Yesterday's Guitars

Part Two:

Los Angeles, 2005: Wesley watched. It was what he did. He stood in the shadows and assessed. It was what he was trained for—sending others into combat, the fate of all humanity the ultimate stake. He’d not been eating much since his resurrection. He was sure he was paler, more gaunt. His expression betrayed nothing, but he knew his head was full of faulty wiring and the whispers of ghosts.

He wasn’t in charge. That honor fell to Daniel Osborne, “Oz,” who seemed to confidently glide through the melee surrounding him—a den of green-scaled demons with sharp, edged dorsal fins. Oz didn’t bark orders, but rather, spoke terse suggestions in a low voice, which would seem inaudible, but then, his team was somewhat remarkable.

Justine, a recently-turned slayer whom Wesley had a bad history with, stayed close to Oz. The two were an item, it seemed, and had developed a tight rapport on the battle field—one surveying the situation, the other keeping the opponents at bay. Oz could handle himself, Wesley knew, but he seemed reluctant to release the wolf he kept tethered inside, full control of it or not.

“Connor, trouble at six o’clock,” said Oz, and the young man flipped backward, foiling the demon that was looking to blindside him. Wesley and Connor also had a complicated past, but the boy seemed to find Wesley’s presence on the team more reassuring then threatening. As far as Connor was concerned, Wesley’s return from the final battle with the Circle of the Black Thorn meant that there was hope that his father, Angel, would also be returned to them. That was this team’s prime mission, and none took it as seriously as Connor.

There was a sound like timber snapping as Connor broke the demon’s arm. The monster screamed, and Connor tossed it into one of its compatriots, freeing up the last member of the team—the vampire slayer named Faith, who Wesley had perhaps the most complicated relationship with.

Faith didn’t waste any time dispatching the fighter that Connor had distracted, and instead punched its face and then its stomach, rendering it unconscious. She turned toward the remaining fighter nearest her, but it was already punching at her. Wesley watched the beast, as though it were prey, his hand drawing out his pistol silently, and without even blinking, Wesley fired on the monster before it could throw another punch. The shot didn’t kill it, but the shock was enough to throw it off guard as Faith delivered the knockout punch. There was only one left, and it raised its arms as the team converged on it.

“All right, you got us!” said the demon. “We surrender.”

“Ah, man,” said Faith. “These guys are no fun.”

“We’ll see,” said Oz, coolly. “Depends on if he’s got the Wolfram & Hart protocol files stashed here.”

“And if he doesn’t?” said Faith, smiling.

“Fun will be had,” said Oz.

He was a good leader, thought Wesley. Sharp and confidant, his team was fanatically loyal to him. Even Wesley himself—an outsider on a team of outsiders—did nothing to challenge Oz’s authority. There was only one man he’d been more willing to follow, he thought, and Oz seemed the only one capable of keeping this team moving in that direction.

The monster glanced over at a locked chest to the side. Justine caught his glance, and slid toward it.

“It’s locked,” said the demon. “I don’t have the key.”

Justine almost smiled at that—she smiled rarely, and usually only at Oz—and ripped the top off the chest with one hand. From the splinters, she retrieved a stack of computer discs, and tossed them to Oz.

“These are hot,” said Oz. “Not afraid enough of Wolfram & Hart to make a little money off them?”

“Wolfram & Hart are gone in this city,” said the demon. “I don’t know why anybody wants them.”

Oz handed the discs to Wesley as he phoned in a retrieval team for their prisoners—he didn’t mind a little blood in a fight, noted Wesley, but Oz insisted that prisoners not be killed in cold blood if it could be avoided. In that (continued...)

( continues...) way, Oz was probably the most human of the team. The rest of them, one way or the other, had killing streaks in them. Oz seemed to keep those streaks at bay by will alone.

“Will they give us clues where Angel and the others are?” asked Connor.

“They’ll give us clues to where to find the clues,” said Wesley, his voice low and even. “The keys to the first riddles. It’ll still be a long road from there.”

A gloom fell over Connor’s face. They were all impatient and edgy, thought Wesley. This team’s first mission had cost them a lot: Angel and his team were nearly in reach, and then lost to them; Amy Madison had sacrificed herself to save them all, Ethan Rayne was seemingly dead at the hands of the invisible assassin Marcy Ross, whom Oz insisted be removed from the team. And—considering the players at hand—his own return was hardly the most anticipated.

Soldiers collected the surviving demons, and the team began to file out.

“What’s next, chief,” said Faith, draping her arms around both Oz and Justine’s shoulders as Wesley and Connor lagged a few steps behind.

“Mexican,” said Oz. “Definitely Mexican. Sushi doesn’t sound good right now.”

“There’s a good place nearby, just off Olvera,” said Connor. Wesley marveled at how at home the boy felt with this group—more so than he ever did with the Angel Investigations team.

“Right,” said Oz. “lead on.”

Wesley lingered a step behind them, unsure whether he should follow. Nervously, tentatively, he did.

My usual nit-picking first pass:

Dawn was moving foreward now,

Should be 'forward' here.

Oz was reticent ...

You want something like 'Oz was insistent that prisoners not be harmed,' or better, 'Oz insisted that ....' Or, if you like the word 'reticent,' 'Oz was reticent about harming prisoners.' 'Reticent' is a synonym for 'reluctant' or 'silent,' depending on usage.

with the Angel Investigations team.”

Delete the close-quote there.

Nice work, as usual, Victor.

Fixed. Thanks!

Good stuff, Victor.

Yesterday's Guitars

Part Three

London, 2023: Dawn’s face was expressionless as the Council agents took the still-crying girl away from her. She wasn’t as hard as Faith or some of the other slayers, but she could fake it for a while—if she let the horrors she faced on a daily basis get to her, she thought, she’d crack up, and that wouldn’t do anyone any good. Still, the kid was terrified, and she knew what that was like. When she had been a teenager, it seemed she was in danger every Tuesday.

She got better, though. Stepping away from the din, Dawn cleared her mind. Willow had taught her very little magic: Enough to fight, to hunt. She found a place of stillness in her mind, and when she opened her eyes, she could see traces of magic all around her. The walls radiated a sickly green radiation. She walked toward the glow, extending her hand.

“My God,” she said. “He’s been sacrificing girls here for years.”

“Yes,” said Wesley, over the com. “I was afraid that was the case.”

It bothered Dawn how cold his voice was half the time, how disconnected he seemed. She found the thought hypocritical sometimes, but there it was. Sometimes she thought Wesley was just protecting himself. Other times, she was afraid he really was that cold.

“Do you have a trail?” he asked. Dawn concentrated, and glowing, blood-red footprints rose out of the wood floor.

“Yeah,” said Dawn. “I’m gone.”

Dawn was moving quickly now, lest the power of the killer’s presence subside and she lose him. It was a tough trick, aura tracking. It helped that Pavayne was magical, but she was certain the psychic violence surrounding him alone would be enough to hold the trail for a bit. She was right. She exited the building onto London’s streets, and began to run. He hadn’t gone far, she was certain. His aura was soaking into everything around her. His mind was a forest fire, and the entire city was practically burning in it. He was…

Dawn ducked before she knew what she was happening. The sword sliced where her head had been. She spun and kicked, but her foot didn’t connect with anything solid. It was like kicking mist. She was on her feet in an instant.

Pavayne looked like a leathered corpse. His skin was thick and cracked, and there were only shadows were his eyes should be. Dawn looked into the shadows anyway, her sword drawn in front of her.

“So they sent the infamous Dawn Summers after me,” he hissed, in a voice like crushed glass. “I guess they figured out I was free.”

“You can’t stay intangible forever, Pavayne,” said Dawn, forcing the fear out of her head. “I know you can’t move far like that, and you can’t attack.”

“True,” said Pavayne, who stood idly looking at her, a sneer seemingly chiseled into his face. “But you’ve not been paying attention, girl.”

Dawn suppressed a chill. He was right. She hadn’t been watching, and now that she was, she could see a black-tinged luminescence reaching out to him from all directions, pulling his intangible body somewhere else.

“Oh, no you don’t,” said Dawn, leaping at him, sword first. But she wasn’t really thinking about the attack. Instead, the sword became a focal point for her concentration as she tried to synchronize her aura with the killer’s, to be pulled along with him, wherever he was headed.

There was a synesthesia that came with this sort of maneuver, and she knew it was coming, but the sheer toxicity the man emitted felt like swallowing vomit. The world around her began to spin and change color, all of which sounded strangely like off-key carnival music. She swung her sword, but it was no longer in her hand. The two of them were suspended someplace else, and there was no up or down, no depth, just a formless psychedelic wash that extend infinitely in all directions.

Dawn realized she couldn’t feel her hands, then blinked, and realized she could again. She looked up at Pavayne, but all she could see was his static sneer, disappearing like a Cheshire cat. And then everything went black.

And when (continued...)

( continues...) her eyes returned, she was screaming. Her body felt frail and soft, and the light was entirely too bright. She looked around, and realized she was in a bed, and daylight was streaming through the windows. There was an Avril Lavigne poster on the wall, and some old bubble-gum pop song on the radio. The déjà vu came first, the sinking sensation that this was familiar. And then she realized where she was.

“Fuck,” she said, as Britney Spears crooned some song she could barely remember.

Oh. Dear.

here felt like swallowing vomit.

I don't think the "here" belongs.

Dawn’s face was unexpressive

Should this be "inexpressive?"

Fixed and fixed.