, catching Giles' wrist in his hand. Amy hadn't seen him move.
"Rayne's a berk," said Wesley, his voice low and gravelly, "But we need him. We still have two very large spells to work."
Amy didn't know much about Wesley—she was a rat when he was in Sunnydale—but from what she'd gathered, he and Giles had an uneasy relationship, and were none too fond of each other. Wesley had been sent to replace him at one point, and inadvertently had released that Faith woman, who nearly killed Angel. She knew Buffy left the Council over that. She knew he died, but she didn't really know the details.
He looked strangely composed, not worn like the rest of them, but there was a mania about him, a wildness in his eyes that put her ill at ease. Maybe that just came from being dead. Or maybe, she thought, the stakes were really that high for him. She very much wanted to run away from here, but she was in too deep.
She stood near Giles—she didn't have an easy relationship with him, either, but she knew he was trustworthy. She wished Oz were here, or even Justine.
"We have work to do," said Wesley, looking up at the glittering diamonds. "The pieces are all in place, we just need ..."
There was a tremor, and the walls began to vibrate. As one, the quartet turned as the doors blew open, as though forced by a hurricane. Amy's teeth began to chatter in fear as Willow's lithe silhouette appeared in the doorway.
"Naughty, naughty," she said, a wicked smile pulled across her face. "You shouldn't play games in dangerous places."
Giles began to start forward, reaching to the girl, but was blasted back against the wall.
"Rupert," said Willow. "Good to see you. I was hoping we'd have a chance to talk."
With a wave of her hand, the floor exploded, staggering Amy and Ethan backward.
"You see, Rupert," said Willow. "The last time we spoke, you called me a 'rank, arrogant amateur.'"
Wesley had appeared behind Willow, attempting to slam down the butt of a pistol on her head, but there was a crackle of electricity from her body that ripped through him, forcing him backward. She glided forward, her feet not touching the ground. "Well guess what, Rupert," said Willow. "I've turned pro."
Dark energy erupted from her hands, and Giles screamed in anguish. Without thinking, Amy cast a shield that blocked her attack. Willow turned toward her and smiled.
"Amy, babe," she said. "How are you doing? Feels like it's been ages."
Willow," said Amy, spitting out the words as fear constricted her throat.
"Still on the soft stuff I see," said Willow, smirking. "Gonna have to move you up to something harder."
"Willow," said Amy. "Look, I know we've had problems..."
"Problems"" said Willow. "No, Amy. You were the only one who was right. We're way cooler than these losers. We've got power that they can't dream of. We should use it."
Amy was visualizing sigils in her mind. Warding spells. Hexes. "How did Buffy beat her the last time?" she thought, and then she remembered—Buffy didn't. "
"Willow," said Amy, steadying herself. "Will ... It's not like that. Look, I was weak. I came back in a bad place."
"You're in a bad place now," said Willow. "But, hey! We can let it slide. Come work for us. The offer's open to all of you."
Willow looked at Giles.
"All of you except one."
Fire erupted from her fingertips at Giles, but Amy cast another shield, intercepting it.
"Getting a little burned out on that trick," said Willow.
"Willow," said Giles, rising. "I know you don't remember, but we've already been through this. You're fueled by rage right now, drawing from impure forces."
Amy thought she saw Giles glance at her for a moment, before a wave of Willow's hand sent him flying into the air, then dropping him hard to the floor.
"What goes up," said Willow, amused, returning her attention to Amy. Amy could see Ethan was cowering in the corner, and Wesley ... Where was Wesley?
"You wouldn't believe the stuff I'm drawing power from right now, Amy," said Willow. "C'mon, we both know you want it." A desperate plan began to form in Amy's head. She took a deep breath, and lowered all her wards and shields.
"You're right," said Amy. "I do."
"Amy!" shouted Giles. There was blood trickling from his mouth.
Amy walked toward Willow, offering her outstretched palm. Willow took Amy's hand in her own, and a sickly fever crawled over her. Amy's heart raced as the current between them escalated. Amy's eyes turned jet black.
"Dear God," said Giles.
Wordlessly, Amy began to visualize the aura containing them, and extended it outward, drawing energy from everywhere around her. Giles and Ethan began to visibly weaken. Wesley began to appear in the shadows, a pistol in his hand, ready to fire a bullet into the back of Willow's head. It wouldn't work. He doesn't know how she was beaten before. But she did. She remembered ...
And in that instant, Amy began to visualize a field of stars, stretching out into infinity. She reached her mind to touch the slivers of souls from thousands upon thousands of dead gods, a power so staggering that both young women screamed.
Amy could see a thousand panoramas before her, from a thousand worlds. Every mind that every god ever had touched stood out before her, and still she drew more power.
She and Willow seemed fused now, and Amy realized that they'd both been screaming for so long that sound was no longer escaping their mouths. Their screams were now hoarse and silent. Their screams stretched into infinity.
Amy Madison and Willow Rosenberg stood on the edge of a cliff. Below them, ocean waves crashed on rocks. Above them, the sky was blue and cloudless. Birds soared on distant thermals, and everything stood at peace.
"This isn't real, is it?" asked Amy. Her body felt lighter. She glanced at Willow, who had returned to normal. Her hair was red again, her stance relaxed.
"No," said Willow, staring out at the ocean. "It isn't it. It's a construct, something to allow our brains to see something they otherwise couldn't process."
"See," said Amy, "This is what I hate about you. You can't just say, 'we're in another dimension.' Oh, no. You've got to give up the Funk and Wagnels."
Annoyance flashed across Willow's face, but then it softened. "You saved my life back there," she said. "I'm pretty sure you saved all our lives."
"Well, yeah," said Amy. "Let's not have a moment, OK? We're not out of this yet."
"No," said a gentle voice, seeming to lap up from the waves. "No, you very much aren't."
The two young women stiffened. They turned away from the ocean, and a beautiful, dark-skinned woman stood opposite them. Amy's first instinct was to bow, or kneel, or something like that, but she fought it back. She glanced at Willow, and could tell she was having the same experience.
"Who are you?" asked Willow. "Where are we?"
"I had a name once," said the woman. "But I was mistaken in taking it, and in my mistakes, I brought myself to ruin. I would have saved you all, but at a cost not worth the bearing. I was vain in my power, and now am just a sliver of myself."
"Uh, yeah. Cool," said Willow. "Got it. But...."
"I am not here for myself, though there is one I'd see you save," said the woman. "I speak for one who cannot speak for herself. One denied the eternal repose of man and god alike."
"You mean death, right?" asked Willow.
The woman smiled, and Amy wanted to cry, it was so beautiful. That alone, she figured, should be enough to hate this woman, but she didn't. She loved her—like she loved her father, like she even loved her mother, despite it all. This woman was everything she'd ever lost, returned to her again.
"Yes," said the woman. "But death is not the same for such as she and I. It is simply a term you understand, just as this is a place you understand."
"I think I get it," said Willow.
"Then fill me in," said Amy.
The woman smiled, and snapped her fingers, and suddenly Amy saw herself opening a sarcophagus as locust rise from the depths of history. Amy felt her blood crystallize and harden. She lay in a bed, as a man's voice recited a children's story, and it faded further and further into the background. And then, she was nothing at all. Forever. And then forever ended, and she saw stars twinkle in the night sky, and then another. Amy could feel herself suspended in the sky, weightless and intangible, not thinking so much as dreaming, yearning for something she cannot name. And then, she feels the fraying again. There is someplace she's supposed to be. It's important. There's someplace...
Amy awoke in the temple, Willow beside her. Both women were shaking and exhausted. Giles was leaning over them, his brow knitted with concern.
"I'm so sorry," muttered Willow. "I never meant..."
"It's not important," said Giles, softly, and Amy couldn't suppress the pang of annoyance at Willow being forgiven again. "We have other concerns right now."
"Yes," said Wesley, standing apart from the others. "Amy's quick thinking has kept us in the game," he said, the praise surprising her. "But we still have work to do, and we've lost valuable time."
Amy listened to Wesley's voice, and in the back of her head could hear it reciting a children's story to her, and she knew that, in that instant, she loved him. And just as quickly, she knew that emotion wasn't hers.
She looked at Wesley, and could hear the woman's voice echoing still, in the back of her head.
"Listen," said the voice. "To not die is a terrible thing."
Connor and Faith circled one another like wolves, each searching the other's eyes for weaknesses. As they paced, thin smiles grew on both their faces. They moved as one entity, their movements synched near perfectly.
Justine wasn't entirely sure who threw the first punch—they seemed to come in rapid bursts, each hit searching for a path to connect, each hit repelled. They were both reveling in the fight.
Some part of Justine's brain knew Faith should be winning this fight easily, that she should simply step in and help finish it, but she was paralyzed. The voice had stopped taunting her, but she could hear its echo inside her head. Faith was caught up in bloodlust—Justine could see that now. Connor was, too—their traded thrusts and parries almost more ballet than violence. The bloodlust was clouding something.
Justine reached her hand down to the stake tucked in her belt, but as she did, she could hear the invisible voice—audible this time, not inside her head. "What are you, Justine?" it asked her, and she didn't know the answer. "Justine's not really here, is she?" said the voice, which then deteriorated into a maniacal giggle. If Faith and Connor had heard it, though, it wasn't apparent.
Justine's hand was now clenching the stake, and she could feel a pulse of energy running through her body. This was something that shouldn't be here. She closed her eyes, and could feel hot blood spilling on her arms as she slit Wesley's throat. She could see Holtz jabbing a knife into her hand. She could see....
She opened her eyes, and she could see the figure of a woman standing beyond where Faith and Connor fought—savage, face caked in mud and war paint, wearing bone and the hides of animals. The woman was staring at her, expectantly.
"Slayer," it hissed, and Faith missed a jab, Connor's fist connecting with her jaw. Faith staggered, but as he sprung forward, she spun and kicked, and as he staggered, pounced with another blow, and then another. Connor was reeling.
The feral figure of the woman paid no attention to the sparring, and Faith seemed oblivious to her—but Justine knew she'd heard the voice. Their blows were landing harder on one another now, less graceful. Faith's rage was now murderous, her face grimaced in something beyond pain and anger. Justine closed her eyes, and she could feel the blade in her hand as it slit Wesley's throat.
Wesley hadn't died. He was here now. She knew this. Somewhere out there, in the city. When had she tried to kill him—it wasn't long ago. Just hours ago, it seemed. Yet he was out there somewhere, and here was Connor ...
She remembered. She remembered stealing Angel's son, but here he was in front of her, nearly a man. But that was only ...
"Slayer," said the woman watching her, the words straining to leave her mouth. "A slayer is not a ..."
"Murderer," said Justine aloud, the fog in her head beginning to clear. "My God. I almost became a..."
"A slayer," said the woman. "A slayer hunts. A slayer does not..."
Connor was losing, reduced to blocking punches which landed with increasing ferocity. His face was battered and bruised. Faith would kill him soon, and that was ...
"A slayer is not ..." and Justine realized she was mouthing the words now, and the visage of the woman was gone. "A slayer is not a killer."
Faith stopped, and Connor stumbled to the ground—conscious, but only barely.
"And what to you know about it, babe?" said Faith, almost amused, the bloodlust radiating from her eyes. "Who are you to tell me what a slayer is?"
"I'm Justine," she said, the words coming from somewhere else. "Justine, the vampire slayer."
Faith released a snarl as she leapt, but Justine deflected her punch almost instinctively. Soon, she and Faith were locked in a swirl of punches and deflections, of kicks and blocks. Faith was growling like an animal now, like some demon within her had been released.
For Justine, however, the fight seemed distant, as though it were something she were watching from afar. Faith's blows grew wilder, as Justine grew more centered, until finally an opening came, and when a punch flew forward, Justine grabbed it, and flipped her opponent onto her back. Faith struggled to leap to her feet, but Justine fell on her and pinned her down with all her might.
"Who are you," said Justine, the words coming unbidden to her lips. "What's your name?"
Faith snarled and growled, more trapped animal writhing beneath her than human. Justine repeated herself.
"Who ... are ... you?"
"I'm Faith," she said, the words coming slowly, hesitantly. The look in Faith's eyes seemed to change, as though she, too, were watching someone watch her from afar. "I'm Faith. The vampire slayer."
And with that, Faith stopped fighting, and tears began to well in her eyes. "I'm the vampire slayer," she said, and Justine could swear the slayer suddenly looked older. Then she realized she, too, felt different. They were returning to who they were.
The two remained silent for a moment, each unsure if they should move. Finally, Faith let out a forlorn sounding laugh.
"Some first date, huh?" she said, and Justine, too, realized she was laughing. The two women rose, and looked over at the fallen Connor and Dawn. They were met by the mocking claps of invisible hands.
"Oh, good," said the voice that came from nowhere. "Can we please get back to work now?"
There was a whirlwind of colors surrounding him, an ephemeral light that seemed to grow and then contract for an instant, and then, suddenly, he was somewhere else. He knew it was Los Angeles the minute he hit the pavement—the chemical-scented, polluted air, the distant tang of salt. He knew where he was, but couldn't identify the source of the rumbling thunder that seemed to echo from everywhere.
Then he looked up, and saw an army of monsters approaching from all directions, as above swooped enormous, reptilian wings.
"Well," I don't know about you," said Angel, in front of him, "But I kind of want to slay the dragon. All right. Let's get to work."
"They are alive here," thought Oz. Angel and Spike he knew, the other two had to be Gunn and Illyria. Spike was battered and bleeding. Gunn looked like he was about to collapse. They didn't realize they'd been fighting this battle, over and over again, for months. And as soon as that observation crossed his mind, another one did, also—a sweeping feeling of déjà vu.
"Whoa, let's do the Time Warp again," said Oz, the memory of living this scene before playing at the corner of his mind. It was like the old days, when he could almost remember what happened when he was the wolf.
"Angel!" shouted Oz, before the vampire leapt into battle. Angel turned and looked at him.
"Oz," he said. 'Hey."
"Hey," said Oz, feeling himself synch already back into the rhythm of the last time he'd had this conversation, if indeed, he'd only had it once. How many times had he been living this moment over and over?
"Look, Angel," said Oz. "I don't have much time. This isn't Los Angeles, we're trapped in a loop in time, and Wesley needs to stop it before it destroys the universe. Get it?"
"Uh, guys," said Gunn. "The Army of Darkness is on the march."
"Don't fight them," said Oz. "Illyria, back me up on this. Have we lived this moment before?"
Illyria stared at him like he were some sort of talking insect, and Oz's blood chilled just looking at her.
"Yes," she said, after some contemplation. "Yes, we have been dying here for months, over and over again."
"Well, lovely then, Queen Smurfette," said Spike, "and we're going to die again if we don't get ready to fight."
"No!" shouted, Oz. "We need to get out of here, back to the real world. Wesley said ..."
"Wesley is dead," said Illyria.
"Uhm, hello!" said Spike. "The forest is on the move, and MacBeth's a wee bit uneasy right now."
"Yeah, he's dead," said Oz, "but he's back somehow. Look, I don't know the details. He said I wouldn't be alone. He said ... "
"I recognize this place," said Illyria, looking up at the sky. "We are within a fragment of my own lost power." She turned and stared into Oz's eyes "We are stranded in a fragment of myself."
"That's about the size of it," said Oz.
The horde of monsters was nearly upon them, the dragon swooping above. It reared its head and a column of flame erupted. Illyria gestured and the blaze was blocked by a wall of energy. Another wave of her hand, and the approaching bests were frozen in time.
"All right!" shouted Spike. "Now all we need to do is hang tight until teen wolf figures out how to get us home."
Angel was silent, his brow furrowed.
"Better do it soon, Oz," he said, understanding falling upon his face.
"Yes," said Illyria. "I am drawing power from the fabric of this pocket dimension. But that accelerates its destruction, which in turn..."
"Could end the world," said Oz. "Right. No pressure."
In a temple housing slivers of the souls of dead gods, Amy finds herself shedding much of who she once was. The spells are difficult—big magic, bigger than she's accustomed to. She watches Willow across from her, watches how easily she adjusts to the lines of energy crisscrossing the room. Amy is struggling to keep up, pushing her mind and spirit further than she's ever gone. She dare not move, but out of the corner of her eye, she sees Ethan, Giles and Wesley, and for a moment, she wonders how they can possibly pull this off. Sometimes, when she looks the right way at people, she can see their auras—she imagines Willow can do this, too—and she can see the taint of enmity and distrust that radiates from these men. Giles is leaning against the wall, arms folded. Once in awhile, Amy sees him look over at Wesley, and she can't tell what's in that look—Contempt? Regret? Giles is a cipher to her, Wesley more so. Only Ethan makes sense—his petulant reluctance, his open disdain for all of them. That she understands. That makes sense.
Amy takes a breath and returns her attention to the spell. She should clear her mind, concentrate on the invocations slipping past her lip. These aren't words she was ever taught, she realized. They just seem to come to her unbidden.
Willow is beautiful. Amy can't help but notice the way the energy pulses through her, the way the current seems drawn to her. The two of them are now a circuit, bound, and if only for this one moment, Amy can see why everyone loves her so much. In this one instant, Amy loves her herself, and she wants to cry, to hold her and take back every shred of harm she's done to this woman. Instead, she clenches her teeth, and extends her mind into the ether.
Justine marvels at how quickly Faith seems to have taken charge of their small party, and envies the confidence the woman exerts, the sheer overwhelming power of her. Doc and the boy, Xander, are still out there somewhere—still powerful despite the loss of his pawns. Wesley is out there, too—his ghost, anyway. She knows now she didn't kill him, that he somehow survived and died later, but still ... She did what she did from what she thought was love, but now she wasn't certain. She didn't know if she'd do it again. She wasn't certain if she wanted to be forgiven, and the lingering question—why is she here—chills her to the bone. Is this his forgiveness? Or his revenge?
She looks at Connor, this boy whose life she stole wholesale, and knows that her crimes are something that can't be redeemed. Some things taken can't be given back. Not this boy's life; or her twin sister, now dead for years at a vampire's hand; or Holtz's family, dead at Angel's. She looks at Faith, and sees something she could become, but how can she get there when she's surrounded by ghosts?
Oz waits patiently and silently. Outside the field Illyria has erected, a mob of monsters waits to destroy them. Everyone is pensive. Spike keeps saying things, but Oz isn't really listening. Angel is silent and grim—and until this moment, Oz has never really taken stock of his odd relationship with Angel. They'd never been tight—he was more of a friend of a friend, and then he was an enemy, and then a friend again. It amazed Oz how quickly those roles could shift, but then, he had a monster inside him, too, so who was he to judge? Spike was much the same, he figured, although he'd never really known Spike as anything but an enemy. All three of them, thought Oz, driven by love to tame their inner beasts, and all three of them losing out on love despite it all.
Willow was out there, somewhere—he didn't know if Wesley had managed to free her and the others yet. But Oz knew Willow was his past, and that's not a place you can live. Ironic, he thought, considering the circumstances—here, in a place where time was lopped eternally, until it eventually broke. Oz had learned to love watching the moon rise—he looked forward to seeing it again.
And Wesley watched, and what his thoughts were, no one could divine, his eyes watching intently as the energy swirled around two young women, and the veil between worlds began to thin.
In an aspect of Los Angeles, suspended outside of time, Illyria's body quaked with small tremors as she strained to keep a sea of monsters at bay. She was slipping. Although she could feel her power flowing back to her, it was still too much for the borrowed body she wore, and she knew that if she faltered, the dissipation of this pocket universe would prove volatile, opening a doorway in time that would leave the Earth merciless before an onslaught of demons, gods and things older than both.
And in a city that covered a planet that was, in some ways, also hidden inside Los Angeles—a city hidden within a pinpoint in time—Faith buckled in surprise as Xander, possessed by the spirit of a hyena, leapt at her with a feral swiftness that knocked her off guard. The two entwined in combat, their blows pummeling one another. Justine leapt forward to assist the other slayer, but found her way blocked by a frail-looking old man with a sword.
And underneath crystallized pieces of the souls of gods, Amy and Willow chanted in one voice, a voice that seemed to come from beyond them. Their gestures were mirrors of each other's now, the light flickered rhythmically between them as three mystics watched on, silently granting them will.
And in Los Angeles as they understood it, a doorway of light emerged in the lobby of the abandoned Hyperion Hotel, appearing before Buffy Summers and Riley and Samantha Finn. The three had waited near-wordlessly for hours, fidgeting with weapons, staring at watches. When the portal appeared, each looked to the other silently, then—hands shading their eyes—the three stepped into the light.
"She can't hold it," said Spike, his gaze fixed intently on Illyria. And he was right—the waves of energy being absorbed into her were cut fissure into her body, and blue flame erupted from what was once flesh. The shield she'd erected began to buckle, and the torrent of demons stepped forward. Angel and Spike flew forward first, their fists landing like jackhammers. Oz transformed into a wolf, but instead of following into combat, he stayed back with Illyria and Gunn, now nearly dead from his earlier wounds, and guarded them from harm.
Justine dodged Doc's sword, but with each stroke the blade seemed closer. Faith knocked Xander off of her, and tried to move toward the elderly demon, but he was too quick, spinning and nicking her. Xander attempted to pounce, but Connor blocked him, and soon the two were locked in combat. The warriors formed into a tableaux of sorts, their ballet almost choreographed. But one stood apart from the combat—Dawn Summers, sister of who most considered the real slayer and once a key to unlock the doors between dimensions. For Dawn, it was as though a presence took hold of her, and with an eerie stillness, she walked past the battle and looked up at the sky. "It's turning red," she said, and suddenly all combat ended. "The sky is turning red."
Illyria could feel her body disintegrating. She was dying, she figured, and as the realization hit her, she thought of Wesley—wondered how he'd managed to survive past his death, what he was planning now. "Whatever you're planning, Wesley," she said. "Do it quickly." And as the words left her mouth, a doorway of light appeared, and the slayer and two human soldiers joined the fray—not enough to turn the tide, but enough to keep it at bay a few minutes more. Illyria smiled, and thanked Wesley silently, but then, she looked forward in time—she could do that again, she realized—and knew they weren't out of danger.
Rupert Giles watched as the two young women—he could hardly help but think of them as children still, despite their power—transitioned into the third part of Wesley's spell. Indeed, Giles was impressed by the elaborate nature of Wesley's plan, its exacting attention to detail. He watched the two women—two powerful witches, both of whom he knew he should have paid more attention to—and saw them push themselves past exhaustion, saw them begin reaching into the fabric of the pocket dimension, and extending the time within it, drawing it back to the "real" world by force of will. His own time seemed relatively slow, however, when a gunshot fired and Willow screamed with pain, falling out of the ritual. Giles turned as if in slow motion, and Ethan Rayne stood holding a pistol, wearing a menacing smile.
And in an aspect of Los Angeles, suspended outside of time, Illyria's body disintegrated completely, and heroes and monsters alike watched in horror as the sky collapsed.
Ethan was remarkably fast. No sooner had he shot Willow, than he swung the pistol upside Giles' head, knocking the Watcher to the floor. Wesley was drawing his pistol, but Ethan—still smirking—uttered a word Amy couldn't understand and, in an instant, Wesley vanished, replaced by another diamond embedded in the wall.
"But... but ... I thought you were on our side," stuttered Amy, dazed and too weakened from her and Willow's spells to act quickly. She tried to draw ambient magical energy to her, but it was doing no good.
"Oh, puh-LEASE," said Ethan, rolling his eyes. "Don't you get it? I'm the bad guy. I'm always the bad guy. And so are you. Please don't tell me you've been falling for that redemption crap the werewolf has been ... No. No, I can see it. Gods below, what is it with the Sunnydale crowd? 'Oh, I'm a vampire, but I have a soul!' 'I'm a werewolf, but I really like tofu!' 'I'm the bad slayer, no! Wait! I'm ..."
"Don't you care that the world is going to end? Soon?"
"Of course I care," said Ethan, still manic. "When the dimensions thin, which should be any minute now, the gods of chaos, whom I worship, will be free to wander the Earth to their hearts' content. And I'll be rewarded."
"Rewarded?"
"Oh, yes. I'm hoping for something in a gold pocket watch. With my name engraved on it? Something to keep track of things as I wander the rubble of the world."
"Don't you get it? There won't be any world left!"
"Oh, sure there will. The gods and demons will take their time trashing the place—fighting each other, gathering slaves. It will all be bloody marvelous."
"You're one sick puppy, you know that?"
Ethan's smile grew even broader, his eyes more narrow.
"Thank you. About time someone around here figured that out. Of course, I can see you're trying to figure out how to stop me. You can't. Even if you get your strength back, you're going to need it to hold the universe together while I walk out of here."
"The ... universe?"
"Well, a good chunk of it, anyway. But don't worry. Willow could do it. Oh, but you're not Willow, are you?"
They were losing. Justine was certain of it. She didn't know exactly why the skies were turning red, but she knew it was a bad omen.
"Wesley blew it, didn't he?" asked Faith, under her breath. Justine nodded blankly. Neither woman took their eyes off Doc, who stood brandishing a sword at them. Connor was behind them, standing between Xander and Dawn. Marcie seemed to have disappeared. More so.
"Well, then," said Doc. "Seems we have a bit of a problem. The pocket dimension is gone."
"Does that mean ..." stuttered Faith.
"Sure does," said Doc. "Means the dimensional gateways to Earth are beginning to open. Pretty soon it'll be tourist season for pan-dimensional visitors."
"We have to get to Wesley," said Justine.
"Go," said Faith. "I can take him."
"Oh, by all means," said Doc, and it bothered Justine just how level and friendly his voice remained. "You see to your friend. The lady and I will finish up here, and I'll catch up."
Doc's smile was the most frightening thing she'd ever seen. Justine glanced once more at Faith, to be certain, and as soon as she did, Faith leapt forward, she and Doc embraced in combat. Justine ran.
She didn't know where she was going, so she just ran on instinct. Minutes passed, and she seemed drawn to an electric hum in the air, a subliminal pulsing of energy. She followed it, and it led her to a gargantuan temple, as ruined and monolithic as everything else here-A house for gods that no longer existed.
Justine entered cautiously. The Watcher, Giles, was unconscious on the floor. The witch, Willow, was down, too—injured and bleeding. And Amy stood in the middle of a mystical vortex, a whirlwind of energy engulfing her. Her skin seemed on fire, and she was screaming.
"Amy," said Justine, tentatively reaching her hand toward the engulfed witch. "What's happening? What are you doing?"
"She's ... holding the flood gates closed," said a weak voice. It was Willow. "Can't ... help her. Too ... weak."
"Who did this?" said Justine, panic running through her veins like ice water. "Where's Wesley? Where's..."
"Ethan," said Willow, obviously near blacking out. She needed medical attention immediately. "Betrayed ..."
Amy seemed to stare out of the flame at Justine. The energies were tearing at her—Justine could see the agony etched on her face. She didn't know what ...
"Will," muttered the Watcher, starting to come too. Justine looked to the young witch lying bleeding, and realized she'd already removed her jacket to try and staunch the wound.
"No," said the Watcher, pointing toward Amy. "Lend her ... your will."
There were things she knew to her bone. She knew she was a slayer—albeit one that was called among many. And she knew slayers served Watchers, although Buffy had broken that rule, too. And she knew that what Watchers did was sacrifice their slayers for the greater good. This was why she'd been called: to be sent to her death.
Justine didn't reply. She just stepped to the edge of the fire, and without a word, she thrust her arm into the flame, grabbing Amy's hand. The energy was consuming both of them now. She felt the heat down to her bones, to her cell structure. There wasn't a part of her that wasn't on fire. She clenched Amy's hand tight, and grit her teeth. She didn't scream, and her tears evaporated as she burned in silence.
The world ended with slack-jawed gazes up at a contracting sky. As one, the monsters surrounding them laid down their weapons as the heavens above them unraveled. Gunn, dying from his wounds but still standing, leaned against a wall, teeth gritted. Spike lit a cigarette, his eyes never leaving the descending sky. Angel stood taciturn, his fists unclenching as the sky fell, and Oz felt the beast within him whimpering in fear, but he held it down.
Oz watched them all, waiting for death, and marveled at their resoluteness. He blinked, and the world had unraveled into nothing.
And when he opened his eyes again, they were standing on the shore of an ocean, the waves gently lolling onto sand, the sun shining. Angel and Spike reflexively tried to hide from the sun, before realizing they weren't burning.
"Is ... is this heaven?" asked Gunn, staring down at his torso, his wounds healed.
"Close enough," said a tall, dark woman walking slowly toward them down the beach. "It is an aspect of what is to come for all of us, man and monster alike."
Angel and Gunn stiffened at the sight of the woman. Oz couldn't understand why. She was beautiful, light refracting through stained glass, she was...
"Jasmine," said Angel, spitting the words through gritted teeth.
"Angel," she said. "Charles. It's good to see you both again. And William, Daniel, welcome."
"What is this, Jasmine," said Angel. "Some sort of revenge? Saving us from Wolfram & Hart so you can finish us off yourself?"
The woman didn't seem the least bit upset by Angel's vitriol, thought Oz. Her arms remained at her side, and her smile seemed genuine, if slightly sad.
"I'm not here as an enemy, Angel," she said. "I never was. Mistaken, perhaps, but I honestly came to Earth to help."
"You didn't"
"I know that now," she said, and the aura of sadness surrounding her seemed to grow. "Like I said, I was mistaken. I'm here to help now." "You expect us to just trust you?" said Gunn. "After everything you did?"
"No," said Jasmine, "but my assistance has been sought on your behalf, and I am granting it."
"By who?" asked Gunn, visibly irritated.
"By me," said a low, lilting tone. They turned as one, and saw Wesley standing behind them, flanked by Buffy, Riley and Sam.
"Wes," said Angel. "You're alive."
"Sorry, Angel," said Wesley, stepping toward him. "I'm not. I just came back to do this one thing."
"Buffy," said Spike, tentatively stepping toward her. "What are you doing here. With him?" Riley glared at the vampire, but said nothing.
"We were on our way to rescue you people," said Buffy, her arms now folded as she looked from Spike to Angel and back. "The three of us. When we were intercepted by Jasmine."
"I wasn't certain I could pull you four out of the singularity," said Jasmine, "letting them enter may well have cost all of you your lives."
"But going in to retrieve Angel and crew was your idea," said Oz, trying to piece it all together. "Why did you..."
"It wasn't my idea, Daniel," said Wesley. "I've not spoken to you in years. Not since I left Sunnydale."
"Then who?"
"We've all been played, Oz," said Buffy. "He tried to lead us all to our deaths."
"Who?"
"The First."
"You're pretty good for an old guy," said Faith, dodging Doc's sword. They were winning—Connor's fist landed on Xander's face, knocking him unconscious, and Angel's son was already spinning to help Faith. Doc was holding his own—she was stronger, but he was definitely faster—but there was no way he could take both of them.
"You're not so bad, either," said Doc, genially. "For a puppy."
"You calling me a dog," said Faith, her fist colliding with his head. "Cause that just pisses me off."
Doc was faltering, staggering backward.
"I assure you, young lady," he said. "I meant nothing of the sort."
"Well good," said Faith, closing in for the coup de grace, "because then I'd have to get testy."
Faith froze, unable to move forward, and an unearthly light began to emanate from Doc's skin. She blinked, and he was gone.
"Well," said Doc's voice near her ear. "I'd hate to have that."
Faith felt a blow against her skull, and the next thing she knew, she was on the ground.
"Now, then," said a familiar voice. "Get the slayer out of the way, and let's finish this."
Faith looked up, and Wesley was walking toward them, his eyes near alight with manic energy.
"Wes," said Faith. "What are you...?"
"That's not Wesley," said Dawn, from nearby. Faith had forgotten she was there.
"Very astute," said Wesley. "No, I'm afraid I'm not. Very astute. Wesley Wyndam-Pryce is dead."
"The First," said Faith, under her breath. "Ah, man. This just keeps getting worse, doesn't it?"
"Oh, yes," said another voice, also English.
"Ethan Rayne," said Dawn, as the aging sorcerer strode behind the First. "I thought you were on Oz's team?"
"Really, now," said Ethan, "Does that seem likely?"
"No, it really doesn't," said a woman's voice, and even though Faith couldn't lift her body from the ground to move, she could feel the chill in his voice as Connor spoke her name.
"Lilah."
"And it's good to see you, too, boy wonder. Tell me, have you heard from Batman lately? Oh, wait, no. He'd dead."
"Trapped in a now-destroyed time pocket, along with the best of you," said the First, still wearing Wesley's face. "The real slayer, that insipid werewolf—all gone. Illyria's power is now flowing fully into Doc. The rest of you will be hunted down and reconverted into slaves."
"Yeah, yeah," said Dawn, defiance growing in her voice. "And Connor and I get to be sacrifices, we heard it the first time."
"Sacrifices," said Lilah, her voice a purr. "Doc, you didn't explain this deal fully, did you?"
"I have to confess, I didn't." said Doc. "You see, kid, Connor gets to be a sacrifice. You get to be the new host for the Beast."
"Everybody gets to be a part of the New World Order," said the First. "And there's no one left to save you."
And from somewhere nearby, barely audible, Faith could have sworn she heard a giggle.
Giles watched as Amy and Justine burned. The energy was now ripping through their bodies. There was no way they could hold it together.
Willow rose shakily to her feet, blood still spilling from her torso. Giles moved to stop her, but she waved her hand and shot him a look that practically commanded that he stay back.
The young witch turned her attention to the two young women disintegrating before them. A look of resolve settled on her face, her, eyes narrowed and her lips pursed. Tentatively, she reached her hand into the vortex, and the current began to pulse through her, too. Her hair transformed from red to shock white as the blue wave pulsed through her body. She reached in further, grabbing Amy and Justine's hands.
There was a blinding flash of light, and suddenly, the three women were gone, replaced by Oz.
"Daniel?" said Giles, stuttering mildly. "But Willow ... Amy..."
"Yeah, I know," said Oz, his face stoic and unreadable. "We have to get out of here. We've all been had. There's a new plan."
Thunder cracked across the sky of the once-silent city, and Giles followed Oz as he hurried out of the room and into the stone streets.
Giles looked up, and the sky now seemed on fire. Above them, a dragon flew, casting its shadow across the dead city. In the distance, they could hear the sounds of a million monstrous feet marching.
Oz stopped, as if listening to something in the distance, but Giles could hear nothing over the cacophony.
"This is it," said Oz, a low growl building in his voice. "This is the final battle."
His face began to contort, his bones bent as he allowed the wolf to come forward.
"Daniel... Oz..."
"It's time to show them what we're really made of," said Oz, before his voice was lost all together beneath a lupine howl, and the wolf sprinted to greet the thunder growing in the distance, Giles hurrying behind.
In an instant, the burning was replaced by cool breeze and the taste of ocean. Justine opened her eyes to sunlight glistening of the surface of the water, waves rolling gently onto the shore. Willow and Amy were beside her, staring slack-jawed at a beautiful, dark woman.
"We're alive," said Willow, looking up at the woman. "But the world ..."
"Is still in peril," said the woman. "But you had done all you could."
"I know you," said Justine. "I ... I had lost you, but now... You're here. You're ... Jasmine."
"Those days are passed," said Jasmine, looking almost embarrassed, "and now I repay my debt to your world, for the trouble I caused. You women did your work well. You've bought the heroes time."
In the sky, images appeared of a battle. Faith, obviously turned again, wrestled with Buffy in the endless city. Angel dodged Doc's sword, but nearly fell before his contaminating touch, until Giles—arriving on the scene—pushed him out of the way, the fall of Doc's hand re-releasing the demon Eyghon. Spike and Connor fell back to back against the encroaching horde of monsters, now moving directly under the influence of the First, who wore Wesley's face.
"So, wait," said Amy. "That wasn't Wesley? So why did he do all this, bring us here? It's all a little ..."
"Byzantine," said Willow.
"I was going to say, loopy," said Amy, "but that works."
"There is more to this game than seems apparent," said a voice. The women turned to face it, to see Wesley standing before them. As one, they readied for a fight, but Jasmine stilled them with a wave of her hand.
"Wesley is not here to fight," she said. "Indeed, this is all going according to plan."
"Plan?" shouted Willow, losing her temper. "The world's going to Hell, literally, and nearly every person I love is fighting for their life in some extra-dimensional time share. I need a lot more than secret-decoder ring clues, here, Wesley."
"The First is destroying Illyria's being," said Wesley, his voice low. "Illyria is composed of almost pure temporal energy. If he succeeds in eradicating Jasmine and what's left of Illyria, he'll be able to resurrect Glory, and she'll lead an army into an Earth that borders all dimensions, trailing behind her an army composed of Wolfram & Hart's monsters, led by your friends, corrupted by evil. Even now, the First's machinations make it somewhat tangible, so long at it stays in Illyria's world."
As the images in the sky cascaded, Xander's fists fell like rain onto Gunn's face, over and over again, until the man fell unconscious.
"So can we stop it," said Willow. "Can we save everyone?"
"Everyone?" said Wesley. "No, I don't think we can."
The images in the sky changed again—this time, it was Los Angeles from above, electric lights billowing out in all directions for miles. Illyria's city seemed superimposed on it, now, the combatants seemed like a movie projected on the skyscrapers' walls.
"Illyria's energy was bound together by the tattered remnants of Fred Burkle's soul," aid Amy, her voice growing more somber. "And Illyria's composed of temporal energy. She's made up of time."
"I get it," said Willow. "We need to reassemble Fred's soul, leave Illyria's energy disparate."
"Yes," said Wesley, the word hanging icily in the breeze.
"Can we even do that?" asked Justine. "And if we do, what happens to..."
"We can do that," said Willow, looking up at Jasmine. "You know how, don't you?"
"Yes," said Jasmine, "But there is a price for this magic. A high one."
They were all silent for a moment.
"I'll pay it," said Willow. "I'll do anything to save the world."
A flash of light strobed from Amy's hand, and Willow fell to the ground.
"Sorry, babe," said Amy, "looks like you're benched for this one."
Amy gulped, as she realized the enormity of what she was about to do.
"Lay it on me, Jasmine," she said. "It's the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine."
Oz watched the scene with a wolf's eyes. A monstrous ogre descended on Riley and Samantha, who were quickly running out of ammunition. Oz leapt at the beast, his fangs tearing into its throat. The blood fed his frenzy. He looked for a moment at his human allies, and then tore into the fray.
"That was ... that was Oz, wasn't it," said Samantha. Riley only furrowed his brow. "Let's push on," he said. "We need to get to Buffy and Angel, see if we can pull our troops together."
Oz could see them disappear into the melee, and he himself pushed toward the center of the conflict. Angel was savage now, his fangs bared, his face distorted and covered in blood. Oz was no longer sure who was on whose side. He pushed on. He could smell all of them, all his friends and enemies, all miraculously alive. That wouldn't last.
Oz was running now, and all were so rapt in combat that none thought to stop him. The First-still wearing Wesley's face—was at the center of the storm. Oz looked around, and could see traces of Los Angeles appearing. They were translucent, like a city of ghosts.
Dawn was unconscious, and Doc was tying Connor to a slab. Spike lay defeated at his feet. Oz growled.
"Ah, the werewolf," said the First. "I see you escaped our trap, too. No matter. I suppose you'll die fighting, too."
Oz transformed into his human self, and the fighting around him stopped at the sight of him, standing calm and naked in the middle of a war.
"Nah," said Oz, coolly. "You see, I think I've figured out a few things. I don't think I'm going to fight you at all." "What?" said the First. "I don't understand."
"You never did," said a voice, emerging from a glowing portal beside them. Jasmine stepped forward, flanked by Justine, a very groggy Willow and the ghost of the real Wesley. "There are parts of this that neither of us understood."
"I'm afraid you've been had," said Wesley, watching the mirror of his face with great intent. "You speak through a part of me, true, but in that, a part of me also speaks through you."
"What are you talking about, little ghost?" said the First, its voice growing increasingly low and inhuman.
"I did make arrangements before I died," said Wesley, "I did have a sense of something coming."
"So he reached out to me," said Jasmine. "We set you up to bring our game pieces here."
Willow strode toward Oz, quickly regaining her strength. Justine felt a twinge as the two clasped hands, Willow's hair shifting color from red to white.
"We were always opposite numbers," said Jasmine, to the First. "It's why we strode the Earth at the same time not long ago. But we both represent forces that belittle mankind. They need to not be swayed by mere good or evil, but to move beyond us."
"Keep your mind still, Oz," said Willow. "The First feeds on violence. We're chilling everyone out."
The pair began to glow, and as the glow spread from them, the fighting fell to a standstill, monsters and heroes laying down their arms. Doc, screaming, leapt forward, swinging his sword, but Justine plowed her fist into his face, sending him flying.
Oz looked at her.
"OK, violent. But I did it coolly."
Oz simply smiled, and laughed, and he felt the peace he held within himself spread, saw the First's influence release his allies. Faith and Xander fell sweating onto the ground. Giles' face uncontorted as the demon left him. The monsters began to back away. The mark of the vampire fell from Angel's face, and he stepped forward, toward Jasmine.
"This isn't over, is it?" he asked.
"No," she said, and her smile was tinged with heartbreak. It very much isn't."
And all eyes rose to the sky, which was filled with the visage of Amy Madison, pulling strands of time together in her hands.
"The world is older than any of you know," said Giles, "and contrary to popular mythology, it did not begin as a paradise. For untold eons, Demons walked the earth; made it their home...their hell."
Amy was not present for that conversation, but she can see it so clearly in their minds—Giles, Buffy, Xander, Willow—each and every one of them recalled it as they watched the First and Jasmine stare each other down—the assembled heroes, villains and monsters waiting for one of them to make a move; Wesley, particularly, fixed upon his doppelganger.
She could follow the strand of memory back in time.
"In time, they lost their purchase on this reality," said and the way was made for the mortal animals. For man."
Angel and his team are lost in memories of Illyria, Amy realizes, and she follows that thought to the Deeper Well. "There's a Hole in the world," says Spike. "You'd think we would have noticed."
There was always something missing. She gathers time together, infinitesimal tachyons soaking into her flesh. She is not Amy Madison. A smooth British voice is reading her a children's story. She is not Winifred Burkle, but she can see the wisps of her spirit coalescing before her—slim, beautiful woman she thinks. Fragile. All these human beings are fragile. This movement in three dimensions. It is a cage. It is a prison.
And in an instant, she is standing among the heroes and the villains and the monsters—her skin blue, armored in carcass. They tremble at her visage, for she is powerful, and beautiful.
"I am Illyria," she says, staring at the First. "And there shall be a reckoning."
Time rippled where Illyria's fist punctured the First's visage, and many things—quite literally—happened at once. The First screamed, and the gathered monsters began to stir from their lull, shaking off Willow's magic. Illyria screamed, too—her hand—once Amy's hand—scalded by the entity's energy field. In the sky above them played out Angel's last stand against Wolfram & Hart.
"You can't be here, Illyria," said the First, its voice now venomous. "That body can't contain your full power." "No," said Illyria. "Within hours, maybe minutes, this form will be destroyed."
"No," said Wesley. "We'll be finished before that."
And the First, already stunned by Illyria's blow, was staggered as Jasmine grabbed its face and kissed it, each glowing with pulsating light.
"Uhm, did I miss something?" said Spike.
"Yes," said Wesley, walking toward the two entwined entities. Wesley approached as Jasmine's fingers dug deep into the First's being, and pulled from it a gem composed of black fire, and the First transformed into a horned, bat-winged beast, and then disappeared all together.
"Your evil, Wesley," said Illyria. "It's yours to claim again."
"Yes," said Wesley, his hand rising tentatively. "Yes, it is."
His fingers clenched the gem, and the black fire consumed him for a moment, and then receded. Wesley, solid now, turned to Angel.
"This is too far gone now, Angel," said Wesley. "I can't stop it."
"It's OK, Wes," said Angel. "I think I've seen where this is going."
"Where what's going," said Buffy, beginning to tremble. Connor, near her, only stammered, unable to raise his voice.
Angel, Spike and Gunn looked at each other tentatively and then they, as one, turned toward Illyria.
"Time to die to save the world," said Gunn. "Again."
"Bloody third time for me," said Spike.
Angel looked first at Buffy, and then to Connor. "I love you," he said to both of them. "Remember, this doesn't end here."
"But what about Amy," said Justine. "Is she...?"
"We are going," said Illyria, and the four of them faded, as though they were never there. And in the sky, the four waged war against the forces of Wolfram & Hart, until the picture disappeared.
"The monsters are gone, too," said Oz, "Huh."
"So's Lilah," said Justine. She disappeared when the monsters did. And I haven't seen Ethan or Marcie—well, I've never seen Marcie—for ages."
"We'll look for them before we leave," said Riley. "I'm not leaving anyone here if we don't have to."
"So," said Willow. "Did we win?"
All eyes then turned toward Jasmine, but she said nothing. Instead, she smiled and disappeared.
Ethan ran through the city hidden in time, a maniacal giggling dogging his steps. He stumbled, and fell, and suddenly there was an eerie silence.
"Look," said Ethan. "I know I've made some mistakes—backed the wrong horse—and I'll make amends. I'll go back to jail."
His pleading was met with more silence.
"Please."
"That wasn't the deal, Ethan," said Marcie. "And look what I have. That's right. You can't see it."
Marcie giggled and Ethan cried, sobbing the words "I'm sorry," over and over again.
There was a click, and the bracelet on his arm exploded, and as Ethan blacked out from the pain, the laughter grew louder.
Riley knew by the whisper in his hear that it was over.
"Ethan's gone," he said, his voice icy cold. "Marcie's back. We're going home."
With a nod from Giles, Willow re-opened the portal to their world. Oz gave Riley a serious look. "What do you mean, he's gone."
"I'll explain that when we get home."
Oz looked at the space where he knew Marcie was. "You damn well better."
The portal brought them back to Los Angeles—to the Hyperion—where anxious U.S. troops greeted them with guns and twitchy fingers.
"Belay that, soldiers," said Riley, tossing Doc's unconscious body toward them. "We're home."
"Ah, man," said Xander. "I can't believe I spent that whole time possessed by a hyena. I can't imagine anything worse."
"You could have the funny syphilis again," said Willow, helpfully.
"Point."
Buffy looked seriously at Justine.
"The offer's still open," she said. "You can come back to England with us. Get a handle on the slayer thing."
Justine looked at Oz, but couldn't read anything in his eyes. He was still angry. She could tell.
"I'll be in touch," she said. "But I think I'm needed more here."
"I can arrange transportation back to England for you," said Riley.
"Yes," said Giles. "I think we'd appreciate that."
"But what about Angel" said Connor, exasperated. "What happened to them?"
"They made a final stand against the forces of evil," said Wesley. "And then they disappeared. That seems not to have changed."
"We have to find them," said Connor. "They're not dead. It can't end like that."
"It didn't," said Wesley. "I don't know where they are, but we'll find them."
"I'll help," said Oz. "If Uncle Sam's got a problem, I quit, but I'm helping. We owe that much to Amy."
"You'll have your backing," said Riley. "I'll see to it."
Oz glaed at Riley for a moment, and then nodded. Justine let her hand fall onto Oz's, and he clenched it tight, as though he were in danger of slipping away. Willow saw this, and felt a deep, abiding sadness well inside her. "We'll give you all the help we can. The Council. Won't we, Giles?"
"Yes, yes of course," said Giles. "Any assistance you need."
"I'm staying, too," said Faith. "Justine needs to learn the slayer ropes, somehow, and I owe tall, dark and billowing too much to leave."
Faith and Buffy met each other's gaze, just then, but what transpired between them was unreadable to everyone else.
"Fine," said Buffy. "But being a Watcher's not the same as being a slayer."
"I'll learn as I go," said Faith.
Buffy and her team were gone soon, and Oz's team returned to their headquarters. Accommodations were made for Faith and Connor, and they strayed soon to their rooms. Riley spoke quietly for a moment to Wesley, and then Riley and his wife left, too. Oz started to say something to Justine, but she simply kissed him. There was a bond between them now, Oz knew, and what would come of it didn't overly concern him. It wasn't what he'd had with Willow, but he was content with it to be what it was. She rested her forehead on his for a moment, kissed him again, and then she, too, left.
That left Oz alone with Wesley. The two men sat in silence for a moment.
"Marcie's to be reassigned," said Wesley, after a moment. Oz nodded. "Good."
"Thank you," said Wesley. "Thank you for staying."
"No worries," said Oz. "Someone's got to keep an eye on everyone," and with that, Oz left, leaving Wesley sitting alone in silence.
"That was pretty clever," said Lilah's voice, whispering in his ear. "They'll never know what you gave up to save them, will they?"
"No," said Wesley, his voice low and gravelly. "No, they won't. But then, there were some victories, weren't there?"
Wesley looked across the darkened room, to where the ghost of Winifred Burkle stood watching. Fred smiled, and Wesley smiled, and then she, too, disappeared.
And in a city somewhere outside of time, Ethan Rayne staggered mad and alone, a stump where his arm once was, toward a temple that housed slivers of the souls of fallen gods, as voices giggled and whispered torments in his ear.