In the City Part Ten: Where we come from

They were sitting in a trendy sushi joint in Santa Monica. The people milling about looked like they’d stepped off a movie screen. Justine felt awkward and out of place.

And Amy was talking. Amy was always talking.

“…so there I was, making my way out of Sunnydale, stop and go traffic for miles, and my car overheats. Dies, right there on the highway. And does anyone stop to help? Hell, no. OK, fleeing an impending Apocalypse, sure. I get it. I mean, I was running, too. But that’s no reason not to be neighborly!

If she could, Justine thought, she’d slit her throat right … she didn’t mean that. She didn’t want to be that person. She looked at Oz. Oz was nodding patiently. Listening. He was from Sunnydale, too, wasn’t he?

“Shame about the town,” he said, when she wound down. "I mean, it’s not surprising. Just sad.”

“What was it about the town? The town you're from,” said Justine, hesitantly. Conversation seemed to be an act she was putting on. A disguise. She wasn’t at all sure she liked it.

“It was on the mouth of Hell,” said Oz. “Weird place.”

“And that’s where you met Angel?” Justine asked.

“Angel, Willow, Buffy,” he said. “The whole crew.”

“And Wesley?”

“Him too.”

“You don’t seem the type.”

“Type?”

“Battling evil. Fighting demons.”

“I’m not, really,” said Oz. “I’m a bassist. But I needed the cash, and Riley needed someone he could trust.”

“There’s easier ways to get cash,” said Amy.

“True,” said Oz. “But, hey. Sounded interesting. And here I am.”

“Join Finn’s army, see the world,” said Amy. “Meet interesting people, and have them feast on your brains.”

“Finn trusts you?” asked Justine.

“I guess.”

“And what do you do? I mean, you held your own against the skeletons, but…”

“But I’m not a fighter. I get that. But I’ve dealt with this stuff before. And Angel knows me. He won’t assume I’m a threat right away, if we catch up to him.”

“He’s here to keep an eye on us,” said Amy.

“True. Finn’s boss doesn’t trust you.”

“Why not?” asked Justine.

“Well,” said Oz, “Ethan’s a supervillain, and Amy’s got a thing for malicious mischief.”

“This is true,” said Amy.

“And you…”

“I know what I’ve done,” said Justine.

“Good,” said Oz. "Progress.”

“So if there’s a contingency plan,” said Amy, “Why do you need to keep tabs on us?”

“I don’t ,” said Oz. “I keep tabs on the contingency plan.”

He grinned at Justine, then swallowed a California roll.

Justine felt a smile beginning to stretch upon her face, which turned to horror as she saw Holtz hovering above Oz, knife in hand. In one fell swoop, the blade slid across his neck, and he fell lifelessly to the table.

Justine began to scream, and in that instance blinked, and everything was as it was, Oz and Amy talking lightly, then stopping and looking at her with concern. Well, Oz with concern. Amy looked mostly annoyed..

Justine excused herself for the restroom, and, once alone, she began to cry.

In The City Part Eleven: Miasma

Oz dropped Amy and Justine off at the base, then walked to meet Riley at a nearby bar. The evening weighed heavy on him—one moment, it seemed they were finally gelling as a team, the next, he could tell they were a miasma of neuroses. Then he thought about the word, “miasma,” and decided he liked it. It means, “an influence or atmosphere that tends to deplete or corrupt.”

“Huh,” he thought. “So what do you do when everyone you started with was corrupted to begin with? Well, everyone except …”

The bar didn’t have a sign out front, and no one seemed to give a damn about California smoking regulations. Which annoyed him—he had a sensitive nose. There were a few scattered patrons, and Oz could tell from the moment he entered the room that the beer was watered down, and there were no fewer than five illegal narcotics that he could identify.

“Well, if this gig pans out,” he thought, “Maybe I can go be a police dog.”

Riley was holed up at a back booth. Which must have took some doing, in this joint. Oz imagined that everyone wanted the back booth. But then, he figured, no one around was listening to anyone else, anyway. This was a place where you were better off not knowing what was going on. Not that he had any choice. He heard damn near everything.

Riley had a bottle of Miller Genuine Draft and a copy of the LA Times. Oz, likewise, got himself a Miller. Not his favorite, but this joint didn’t have a lot of options.

“Hey,” said Oz.

“Hey,” said Riley. “How’s the team coming?”

Oz thought before answering, then took a sip of beer. Which tasted remarkably good at just this moment.

“Ethan will try to kill us as soon as possible,” he said, finally. “Amy could sell us all out, or just leave when she’s bored. Justine’s OK, but she’s cracking up. I don’t know why Connor’s hanging around, but I’m not sure it’s all good, and then there’s …”

Oz let the thought trail off. “Yeah,” said Riley. “Told you it would be tough.”

“You did,” said Oz. “And I believed you. But man. This is something else. Riley, why am I doing this?”

“You were the best man for the job.”

“Thanks, but … look. Why aren’t you out in front? Or better yet, why don’t we just …”

“Go running to Buffy?”

“Well, yeah. You have to admit, she’s better qualified.”

“Thought about it. I mean, if we went and asked again nice enough, I’m pretty sure they’d capitulate.”

Capitulate was also a good word, thought Oz. Kudos.

“But the boss picked this team very specifically, and very specifically ordered me off the field,” said Riley. “He was quite clear.”

“That’s another thing,” said Oz, taking another sip of beer. “Who is this guy? He’s not military, I’ve figured that much out. How does he know so much about us?”

Riley smiled that broad, farm boy smile of us—a smile as wide and open as a Nebraska field.

“You know the rules, Oz. The boss needs his secrecy.”

“Well,” said Oz, “That’s the thing about secrets. Hold ‘em too tight and they bubble out at the wrong time … Wait.”

Oz stood suddenly, spinning toward the bar. Seeing his reaction, Riley stood also, reaching for his gun. “Inconspicuous?” thought Oz. “No time for that right now.”

A tall, leather-clad brunette was at the bar, hanging off a shaved-headed biker. She kissed the man on the lips, and then flung him into the wall. She turned to face them.

“Faith,” said Oz, barely audible enough to hear.

Oz hadn’t seen Faith in a while. Last he saw her, in fact, she had her crazy on something fierce. That’s how she looked now—ready to fuck or kill anything that moved, and she didn’t particularly care which. People had told him Faith had reformed, but that’s not what it looked like, here.

“Oz, old buddy,” she said. “Heard you were back in the game. And Riley Finn. How’s it hanging, lover boy?”

Oz didn’t dare turn around to see the look on Riley’s face, but he could pretty much guess. Pheromones were flying, and he could taste blood in the air already. Then he saw the knife she was (continued...)

( continues...) using, and knew something was wrong.

Riley had his pistol out now. This was going to end badly.

“What’s up, Faith,” said Oz. “Thought you were one of the good guys again.”

“You thought wrong,” said Faith, slinking forward, ever so slowly. “The bitch is back.”

She leapt at them, and Riley fired without hesitation, straight into her chest. Faith fell, laughing the entire time, then rolled when she hit the floor, and sprung immediately to her feet. Oz stepped backward.

“Heh, don’t worry, boys,” said Faith, smiling and bleeding. “This is just a warning. Whatever you’re doing? Back off. Now.”

And then, suddenly, she was gone, leaving a bar full of startled hoodlums looking nervously at Oz and Riley.

“I think it’s time to leave,” said Riley.

“Definitely,” said Oz.

My "Gingerbread/H:LOTS crossover continues here [link] Just needed a little non-election time.

Excellent! Faith!!!

Excellent! Faith!!!

But wait! It will get weirder!

Even better!

Okay, I need a bit of help, if y'all don't mind.

I'm trying to set up a suicide (in my story, not IRL) that will look more like murder until things are examined more closely. The people investigating the case will be inclined to dismiss suicide as an option, so that's something of help.

Thoughts? I need to make sure that the suicide-not-murder realization is believable while still giving good HSQ.

Anne, are you asking about methods, pathology, or....?

Hmm...funky looking ligatures from a hanging? Cause it worked in reverse for D'Angelo Barksdale on "The Wire"...of course part of that is that law enforcement didn't give a crap about D.