A couple of days earlier

“They look very smart, sir,” the obsequious voice of the assistant distracted Wesley from his reflection.

“I beg your pardon – what was that?”

“The trousers, they look good on you,” the heavily pierced shop girl tugged at the belt loop settling the leather trousers lower on his hips. “There if you keep them lower then there will be less chafing – well, until you break them in a bit that is.”

Wesley Wyndam-Pryce eyed his reflection dubiously. He’d gone into the leather shop on an impulse, wondering if a change of image might help distance himself from the humiliation of the last month or so. It hadn’t exactly been a good year so far, his utter failure in Sunnydale as a Watcher still haunted him. Followed closely by his summary dismissal from the Council for failing to control not one but two Slayers, one of which had turned evil and nearly succeeded in helping her surrogate father take over the Hellmouth. And he’d never even noticed until it was too late and Faith had been lost to them all.

His father had been the one to call him at the hospital. Initially he’d thought it was through concern about his son’s welfare, but as usual it had been wishful thinking. His father really didn’t care about his only son’s wellbeing; instead, he’d been the one to stick the knife in. His father had called to fire him. Which he’d done in no uncertain terms and then coolly ended the conversation with a crisp refusal of financial help to purchase a ticket back to the old Sod. Instead, his father suggested that it was in his best interests to make himself scarce for a while, until the family recovered the reputation that had been sullied by his incompetence. Before Wesley had managed to say anything in his defence the sound of a dial tone had filled his ears.

He really wasn’t that fond of the old man and this last instance really was the capper on a bad relationship. As much as he wished it were different Wesley accepted that his father would probably never care for him, it was a puzzle he’d given up trying to solve.

So now he stood in a decidedly dodgy shop in San Francisco, trying on leather chaps and wondering if the gods were laughing at him. The irony wasn’t lost on him and he shifted slightly, before checking behind him to make sure that there was no one admiring his arse in the leather trousers that he was now modelling. The chaps had looked utterly ridiculous over the tweed and he’d discarded those swiftly, cringing as his imagination supplied the giggles his former Slayer and her cronies would surely have sent his way.

“Hey, seriously man, they need to be lower on the hip otherwise they’ll chaf,” the salesgirl yanked them down abruptly, revealing Wesley’s Thunderbirds boxers much to his abject mortification.

“I say, do you mind!” he exclaimed and wriggled away from her fluttering hands. His cheekbones were tinted red as he tried to readjust the trousers. He spotted the matching jacket the sales girl was holding and with a brief nod of thanks took it and slipped it on. ‘It’s not a Duster but it’ll do…’ He had always envied the way that vampire of Buffy’s had worn his leather coat with such panache and had always felt so gauche in comparison. The deciding factor on his biker makeover had been his intense desire to leave behind the disasters of Sunnydale and his life as a Watcher tormented by failure.

“That looks good on you.” She nodded decisively and helped the stiff leather settle on his shoulders. “All you need to finish off the look is leave off the shaving for a while - go with the scruffy look - I think it’d suit.” Part of him started to feel a wee bit better in himself at her words and then he heard his father’s mocking voice in his head – taunting him for his failures and the pathetic attempt at reinventing himself.

“How will you be paying?” the sales assistant's voice pulled him from his maudlin contemplation with a start. Wes gazed blankly down at her, puzzled, and then shook himself all over like a wet dog. He really needed to buck up his ideas and try and leave his problems in the past where they belonged.

“Right, yes. I errr need a helmet,” he pointed the silver one that had caught his eyes earlier, “and umm some good gloves and saddle bags, to go on -” He gestured to the new motorcycle that he’d selected earlier. “The black satchels will suffice.” He gave her a tentative smile, which she returned easily. He needed the room for his weapons – the lack of storage space was a problem, but he was nothing if not efficient at streamlining. If indeed he was going into business for himself as a rogue demon hunter then he needed to change his habits; become more adept at travelling light and being battle ready.

“Cash or credit?”

Wes thrust his hand into the pocket of the white linen jacket he’d been wearing and pulled out a battered wallet that he turned in his hands nervously. He was about to commit a crime and his innate goodness was rearing its weary head. He pulled out the Coutts credit card and stared at it, the last symbol of his time in the Watcher’s Council -- the emergency card. One with no limits, Coutts had a policy that any account opened with them had a minimum balance of a million pounds Sterling, not something the Council had to worry about. It was to be used only in cases of extreme emergency in connection with the Slayer, not to fund his shopping expedition. But he had decided that it would be his severance pay; they may not want him flying back to the Homeland but he was damned if he was going out without a whimper. He was aware that any attempt at using his passport would be remarked on and entry denied to the UK, but this card may just be his way of getting a final dig in at Travers and his father.

“That’ll do nicely,” she plucked the card and swiped it through the machine.

“Ah, good--”

And with that it was out of his hands. The card processed immediately and Wes waited for a clap of thunder and the booming voice of doom, which usually sounded like his father, proclaiming him a thief. But there was nothing except the rattle of a bunch of keys being placed in his nerveless hand and the card, together with his receipts, being handed over. Wes wondered briefly how hard it’d be to ride the bike; the nearest he’d been to a motorbike was to peer in the shop window of the Harley Davidson shop on the Kings Road when he’d been in London doing his training. A ten speed pedal bike was the limit of his experience with of anything with two wheels and he really hoped he wouldn’t make an arse of himself. Or even worse injure himself - he had no insurance and would be well and truly buggered.

“Have a nice day sir.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He pulled himself up and glared at his tormentor. It was starting to get boring, this being chucked around and dropped on his arse every time he tried to get the sodding thing to move. He staggered over to the bike and kicked it, dusting off the seat of his leather trousers he grunted as the gravel ground into the grazes on the palms of his hands. At least he was breaking in his leathers with all the bouncing around on the ground.

“Hey mister, you’re getting better. Was two minutes this time!” One of his not so silent teenage observers called out through the chain fence that surrounded the wasteland where Wesley was trying to teach himself to ride his new acquisition. He’d wheeled the bike away from the speciality shop in Haight Ashbury and headed off down the street. He wanted as much distance as possible between the shop and himself, paranoia consuming him that a squad of goons might appear, sent by the Council. He’d made his escape easily and as he walked down the steep hill Wesley had realised exactly how uncomfortable stiff leather trousers were and wondered if his testicles would ever recover.

The tall brown haired man’s shoulder slumped, “I am a disaster.” He groaned and swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he limped to the handlebars and pulled the beast up onto its tyres. “You will not defeat me!” ‘Or kill me,’ he mentally added.

“Hey you want us to show you how?” The eldest teen called out.

“Oh, piss off or I will get angry with you.” Wesley set his jaw and slung his leg over the bike and sat down gingerly to a mocking chorus of ohhhhhs.

~~~~~~~~~

She fanned them out on the black velvet table cloth. Her hands wrinkled and gnarled with age and arthritis, her long nails yellowed and curling around her fingertips. Usually she would be filled with hatred for her hideousness. They were ancient and carried the secrets of the world within them. Whispers filled her head as she brushed each one gently with her finger tips, voices from within them clamouring for attention – for revenge – for rescue. They recognised her as an interloper but were bound by their own creation to serve whomever used them. That was what they were – tools for anyone who possessed them. Be it good or evil – they were nothing more than components in grander scheme.

She turned them over and stared at the intricate lattice pattern painted painstakingly on the back of each card, appreciating the artistry. Even with her fading eyesight the tiny sigils of power and enchantment hidden in each thin line glowed gold, and flickered enticingly at her. A shiver ran up her arm as Zorahia felt the power surging off the Tarot deck, teasing her mind and muscles with it.
They were finally hers.

All hers – the death of the previous custodian barely flickered on her much forgotten conscience – he’d been old and worn out and bored her. A means to an end, his screams as she slowly tortured him to death had filled her with glee and a taste for more. Death Magicks were addictive and empowering, but she’d noticed that the strength garnered from such arts lasted for only a brief addictive time and then faded away like sunlight at dusk. But the Crone knew how to get more.

The cards would give it to her.

Power within them would lead to the corruption and death of whomever she read for – as long as she got the spell right. She shifted in her seat, her bones aching from the withdrawal symptoms – her room shrouded in darkness, illumination only coming from the candles dotted around the shelves. Their flickering amber glow allowing glimpses of the various idols she worshipped and the corrupt arcane tools of her trade. Zorahia cackled and re shuffled the cards before throwing them up and letting them fall where they chose.

The Hanged Man lay on top inverted and crossing the Tower. She shrugged, what did she care – they weren’t casting for her.
Doubt filled her for a fleeting moment.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The highway was a long straight line disappearing over the horizon, the tarmac shimmering in the heat haze as Wesley rode down it with grim determination. He’d left San Francisco behind and was beginning his new life as a demon hunter par extraordinaire, his objective Los Angeles.

All his research on the city lead him to understand that it was a hub of demonic activity, and was big enough that he could lose himself easily in the crowds and start to make a difference. There had been a few maudlin moments when he’d considered returning to Sunnydale and the Hellmouth, and sulking around in the shadows doing his bit. That romantic notion of assisting Buffy anonymously had waned rapidly at the memories of her derision, and his pathetic ineptitude during his sojourn as her Watcher. For a few nights he’d entertained the idea of building up the mystic of hunting on her grounds, leaving the remains of his kills around to puzzle her before revealing himself. The idea of him being welcomed back into the fold by Buffy and Giles appealed so much that it made his stomach ache in anticipation. But then the harsh reality of his utter failure would return and Wesley would cringe. There was no going back, not after losing Faith to the Mayor through his incompetence and then his dismal showing during the fight at Graduation. No, LA was a much better place to begin his new career.

The thrum of the engine between his legs was soothing and hypnotic. The winds buffeted him, but he was protected by his clothes and the sunglasses he’d chosen kept his eyes clear, focused on the road ahead. He was determined to become a new man and make a difference in the world. He’d show them all - somehow - that he wasn’t a fool or someone to be trifled with; he was tired of being the fumbling fool and he wanted to change, become a warrior – a champion.

The minutes ticked past as he rode steadily towards LA, houses giving way to countryside and soon it was as if he were the only one alive in the world. Slowly his taut frame relaxed and he began to enjoy the ride, with the wind and the scenery for companionship as he began his odyssey towards redemption and reinvention. He wasn’t that caught up in his daydreams not to notice the flash of light and the puff of smoke on the horizon. He frowned, it looked like something mystical and well, mystical had his name written all over it now. He revved the engine, daring himself to go a little faster eager to reach the flashpoint on the highway.

Imagine his surprise at seeing a solitary figure in the distance, a mere shadow limned by the sunlight. Wesley managed to stop the bike from swerving into a ditch when his hands jerked in shock; there was no reason for a person to be there on this empty stretch of highway miles from civilisation. The nearest town was about eight miles behind him; he’d stopped to refuel and have a bite to eat in the trucker’s stop. He’d managed to work out he was about halfway to LA and was making good time. The woman serving his food had tartly informed him he was her first, and last, customer for lunch and to hurry and eat as she wanted her break.

She was a slender slip of a girl, her waist length bright red hair shone in the sunlight which picked out the golden strands interwoven with the flaming red. She was dressed in jeans and a pale green tank top with a sweatshirt tied around her tiny waist. At her feet lay a large backpack bulging with clothes and ephemera. Her hand was raised with its thumb sticking out. Wes slowed the bike down as he approached the hitchhiker; he was in two minds whether or not to stop. The gentleman in him was horrified at the risk the young woman was taking with her safety but another part of him was signalling that she was not all that she seemed. There was an ethereal quality to her oval face and the determined set of her chin and rosebud mouth. Signalled trouble to him. And she exuded an aura of magicks unlike anything he’d experienced in a long while.

“Hey, you gonna stop?” Her voice was raised as she shouted over the sound of the bike’s engine. She waved him over enthusiastically and reached down to collect her backpack. Her actions revealing an astonishing sight, a large intricately coloured tattoo covered her back, its colours seemed to move under their own impetus. Wesley came to a stop and flipped his sunglasses up to examine the girl closely. Her back still partially turned to him as she fiddled around with the straps, it gave him enough time examine the mystical tattoo. It looked like a dragon, but it was hard to ascertain. As it moved around on her back and it’s bright coils slithered around revealing less and less of itself as it tucked itself away under the skimpy top.

“Holy crap! Is that a Big Dog bike?” She stared in appreciation at the chrome and leather monster that Wesley had indulged himself in. He blinked at her and nodded. “Guess you’re the tall silent type.” Her voice was husky and deep, something otherworldly lent a timbre of depth to it that made the hair on the back of his neck prickle slightly. “Very nice, bit scratched but hey we all have to start learning somewhere right? Her pale eyes twinkled at him and he gave a small start.

“How did you…?”

“Know? Easy, you still haven’t managed to let go of the death grip you have on the handles, there’s all kinds of scuff marks on your back and the scratches are fresh. I’m Diana by the way,” she reached out a long slender fingered hand and waited for him to recover his composure and manners.

“Wesley,” he chocked out and took her proffered hand and shook it gingerly, eyes riveted on the snout of the dragon that was now sliding over her shoulder. “Nice to meet you.”

“Pleasure’s all mine, I have to tell yah I figured on having to walk but then you appeared like a knight on a charger over the horizon and I knew I was saved.” She fluttered her long pale lashes playfully.

“No, stop that young lady; it is utterly irresponsible of your parents to let you out and about hitchhiking at your age – disgraceful.” Wesley spluttered, shocked to his core that a teen was flirting with him, his last experience with a young lady of this age had been pure hell. The memory of the sloppy and fumbling kiss he and Cordelia had exchanged was still a subject of night sweats and blushes of embarrassment.

“Huh,” she peered at Wesley in shock, “not really the biker type are you, Brit?” She gave him a slow easy smile, her eyes bright and the corners of her lips curving up slightly as she began to speak again. “And as for my parents, who do you think sent me here?”

“Well, no…but really you should be much more circumspect with whom you flirt with on deserted highways.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yes, now get on and I will take you home.” Wesley snapped and then mentally slapped himself for offering her a lift. “I simply cannot comprehend the reasoning of your family for leaving you here in the middle of nowhere.”

“Man, you’re easy, I thought you’d put up more of a fight. And as for the rentals – who do you think worked out which road you’d be on?” Before he could say another word she was on the bike and a bright pink helmet had appeared on her head.

“I say, how on earth?” his astonishment was complete

“Come on, don’t tell me you didn’t notice Oscar here on my shoulder? Can it, Watcherman, and let’s get going - I want some dinner and I think you might need a drink by the time I’m finished with you.” Diana grinned impishly at him and then wrapped her arms around his waist and waited for him to give in to her. “Chill, Watcherman – you know that you can’t fight fate.”

“Humm,” Wes grunted and revved the engine. He’d learned from an early age from his formidable mother that strong women were not to be questioned. Particularly ones with dragon tattoos that appeared to be sentient, and inked onto young women with sharp precognitive abilities, who knew entirely too much about him for his own good.

“I have a feeling this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.” Diana chuckled.

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