And damn, this sounds like fun. Lilah?

All will be revealed. heh, heh, heh...

...or Harmony? Or possibly Eve?

Yes, I'm thinking Eve.....

More or less trusted, though, doesn't sound like Eve.

I'm thinking Lilah. They'd comment on Harmony (and not take her seriously)

Hey, look! It has a title now!

In the City
Part Three: In From the Cold

The moments perched above the alleyways hovered like a magician’s card trick. Time hovered impossibly, the moments blending into one. It could be hours, minutes. She couldn’t tell.

Then time snapped like an elastic band, and she was moving before her conscious mind registered what was happening. When reflecting upon it later—and she always reflected upon it later—she’d swear she never heard the screams until after she was moving.

The woman had fallen to the ground, her arms raised ineffectually above her as the vampires clawed at her. Her voice was raw from screaming, so raw that sound was no longer emerging from her mouth, but that didn’t stop her. She screamed silently while the monsters glowered. She was still screaming when the first monster dissolved to dust in front of her.

The second vampire turned to face Justine.

“Well,” he said, “looks like this will be exciting after all.”

Justine said nothing. The vampire’s fist came barreling toward her, and she blocked it effortlessly with her arm. Spinning, her leg kicked out, the impact near shattering the monster’s knees.

With another fluid motion, the stake thrust through the vampire’s heart.

She felt she should say something witty, some expression of triumph, but all there was here, she thought, was emptiness and dust. Her eyes fell on the woman.

“You OK to get home?” said Justine, without much feeling.

“Ye…yes,” said the woman. “My God… that thing.. you saved me.”

“Go home,” said Justine, turning and leaving. “Stay out of the dark.”

Justine stepped back into the shadows.

“Good advice,” said a voice, pleasantly, behind her. “It’s not safe.”

Justine swung around, ready to fight. Behind her stood a short young man, his hair dyed bright blue, in jeans and a bowling shirt. His hands were thrust deep into his pockets, and Justine could tell immediately he wasn’t looking for a fight. Still, she kept her distance.

“Easy,” said the man. “I’m a member of the hair club for humans, just like you.”

Justine thought absently about her hair then, realized how matted it must have become. For the first time in ages she realized how filthy she must be.

“Who are you?” she said. “Are you from the Council? I told them …”

“No,” said the man. “I’m not Council, although I know ‘em.”

“Then who are you?”

“Oh. Name’s Oz. I’m just here to talk.”

Oz knitted his brow in concern.

“And, maybe, we should get some real food in you.”

The door of them walked to a nearby diner. At first the staff bristled at Justine’s presence, but a smile and the slipping of greenbacks kept everything mellow. Justine remarked on how the man seemed to exude mellowness, as if the world simply calmed down around him.

She plowed through a salad and a burger with Oz not really saying much of anything before she finally spoke. And when she told her story, she told all of it, as best as she could remember—she found it odd how many details seemed to be missing. Oz didn’t flinch a bit.

When she finished Oz took another sip of coffee, and then folded his arms on the table.

“Rough story,” he said. “Sounds like you’ve gone through a world of hurt. Regret any of it?”

“Some,” she said. “None of it. It’s hard to say.”

“I get that,” he said. “How long have you been out here alone?”

“I thought you said you weren’t from the Council.”

“I’m not. I’m just doing a few favors for a friend.”

“I can’t take their ‘sacred destiny’ bullshit. I’ve done destiny. I’ve seen what a crock the prophecies are. I’m not buying what they’re selling.”

“But you still slay vampires…”

“Yes.”

“Well, here’s the offer. No sacred calling. No destiny. Just a paycheck, food and a place to crash.”

Justine watched Oz’s eyes. She had questions burning at her, but for the first time in a year, maybe more, she didn’t feel like her sanity was teetering on the edge. She sipped her coffee.”

“This friend,” she said. “What did he do to get you to play errand boy?”

“Saved my life a few years back.” He then seemed to re-evaluate that sentence. “Well, tried to. Close enough.”

Justine’s eyes were locked on the man, now. The things she’d done and seen were terrible, and he didn’t even blink at them.

“I’m not going to say it’ll all be pleasant,” he said. “Quite the contrary. A lot of it’ll suck. They’re pretty upfront about that.”

Justine pondered. Just that second, going back into the cold sounded less than appealing.

“Fine,” she said. “I’m in.”

Good one, Victor. In my Homicide Gingerbread fic, Giardello faces off with Mayor Wilkins here: [link]

Dude, fun. This week's Open on Sunday challenge? Shakespearean quotes.

(note: one quote,from Othello, is used; another (from Hamlet is referenced and truncated.)

An opulent room, rich hangings, heavy furniture. All of it dimming, now.

This wound is mortal.

His eyelids are weighted: with death, with tears? He doesn't know. Something in him, looking at blue skin, blue lips, a chill that hides some passion he won't live long enough to identify, finds enough breath to whisper back. Aren't they all?

She knows. She understands. She takes off one face, replaces it with another. She gives him mercy. She lies to him, easing him out into shadow, into impenetrable darkness, into blinding light.

Put out the light, and then put out the light.

Another Shakespeare drabble.

This blue-eyed hag was hither brought with child

Supposedly, it never rains in Los Angeles. It's raining now. That, by itself, could speak to discerning hearts of impending apocalypse.

The present apocalypse is rather less subtle. Here are Holtz's forces, waiting, angry, eager for retribution. Here is Holtz himself. Behind, there are shadows with arms and legs. The alley has more than rain; it has the future, or perhaps not.

Darla, unable to deliver, surrounded by the protective phalanx of Fred, Gunn, Wesley. As Angel understands what she is about to do, she does it. Gone into dust, the child wailing in a puddle all that is left.

Yeah, I have lots better stuff to do. Of course, that's why this flowed out. Lord, What Fools These Mortals Be

It’s not that I feel all that different from everyone else in the squad, not really. But sometimes I do find myself standing outside, miles away from Stanley and the cellist he was plucking. And Kay, she’s the smart one, but she’s settling for Danvers? Maybe they get really freaky and she plays with the stick shift on his Volvo. Say what you will about Felicia and me. We went for it, all eight times. And Megan, pretending it’s professional development sending her in to talk to Giardello every twenty minutes. Getting summoned by Gee never makes me smile. She’s got a nice smile with him. She ought to take the plastic off of it sometime so I don’t have to be afraid to say something dirty in the squad. Timmy’s like a high school boy, which is a total waste. Some of these women that come in here look at him like the last Snickers on Earth...even Naomi’s nice to him and fluffs her hair a little when he walks by, I’m lucky to get any of my messages. And I remember the journey that Felton’s on, how it feels like you’ve reached as much pain as you can stand, and there’s always more. But for some reason, I can’t stand Beau anymore since Kay’s been covering his ass. There is an erosion of professional standards all over the country...I’m disgusted she’ll participate in that.

One more Shakespeare quote. From Romeo and Juliet, of course. And thinking about it, "dawn" might be "morn", but I'm lazy.

It is the lark, the herald of the dawn; no nightingale.

Normally, the crypt is quiet.

Angel likes it that way. This is his prison, but it's his sanctuary too. There's a peculiar duality here: prison as refuge, and vice versa. A few years down the road, he'll be asking Faith if she ever felt that way.

He has a visitor. He's on his best behaviour, because he can't be anything else. Golden, beautiful, everything he wants and loves and can't touch, Buffy just came to hang out. Suddenly, her Slayer hearing picks something up: a fragment of birdsong.

"Morning," she says, "Mom'll kill me," and kisses him goodbye, and goes.

In the City
Part Four: This Girl’s Army

Justine sat silently in the passenger seat of Oz’s van, listening to some LA band she’d never heard of crooning through the speakers. “In Los Angeles/only God believes/What he thinks he sees … and I can’t believe/that he died for me/just like on TV … even the Holy Ghost/has got a billboard on Sunset…”

Oz nodded in time to the music. He really didn’t talk all that much. She didn’t know why she was going with him. It would be nothing but trouble.

She looked sideways at the placid young man, and a thought she couldn’t articulate formed. All she could think of was the layer of filth that seemed caked onto her skin. She’d been living wild for months, maybe more than a year, but now was the first time she’d noticed it.

She felt like a fog was lifting.

She listened to the band she didn’t recognize, and watched the city roll by. They rolled down the 405, then off onto side streets. Torrance she figured. Hawthorne. Somewhere like that. The van pulled up to a bombed-out warehouse, and Oz pulled out a cell phone.

“Base, this is Rover. I’m in.”

“Rover?” asked Justine.

“It’s kind of an inside joke. They won’t let me change it.”

The garage door lifted, and Oz drove the van inside. A tall, blonde man in black was leaning against the wall. He and Oz nodded taciturn hellos at each other.

“This our girl?” said the man, stepping forward. Justine felt her lip curl, a feral growl building beneath her tongue.

“Woman,” said Oz. “Not girl.”

Justine looked sideways at Oz again, and relaxed.

“Right,” said the man. “My apologies. Are you Justine?’

Justine just nodded. The man didn’t step forward.

“I’m Special Agent Finn. Welcome. Make yourself at home. We’ll talk after you’re settled in.

A door slid opened, revealing an elevator. Justine glanced nervously at it, but Oz—seemingly catching her distress—simply touched her arm.

“It’s cool. It’ll be fine.”

She and Oz followed Finn into the elevator, and within moments, she found herself in a fluorescent-lit underground bunker filled with uniformed men and women.

“How many of these things did you guys build?” asked Oz. “A whole bunch,” said Finn, “But this isn’t the Initiative. Much smaller, no research. Just response.”

“And you’re in charge?” asked Justine.

“Sort of,” said Finn. “This is your room. Someone will be by in an hour or so.

Justine looked in the room. A bed, a dresser filled with clothes—jeans, jumpers, sweat shirts. Nothing flashy or expensive. Practical. All purpose. There was a computer—which she really didn’t know how to use--on a desk. There was a TV. There was a small bathroom, with a shower.

She turned the hot water on, and her fingers trembled as they extended into the spray. Tentatively, she undressed and stepped into the shower. This was dangerous. She was surrounded by armed soldiers.

The water nearly seared her skin. She turned the temperature up. Soap, shampoo. Her hair was knotted in so many places, she figured she’d be better off shaving it. Another time.

When she finished, she looked at herself in the mirror. It was the first time she’d looked at herself in ages. She looked human. She looked almost clean.

She dressed quickly. She realized all the clothes they’d left her fit loosely. They were all clothes she could fight in. That was good. No weapons, at least, not here. She had her stake from early in her hand. She tucked it into her belt, but it didn’t really matter. Anything was a weapon in her hands.

She thought about Holtz, and it seemed very distant. Another life. She looked at herself in the mirror.

“My name is Justine,” she said, quietly, hesitantly. “My name is Justine. The vampire slayer.”