I should write more of this, shouldn't I?

t nods continously

kerzizzle tangerdobul

t drools

spaggle

t waits

In the City
Part Thirteen: Interludes in Dead Cities

The city stretched for miles. As far as he could see, and he could see far. His eyes were sharper than one would think.

No one came here—or at least, no one came here often. And what visitors there were, came from very, very far away. The stillness was as terrifying and captivating as the architecture—mile upon mile of stone arches and pillars, some rising miles into the ashen-black sky.

The man rested his hands in his pockets, and began to whistle. Gershwin tune, he figured. Couldn’t remember the name. “Amazing how songs just spring to mind, sometimes, isn’t it?” he said aloud. Not that there was anybody here to hear him.

The man wandered the empty streets until he found the temple—a gargantuan, Gothic thing. He’d seen towns smaller than this place. He stopped to wipe his glasses, straighten his tie. It’s not like there was anyone inside to impress—not anymore, anyway. But still, a holy place was a holy place, he reasoned. And soon … soon…

“I'd like to add his initial to my monogram,” he began to sing, lightly, finding the tune as he stepped into the building. “Tell me, where is the shepherd for this lost lamb?” He laughed—it was hardly a hymn, after all. But it would do.

This place was chilly, no doubting it. Even if there were a sun shining down to warm the stones, he doubted it could get warmer. This was, after all, a place where Gods came to die.

Diamonds and gems were imbedded in the walls, but there was so little light that they barely glistened at all. Cautiously, he pried one from its socket, and inspected it for flaws—of which he knew full well there were none.

“There's a somebody I'm longin' to see,” he sang, a smile spreading across his face. “I hope that he, turns out to be … Someone who'll watch over me.”

Giles?

Giles?

Not saying. All I'll say is that I created neither the character nor the setting.

ooh i gots chills

Sounds more like Caleb to me....

With the glasses? Or do you think that's a red herring.

Just going by what's triggering his pleasure centres, is all...

In the City
Part Fourteen: Love, Like Ashes…

Oz was running. He knew she was there the moment she appeared. Willow. Something bad was happening. There was fire. Burning flesh. Run. Someone … Amy … was screaming. Run. The door to Amy’s room was shattered.

Amy was inside, smothering a fire with a blanket. Justine. Justine was on fire.

“Oz,” said Amy, looking up. Oz, it was her. It was…”

“Willow.”

“Yeah,” said Amy. “How…”

“I can sense when she’s close,” said Oz, flatly. Justine looked up at that. The pain of her burns was etched across her face, her lips stretched into a grimace.

“Your ex-girlfriend did this?” she said, coldly. Her and Oz locked stares.

“Yeah,” said Oz, crouching down beside her. “looks like she did.”

Amy straightened her posture and folded her arms. Oz felt the hair on the back of his neck stiffen. There was a magical charge in the air.

“Amy…”

“No, Oz. You weren’t there. You weren’t in Sunnydale when she went Wicked Witch of the West.”

Oz said nothing. Amy seemed different all of the sudden. More confident, more detached.

“She nearly destroyed the world, Oz. She went on a rampage and even Buffy couldn’t stop her. She …”

“And what did you do?” asked Oz. Amy marveled at how little condescension Oz was able to pack into such a loaded question.

“The only sensible thing,” said Amy. “I ran and hid.”

“You hiding now?’

Amy pondered the question for a moment.

“No.”

“Good. We’re meeting in ten in the conference room. Justine, I’ll get you to medical.”

“No,” said Justine, rising shakily. “I’m fine.”

Oz could feel the anger in the room. He knew full well that if either of these women had an opportunity, Willow would be dead in a heartbeat.

“Cool,” said Oz, his voice revealing nothing. “Let’s do this.”

I'm going with Caleb, too. Feels like him.

Hmm. I'd say it might be Ethan, if he weren't already in the story. But it feels like him, sort of, too.

Oooooooooooh. It could be the mayor. I mean, sure, exploded. But still. The mayor seems like a Gershwin hummer.

Yay for Victor. I'm glad you write much faster than I do.