Title: Enemy Incognito

Author: Wynn

E-mail: effulgent_sun@hotmail.com

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Angel. They are owned by Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Twentieth Century Fox, UPN, the WB, etc.

AN: Many, many thanks to everyone who has reviewed. I love reading all the feedback, so please keep it coming. And many thanks to SpikeLover7 for a solid year of excellent beta-ing.

Chapter Forty-Three: Into the Fire

By: Wynn

“So, what are we going to do?”

“Are you talking to me?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

Faith shifted in her seat next to Buffy. Ten minutes ago, everyone except Emma and Jeremy had clamored into a massive black van that would take them all to the extra special Headquarters of the Watcher’s Council to save Dawn, Connor, and recently discovered kidnapped Christina and to hopefully emerge from this decidedly suicidal mission alive. Faith knew she wasn’t normally given to meticulous planning; she was always more of a no think, act now sort of person. But taking this mentality and applying it to the fight against the entire Council was stupid. Moronic. Idiotic.

So it was no surprise to Faith that the plan had originated with Wonder Woman herself, Buffy Summers.

And if facing certain death as a result of this half-cocked scheme of taking on the Council by waltzing right in the front door wasn’t enough, Faith was stuck sitting next to Buffy on the Ride of Doom.

Life seriously sucked sometimes.

Glancing sidelong at Buffy, Faith attempted conversation again. “So what are we going to do?”

“About what?” Buffy asked, voice laden with irritation and laced with hostility.

“About Travers.”

Blinking once, Buffy turned and faced Faith. A faint frown pulled at her mouth. “What about Travers?”

“Exactly. What are we going to do about him?”

“What do you mean?”

Faith sighed. She tugged on the fraying grey edge of her seatbelt as she said, “Are we going to kill him? ‘Cause it’s not like we can drop him off at the cops with a little note attached saying he tried to kill us with demons and assassins because we’ve been bad Slayers. They’d lock us in the nut house for spinning that tale. And we can’t leave him locked up at the Council, not with all those corrupt bastards like Travers running the show. He’d be out in a heartbeat and terrorizing us ten times more than he’s doing now. And we can’t let the weasel roam free ‘cause he’ll just try to kill us again. But…”

“But can we kill him?” Buffy finished. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the seat, her teeth gnawing on her bottom lip. Her fists were clenched in her hands, but whether that was from the ordeal of engaging Faith in conversation or from the stress from Dawn’s kidnapping Faith didn’t know. Opening her eyes again, Buffy looked at Faith and said, “What do you think we should do?”

A smirk pulled at Faith’s lips. One brow arched into the air in disbelief. “You’re asking me for my opinion? Are you insane? ‘Cause Sane Buffy couldn’t care less about what I have to say.”

“I’m not crazy. Been there, done that, tried to kill my friends.” Buffy shrugged under Faith’s questioning gaze. She squirmed in her seat and stared out the tinted window as she said, “Travers hates you, too. He’s probably hated you longer than he’s hated me. And you’ve been a part of this series of attacks and deception since the beginning, so I guess you’ve got a say in how it all goes down.” She tilted her head slightly to gaze at Faith from beneath her eyelashes. “Besides, I thought you were a part of the team.”

“Part of Team Buffy.”

“Even if I believed for a moment that you were a part of ‘Team Buffy,’ you still have an opinion all your own. So spill.”

Faith peered at Buffy through the darkness cloaking the van. Flashes of streetlights briefly illuminated Buffy’s face, but her expression was inscrutable, revealing nothing of her thoughts. Drawing her fingers through her tangled hair, Faith said, “Before I would have killed him. Flat out, no fuss no muss. Kill or be killed, you know. And if Travers is left alive, our chances of being killed are definitely increased by the way.” She paused and cast another glance at Buffy before continuing. “But now it’s like, I don’t know, he’s not worth it. Not worth me sinking down into the blackness and emptiness it takes to kill a man.”

“Even if he is a danger?” Buffy asked quietly. “Even if he would kill you without hesitation and destroy whatever was standing between him and his grand plans? What makes him different than any of the demons we’ve faced? He says he’s doing all this because we’ve lapsed in our duties as adequate guardians of the Hellmouth. But instead of helping us, he tries to kill us and our friends and take control of the Hellmouth himself. So what separates him from any one of the five million demons we slay who want to take over Sunnydale every single day?”

“He’s human. He has a soul.”

“He’s still capable of evil. All of us are. You know this. You’ve lived it.”

“I guess I have.” Faith’s eyes slid down to her hands, hands that had murdered without remorse, hands that had tortured without a flicker of conscience inside of her brain. She clenched her fists and slipped them inside the pockets of her jean jacket. “But I changed,” she said softly. “Went to jail. Started down a new path.”

“Because you wanted to. You did it yourself. Nobody forced you.” Buffy paused and sucked in a deep breath, exhaling shakily through her mouth. “But Travers isn’t like you. You killed out of rage. Desperation. I don’t think you really wanted to do any of that stuff even while you were doing it. But Travers…” Buffy shook her head slowly, a rueful smirk twisting her mouth. “He knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s planned all this for years. That’s a whole different evil altogether. How do you stop someone like that?”

“I… I don’t know. All this morality crap gets so confusing. It’s hard to tell what’s right and what’s wrong when it’s one of the supposedly good guys trying to kill you.”

Buffy nodded. She turned back towards the window and gazed out at nighttime London. The tips of her fingers slowly, softly grazed across the glass. “I’ve been thinking. The Council wants us dead because we’re uncontrollable, because we’re not locked safely under their thumbs. They’re trying to kill us because they can’t use us for their own gains and because we don’t take their orders anymore. Do you… do you ever wonder whether this happened to other girls, other Slayers that came before us? If they asked too many questions or broke too many rules and had to be killed?” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Did any of them fight back and try to live their lives by their rules instead of anyone else’s?”

Her voice sent a shiver down Faith’s spine, across her skin, throughout her body. A current of electrified energy seemed to spring up around the two Slayers, the two women, locking them, weaving them, connecting them to the Slayers of old, to all of the previous Chosen Ones who lived and fought and died. Faith thought she understood the crazy, half-cocked plan Buffy had cooked up. Thought she understood the reasoning behind it. A direct, balls out assault was what was needed. Something to show the British Slaying Police that they weren’t going to be controlled or manipulated any longer. That the Council couldn’t do anything it wanted and think that everyone else would just roll over and turn the proverbial blind eye towards the corruption or carnage. To show that the time for change had come.

Faith withdrew her hand from her pocket and placed it next to Buffy’s on the window. “If they were anything like us,” she said, “they probably did fight back. Tooth and nail and claw.”

“You never hear anything about a Slayer revolution though. Never read anything about a Slayer bucking the system and taking control of her own destiny, free from Council interference.”

“Not that I’ve done a lot of a reading, but I don’t know of anything like that to have happened. So either it didn’t happen or it did and was covered up.” Faith pulled her hand away from the window. She looked around the van and a wicked, rebellious, cocky smirk tugged at the corners of her lips. “Either way, this is going to be different.”

“How?”

“Because of us. The Chosen Two. Double the pleasure, double the revolution.” Faith pointed at all the people in the van as she said, “Because of them. Friends, family, complete fucking strangers all fighting the fight with us. We’re going to light a fire under the Council’s ass…”

“…and watch it burn.”

Faith nodded. “And even if all we do is get Dawn, Connor, and Christina back we’ve still made a stand, bucked the system, caused a little more mayhem in the perfectly ordered world of Quentin Travers.”

“Wow,” Buffy mused. She gazed at Faith in appreciative wonder, but the lighthearted expression was countered by the serious light shining from her hazel eyes. “That was almost inspiring. Are you sure we’re not on Team Faith?”

A wry grin crossed Faith’s face. “We should be. Team Buffy sounds wicked stupid.”

“Better than Team Travers.”

“Oh hell yes.”
 

* * *

The black van coasted to a stop in front of an anonymous building. No special markings indicated that it was the headquarters of the Watcher’s Council. No fancy plaques or pompous banners to advertise the prestige and heritage of the centuries old establishment. It was just another building on just another street on the outskirts of London.

But Spike wasn’t fooled by the innocuous exterior. Over a hundred years existence had caused him to learn to never judge a book, or a person or a demon or a building, by its cover. The biggest baddest beastie could be as timid as a mouse while a five-foot-four one hundred ten pound blonde girl could kick the asses of everyone on the planet five times over. What lied beneath the exterior was the important part, and Spike knew that a black, festering mass resided beneath the prim and proper façade of the Council of Watchers.

As Simmons’ turned the van off, Buffy rose from her seat and moved to the front. Her hazel gaze traveled across the motley crew assembled to fight the big fight as she said, “Everyone keep their eyes open. Travers knows we’re coming; he’s counting on it. No doubt he’s assembled some kind of welcoming committee for us. Watch the corners and shadows for sudden movements, but don’t engage in combat unless they strike first. I don’t want to have to fight the entire Council if there’s another way we can get to Dawn, Connor, and Christina.” Her tone turned to icy steel and her eyes grew cold and hard as she said, “But if we have to fight every single one of those arrogant bastards to get our family back, then we’ll do it. Travers has gone too far this time.” Buffy moved to the van door and pulled it open. She jumped onto the sidewalk, turned back towards the van, and said, “Load up. We’re going in.”

She strode away from the van, golden hair flaring out behind her like flowing waves of the sun. Her stride was steady and forceful, the heels of her black boots cracking on the concrete sidewalk. Grabbing a knife from the stockpile of weapons, Spike strapped it to his leg, stepped out of the van, and took off after Buffy. He tugged on her arm and pulled her to a stop a few paces from the Council front doors. Her face was blank, devoid of emotion, but her eyes flashed and raged with pain and determination. He lifted a hand to the side of her face; his fingertips moved across the smooth, supple contours of her brow bone, cheekbone, down to her chin. Her skin, flushed red with frustration and fury, burned beneath his cool fingers. Buffy closed her eyes at his touch; her bottom lip trembled slightly; her nails dug into the palms of her hands.

“We’ll get her back,” Spike murmured. She opened her eyes and stared at him. Her gaze bore into him, ripping through the layers of flesh and bone and sinew, straight down to the core fabric of his being, down to his soul. A flood of panic washed over Spike inexplicably and he tightened his grip upon Buffy, desperate to keep her in front of him, whole and healthy and alive. “We’ll get her back,” he said again, his voice stronger.

Buffy nodded slowly. “I know.” Her expression softened and she leaned into him, capturing his lips with her own in a fierce, fleeting kiss. “I love you,” she whispered. “More than I ever dreamed I could.”

“I love you. Always.”

She smiled then, a tremulous, tender smile. “Good.” She brought a hand up to his face and smoothed the pad of her thumb across his lips; the soft touch of her thumb caused a tremor to course through his body. “Always.” Buffy held his gaze for a moment longer, capturing him within the twin webs spun by her green and gold and grey eyes. And then she pulled her hand away and the mask descended upon her face again and she stepped away from him and closed the distance to the twin doors of the Council and the panic began to shoot through Spike again.

“Are you Ok?”

Gaze still fixed upon Buffy, Spike said to Angel, “I… Something’s… I don’t know… off.”

“With Buffy?”

Spike nodded.

“Could be stress. The last few weeks have been hectic, to say the least.” Angel pushed Spike forward and the two made their way to the open Council doors. As they entered the building, Angel said, “You got shot and could’ve died. Faith was almost killed. Then learning about Travers and Charles and all the planning and scheming for the last couple of years.” Angel paused. “And then Travers kidnapped her sister and blew up her house. So…”

“…stress.”

Angel stopped before Spike, half-turning to look across the room to where Buffy stood, head back, shoulders straight, and body rigid. “You’re worried about her.”

“Yes.”

“Worried about what might happen to her or about what she might do?”

Eyes tearing away from Buffy, Spike met Angel’s stare and said, “Both.” His gaze slid back over to Buffy and he felt the need to stalk across the room and drag her away, lock her in a room, safe and sound and secure, and come back and do this crazy mission himself. But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

Spike forced himself to look away from Buffy; he directed his eyes around the room the group had just entered. The inside foyer of the Watcher’s Council was dark, muted light illuminating small sections of the room sporadically. The tiled marble floor was devoid of furniture. Two large, faded burgundy tapestries, inlaid with gold stitching and enclosed within glass casings, hung on the right and left walls. A closed black door lay opposite the front entrance, located beneath a wide cream banner proclaiming in flourishing script, ‘The Council of Watchers. Est. 1134 A.D.’.

Xander whistled slowly as he wandered around the foyer. “Well, this is a very big, empty room. All the big Watcher brains in this building and no one could think of anything interesting to put in here?”

“Interesting, no. Useful, yes,” Simmons said from the entrance. He walked into the center of the room, turned around, and pointed to a space above the twin front doors. “Everybody wave to the cameras now.”

Turning, Spike saw faint gleams of light reflecting off multiple camera lenses. He resisted the urge to flip the cameras off.

“There’s one motion sensor camera,” Wesley said as he approached Spike. “Another is an infrared camera and the third is a normal surveillance camera.” He spun in a circle, stopping when he faced the solitary black door. “The door is locked from the other side and can only be opened by passing a retinal scan and reciting the proper password. And the password changes every day. The wall is fireproof and bullet proof, inlaid with solid steel strong enough to prevent the strongest of demons from forcing their way through. But any attempt such as that to breach the security measures would only activate the countermeasure.”

“Countermeasure?”

“A particularly lethal spell involving a mystic acid of some type the Council picked up from a group of Baum demons in the Mediterranean.”

Spike grimaced. “Nasty buggers.”

“Quite.”

“So how are we going to get in?”

Wesley pointed to the door, which had been opened by Giles. “They’ve left the locks unlocked for us. How considerate of them to aid us in our attempt to gain access to their expected trap just behind the door.” A grim smile appeared on his face briefly before he moved away from Spike towards the open black door.

In the center of the darkened foyer, Spike watched the group walk through the door one by one, some nervous, some angry, some calm. All of the drama, heartache, and violence over the preceding few months caused by a middle aged, balding, power hungry little man, which had followed a year long siege on the Scoobies by a trio of adolescent, geeky, power hungry little boys. What Spike wouldn’t give for a straight-up, old fashioned, evil as evil can get demon. All fists and fangs and fighting and none of this manipulative, clandestine shit Travers favored.

But first things first. Rescue the damsels in distress, and Angel’s kid too. Beat the living hell out of Quentin Travers for a few hours. And then fly back to Sunnyhell with Buffy and Dawn as quickly as possible as soon as possible.

The room on the opposite side of the black door was considerably brighter than the foyer; fluorescent lights lined the high ceiling in five parallel rows. Spike stepped through the door onto a thick navy carpet; his scuffed black boots sank an inch or two into the plush patterned fabric. The walls were blank and painted a gunmetal grey, dotted occasionally with surveillance cameras and other assorted electronic devices. One either side of the black door lay two computer stations, each screen relaying the feed from one of the surveillance cameras in the foyer. A small archway opposite Spike led to a narrow hall, and two closed doors resided on either side of the arch. Buffy, Giles, Faith, Wesley, Charles, and Simmons stood in a single file line against the right wall while Emilia, Willow, Xander, Anya, Angel, and Cordelia stood against the left wall. And in the center of the room, surrounded by nearly twenty armed guards, was Quentin Travers.

“William the Bloody,” Travers said, a serene smile appearing on his face. “How nice of you to join us. Please step against the left wall.”

“No.”

Travers blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said no. Deaf, are you?”

“No, William-”

“Don’t call me William. You haven’t earned the right.”

Travers blinked again. His serene smile vanished from off his face, and he heaved a deep, exasperated sigh. “I advise you to not cause any trouble, Spike. You are trespassing on Council property, and, thus, as head of the Council, if I so desire I can order one of these men behind me to fire their loaded crossbow-”

“Wouldn’t hit me. But if you did that I’d have to rip your flabby throat out, and I doubt you want that to happen.”

“And before you could take two steps across this room, I’d send the signal and your young Miss Summers would suffer an unfortunate consequence, one in which you would not be fast enough to prevent.” The serene smile returned to Travers’ face as he gazed steadily at Spike. “And I am not referring to Buffy, so unless you want to be the cause of Dawn Summers’ death you will move against the left wall. Now.”

Hands fisted by his sides, Spike looked across the room, catching Buffy’s gaze for a moment. She slid her eyes down to the ground and then back up to Travers, hatred sparking off her in furious flashes. Turning back to Travers, Spike said, “That’s murder.”

“Not if she’s not human.” Raising his voice to be heard above the Scoobies’ protestations and exclamations of disbelief at his claim about Dawn, Travers said to Spike, “Now step against the wall. I will not say it again.”

Jaw clenched tight, Spike closed his eyes. His senses flooded with visions of Dawn; her blue eyes intent upon his face as he relayed one of his stories of blood and gore to her; her lips upturned in gleeful grin as she fired the perfect zinger at Angel; her long brown hair swinging around her as she danced to the coolest of the cool noise American teenagers called music. He fixed his eyes upon Travers again as he forced himself from the center of the room to the end of the left line directly behind Cordelia.

Travers clapped his hands together in satisfaction. Turning towards the men behind him, he pointed to Spike’s row and said, “Take them to the cells. Split them up. I don’t care how. Just don’t put the two vampires together.”

One of the armed guards moved to the door on the left side of the arch and opened it. A set of stairs leading to the lower levels of the Council lay beyond the threshold. Ten more guards fanned out beside Spike and the others, their weapons locked and loaded. The man beside Emilia nudged her with his crossbow in the direction of the door, and she stumbled forward, nearly toppling down the stairs but was caught at the last moment by the first guard that had opened the door.

“Careful now, miss,” he said as he released her hands. He stepped before Emilia and began to move down the stairs. Everyone shuffled after him, a slow procession of guard, Scoobie, guard, Scoobie. As Spike passed by Quentin Travers, who watched him pass silent and with delight dancing in his small eyes, he heard the first guard say, “Right this way. Steady on. No sudden movements. These stairs can be a might slippery.”
 

* * *

Title: Enemy Incognito

Author: Wynn

E-mail: effulgent_sun@hotmail.com

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel. They are owned by Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Twentieth Century Fox, UPN, the WB, etc.

AN: *Happy dance* Enemy’s picked up a new nomination at the Thwack awards for Best Overall Buffy fic. Many, many thanks to whoever nominated EI.
This chapter went through major restructuring. I originally wanted to push back the last two sections to Chapter 45 and expand on the middle one. I spent a few days thinking it over before deciding on retaining the two sections and massively reorganizing the chapter. There’s so much action within the final seven chapters it’s been a struggle to organize it in a coherent, interesting, intriguing, and exciting way. I hope everyone enjoys this chapter, and I will try my best to get the final six out as soon as possible. As always, many thanks to my beta SpikeLover7. Feedback is a wonderful thing, so please leave some.

Chapter Forty-Four: Burn, Baby, Burn

By: Wynn

The time had finally arrived. Retribution in full for all the attitude and disrespect Travers had received over the years from the two renegade Slayers and their brainwashed band of heathens. Long years filled with gathering information, of putting plans into motion, and patiently waiting for the perfect moment to begin the quest for justice had finally paid off. The time had come, and Quentin Travers was going to savor every last moment of it.

The stage on which Justice would swing her mighty sword had been meticulously constructed. All the right people from the Council had been put in all the right places to hear his thoroughly objective and startling review of these six disgraces. Each had willfully disobeyed Travers, choosing instead to pursue their radical agendas rather than that best benefiting the Council. Each had humiliated Travers with their disparaging remarks and rebellious tendencies, both actions demonstrating to Travers’ associates that he could not control his Slayers or members of his Council, that he was not worthy of his position as Head of the Council, that he was weak and incompetent.

But the years of suffering at the hands of these six imbecilic individuals had come to an end. All good things come to those who wait, and Travers had waited a long time to take his revenge.

It would taste very, very sweet.
 

* * *

They were led through nondescript hallways and up narrow stairwells to a third floor room. The double doors opened from the inside, and Travers directed Buffy, Faith, Wesley, Giles, Charles, and Simmons into the Council’s courtroom. A judge’s bench lay opposite the double doors. Four dour looking men and women sat behind the bench, all dressed in stiff ancient suits, fingers languidly flipping through packets of papers placed before each person. They resided on both sides of a handsome woman with grey streaked dark hair. She wore tortoise shell glasses and a pair of black opal earrings; she watched Buffy lead Faith, Wesley, and the others with an intense and intrigued gaze, her eyes slowly drifting from one person to the next in careful assessment.

To the right of the bench was a jury-type area filled with twelve more dour looking men and women, and directly before the bench were two long tables, each accompanied by three chairs. Behind the two tables, separated by a swinging wood gate and spanning back all the way to the double doors, were rows upon rows of benches, occupied by more men and women who silently watched the Buffy-led processional with curious eyes. Dusty fake plants stood in the four corners of the room, lamely attempting to lighten the heavy wood furnishings and serious atmosphere.

A door to the left of the judge’s bench opened, and Travers walked into the courtroom. Stopping before the bench, he nodded to the center woman with the tortoise shell glasses and then looked upon the room and its occupants with a sense of relish nearly reaching ecstasy. He breathed deeply, taking a moment to fully appreciate the sense of foreboding clouding the room. Facing Buffy and the others, he pointed to the left table and said, “Please take your seats in the chairs provided.”

Remaining still, Buffy tilted her head to the side, folded her arms across her chest, and said, “Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

“I thought that would be obvious, Ms. Summers,” Travers said. He spread his arms wide, his palms facing up as though he were a show woman highlighting a piece of spectacular merchandise. “This is the room specially allotted for inquisitions and hearings. You and your cohorts are to be tried and judged before the Council Tribunal for failing to fulfill your various duties and for willfully committing crimes that endangered the innocent citizens of Sunnydale, Los Angeles, London, and in various other cities throughout Europe.”

“What if I don’t want to be tried?”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible. You work for the Council and are thus subject to our bylaws.”

“I don’t work for the Council. I haven’t worked for the Council in over three years. Remember?”

“You are the Slayer. Therefore you are under our jurisdiction despite your feelings to the contrary. Now please take your seats.”

Buffy held her ground, gaze still locked upon Travers. “If this farce is a trial, then where are our lawyers? Aren’t we entitled to representation? Someone to defend us against these bogus failures and crimes you’ve dreamed up? After all, that is the civilized thing to do.”

Mouth flattening, Travers drew in a deep breath and said, “Ms. Summers, this is an informal hearing and not a criminal trial. No lawyers or any other kind of representation is necessary.”

“Not when the outcome is already decided,” Giles said as he moved forward to stand behind Buffy. “Our fates, no doubt, have already been planned by you and your cohorts, so why go through all the formalities of an impartial hearing? You’re just wasting everyone’s time.”

A patronizing smile appeared on Travers’ face. “Mr. Giles, it saddens me that you think so little of the organization you devoted nearly twenty years of your life to. No presumptuous judgments have been made against you. We here at the Council are a fair and objective lot. Questions have been raised as to your ability to successfully perform your allotted duties, and those questions must be answered.”

Faith snorted. “That’s a load of shit. You people are the biggest bunch of hypocrites I’ve ever seen. I mean, you just threatened to kill-”

“Ms. Sinclaire,” Travers said, raising his voice to drown out Faith. “I advise you to remain silent. Any lies you might say will only be detrimental to your case.”

“So you advise me to remain silent, but not to the right to an attorney? Right fair of you, pops.” Pushing past Buffy and Giles, Faith sauntered over to the left table and plopped into the farthest of the three chairs. She folded her arms behind her head and propped her boot clad feet on the table. “Let’s get this show on the road, Quent. I don’t have all day to listen to you blab about fairness and objectivity. Just skip to the screw job you got planned.”

Smoothing a hand over his freshly pressed suit, Travers turned from the six slowly moving into their chairs and faced his Council. He gazed gravely at the members, his somber eyes catching a few glances. Clasping his hands behind his back, Travers drew in a deep breath and began to speak.

“Members of the Council, thank you for taking the time to attend to this most serious matter. Before you now sit six individuals who for far too long have disrespected the mandates of the Council of Watchers, some of which were established one thousand years ago by the first official Watcher, Sir Geoffery Spenser. The radical attitudes and dangerous methods employed by these six men and women have resulted in disobedience, rioting, mutiny, torture, murder, and apocalypse, and the time has come for the Council to take decisive action to prevent further mayhem and destruction.”

“Oh, give me a break!” Faith pushed away from the table and sprang from her chair. “This is a complete load of shit! He’s-”

The woman in the center of the judge’s bench held up her hand. Her dark graying hair was gathered into a severe bun at the base of her neck, giving her handsome face a sharp and stern appearance. Large grey eyes peered across the room at Faith as she said, “Young lady, if you cannot control yourself or your language, you will be removed from this proceeding. I will not tolerate obscenity laced outbursts. Now please return to your seat.”

Jaw clenched, Faith slumped back into her chair, dark eyes glaring daggers at the woman who had reprimanded her.

Turning to Travers, the woman said, “Please continue, Mr. Travers.”

“With pleasure, Mrs. Barrett,” Travers said with a broad smile. He cleared his throat and continued, “I have gathered information detailing the dangerous actions committed by these six individuals over the past three years, and for your convenience I have compiled all relevant data into the packets before you. Due to the haste in which this inquiry was arranged, I doubt everyone has had the opportunity to thoroughly study all the statistics and observations. Therefore, I will guide everyone through the packets to highlight the most important points.”

“Shouldn’t we receive copies of this informational packet, Travers?” Wesley said from his seat between Faith and Simmons. “That would be the fair thing to do, so we too can follow along.”

“Seeing as how you committed these actions, Mr. Pryce, I doubt you need the packet to remind yourself of them.”

“No,” Wesley said. “I don’t need to be reminded of them. I was just curious as to what sort of negative spin you must have put on these actions we’ve committed to label them as ‘dangerous.’”

“No spin, Mr. Pryce. Just the cold hard facts.” Travers moved to the end of the judge’s bench and grabbed an informational packet. He thumbed through the pages for a few moments before stopping about halfway through the bundled papers. “Please turn to page 16. There you will find accounts of rebellious acts resulting in riots, unrest, and dissension committed by David Simmons.” Travers looked over the top edge of the packet at Simmons, who quirked an eyebrow at the gaze, but otherwise showed no reaction to Travers’ comments. “Two years ago, Mr. Simmons spread malicious lies about the integrity of the Council archivists, claiming that these Watchers in charge of the library purposefully falsified documents. His statements that the Council archivists were, under orders from their superiors, editing certain field reports and historical documents caused unrest and sparked a riotous mob of pupils to form at the Watcher’s Academy.”

“It wasn’t a mob,” Simmons said coolly. He stared at Travers through half-closed eyes. “It was a peaceful assembly in the students’ dormitories to discuss the action performed by certain Watchers who re-write their reports to eliminate any unfavorable or unethical activity from the record books.”

“The ‘peaceful assembly’ resulted in half of the students failing to attend their classes for a week.”

Smirking, Simmons said, “The students didn’t fail to attend all their classes. Just those taught by morally suspect Watchers.”

Turning to the jury section, Travers pointed to Simmons and said, “He admits to supporting rebellion. And his rebellious activities extend beyond simple Academy riots. For the past five months, he has colluded with Charles Samuel, Wesley Wyndham-Pryce, and others to wrest control of the Council from the current authority figures and place themselves into positions of power. David Simmons purposefully attempts to cause dissension in the Council, lies about fellow Watchers, and supports rebellion and rioting by our students. He is a danger to the security of the Council and must be dealt with accordingly.”

“I did not lie about the falsification of Council records,” Simmons said, his voice tight with anger. “It is common practice in the Council to alter historical accounts detailing violent actions performed against both humans and demons and it is-”

“And for what reason would Watchers have to alter these historical accounts?”

“To protect the image of the Council as an ethical and just organization.”

“Are you saying that the Council prizes a favorable reputation that much? That it favors a flawless image over truthful reporting?”

“Yes.”

A Cheshire cat grin spread across Travers’ face. “If you believe the entire Council to be as corrupt an organization as you claim it to be, an organization more concerned with appearance than in truth and justice, why do you continue to remain a part of it?”

“Not every Council member is corrupt and self-serving. Most genuinely want to protect the world against the demons and vampires.”

“Mr. Simmons, wouldn’t you consider a secret plot to attain control over the Council for yourself as self-serving?” Travers continued before Simmons could speak. “In your own words you described self-serving Council members as corrupt. By your logic you and Mr. Pryce and Mr. Samuel and all your other cohorts would be corrupt too, and corrupt Council members need to be removed from the institution so as to not interfere in the mission to protect the world. Isn’t that right, Mr. Simmons?”

“No. You’re trying to twist my words around to make me look bad.”

“Ah. More lies and accusations. I think that is all we need to hear from you, Mr. Simmons.” Travers shot one last look at Simmons, triumph gleaming from his brown eyes, before he flipped through the packet again. “Please turn to page 21.” As the Council members turned to the indicated page, Travers moved across the courtroom until he stood directly in front of Charles, who sat at the end chair of the right table beside Giles and Buffy. Contempt and hatred dripped from Travers as he stared at Charles. The sounds of page turning quieted and Travers continued his justice seeking quest.

“As everyone in the room knows, Mr. Charles Samuel has been a Watcher for over twenty years. But his tenure has been rife with unorthodox behavior that caused dangerous and deadly consequences. Going against a Council practice that has stretched back hundreds of years, Mr. Samuel courted and married a non-human, an Elf named Ariana Smith. Elves are generally a passive breed of demon, but history has shown them to be possessors of violent tempers that has, more than once, resulted in the slaughter of innocent humans, including Watchers, whom they hold in low regard. Mr. Samuel’s disregard for this obvious violent streak of Elves endangered the entire Council by allowing a demon access to Council records, practices, and carefully protected knowledge of the demon realm.”

“Ariana wanted nothing to do with the Council, Travers,” Charles said. His tone was flat and hollow, lined with a raw edge of rage. “She didn’t care about Council secrets or ‘carefully protected knowledge.’ Contemplating the inner workings of the Council wasn’t worth her time or energy.”

“Obviously you did not know your wife very well. Her indifference towards the Council was a front to cover her insidious interest in dismantling the organization.” Staring at Charles, Travers held his packet aloft and said, “A year and a half ago, Ariana Smith attacked one of our own out on a routine patrol near one of our outposts. The Watcher barely escaped due to the numerous life threatening injuries the Elf inflicted before she was slayed.”

Charles slowly stood. He clenched his hands into tight fists at his side as fought against the trembles of fury that wracked his body. Quietly and with a deadly calm that sent shivers down many spines, he said, “She did not attack any member of this institution. She never attacked anyone. She detested violence and advocated peaceful co-existence between Elves and humans, between all pacifist demons and humans. And you had her murdered by one of your flunkies to keep me in Sunnydale. Ariana wasn’t slayed. She was butchered.”

Travers shook his head sadly, false compassion shining in his eyes. “Deluded by love into ignoring the viciousness inherent in Elves and into believing this ridiculous and pathetic scenario of persecution and ordered hits. You married a demon. Sooner or later you knew the time would come when she would have to be put down-”

Skirting around the table, Charles tackled Travers, the force of his blow sending both men careening into the judge’s bench. Charles pinned Travers beneath him and latched his hands onto Travers’ neck. His fingers tightened around Travers’ throat as he said, “Murderer! You’re the animal that needs to be put down! Not her! NOT HER!”

Chaos descended upon the courtroom. Giles and Wesley moved forward to pull Charles off Travers, whose pallor was slowly distorting from a ruddy tan to pale blue. As they struggled with Charles, Faith and Buffy fought against Watchers carrying stun guns and restraints straining to get to Charles. Screams from horrified observers pierced the air wrought with the sounds of conflict. The noise level reached an intolerable crescendo when a shrieking, otherworldly howl shot through the room, bringing all to their knees, clutching their ears to silence the wretched cry. As abruptly as the wail began it ended, and the only person left unshaken was Mrs. Barrett, who stood behind the judge’s bench, icy anger brightening her eyes. She uncurled her right hand and set a cylindrical device before her as she said, “Guards, restrain Mr. Samuel and place him in solitary confinement.”

“No.”

Turning her gaze upon Buffy, Mrs. Barrett said, “What did you say?”

“I said no. He deserves to be present throughout the rest of this, this inquiry and for whatever judgment you make against us.”

“This inquiry is suspended until further notice-”

“No,” Travers said as he climbed unsteadily to his feet. Bright red and purple welts marred his throat and his voice was low and raspy. “This matter needs to be settled here and now. Delaying it will only prove dangerous.”

“Mr. Travers, proceeding with the hearing will prove dangerous to you. You have already been attacked once. Do you wish to be attacked again?”

“I am willing to take that risk in order to see justice done.”

A minute passed before Mrs. Barrett said, “Very well. Proceed at your own risk, Mr. Travers. Guards, restrain Mr. Samuel and return him to his seat.” Mrs. Barrett resumed her position behind the bench and placed the cylindrical device into her pocket. “There will be no more disruptions to my court room such as this, or the person or persons responsible will suffer severe consequences. And that includes you, Mr. Travers, so remember to keep a civil tongue in that head of yours. You may continue when ready, Mr. Travers.”
 

* * *

Her head throbbed in a steady pulse Dawn could feel pounding behind her eyeballs. Returning to consciousness had not been a pleasant experience for Dawn, an experience she had tried to delay for as long as possible but, inevitably, could not hold off for long. If… no… when she got out of this completely horrible experience alive, she would do whatever the hell was necessary to prevent any future bouts of unconsciousness from afflicting her. More training sessions with Buffy, Wicca lessons from Willow, whatever. An executive decision had been made, all the votes had been counted, and the verdict was in. No more unconsciousness for Dawn. Ever.

Dawn slowly opened her eyes and raised one hand to her head, which was still very sticky with her blood, courtesy of two KOs delivered by the reigning champion of complete and utter psychopaths, Tyler. Groaning softly, Dawn pushed herself into a sitting position. Soreness permeated her entire body, but a stronger, duller pain brought her attention to her arm. Small pinpricks dotted the smooth flesh of her inner elbow. Lovely. Strange substances had either been injected into her body, or the sickos working for Travers had extracted her blood from her body. Either way it was majorly weird and very, very disturbing.

Smoothing a hand across the needle markings, Dawn looked at her surroundings. She sat in the center of a large room on top of a lumpy mattress set on a squeaky cot. A single stool was placed near the only door to the room. Aside from Dawn, the bed, and the stool, nothing else was in the room. She was completely alone… in a large empty room… with a very wide open door.

Cracking half a smile, Dawn slid off the cot onto the tiled floor. She winced as rusty squeaks sounded through the room and paused by the bed, but no one came rushing into the room to prevent her from escaping. Something was definitely off here. Travers went to all the trouble to kidnap her in her home, re-kidnap her at the airport, and he didn’t even see fit to post a guard to prevent her from escaping.

Whatever. His lapse in judgment was her incredibly good gain. Dawn took a few hesitant steps away from the bed, stumbling backwards as the air in front of her crackled and popped with vibrant green energy. She fought to control her erratic breathing; her head throbbed harder from the jolt that had shot through her brain, causing her muscles to painfully contract and seize up. Rubbing a hand over her temple, Dawn wondered if the pain caused by the barrier was similar to the Initiative’s chip that had been shoved into Spike’s brain. If so, she would never, ever, call him Chip Head again. It had felt like lighting had swept through her mind, stinging the delicate landscape of her thoughts, pounding her consciousness with the inevitable, unavoidable thunder of residual pain.

Cautiously, she stepped closer to the invisible barrier. The air hummed, sending vibrations shooting through her body and echoing in her blood. Dawn moved around in a circle and encountered the same energy barrier on all sides. She looked around but couldn’t find any sort of technology capable of producing a barrier such as this, which meant that the immaterial, insubstantial cage surrounding her was produced by a mystical spell. A mystical cage that was locked with a mystical lock that her mystical Key blood could smash the hell open.

Evidently Lilah had kept the information about Dawn’s retention of her Key powers to herself, and the Council of Morons was too stupid to figure out how she and Connor escaped the airplane (no big shocker there.) Maybe if Dawn ever ran into Lilah again she would thank her for her shady ways and deceitful nature that had allowed for Dawn’s escape.

Probably not. Unless a swift punch to the jaw counted as a thank you.

Dawn wiped one hand across her sticky brow, fingertips coming away coated in half-congealed blood. Once she was home in Sunnydale, she would have to consult Willow to find another way to access her Key powers other than ritual bleeding. But for now it would do.

Stretching out her hand, Dawn thrust it through the barrier. The green energy crackled again, shooting away from her arm in fluid waves, converging into one tiny point before disappearing entirely. She moved forward, wiping her hand off on her pants, and made her way across the room, senses straining for some sign of movement outside the open door. As she approached the door, she paused as she heard shuffling footsteps in the hallway. Dawn flattened herself against the wall between the stool and the door, and the footsteps grew closer, the thud of thick rubber on tile sending Dawn’s heart into overdrive. She frantically searched through the room for some sort of weapon as her hand grazed the top of the stool. Eyes darting from the door to down to the stool, Dawn lifted the metal chair, grasping it tight within her hands, and slid further down the wall away from the door. Eyes wide, heart racing, she licked her dry, cracked lips and waited.

A man moved into the room, head bent over an open magazine. He was dressed in a drab grey uniform and black work boots; a baton and a stun gun hung from a webbed belt around his waist. He looked up at the empty bed as Dawn reared back with the stool. His eyes slid over to Dawn and the swinging stool as his hand reached for the baton. The stool connected with his face before he could grasp his weapon, and he crumpled to the floor. Dawn lifted the stool again and brought it crashing down on his back; the man slipped into unconsciousness, his face plastered onto the crinkled pages of his magazine.

Dropping the stool, Dawn crouched next to the man and pulled the baton and the stun gun from his belt. She stepped through the door and eased it closed behind her. Dawn clutched the baton and stun gun in her hands and looked down both the right and left empty expanse of hallway. Sucking in a deep breath, she set off down the right stretch of hall. No more kidnapping for Dawn. It was time to break the hell out of there. A pissed off, heavily armed Summers woman was not a person to mess with.
 

* * *

Back and forth. Back and forth. Three strides wide and four strides long, each stride approximately one yard, which equals three feet, and thus the cell was nine feet wide and twelve feet long. Approximately. Enough to be too small for Angel’s liking. Maybe it was residual claustrophobia from his time in the steel box at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean, but one would think the lack of a need to breathe would stifle any possible claustrophobic feelings that could spring up within Angel.

Apparently not. Angel could feel the muscles tightening in his chest, closing in over his heart and lungs, pressing down upon the long dead muscles with elephantine weight. His mouth was dry; his palms were sweaty. The room swayed before his eyes.

Angel couldn’t ever remember having a panic attack before. He could delve deep into worried brooding, stew and ruminate over the problems that were currently plaguing his life. But a basic, elemental level of calm underscored his worrying, keeping him from flat out panicking. Except now the basic, elemental level of calm seemed to have disappeared somewhere on the long walk down to the basement levels of the Council, evaporating completely as the bulky door of the cell swung shut, and being replaced by unsettling sensations of panic.

It felt a little odd.

But it wasn’t really the lack of space that was affecting Angel. It was more the lack of access to all the space lying beyond the miniscule box masquerading as a prison cell. Space that included Connor and Spike and Buffy and Faith. Space that he needed to be in. Now. Space that he couldn’t get to because the space in front of the door was rudely occupied by Cordelia, who simply stood staring at the door without making any effort whatsoever to get through the door to the space beyond it. Angel needed to get through that door to get to his son and get him and everyone else out of here before Travers did whatever his demented tiny brain had planned. But he couldn’t try to get through the door because he couldn’t get around Cordelia to get to the door to try to get through it!

“Stop pacing,” Cordelia said through gritted teeth.

“I’m not pacing. I don’t pace. I’m looking for a way out of here.”

Glancing over her shoulder, Cordelia fixed Angel with a look, eyebrows arched delicately over deeply annoyed and slightly condescending eyeballs. “Nooooooo. I’m looking for a way out of here. You’re looking for a swift kick in the ass if you don’t stop pacing. I need to concentrate and I can’t do that if you keep walking back and forth and back and forth and back again like a large vampire shaped pendulum.”

Under her severe stare, Angel forced his body to a stop in the middle of room. He remained still for a few moments, clasping his hands tightly before him, and after a minute, Cordelia turned back towards the door to continue her silent inspection. Stifling the urge to continue pacing, Angel once again looked about the tiny cell. A bare light bulb hung from the steel plated ceiling, shining light onto the dull metal surfaces covering the cell. Everything was smooth and flat and unbreakable, and Angel had no clue as to how they were going to get out of there. There was no furniture in the room. There were no windows. There were no grates for air, so either Travers planned on having Angel watch Cordelia suffocate to death or they would be released from this metal prison soon.

“Do you think he’s Ok?” Angel asked as he continued to gaze at the room.

“Connor?”

“Yeah.”

Cordelia shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t think he’s dead, but there’s no telling with Travers. That man is seriously unstable.” She paused and looked over her shoulder at Angel again. Her eyes were shadowed with concern. “But Connor’s strong. I’m sure he can handle whatever these freaks throw at him.”

“You’re probably right.”

“Probably?” Cordelia smiled slightly. “Don’t you mean definitely? Most assuredly? Absolutely and without a doubt right?”

A ghost of a grin crossed Angel’s face. “Most assuredly.”

Cordelia nodded and returned her gaze to the thick door.

A couple minutes passed in silence. Then Angel said, “How long do you think we’ve been in here?”

Sighing, Cordelia drug her fingers through her long, dark hair, yanking at the ends in ineffectually repressed frustration. “I don’t know. Maybe fifteen minutes. Now, please, please, please shut up so I can concentrate.” She let go of her hair, flinging it over her shoulders, and she resettled her hands by her sides. Angel moved to stand next to her as she sucked in a deep breath and closed her eyes.

Her breathing grew faster and shallower, and her eyes darted beneath her eyelids, causing them to flutter rapidly. A minute went by, followed by another and another. Then Cordelia tensed and her eyes snapped open. Her deep brown irises and inky black pupils were gone, replaced by a creamy white that sparked flashes of iridescence. The air whipped around the room in fierce gusts, stinging into Angel’s eyes. He watched Cordelia stretch out her hand and lay it upon the steel door. A shudder ran through the door, reverberating out into the walls and down into the ground. The area beneath her palm began to glow, sliding from yellow to orange to red to a gleaming white. Heat waves poured off the door, forcing Angel back a few steps. His gaze bounced from Cordelia to the door, widening as the thick, heavy steel began to melt beneath Cordelia’s hand. The small hole quickly expanded as the door evaporated from the intense heat, slowly expanding to a five feet wide circle. The hissing whine of rapidly cooling metal pierced the air, and the wind disappeared as Cordelia retracted her hand. She took a step back from the door and opened her eyes, which had returned to their normal shades.

She briefly inspected the hole in the door and then turned to Angel, a wide smile on her face. “Ready?”

Slack jawed, Angel stared at the door and the smooth hole residing in its center. He blinked and looked at Cordelia. “What…? How…?”

Cordelia shrugged. “I knew you wouldn’t want to be left alone in the cell. I thought it would be quicker for me to melt a hole through the door than for me to teleport out of here and find the key.”

“You… you can teleport?”

“It’s more like trans-dimensional travel. Lots of sparkles. Very pretty.”

Angel continued to stare at Cordelia in amazement. She sighed in exasperation and rolled her eyes. Grabbing Angel’s hand, she pulled him to the door and started to push him through the hole. “I am a higher being. I had the big fancy ascension and everything. There’s more to it than a fancy title, you know.”

“But, but I’ve never seen you do anything like this before.”

“There hasn’t been an opportunity. And like I would show off my supremely cool powers bestowed upon me by the Powers that Be just because I could. What do you think I am? Shallow?” She rolled her eyes again and shoved Angel through the hole. As he landed on the ground with a heavy thud, she gracefully climbed through the door. She stood over a sprawled Angel and placed her hands upon her hips, gazing down at him through hooded eyes. Her hair was a mess of tangles around her face, lending a wild, primal edge to the powerful aura that surrounded her. “Play time’s over,” she said. “It’s time to go save your son.”
 

* * *

Chapter Forty-Five: The Trial of the Century

By: Wynn

“Mr. Wyndham-Pryce has a long history with the Council. He was a top pupil at the Academy. Prefect for two years before becoming Head Boy. He excelled at languages, both demonic and human, in addition to prophecies, the translation of as well as their interpretation. He had all the qualifications necessary to become a fine, upstanding Watcher: intelligence, diligence, breeding-”

“Breeding?” Faith snorted. “What is he, a dog?”

Eyes narrowed, Travers turned from his position before the jury box to look at Faith. His throat had burgeoned into vibrant slashes of purple, red, and yellow from Charles’ attack; his bombastic voice was still raspy and currently tinged with annoyance at Faith’s interruption. “Ms. Sinclaire-”

“Yes?”

“Ms. Sinclaire-”

“I think we’ve established what my last name is, Quent,” Faith said, leaning back in her chair and locking her hands behind her head. A dangerous smirk played upon her lips; a murderous gleam shone in her eyes. If she had to sit and listen to this ancient windbag talk shit about her and her friends, then she would at least have a little fun while doing so. And infuriating Quentin Travers provided a whole hell of a lot of fun. “Besides, isn’t this an informal inquiry? There’s no need for all the miss and mister crap, is there, Quent?”

“Ms.-”

“Just spit it out already. I’m bored and you’re boring.”

A deep burgundy flush spread across Travers’ face. Nostrils flaring, he said, “The proper reverence for and appreciation of the Council needed in all Watchers can only be sufficiently instilled by previous generations of family that are already associated with the Council. A proper lineage is of the most import.”

Faith nodded. Her brows furrowed together in concentration and she gnawed on her lower lip. After a few moments she straightened in her chair, clasped her hands in front of her, and said, “I’m sorry, Quent. You used so many big words I couldn’t follow what you said. You see, I’m just a piece of trailer trash from Boston. I haven’t had the fancy education or proper breeding needed to make me a first class loser capable of interpreting geek speak.”

The red flush of embarrassment gave way to a pale, pasty anger. Travers started across the courtroom, eyes flat and hard and furious, hands clenched into tight fists at his side. Faith slowly stood from her chair, the smirk upon her face expanding into a wicked grin. Her dark hair fell across her eyes, half masking the hatred welling within their depths as she stared at Travers. He stopped before her on the opposite side of the long oak table. The air in the court cracked and snapped with tense energy. The crowd was hushed, breathless as it watched the confrontation unfold before them.

“Is there something you want, Quent?” Faith asked. She tilted her head to the side and regarded a seething Travers. “Something I can do for you? You came over here for a reason, Quent. Do you want to hit me? Put me in my place for speaking out of turn? Try to wipe the smirk right off my pretty little mouth?” She nodded slowly as she examined Travers. “You do. I can see it. You’re craving it like some crack head jonesin’ for another hit. But you won’t do it. You won’t. And you want to know why?”

Wesley laid a hand upon her arm and murmured, “Faith.”

“You want to know why?” Faith repeated, shrugging her arm out from beneath Wesley’s hand. She leaned across the table and brought her face close to Travers. They locked eyes, and she smirked again. “Yeah, you know why. You know. But I’ll tell you anyway out of the goodness of my fucking heart.”

“Faith,” Wesley said again. He grabbed onto her arm and tried to pull her down into her seat. “Calm down.”

Ignoring Wesley, Faith leaned even closer to Travers until they were scant inches apart and whispered, “Because you’re a chicken-shit pussy with balls the size of raisins. You’re too scared to get your hands dirty in a knock-down, drag out fight, so you hide behind your prim and proper breeding like a scared fucking little girl.” She moved away from Travers and returned to her chair. Folding her arms across her chest, Faith smiled and said, “So what do you say to that, Mr. Quentin ‘I’m-a-scared-fucking-little-girl’ Travers?”

Travers remained silent, continuing to glare down at a beaming Faith. Slowly he unclenched his hands and a cold grin twisted his mouth. “I say nothing to that,” he said, his voice hard, clipped, and loud, his words ringing throughout the court room. “I say nothing because everything you say means nothing. Quite frankly, I was shocked at your accurate level of self-assessment. You are trailer trash. You never deserved the power of the Slayer, and you never will. You are an embarrassment to the Council and to all the Slayers that came before you, and there is nothing you can do to rectify this situation. And you want to know why? I think you know why, Faith, but out of the goodness of my heart, I’ll tell you. There is nothing you can do because you are an ignorant, low class, deviant little girl who is always destined to remain ignorant, low class, and deviant. You are nothing, Faith, but an inconvenience to everyone you know.” Travers crossed his arms over his chest and said to Faith, “And what do you say to that, Ms. Sinclaire?”

Faith broke the stare between her and Travers. She uncrossed her arms and gripped the sides of her chair. Her body trembled, and she closed her eyes, blocking out everything, Travers, the court room, the Watchers staring at her. Everything. Everything but the words ringing through her head, words screamed at her since childhood, words she had whispered to herself more than once. Words she had fought against, desperately trying to prove false, prove that she could make something of herself and her life, that she wasn’t destined to be poor white trash forever, but inevitably, predictably, spectacularly failing. Until there was nothing but the nothing, and she was lost again.

“Faith.”

A warm palm upon her arm. A callused hand brushing across her smooth skin.

“Faith. Faith, look at me.”

A voice low in her ears. Soft and sexy; tender and strong; rough and husky.

“Faith. Please.”

She opened her eyes into the purest, palest blue, a blue that reminded her of faded linens hanging on the line and the winter sky on a clear, crisp morning.

And she wasn’t lost anymore.

“Wes.”

He nodded and eased her grip on the arms of the chair, settling her hands into her lap and covering them with his own. Wesley reached up and brushed a lock of her hair away from her face, and she closed her eyes again to stave off the sudden unexpected tears that pricked her eyes. Her fingers closed tight around his hand.

“How touching.” Travers’ voice pierced through the interlude with cold, calculated precision. “Bonds of affection between a murderer and her torture victim. Will wonders never cease?”

“I suggest if you feel like tangling with a Slayer, Travers, you deal with me.”

Travers turned from Faith and Wesley to look at Buffy across the court room. She stood beside her chair, calmly gazing back at him, hands resting on her hips, head tilted to one side. A slow grin stretched across Travers’ face. He moved away from Wesley and Faith, carelessly throwing a dismissive hand in their direction as he said, “I suppose nothing more needs to be said about Ms. Sinclaire and Mr. Wyndham-Pryce. Both of their pathetic histories are well chronicled within the Council.”

He crossed the court room but stopped short of the table as Giles stood to stand by Buffy. Eyes sliding from Buffy to Giles, Travers said, “Protective father to the end, Mr. Giles? The loss of your objectivity was your biggest failure as a Watcher. Your affection for this girl allowed her to manipulate you and deceive you repeatedly. You were always unable to see her for the unruly troublemaker she is.”

“If not viewing Buffy as a tool to be used and discarded is a crime, then I am gladly a criminal. These girls, these Slayers, deserve more than the short, lonely life the Council deems appropriate. They deserve to have family and friends and loved ones, something other than fighting and death.”

“Even if those family and friends are constantly in danger?” Travers asked. “Involving civilians in the life of a Slayer brings about severe and deadly consequences, consequences both you and Ms. Summers are intimately familiar with.”

“Jenny knew the risks of living in Sunnydale and of becoming involved in my life. And in Buffy’s life. And so does everyone else you have locked up in your prison cells. They know the risks, and they chose to become involved.” Giles paused and looked around the courtroom, his grey eyes slowly scanning the faces of his fellow Watchers. “And everyone down there has faced more evil in their lifetimes than any one of you could imagine. And they’ve won. They’ve survived. And they’ve helped Buffy become the most successful and long lived Slayer in history. And they’ve helped Faith become the woman she was destined to be- a powerful Slayer worthy of her abilities and her place in the Slayer line.”

“And they’ve also brought about two apocalypses, thousands upon thousands of deaths, and unnecessary danger to the Hellmouth.”

“Angelus brought forth Acathla, not Angel,” Buffy said through gritted teeth. “Willow… she made a mistake. She lives everyday with the guilt of what she tried to do. And Anya and Spike chose to help us.”

“Eventually. After circumstances turned out of their favor and their only option left was to help you. Tell me, Ms. Summers, how many lives could you have saved had you not been out dealing with these friends of yours?”

“How many lives would be lost if they weren’t around to help?”

“So you admit you need help,” Travers said, a triumphant shine appearing in his eyes. “You admit you are incapable of protecting the Hellmouth properly.”

“Isn’t the reason the Council formed was to help the Slayer in her fight against the demons and vampires?”

“We are here to guide the Slayer-”

“Guide? Does guiding include locking a powerless Slayer up in a house with a crazy vampire, a vampire you couldn’t control, who broke out of its cage and kidnapped my mother? Does guiding include allowing a psychotic ex-Watcher to infiltrate Sunnydale and try to steal a glove with end of the world capabilities? Does guiding include repeatedly withholding vital information from us just so you can get off on the power trip?” Buffy shook her head in disgust and sat back down in her chair. “That’s not guiding. That’s your pathetic attempts at control. And if that’s all the Council has to offer, I’ll pass. Oh, wait. I already did. Three years ago. Yet here you are, kidnapping my sister, blowing up my mother’s house, sending assassins after me and my friends, interfering in my ability to adequately protect the Hellmouth, and for what? To punish Slayers you can’t stand, Slayers that want nothing to do with you because you’re a manipulative little bastard more evil than the demons and vampires we fight on a daily basis. Instead of protecting the world from our supposed short-comings as demon fighters, you’ve chosen to waste time and effort to persecute us. Someone needs to get their priorities straight.”

“Yes. Someone does, Ms. Summers. So why don’t you start slaying demons instead of sleeping with them.”

“You leave Spike out of this. This has nothing to do with him.”

Travers shook his head. “It has everything to do with him, Ms. Summers. Your relationship with Spike, as well as your previous liaison with Angel, exemplifies all your shortcomings as a Slayer. Your disregard for the dangers inherent in becoming involved with vampires, dangers to you, your friends, your family, and to the town you so adamantly say you adequately protect, shows that you are not capable of making clear, objective, rational decisions, a characteristic that is vital to an active Slayer. Does the fact that he’s murdered two of your kind mean nothing to you?”

“He’s changed. He’s different now.”

“Now, possibly. Highly unlikely. But he hadn’t changed at the beginning of your tryst, had he, Ms. Summers?” Travers shook his head sadly. “You slept with a soulless vampire, one who murdered two of your brethren.”

“Your point?”

“E-excuse me?”

“What is your point?” Buffy repeated slowly. “Are you repulsed by the fact that I slept with a vampire? Is it because Spike killed two Slayers? Or does it have to do with the whole soulless issue?”

Travers’ lip curled back in disgust. “I would assume all three.”

“Alright then.” Buffy held up her hand. She ticked off one finger as she said, “One. My personal life is my business. Not yours. Not the Council’s. So if I want to sleep with a vampire or a human or the Loch Ness Monster, I will. End of discussion. And don’t even think of mentioning what happened between me and Angel because when push came to shove I sent him to hell. Two. Yes, Spike killed two Slayers. He fought them, one on one, vampire to Slayer, and he won. Do I like it? No. Do I wish he hadn’t? Of course. But you can’t change the past, and it is in the past. He is a different person now. Three. The ever present soul issue.”

Buffy paused and gnawed gently on her bottom lip. “Before I used to think that having a soul meant you were automatically a good person. That evil only resided in the soulless, a fact that I pointed out to Spike time and time again. But then I grew up. Finally. And it wasn’t until I saw true evil in the face of a human, in the eyes of a scared little boy who hated himself and the world around him. Then I realized that what made a person good or evil wasn’t totally based on whether or not he had a soul. It was the choices he made. The lifestyle he chose to lead. A soul provides a level playing field inside a person. It points them in the direction of doing good, but it doesn’t completely prevent them from doing evil.” Buffy looked down at her hands as she folded them into tight fists in her lap. She was silent for a moment and then she said, “Evil’s inside us all. What makes us good is our choice not to do evil, and Spike has made that choice.”

Buffy lifted her gaze from her hands to stare at Travers. “And that is the first, last, and only time I will ever discuss my private life with the Council, so don’t ask me again, Travers. You won’t like the consequences.”

Lips pressed tightly together, Travers glared at Buffy, every ounce of sheer loathing and disgust inside him pouring into the gaze directed at the blonde Slayer. He forced his shoulders back and turned from Buffy to face the judge’s bench and the jury box. Retrieving his fallen packet, he clasped it within his hands and said, “Ladies and gentlemen of the Council, these six people, as well as their associates, are dangerous. If you haven’t gleaned this fact from their deviant outbursts and aberrant beliefs, then remember their destructive actions and ill advised decisions of the past. All are well known throughout the Council, each and every move they made continually shocking and horrifying to the fine men and women composing the Council of Watchers. The time has come for their removal. Before they commit any more murders. Before they poison any more minds with their radical rhetoric. Before their deficient capabilities as guardians of the Hellmouth allow the demons and vampires to gain control, bringing chaos, death, and destruction to the world. Members of the Council, I beg you to put an end to their reigns of terror. Before it’s too late.”

From her position at the center of the judge’s bench, Ms. Barrett leaned forward to better gaze at Travers. “What exactly do you propose the Council should do with these six people, Mr. Travers?”

Travers drew in a deep breath. He rolled the packet in his hands and slapped it lightly against his leg as he said, “Incarceration for the Watchers, sentences ranging from five to twenty-five years.”

“And what about the two Slayers?”

“Death, causing the immediate activation of two new Slayers. The Slayers would move to Hellmouth to be trained and guided by a new Council branch in Sunnydale of which I would oversee.”

“I see,” Ms. Barrett said. She pursed her pale lips and caught the eyes of her fellow judges; one by one they slowly nodded at her. She turned towards the jury box, where the twelve men and women were engaged in whispered conference. “A few moments, Mr. Travers, if you please.”

“By all means, take all the time you need.”

She stepped down from the judge’s bench and moved towards the jury box. Her grey linen skirt swirled around her legs as she came to a stop before the box. One of the male jurors broke from the pack and leaned over the railing to whisper into her ear.

“You don’t really think you’re going to win, do you?” Buffy asked Travers.

Glancing over his shoulder at Buffy, Travers said, “Please, Ms. Summers. You just insulted the entire Council with your strange notions of what a soul is and by your steadfast refusal to co-operate with us. You sister Slayer is a known criminal. Her Watcher is an ineffectual embarrassment to the Council. Yours is a magic wielding radical. The other two are unnecessary troublemakers. The only logical step the Council can make is to cut the dead weight and start anew. Failure, at this junction, is inconceivable.”

Ms. Barrett pulled away from the male juror and looked at the twelve calm and composed faces comprising the jury box. “Is this your final decision?”

The jurors glanced at each other and then nodded at Ms. Barrett. One corner of her lips upturned into a smile, and she returned to her seat in the center of the judge’s bench. She motioned the other judges closer and quickly related the decision made by the jury. Another moment of conversation passed and then Ms. Barrett swiveled in her chair to face Travers, Buffy, Faith, Wesley, Giles, Charles, and Simmons. “Well,” she began, her face grave, her voice sober. “This has been a most unusual proceeding, a first in Council history. And, fittingly, an unprecedented ruling has been made to conclude this unprecedented inquiry. I wish to impart the gravity of this situation and of this ruling to all, and I hope a decision such as this never has to be made again.” She paused, closed her eyes, and breathed deeply.

Reopening her eyes, she said, “By order of the Council of Watchers, Quentin Travers, you are hereby removed from your position as Head of Council, effective immediately.”

Blinking once, Travers said, “What, what, what did you say?”

“She said you’re, you’re, you’re fired, asshole!”

Eyes cutting to Faith, Ms. Barrett said, “Faith, please. Try to control yourself.” She continued as she turned back to Travers. “Honestly, Mr. Travers, what sort of verdict did you expect the Council to make? For the past few months you have abused Council resources to wage your private war against these six individuals. That offense alone would bring about your removal from office. In addition to this abuse, you’ve arranged the kidnapping of three minors, blew up the living residence of one of our Slayers, worked in collusion with a corrupt Los Angeles demonic law firm, and hired both human and demon assassins to murder Buffy, Faith, and their friends.”

“H-how…”

“How do we know all this?” she asked. Off of his nod, she said, “From Mr. Wyndham-Pryce, of course. He contacted me shortly after you offered him a place among your so-called Inner Circle to warn me of you and your delusional schemes of grandeur. He agreed to work undercover for us, along with Mr. Samuel to make sure you did nothing too drastic and to relay information to the Council through Ms. Emma Rochester.”

The packet of information slipped from Travers’ hand and fell to the floor. His skin pallor had once more been reduced to a chalky white. “E-Emma?”

“Yes,” Ms. Barrett said. “Conspired against by your own daughter. She may be as ambitious and ruthless as you are, but she is far from stupid. Emma realized what you failed to understand.”

“And what is that, Ms. Barrett?” Travers said coldly.

“That the unorthodox methods employed by Buffy Summers and Rupert Giles have brought about the most impressive string of successes the Council has ever seen. Together with their companions, they have prevented nearly ten apocalypses. The death rate in Sunnydale is the lowest it’s been in history. These statistics cannot be denied, no matter what sort of negative spin you try to apply, Mr. Travers. Their effectiveness as guardians of the Hellmouth and as demon fighters far outweighs whatever sort of personal problems they may suffer.”

“Really.”

Ms. Barrett nodded. “You will be escorted to your office where you will pack up your belongings, leaving behind all Council related property of course, and then you will be escorted off the premises. Another hearing will be held within the week to decide what, if any, punishment you shall receive for your abuses of power.” Looking from Travers to the forty-odd spectators and twelve jury members, she said, “Ladies and gentlemen, these proceedings are closed. Stemming from the rather strange events of the last half hour, I feel a break is needed for all. Everyone is free to return home and enjoy a long weekend.”

The sounds of shuffling feet and hushed conversation filled the courtroom for the next few minutes, all Watchers abuzz with the firing of Quentin Travers. As the last Watcher exited the room, Ms. Barrett pointed towards Charles and said, “Henley, Gardener, please remove Mr. Samuel’s bindings, provided he does not try to attack Mr. Travers again.”

The two male judges stepped down from the bench and crossed the courtroom to Charles. They untied his restraints and helped him stand from the chair.

His gaze firmly fixed upon the floor, Travers clenched his hands into fists and drew in a deep, shuddering breath. He exhaled shakily and said, “This was all a set up, wasn’t it, Elizabeth? The inquiry was never for the Slayers and their Watchers. It was for me.”

Ms. Barrett looked up from the papers she was organizing within her briefcase. Her gaze softened slightly as she said, “Yes, Quentin, it was. You’ve played us for fools for far too long.”

Travers laughed, a harsh bark of derisive laughter that echoed in the court like the sharp crack of a fired pistol. “I’ve played you for a fool? You just made a mockery of me and of this organization, Elizabeth, by siding with these heathens. One thousand years of protocol cast away, and for what? Two upstart brats who care nothing for tradition or history?”

The other three female judges slipped out the side door to the Council court. Elizabeth Barrett snapped shut her briefcase and said, “Times have changed, Quentin. The Council must evolve with them. The same procedures used with the Slayers of a hundred, five hundred years ago are no longer applicable. You never wanted to accept this fact, and that was always your biggest failure as a Watcher. I truly am sorry, Quentin.”

“As am I, Elizabeth. As am I.” Travers shoved one hand into his jacket pocket and removed a tiny rectangular electronic device. “If you think I will sit idly by while you ruin the Council of Watchers, you are sadly, sadly mistaken.” He pressed one of the buttons and sharp clicks of locks sliding into place echoed through the room.

Elizabeth’s eyes widened in horror. She looked from the Travers to the doors and back again. “Quentin, no. Don’t do this.”

Travers glanced up from the rectangular device and gazed at Elizabeth. A flash of emotion, melancholy maybe, or possibly pity, lighted his eyes, dying as quickly as it appeared. “It is already done.”

He took a few steps towards the side door, breaking into a run as Elizabeth cried, “Somebody stop him!” Travers reached into his other coat pocket and removed a long slender cylinder. He thrust it into the stomach of Henley, the nearest judge, and arcing flashes of blue electricity coursed over the judge, causing convulsions to cascade through his body. Henley crumpled to the floor, and Quentin slid through the side door, pressing the second button on his small electronic device as the door shut behind him. The click of the lock sliding into place sounded as a tinny mechanical voice said, “Emergency. Emergency. An incendiary device has been activated on Council property. Everyone calmly proceed to the nearest exit. Fifteen minutes to activation. Thank you for your cooperation.”

“A what device?” Faith asked, her dark eyes darting from the side door to the double doors at the front of the court room.

“An incendiary device,” Elizabeth said hollowly. “A bomb.”

“Countermeasures,” Wesley murmured.

Elizabeth nodded. “In the event of a hostile takeover-”

“By demons?” Buffy asked.

“Yes. If demons gained control of Council headquarters, protocol dictates destroying the Council, its archives, everything to prevent them from gaining access to our files. The Council has information on everything one would need to know to bring about the end of the world five times over, and to prevent this occurrence, it was decided it would be more advantageous to destroy everything and start anew.”

Buffy shook her head as she digested the information relayed by Elizabeth. Her hazel eyes focused on the double doors. “Let me guess, those lovely clicks we heard were door locks. We’re trapped in here, aren’t we?”

“Yes.”

Buffy sighed and ran her fingers through her blonde hair. “Great.”

Fifteen minutes to go before activation. Fifteen minutes to go before everything blows.

“Just great.”
 

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