Chapter Forty-Eight: Dust to Dust

By: Wynn

Spike felt her before he saw her. The blinding presence he instinctively knew belonged to Buffy pushed and pulled at him, heightening his awareness of her and drawing him inexplicably closer to her. Knowing she was near soothed him, even though her own status of mind and body were significantly more tense and preoccupied.

He rounded the corner of the stairwell, tugging Dawn along behind him, and there she was all shadows and light in the monochrome passageway. The light from the ground floor entryway created a shimmering halo around Buffy, turning her hair into an ethereal, glowing, golden mass.

“Buffy!”

Dawn tore up the stairwell and launched herself at Buffy. The two sisters stumbled back from the force of Dawn’s collision, their arms tightly wrapped around one another. Spike moved up the steps as Dawn haltingly told Buffy everything that had happened to her, her tale punctuated with gasping sobs and shuddering breaths. Buffy rubbed her hand along Dawn’s back and murmured comforting sounds into her ear. Her gaze swept over Dawn, took in her bedraggled appearance, torn clothes, multiple bruises, congealed blood caking her clothes and face and hair, and then Buffy locked eyes with Spike.

And all of his fears and worries smoothed away by her mere presence returned with a vengeance. There was something in her eyes, in her countenance, he had never seen before, something mixed in with the relief and love and anxiety swirling within her hazel orbs. Spike tilted his head to better look at Buffy, but she broke the stare and returned her gaze to Dawn.

Buffy smoothed a hand over Dawn’s tangled hair as she said, “You need to get out of here. There’s a van outside with some water and a few blankets. There’s a man named Simmons waiting with the car. Spike knows him. You’ll be safe there.”

“W-what about you?”

Her gaze slid to Spike briefly before she said, “I… I have to get Willow out. We split up and I was supposed to find you and Spike and Willow.”

“I’ll get her,” Spike said. He walked over to Buffy and Dawn; he shot Buffy his best Big Bad, don’t-argue-with-me-because-my-mind-is-made-up, glare. “You two get out of here and I’ll go find Red.”

“No.”

Spike raised an eyebrow.

Disentangling herself from Dawn’s embrace, Buffy turned towards Spike and said, “I-I mean that you don’t know where she is o-or the access code to get her out of her cell. It’ll be easier for me.” She moved over to Spike and laid a hand upon his face. She brushed her fingers across his brow, the curve of his cheekbone, the slight depression beneath his lower lip. Her pulse pounded in her fingertips, superheating her skin and setting tiny blazes shooting across his skin. Desperation shone in her eyes as she said, “Please, Spike. I need you to get Dawn out of here. I need you to keep her safe. She… I need to… I need-”

“-to find Willow.”

“Yes.”

Spike knew he shouldn’t let her go. But he also knew he would never be able to convince her to let him go instead. And the more time he spent arguing with these two conflicting impulses within himself, the less time anyone had to rescue Willow before the bomb blew. And he could see Dawn standing behind Buffy, her eyes large and wet with tears, arms wrapped tightly around her middle, body vainly attempting to resist the trembles that coursed through her body, and he discovered his decision had already been made for him.

“Fine. Go. I’ll take Dawn.”

“Thank you.” Her voice was a breathy whisper that echoed in his ears and imprinted itself upon his mind as the moment everything came tumbling down around him. Buffy stepped away from him and wrapped her arms around Dawn again, and Spike realized his fears weren’t groundless because she wasn’t going after Willow at all.

She had lied.

Buffy released Dawn from her embrace and nudged her towards the entryway. She waited for Dawn to step across the threshold, and then she looked at Spike and said softly, “I love you.” And before Spike could reply Buffy turned and raced up the stairwell leading to the upper floors. Away from the cells Spike and Angel and Anya and everyone else including Willow had been locked into.

She lied. To him and to Dawn. She passed Dawn’s safety into his hands so she could go off and do whatever the hell was so important she felt the need to lie about. Waves of fury washed over Spike and he took an involuntary step after Buffy, but Dawn’s pleading voice sounded within his ears, momentarily tearing him away from his shock and anger. Shooting one last glance at the stairwell Buffy ascended, Spike eased backward over the threshold, grasped Dawn’s hand, and headed for the front entrance of the Council to the waiting safety of the van outside.

* * *

“Still trying to play the hero?”

“No.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” Lilah gazed over her shoulder at Wesley. He stood a few feet behind her, chest heaving from his sprint down the hallway of the second sub-basement of the Council to catch up with her. Determination clung to him, resolutely visible in the set of his jaw and the glint in his eyes, and Lilah wanted to smile at his single-minded desire to stop her from doing whatever it was she planned to do. Because what she was up to was not good and shiny and heroic, not in the least, and she knew Wesley knew this. Which was why he tore off after her like the hounds of hell were nipping at his heels, ready, willing, and able to stop her nefarious schemes from coming to pass. She cocked an eyebrow and raked her dark eyes over Wesley’s body. “Because all you’re missing is the fancy cape.”

“Lilah…”

She sighed and turned to face Wesley. “Wesley, don’t. Don’t try to stop me.”

“Why not?”

“First, I wouldn’t let you. And I don’t want to hurt you unless I absolutely have to.”

“How touching. And second?”

“And second, because if you interfere with my plans, Wolfram and Hart will go to any length to make your life and the lives of those around you complete hell. That is if they don’t just kill you. You know the type of power they wield. Pissing them off wouldn’t be the smart thing to do, Wesley, and haven’t you always tried to do the smart thing? The rational thing? Or did you give that up along with your morals during your stint on the path of self-destruction?”

He took a few steps towards her, slow and steady as though Lilah were a wild and unpredictable animal. “What do they want, Lilah?”

“What do you think they want? Something good and pure to bring about world peace? Hardly.” Lilah clucked her tongue and shook her finger at Wesley. “The Council’s been very naughty, Wesley. They have something Wolfram and Hart’s wanted for a long time, and they’ve kept it under lock and key and all other sorts of restrictions and surveillance for even longer.”

“Until now.”

Lilah nodded. “Until now. And all thanks to Quentin Travers and his over-inflated ego. But you shouldn’t concern yourself with this, Wesley. Not now. Not when your honey’s placed her little Slayer self right smack dab in the midst of mortal danger.”

Wesley froze. Apprehension and suspicion battled with anxiety and curiosity upon his face. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about Tyler. The man who almost killed Faith a while back, who would’ve killed her if not for the timely arrival of the redheaded Wicca. He’s paid a visit to Anya’s cell to exact some revenge. He took a few toys with him, too, including the knife Spike foolishly brought into the building. And if I’m not mistaken, your girly girl’s also headed for Anya’s cell.”

“Faith’s strong. She can take care of herself.”

“I have no doubt she can. But it’s not a question of that. It’s a question of whether she’ll be able to fight Tyler, subdue him, and then get Anya and Xander out of their cell and out of the building in the-” Lilah glanced down at the diamond encrusted watch adorning her wrist. “-seven minutes remaining. Faith may have Slayer strength on her side, but Tyler’s skilled enough to keep her fighting until the whole building blows. Or maybe he’ll just slip out of the cell and lock her in with Anya and Xander. I doubt she knows how to get out of the cell from the inside.”

Wesley hesitated.

“Go play the hero, Wesley. Save the damsel in distress. You’ll have your chance to go toe-to-toe with me in the future. In fact, I’m looking forward to it.” Lilah turned away from Wesley. She strode toward the steel door lying at the end of the hall, and a smile pulled at her ruby lips as she heard Wesley’s retreating footsteps. “Poor, foolish, sentimental Wesley. Should’ve stopped me when you had the chance.”

* * *

Charles tried to breathe, but he couldn’t. Anticipation bloomed within him, tightening his chest and constricting his throat, and he stood breathless and motionless in the dark office, waiting for the inevitable to occur. Charles knew it was inevitable because he knew Quentin Travers was the stupidest and most arrogant prat on the planet, and thus Travers wouldn’t immediately run from the building he set to blow, the building full of people who absolutely loathed him and wished him dead. Not without a brief visit to his inner sanctum. A visit to his office that was more a shrine devoted to the genius that Travers wasn’t but believed him to be and the glory he convinced himself he brought upon the Council. A visit to his hidden stash of documents, photographs, and other such items collected over the past two decades for the sole purpose of blackmailing others.

So when the office door eased open, and a slim column of light pierced the shadows only to be blocked by a creeping Travers, Charles wasn’t surprised. He was ready. Once again Quentin Travers thought he could get away with murder, but this time he overplayed his hand, misjudged his opponents, and his day of reckoning had come.

Charles stepped away from the wall and slammed the door shut.

Travers shrieked and stumbled into his desk. His hand fumbled for the lavish lamp residing on his desk. A cozy warm glow illuminated the room through the silk shade and crystal beading. Blood red curtains covered the window behind Travers’ desk, concealing the London night with thick layers of linen. A russet colored leather chair sat before the massive oak desk. Travers’ small eyes were wide with shock; a faint sheen of perspiration coated his brow. His gaze landed upon Charles, and he forced a congenial grin upon his face.

“Charles, you startled me.”

“I bet. Expected all the rats to desert the sinking ship, didn’t you?”

The grin faded. “Not quite, Mr. Samuel. I expected Ms. Summers to try something foolish. That is why I waited for Elizabeth to leave-”

“Shut up.”

Travers scooted around the edge of his desk, putting the structure between himself and Charles. Voice calm and composed, he said, “Now, Charles-”

“What part of shut up did you not understand? There’s nothing you can say to talk yourself out of this. I don’t care what you can offer me. I don’t want your money. You don’t have any power left, so you can’t offer me any of that. What I want you took from me, and you can never give it back.”

Travers regarded Charles with serious eyes. He swallowed once and ran his hands over his shirt and tie, smoothing out the rich fabrics and textures. He licked his lips and said, “So you mean to kill me?”

“No.”

Relief flashed upon Travers’ face before he could mask it. A moment passed, and then he narrowed his gaze upon Charles. Suspicion weighted his voice as he said, “What do you mean to do then?”

“To let you kill you.”

“Where would you ever get such a ridiculous notion as that? I have no desire to kill myself, certainly not to placate your ill guided search for vengeance.”

“Whether you want to live or die is irrelevant. You’re still going to die, and it’s still going to be your fault.” Charles turned and slid the deadbolt into its casing, locking himself and Travers inside the office. He leaned forward and grasped the chair sitting before Travers’ desk, and he pulled it towards him, settling it before the closed door. Easing himself into the chair, Charles folded his arms across his chest and said, “You should’ve left the building, you dumb son of a bitch, when you had the chance. Now you’re never going to leave, except maybe in a body bag. A little one.”

Travers paled as he finally understood Charles’ intent. His gaze flickered from the closed door to Charles and back again. He ran a hand through his hair and said, “You’ll die too. Bombs are nondiscriminatory when it comes to victims. I die, you die.”

“I know.” Charles cast a glance down at his watch. “Buck up, Travers. In seven minutes this will all be over. Unfortunately for me, you won’t die the long, slow, painful death you deserve, but at least you’ll be dead. Completely. Irrevocably. Because there’s no one on this planet that’ll want to resurrect your ass, and even if there was, Hell has been waiting for far too long to get their hands on you to let you go.”

“You’re insane. You’d willingly die and leave Christina alone-”

“You mention her name again, and I’ll give you the long, slow, painful death.”

Travers perched on the edge of his chair. He settled his hands in his lap; one corner of his mouth curved up into a smirk. “I seem to have stumbled upon a touchy spot. Are you having reservations regarding your suicide mission? Do you realize you’ll be leaving Christina fatherless?”

“She’s not my daughter. Besides, she has Emilia and the rest of their family. She’ll understand.”

“But to make the young woman suffer through the death of her beloved uncle so soon after her aunt-”

“She wouldn’t have suffered anything if it wasn’t for you!” Charles shouted, hands clutching the armrests of the chair. “And she won’t suffer anymore because of you either. Neither will Buffy or Faith or anyone else unfortunate enough to come across your path.”

Travers leaned across his desk. Disdain dripped from every pore as he said, “Do you honestly believe they won’t suffer if I’m not around? Please. Slayers are built to suffer. They suffer through short brutal lives, die short brutal deaths, and the cycle is continued with the next girl. And Christina will suffer as long as she’s alive. Her unique heritage makes her a valuable commodity among the mystical black markets of the world, as well as among entities like Wolfram and Hart. I’m a small fish in a very big pond when it comes to doling out suffering, and you are accomplishing nothing with this idiotic plan of yours save depriving your sainted niece of the protection she needs. So cease with this ridiculous notion and move away from the door.”

“No.”

A muscle ticked along Travers’ jaw. “Very well. Have it your way.” Travers reached down and yanked on the electric cord to the lamp, plunging the room into darkness.

Charles blinked at the complete and utter blackness that covered the room. He slipped off the chair and inched away from his position before the door and into the office, senses outstretched for any indication of Travers’ location or whereabouts. A flash of light exploded into the room, followed by the muffled pop of gunfire. Charles dove to the side as fragments of the chair he had been sitting in rained down upon him. He crawled across the floor as another shot rang through the room, narrowly missing his right leg. Moving to his feet, Charles crouched beside the desk, breath coming in short, ragged pants.

Charles squinted as light flooded the room. He saw Travers beside the door with one hand on a light switch and the other wrapped around a gun and accompanying silencer. Spotting Charles, Travers thrust his arm out and aimed the gun toward the other man’s head. Travers locked his foot around one leg of Charles’ bullet damaged chair and eased it away from the closed office door. His voice was deadly in its steadiness as he said, “I advise you remain where you are, Mr. Samuel, because if you come any closer I will shoot you. And I will not miss. However, if you are serious about your wish for death, please step forward. I will gladly oblige you.”

Jaw clenched with anger, Charles remained motionless as Travers moved behind the chair and fumbled behind him for the deadbolt. His eyes cut to the side to locate the lock, and Charles grabbed the desk lamp, hurling it across the room with all his might. Travers ducked as the lamp smashed into the door; glass shards fell onto his huddled body. Charles sprang over the desk as Travers stood, and he kicked the damaged chair towards Travers as Travers took aim. Diving to avoid the chair, Travers landed hard on his side, the air in his lungs bursting from his body in a sharp, harsh exhalation. As Travers rolled to face Charles, Charles latched onto Travers’ arm and forced the gun barrel up towards the ceiling.

They struggled for control of the gun. Seconds ticked by and Charles slowly twisted Travers’ arms, forcing his grip upon the pistol to loosen. Charles’ fingertips slid across the gun’s trigger, and he pointed the barrel at Travers’ temple. Eyes widening, Travers’ hands shook, rattling the gun next to his head, and sweat beaded across his forehead, dripping down into his eyes, alongside his nose, and across his lips. He blanched, turning a sallow grey color, and fear shot through his eyes.

Charles felt a sneer of triumph appear on his face and pressed down on the trigger. He froze as Willow’s voice pushed its way through the layers of hate and vengeance and anger blanketing his mind, a voice soft with regret and tremulous with grief over her destructive actions spurred by her blind need for vengeance.

And he saw the stark terror upon Travers’ face and felt sick with the realization that he came close to cold blooded murder and that killing Travers wouldn’t bring Ariana back and it wouldn’t dull the grief that consumed him daily and it wouldn’t bring a smile back to Christina’s face or ease the stress felt by Emilia. All it would do was cause more pain.

His finger eased off the trigger.

And in Charles’ moment of hesitation, Travers pounced.

Because a moment was all Travers needed.

Twisting around, Travers drove his foot into Charles’ side as he wrenched the gun towards him. The pistol slipped from Charles’ grasp, and he locked eyes with Travers as Travers aimed and fired.

The bullet tore through Charles’ chest. Blood flooded into his collapsed lung, and he fell upon the floor, gasping for breath and finding none. Pain flared sharp and blinding inside his chest, radiating through his body and bringing tears to his eyes. The world wavered in front of him as he rolled onto his back. Charles dimly heard the sound of the office door rattle, and the dull thuds of fists pounding on cracking wood, and he saw Travers’ face appear before him, eyes emotionless and brittle in their hardness.

“What did I always tell you, Charles?” Travers asked softly, leaning down close to him, their faces mere inches apart. Above the blood roaring in his ears and gurgling within his chest, above the pounding on the office door, and through the pain soaked haze that had descended upon his mind, Charles head Travers’ response.

“Mercy is for the weak.”

And the world swirled and faded and died around him, bleeding into the everlasting blackness of death, as the broken office door flew open, revealing the slim form of Buffy Summers standing in the threshold. The room faded to a slim prick of light before disappearing forever.

* * *

Faith wanted to kill. She needed to kill. The need sang through her veins like one of those old as shit symphonies, where the music keeps building and building and building, piling layer upon layer, adding more and more and more instruments, until it fucking explodes into this massive, powerful, thunderous sound that leaves you stunned and a little breathless. It was the worst craving in the entire world, one that could not be satiated with food or sex or exercise, but only by the sounds of breaking bones and the feel of warm slippery blood coating your hands. It was the highest of the highs, killing was, more potent than any drug any shady peddler could push on you, and Faith had tried to resist the allure because as high as the high was, the fall was that much lower. It sucked you down into the deepest, darkest recesses of desperation and despair, into the part of your consciousness that knew murder was wrong, and left you to rot in your own misery.

But all of her resolve not to kill had shattered the instant she heard the shrill, terrified scream of her best friend and had opened the cell door to find her pinned to the floor by the fucking bastard and his fucking knife.

And the need to kill came screaming back threefold, all hot and red and burning, and Faith hadn’t felt this way in a loooong time.

Damn if it didn’t feel a little good.

“Fucking bitch.”

“Excuse me?” Faith held her hand up to her ear and leaned a little closer to Tyler. His nose was raw and swollen; purple-black bruises circled his eyes. The bottom half of his face was caked with blood from her knee to his nose. “What the fuck did you just say to me?”

“You broke my fucking nose.”

“Yeah, I did.” She pushed Tyler back against the wall and drove her fist into his stomach. A ragged groan tore from his body and he doubled over in pain. “That’s not all I’m going to break, you complete piece of shit.”

Tyler shoved off the wall and flung himself towards her, a snarl curling across his scarlet lips. She dodged, but he caught hold of her hair and yanked Faith down to the ground with him. They hit the floor hard, Faith on top of Tyler, her back pressed against his stomach, and he wrapped his arm around her throat and squeezed. She rammed her head back into his nose and smashed the already broken cartilage. His grip loosened, and Faith scrambled off him.

Gaze locked upon Faith, Tyler slowly rose to his feet. He raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture as he said, “This doesn’t concern you, Faith-”

“Don’t even try and talk to me. Because I don’t want to hear a damn word you have to say. Just for the record though, this is about me. You hurt me, so Anya hurt you. You hurt Anya, and now I get to hurt you. It’s called the cycle of pain, buddy. The wheel never stops turning and it’s time you got yourself yours.”

They circled each other in the small cell, carefully dodging the prone bodies of Anya and Xander, eyes hard and locked on one another. Faith darted to the right, and as Tyler dodged left, she lashed out with her left leg and caught him just beneath the chin. His head snapped back, knocking him off balance; Faith pressed her advantage, landing a series of punches across his body. Tyler staggered away from Faith, but he tripped as he passed by Xander and crashed onto the floor. He pushed to his knees; his hand closed around the smooth handle of a long black tube. Swiveling around towards Faith, Tyler dove towards her, attempting to thrust the weapon into her midsection. Faith grabbed onto the pole and snatched it from Tyler’s hands. She held the slim staff before her and pressed the activation button on the bottom of the handle; electricity crackled on the other end, arcing between the two metallic prongs like a blue-white rainbow.

Cocking an eyebrow, Faith turned her gaze towards Tyler and said, “Well, well, look what I’ve got here. One of Quent’s handy dandy instant paralysis sticks. You know, if used improperly, this thing can be wicked deadly. Now give me one good reason why I shouldn’t shove this straight down your throat?”

Tyler chuckled and shook his head sadly. “Man, have you gone soft. All talk and no action. You can’t even kill me, and I was all set to torture your best friend. It’s quite pathetic actually. The true blue hero look doesn’t suit you, Faith, so stop playing dress up in big sister’s clothes and fucking be the killer you are.”

A scream and the sound of steel sliding against flesh and bone pierced the air. Faith looked behind her and saw Anya curled into a shaking ball, the knife that had been thrust through her palm lying beside her. Tyler yanked on the electric weapon, and Faith rammed her foot into his chest, sending him sailing across the room. He crashed against the wall, the back of his head striking the unforgiving surface with a sickening crack. As Tyler slid to the ground, Faith dropped the black stick and said, “You want to die, go ahead and be my guest. I have better things to do than watch a second rate psycho like yourself beg me to kill him. That’s fucking pathetic.”

Faith turned away from Tyler and moved next to Anya. She smoothed back Anya’s hair, revealing a bone white face sticky with sweat and golden eyes wide with panic and pain and fear. Blood pooled beneath Anya’s motionless right hand, and Faith forced her eyes away from the shredded flesh, muscle, and bone. “Anya. Anya. It’s Faith. Can you hear me?”

There was no response. Faith waved her hand in front of Anya’s face, but her expression remained frozen in blank horror.

She heard shuffling sounds behind her and swiveled around to find Tyler struggling to a standing position and Xander shakily pushing himself to his knees. They locked eyes with each other and simultaneously dove for the slim cylindrical weapon. Xander grabbed a hold of the stick, shoved it towards Tyler, and pressed the activation button. Tyler collapsed onto the floor, body convulsing, and his mouth open in a silent scream. Xander watched with eyes dead with anger. Another moment passed, followed by a second and a third, and then Tyler stilled.

Xander continued to press the electric prongs into Tyler’s chest.

Faith eased forward and laid her hand over Xander’s. She lifted the prod off Tyler and slid it from Xander’s gasp. Bruises bloomed beneath his right eye. He inhaled harsh breaths through gritted teeth, and his hand clutched his left side.

“Broken ribs?”

Xander nodded.

“Think you can walk? We got to jet now, and Anya’s not moving. I have to carry her.”

Xander didn’t answer her. He continued to stare at Tyler. A couple seconds passed and then he said, “Do you think he’s dead?”

Faith glanced down at the motionless form of Tyler. “Do you care?”

“No.”

She hesitated. Her eyes slid over to Xander, and they stared at each other, silent communication and understanding passing between them. The ordinary rules of what was right and wrong didn’t apply in life or death situations like this. So Faith told Xander the truth and hoped he could survive the consequences. “He’s dead. Now come on. Time’s ticking.”

Faith returned to Anya and lifted her from the floor, sliding an arm beneath her knees and around her waist, cradling Anya against her chest. Xander rose to his feet and shuffled towards the open cell door. He looked out into the hall and motioned Faith to exit the cell. The door slid shut behind Faith and Anya as Faith turned and came face to face with Wesley. His eyes traveled from Anya to Xander and back to Faith again.

Pointing to Anya, Wesley said, “Is she alive?”

“Yes.”

He nodded as his gaze cut over to the closed cell door and lingered there for a moment. Faith tensed as she waited for the inevitable questions to pour forth from his lips, questions about Xander’s bruises and Anya’s blank stare and the blood staining Faith’s hands. But the moment passed and Wesley turned back to Faith and Xander. Moving over to Xander, he eased an arm around the other man’s shoulders and began to move down the hall towards the staircase leading to the Council lobby without a backwards glance at the closed cell.

* * *

Chapter Forty-Nine: Mercy is for the Weak

By: Wynn

Lilah waited for the last of Wesley’s footsteps to fade before she slipped her hand into her jacket pocket and removed the electronic keycard she had stolen from Quentin Travers’ office while he indulged in his fantasy of persecuting the Slayers and their friends. His office safe held all sorts of interesting goodies Lilah would have loved to go through, but the lure of the extraneous blackmail supplies held no permanent sway over her. She was a woman on a mission, albeit Wolfram and Hart’s mission and not one of her own devising. Nonetheless, she was still determined to see it through. Especially if she wanted to return to Los Angeles alive and with all of her parts intact and attached to her body. So she grabbed the keycard and the set of brass keys next to it and waited for the chaos to begin.

Luckily, Travers didn’t disappoint.

Lilah sighed. Men with their bombs. They were always so preoccupied with blowing shit up. All bang and flash, and no substance and class. But in this instance, Travers’ bomb did have its use for Lilah. It made the surveillance system haywire and emptied all the hallways and staircases from prying eyes. Except for Wesley, but one appeal to his chivalric side sent him running.

All in all, perfect conditions for a little espionage and theft.

The steel door loomed before her, grey and imposing in the fluorescent light of the hallway. Behind the twelve inches of metal, and accompanying reinforced concrete walls, was the object of desire for Wolfram and Hart, something the Senior Partners searched the entire world over ever since its existence became known to them. But, appearances to the contrary, the Council of Watchers were no dummies. Not completely. They knew exactly what they possessed, how dangerous it could be if fallen into the wrong hands. Hands like Lilah Morgan’s. Hands like Wolfram and Hart’s. But in all the confusion caused by Travers’ shenanigans, concern for their precious commodity had wavered and a brief window of opportunity for thievery had opened.

Lilah seized the moment. She always did.

She slid the card through the swipe box. The tiny red indicator light flashed a few times before switching to a solid green glow. Lilah smiled as the locks clicked open and returned the keycard to her pocket. Like taking candy from a baby. A middle aged balding baby with a Napoleon complex, but a baby nonetheless. Grasping and twisting the smooth handle, Lilah heaved on the heavy steel, managing to create a foot wide space between wall and door to reveal the dark and stifled interior of an eight by six cell.

Thick bars separated the cell into two sections. One florescent light on the ceiling of the anterior cell section, a sliver of the room, barely spanning two feet in length, was the room’s only illumination. Next to the right wall sat a battered wood chair beside another swipe box. Lilah stepped up to the bars; the stale air filling the room tickled her nose and throat. Narrowing her eyes against the glare from the overhead light, she attempted to pierce the gloom at the far end of the cell. At the edge of the halo of light cast by the florescent bulb, Lilah saw the outline of a rickety cot bolted to the floor and a tiny steel sink. Attached to the left wall were a set of iron rings and a connecting thick chain, which disappeared into the blackness cloaking the far end of the cell.

“You’re not a Watcher.”

Lilah smiled at the raspy voice drifting from the left corner. “No, I’m not a Watcher.”

“Who are you, then?”

“I’m a friend.”

“I don’t recall having any friends. Care to enlighten me as to what your name is? Maybe you’ll jog my memory, and I won’t have to kill you.”

“My name is Lilah Morgan. I’m a representative from Wolfram and Hart.”

Lilah could hear the smirk in the seductive, underused voice. “You’re a lawyer? How quaint. Lilah Morgan, now that we’re such good friends, maybe you can tell me why you’re here.”

Holding up the keycard and brass keys, Lilah said, “I’m here to release you.” Lilah’s smile widened at the silence that followed her declaration. “Not quite the response you were expecting.”

“Not really, no. But I like surprises. I’ve received so little of them the past few years.”

Lilah nodded sympathetically. “I’m sure the conditions of your stay here at the Council have been appalling. All that can change.”

“Only if you release me from my bondage, correct?”

“Something like that.”

“And what exactly am I expected to do for you in exchange for my release?”

“Nothing.”

A snort of disbelief echoed throughout the cell. “Nothing? Absolutely nothing?”

“Absolutely nothing. My bosses at Wolfram and Hart feel your presence would be better felt out in the world and not locked inside this cell. If you accompany me willingly and without conflict-”

“You mean without me killing you the second you release me from these chains.”

A tight smile appeared on Lilah’s face. “Yes. As I was saying, there’s a car waiting for us a block away. It will take us to a plane destined for Los Angeles. There you’ll receive everything you desire, clothing, a fabulous apartment, anything you want, no strings attached.”

“There’s always a string. Or in my case a chain.” There was a pause followed by a faint rattling of the chains. “I don’t think I’ll be accompanying you, Lilah Morgan. I may be a captive, but I’m not stupid. Nothing comes for free. Ever.”

“If I told you that a bomb was scheduled to detonate in three minutes, would you still want to remain in your cell? You’ll die in the explosion.”

“I don’t fear death.”

Lilah pursed her lips and resisted the urge to glance down at her watch. Time was ticking, and it was time to pull out the big guns, the one piece of information guaranteed to whet the appetite of the Council captive. “Well, since you’ve made your decision, I guess I’ll be going.” Lilah pivoted on her heel and took a step towards the open steel door. Pausing, she glanced over her shoulder at the shadows and said, “Since you’re determined to remain here, I guess the fact that Los Angeles is only a mere hour away from the current Hellmouth would be of no interest to you whatsoever.”

The next few seconds ticked by excruciatingly slow for Lilah. If she failed in her task, she would probably be better off waiting for the bomb to blow than to return to Wolfram and Hart empty handed. The Senior Partners entrusted this task to her personally, and failure was not an option. A bead of sweat trickled down her spine and pooled in the small of her back. Her breath caught in her chest as she began to turn back towards the door. But then a smile broke out across her face as the prime captive of the Watcher’s Council stepped into view.

The girl was tall and emaciated from malnourishment. Her skin was toffee brown and long jet black hair stretched down to the middle of her back. She wore a simple grey tunic and pants made of coarse cotton cloth, and her feet were bare. Long, luscious lashes framed vibrant green eyes; an aquiline nose ran down to a bow shaped mouth. The girl grinned and held out her shackled hands towards Lilah.

“Your proposal is an interesting one, Lilah Morgan. You’ve got yourself a deal.”

* * *

A light rain began to fall as Spike escorted a shaking Dawn out of the Watcher’s Council. The night sky was hazy with streetlight illuminated clouds, and the stairs connecting the twin front doors to the sidewalk were slick. Simmons’ massive van sat half on the street and half on the sidewalk, headlights blazing in the black of the night. Both of its side doors were open and in the vehicle Spike could see four or five huddled Watcher shapes in the back row. Angel’s tyke sat in the doorway, head propped up on the doorframe, woolen blanket wrapped securely around his shoulders. On the sidewalk, crouched before Connor, were Angel and Cordelia, heads bent towards one another in discussion.

Connor straightened as he caught sight of Spike and Dawn. He shrugged off the blanket and slipped around Angel before Angel could stop him. He wavered on his feet for a moment but remained upright and met Spike and Dawn halfway to the van. A blue-black bruise colored his temple, and his face and neck were coated with sweat.

He spared Spike a quick look before locking eyes with Dawn. “Are you alright? Did they hurt you?” Connor turned on Spike and took a step towards him, brown eyes flashing with anger. “What did they do to her?”

Spike cocked an eyebrow at the boy’s indignant rage and opened his mouth to reply, but Dawn stepped smoothly between them and laid a hand upon Connor’s arm. Her shaking abated, and the tension lodged within her shoulders eased somewhat. “I’m fine. Really. I look worse than I feel.”

“You look horrible.” Connor blinked. His cheeks flushed as he ducked his head, running a hand through his tangled hair. “I mean… I don’t think you look horrible. You just look horrible now. But not, um, you know, usually.” He shot Spike a pleading look.

Spike smirked. Apparently a brooding scowl wasn’t the only thing Connor inherited from Angel; he also received Angel’s penchant for foot in mouth disease. Easing a hand behind both their backs, Spike nudged Dawn and Connor towards the van as he said, “What the boy means Nibblet is that normally you are the most gorgeous creature on the planet, but right now you look a bit worse for the wear and he wants to go pummel the bastards that did this to you.”

Dawn rolled her eyes at his translation of Connor’s ramblings, and Spike felt some of the panic brewing inside him fade away. If Dawn could summon the patented Summers’ eye roll now of all times, when she was bruised and bloodied, she would be alright. She’d bounce back from the horrors bestowed upon her by the Wanker Brigade, a bit tougher, a little less innocent, but still Dawn.

Spike took a deep breath to steady his nerves and resisted the urge to hold on to Dawn for dear life.

They reached the van. Angel replaced the blanket around Connor’s shoulders and ushered him into the van, a worried lecture about sudden movements and Council drugs drifting from the dark interior. Cordelia handed Spike a second blanket, which he eased around Dawn, as she said, “Do you want some water, sweetie?”

Dawn nodded. Cordelia made her way to the rear of the van and returned moments later with a chilled bottle of water. She twisted off the top and handed the water to Dawn.

As Dawn took a sip from the bottle her eyes darted back towards the Council’s headquarters, lingering on the darkened windows and open front doors. An unreadable expression crossed her face.

“She’ll be fine, Dawn. Buffy’s a big girl. She knows what she’s doing.”

Dawn cast a glance at Spike. Her eyes were heavy with melancholy, aching pools of blue like the color of the sky on a winter day, and they were wise beyond her years with hard-won knowledge gained from too much pain, too much sorrow suffered in her short life. “I don’t think she does,” Dawn whispered. Her voice was hollow in its sadness, tinged with resignation and reluctant acceptance.

Spike felt his heart clench at Dawn’s calm reception of Buffy’s abandonment. The rage simmering beneath his skin began to boil again, and his own words were tight and clipped with pain as he said, “Into the van, Nibblet. Shouldn’t be standing on your feet.”

“Alright.” Dawn grasped Spike’s hand and squeezed it once before turning and climbing into the van. He watched her slide onto the seat beside Connor; she handed Connor the water bottle as she laid her head upon his shoulder.

Grinding his teeth in an attempt to quell the anger swelling inside him, Spike stared at the Council. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. Buffy should be here with Dawn, not gallivanting around the sodding Council. What the hell was so bloody important Buffy felt the need to-? Spike broke his silent ravings with a snort. Travers. Quentin fucking Travers. It had to be. She couldn’t leave him be, couldn’t let him go crawl back under the rock he slithered out from. She had to track him down and fight the good fight, beat the bad guy, be the hero once more. Spike took a step away from the van but halted as a heavy hand fell onto his shoulders.

“Where’s Buffy?”

Spike shrugged. He twisted around and looked at Angel. “I don’t have a bloody clue. She said she was going after Willow, but the girl can’t lie worth a piss. She’s probably gone after Travers, thinking she can track him down in that chaos.” He shook his head and pushed agitated fingers through his short hair. “I told you, Angel, something was off with her. I told you. And now she’s going to get herself killed.”

“Maybe she really is going after Willow,” Cordelia said. She arched an eyebrow at Spike’s glare and held up her hands in a peace gesture. “Well maybe she is. Just because you’re a vampire doesn’t mean your instincts are always top notch. Angel’s frequently wrong.”

“I’m not wrong about this, Cordelia.”

“I’m not saying you are, Spike. I’m just trying to give Buffy the benefit of the doubt that she wouldn’t be stupid enough to do something, well, stupid.”

Angel sighed. His gaze locked on something past Spike’s shoulder. “Cordy, I think your benefit’s misplaced.”

Spike turned and saw Giles, Emilia, and Willow helping a black haired young woman down the Council steps. The girl must be Christina, Emilia’s daughter; she had the same long, shiny hair and piercing, glowing eyes as Emilia. The quartet reached the van. Spike darted around Giles and Emilia and up to Willow. “Did you see Buffy?”

Willow blinked at his abrupt question. “What?”

“Did you see Buffy? In the building? She told me she was supposed to rescue you. Did you see her?”

“No. I didn’t. Giles came and got me and Emilia out of our cell. Then we went for Christina… why? What happened?”

Spike shook his head. He maneuvered around Willow and approached Giles, who was assisting Christina and Emilia into the van. “Rupert.”

Mouth tightening, Giles looked at Spike from the corners of his eyes. “Yes?”

“Were you the one that was supposed to rescue Willow?”

“Yes.” Giles straightened and turned towards Spike; a faint frown creased the space between his brows as he said, “Why do you ask?”

“Because Buffy told me she was supposed to find me and Dawn and Willow. She took off instead of coming out here with me and Dawn. And now she’s off somewhere in the Council doing fuck knows what. Probably trailing after Travers, trying to get one last showdown before everything blows.”

“Oh dear Lord.” Giles swore. He rubbed a hand across his mouth and jaw as his grey gaze bounced from the Council to Spike then over to Willow. The lines around his eyes and mouth deepened with worry, and recrimination laced his voice as he said, “I should have known she would do something this rash. I should have-” He broke off abruptly and shook his head. Locking eyes with Spike, Giles said, “Before everyone divided up, Buffy told us not to come back in the building under any circumstances. She… she told us not to do anything stupid.”

“And you let her go off on her own! What the bloody hell is wrong with you, Rupert?”

Eyes flashing with anger, Giles snapped, “Nothing is bloody hell wrong with me, Spike! Why did you let her go off on her own if you knew she would do something like this?”

Angel stepped between the two men, placing palms on their chests and easing them apart. “Everyone just calm down. Fighting won’t help anyone right now.”

Shoving Angel’s hand off his chest, Spike spun on his heels and stalked towards the Council front doors. Emerging from the interior of the building were Faith, Harris, Wesley, and Anya, who was cradled within Faith’s arms. A hand clamped onto Spike’s arm and forced him to turn back towards the van. He snarled at Giles and yanked his arm from the other man’s hand.

“You are not going back in that building, Spike.”

“The fuck I am, Rupert.”

“Buffy said-”

“Buffy said? Buffy said what she said so she could go get herself killed! So she could play the martyr without feeling any guilt for getting the rest of us killed. You seriously want her to die because of Travers?”

“No, I don’t-”

“Neither do I.” Spike turned away from Giles and sprinted up the steps leading to the Council. He ignored the shocked gazes of Harris and Faith and continued towards the doors. He was going to track Buffy down and drag her out of this goddamn building if it was the last thing he ever did.

Spike felt another hand latch onto his arm. He growled at the contact and ripped his arm away. “Rup-”

“Spike?”

The rage blanketing Spike’s mind fractured, cracked, and dissolved completely at Dawn’s tremulous voice. He spun towards her. She stared up at him, blue eyes liquid pools of panic and fear. “Oh, god, Dawn, I didn’t know it was you.” He reached for her; his hands trembled as he cupped her face. “I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”

“N-No. Where… Are you going in there? After her?”

“Dawn-”

She grabbed his arm with both of her hands. Her grip was fierce. “You can’t. You can’t go back in there.”

“Dawn-”

“No! You can’t leave me here all alone! What if you don’t get out? Then you and Buffy will both die and I’ll, I’ll, there’ll be no one. No one left… Mom’s gone… Tara… Buffy…” Her pleas trailed off into rasping, gasping breaths. The fat, crystalline tears pooled in her eyes spilled onto her cheeks, creating pale pink trails through the dried blood on her face. Softly, she said, “You promised. That you wouldn’t leave me again without saying goodbye. That you’d protect me. You promised, Spike.”

“I-I know, Nibblet. But…”

“Please… Please don’t go.”

Spike gazed down at Dawn’s tear-stained face. Realization swept through him like a swinging sledgehammer, knocking him back down to reality. He was about to do the same thing Buffy did, become so embroiled in his rage that he ignored all else save for the object of his anger, that he cast aside Dawn to indulge in his own roiling emotions. Spike swallowed the rise of nausea in his throat. Buffy chose to stay in the building; he couldn’t save her if she didn’t want to be saved. Dawn needed him. Buffy didn’t. “I won’t. I won’t go in there.” Spike wound his arms around Dawn’s shoulders and drew the trembling girl into a desperate, comforting embrace. “I won’t leave you.”

Dawn nodded against his chest. Spike shifted her in his arms and led them away from the Council towards the van. Harris, Anya, Willow, and Cordelia were already inside the vehicle; Giles, Angel, Faith, and Wesley looked at Spike and Dawn expectantly. Eyes dropping to Dawn’s face, Spike murmured, “Everyone get in the van.” He laid a kiss on the top of Dawn’s head and eased her into Giles’ arms. Giles held his gaze for a moment before he nodded and climbed into the van with Dawn.

Spike drew in a deep breath and pressed his fisted hands against his eyes. A couple seconds passed in which he gathered control of his turbulent emotions and then he dropped his hands. His eyes skimmed over the passengers housed within the van. He frowned as he said, “Where’s Charles?”

Wesley pointed at the Council. “Inside. Emilia… said he was dead. Travers killed him. She, she also sensed that Buffy was there with him. With Travers.”

“Oh.” Spike paused. His teeth gnashed his lower lip and he said, “I guess that’s everyone then.”

Faith took a step towards Spike. “But B’s still inside. There’s two minutes left.”

Spike locked eyes with Angel. A slow tremor coursed through his body as he said, “She made her choice.” He stepped into the van, sliding into the first row beside Willow. Angel climbed in beside him, and Faith shut the sliding door. A moment later the passenger door opened and Wesley eased onto the seat, inching over to make room for Faith.

But the passenger door slammed closed. Faith reached through the open window into the van and pulled Wesley towards her, planting a brief, fevered kiss on his lips. She released him as she said to Simmons, “Drive.”

And then Faith sprang away from the van and raced towards the open twin doors, her black hair a streaming wave of ebony in the white light of the headlights.

“Faith!” Wesley fumbled for the door handle.

Angel reached around the passenger seat and latched onto Wesley’s hands. “Wesley, no. No. You’ll never catch her. None of us will.”

“Let go of me, Angel!”

“No.”

“Simmons,” Giles said from the row behind Spike. His voice was tight and strained as he said, “Get us out of here. Now.”

Simmons nodded. He shifted the van into reverse and backed into the deserted London street. Spike’s eyes fixed onto the headquarters of the Watcher’s Council as the van sped away, and he watched the forbidding building fade and melt into the night’s shadows.

* * *

“Don’t move.”

Moving was the farthest thing from Buffy’s mind. Her eyes focused on Charles’ body, on his sightless eyes staring straight at her, on the scarlet blood staining his chest. The pungent, metallic tang of blood invaded her nostrils, and her stomach clenched in revulsion. She had been too late. Too late to save him from Travers. Like so many others in the past she had been too late to save. Her mom. Jenny. Kendra. She couldn’t even stop her own house from blowing up or her sister from being kidnapped. Buffy had had a chance to save Charles though; she heard the confrontation unfold in the office as she pounded down the hallway in search of Travers. But the gun had fired before she could force her way through the door, and Charles was dead.

Another one bites the dust.

A harsh laugh escaped her mouth, one tinged with hysteria and laden with grief. Buffy’s eyes slid from Charles to Travers. He was crouched over the body, but his eyes and his gun were fixed on her. Buffy felt her lip curl back in a snarl, and a white hot heat of wrath and hatred shot through her body. Travers straightened and shook his head.

“Don’t even think about it, Ms. Summers. You’ll be dead before you make it halfway across the room.” Travers edged around his desk and slipped a hand beneath the heavy structure. Moments later, it reappeared, clutching a metal briefcase.

“It takes more than one bullet to kill me, Travers. I’ve been shot before. I stayed alive for a long time, long enough for me to kill you.”

Travers regarded her for a few seconds. “Is that why you’re here? To kill me?”

“That’s about the gist of it, yeah.”

Nodding, Travers dropped the gun and fired a shot. A bullet pierced her left thigh, sending shockwaves of pain coursing through Buffy. Her left leg crumpled beneath her, and Buffy quickly shifted her weight to her right.

“As you may have guessed, Ms. Summers, I have no intention of dying today, especially not within the next three minutes. Now step back into the hallway and turn and face the wall.”

“Why?” Buffy said through gritted teeth. “So you can shoot me in the back of the head. I don’t think so.”

Travers sighed. “No. So I can get out of this office without worrying you’ll try something foolish. I don’t plan on shooting you in the head until after I get out of the building. You see, Ms. Summers, you are my bargaining chip, in case any of your mongrel friends try to interfere in my escape.” Travers raised the gun and aimed it at her chest. “However if you refrain from turning and facing the wall, I will kill you and shoot my way out.”

Jaw clenched, Buffy eased her way out of the office and into the hallway. As she turned to face the wall, her mind raced with a way to disarm Travers. She couldn’t let him leave the building, couldn’t let him go so he could hurt more people. She had to stop him. Here and now.

Buffy heard Travers approach the office door. He paused on the threshold. Buffy licked her lips and shifted her stance, moving scant inches away from the wall. She lifted her arms and laced them behind her head. Travers’ shoes shuffled across the tiled floor of the hall.

Buffy twisted and kicked with her left leg. She caught Travers in the gut and sent him sailing back into his office. He fired; the shot went wild, smashing into the ceiling and sending a rain of plaster on top of Buffy as she entered the office. Travers crashed into his desk. His briefcase flew from his hands and collided with the wall, where the case popped open and vials of blood and stacks of paper slipped out.

As Travers slid to the floor, dazed and shaken, Buffy limped over to the briefcase. She picked up one of the vials of blood. A printed label with Connor’s name and vital statistics was plastered onto the glass tube. Buffy dropped the vial and snatched up another one. This one had Dawn’s name on it.

Buffy turned and faced Travers. He gazed at her with bleary eyes laced with desperation. He sucked in strained breaths through undoubtedly broken ribs. Voice cold, Buffy said, “What is this?”

“Buffy-”

Buffy threw the glass tube at Travers. It crashed against the desk next to his head, sending blood and glass shards onto his face and clothing. “What the hell is this?! You took blood from my sister? You, you ran experiments on her?”

“I-”

With a snarl, Buffy threw herself on Travers. His head smacked against the desk, eliciting a groan of pain from his blood speckled lips. Buffy slammed him against the unforgiving surface again. She backhanded him; the sound of breaking cartilage resounded through the room. Grabbing Travers lapels, Buffy hauled him towards her and screamed, “She’s a little girl, you sick fuck! Not something to study! Not your property! None of us are your property! We’re human beings, not mindless weapons for you to use and abuse! We weren’t chosen for you!”

Her vision clouded red and black with anger. She slammed her fist into Travers’ face. Once. Twice. Again and again and again until his flesh was a bruised and bloodied mass, all purples and blacks and reds. She raised her fist for another blow, but her arm was grabbed from behind.

“I think you made your point, B.”

Buffy pushed off Travers and stood. She snatched her arm from Faith’s grasp as she turned to face her sister Slayer. Faith calmly held her furious gaze. Body trembling, Buffy said, “You know what he’s done. To me. To you. To all of us these past few months. He deserves to die.”

“Fine.” Faith lifted her right hand and held Travers’ gun before Buffy. “Kill him.”

Buffy blinked. Her mouth opened and then closed again. The rage consuming her subsided, leaving behind confusion, sorrow, anger, and pain. “W-What?”

“Kill. Him. If you think he should die, do it and stop fucking around.”

“I…”

“Isn’t that why you came up here? To kill Travers? Isn’t this why you left Spike and Dawn? To come up here and kill the man that hurt them?” Faith shoved the gun into Buffy’s bloody hands. Her eyes were flat and her voice was hard as she said, “Then kill him. Become a murderer. Become like me.”

“What?”

“You kill him you become me. Straight up, cold blooded murderer. If you can handle that pull the trigger. If not, let’s go.”

Incredulous, Buffy said, “You want him to get away so he can come after us again? Next time Willow might not be around to save you. Next time he might kill Dawn instead of kidnapping her. And you don’t care?”

Faith shook her head. “I don’t care.” She grabbed Buffy’s arm and shoved her around to face Travers. He slumped against the desk, barely conscious. His breath came in wheezing, wet gasps. Tears poured from his eyes, skating down his cheeks and dampening his suit. Buffy could practically smell the fear rolling off him. “I don’t care if he comes after us again,” Faith hissed into her ear. “This isn’t a demon, Buffy. Or some all-powerful super-villain. He’s just a fucking old man grasping at straws. He’s nobody. He had his shot at us, and he blew it.” Faith forced Buffy’s arm up and wrapped her fingers around the trigger. “So kill him and put him out of his misery. Stop fucking around and make a choice. Thirty seconds left. Better decide quick.”

The gun shook in her hand, and Buffy thought it strange that the gun was shaking at all. Then she realized she was the one who was shaking, trembling, shivering. Her eyes remained fixed on Travers’ face for a moment longer. And all of the emotions that had been building and building inside her since the night she stood before her blackened shell of a home wondering if she would be able to get her sister back from this tyrant, all of the emotions careening inside her fragile mind propped up by a plank of righteous fury broke through her, and she bit back a sob.

The gun fell from her slack hand. “I… I can’t.”

“Fine. Time to fly.”

Faith grabbed her hand, and the two Slayers vaulted over Travers, onto his desk, and through the plane glass window with its view of the London night sky. The cool, moist night air rushed past Buffy as she and Faith plummeted to the ground. They crashed onto a metal dumpster; the steel structure buckled and warped from their impact. Buffy tumbled to the ground. She rolled across the slick, glass covered pavement of the alley, and her head smacked against the rough concrete. She was hauled to her feet by Faith, and the two women stumbled down the alley. They made it a couple steps when the Council of Watchers exploded behind them.

The heat wave slammed into Buffy and Faith, ripping them away from each other. Buffy slid across the rough pavement; the flesh of her palms and arms shredded and tore. She screamed as she collided with the wall of the nearby building, and then all was black.

* * *

Next