Woo hoo! Xander!

Heh. Yeah, Xander's my must use.

This week's Open on Sunday was "watching".

Watching for an Answer

She's watched it twenty times now: the Slayer, a stake, a look of surprise, dissolution.

Dawn's not certain when the question became an obsession: that change to ash, did it hurt? Did the vampire burn? Was it peace, and if so, how, since there wasn't any soul to lay to rest?

She stands back, silently obsessing, keeping her eye on the furrowed face, the gleaming golden eyes, the unnatural canine teeth. Arm goes up, comes down, into the heart. Dissolution.

Peace? Pain? Fire? Ashes to ashes? Try as she might, she can't get a definitive look.

Dawn watches, and wonders.

In the City
Part Eighteen: Blast from the past

The diner looked like the one they shot “Pulp Fiction” in, but Xander was quick to point out that that diner was actually in Hawthorne, and it wasn’t even open when they shot the film, but it re-opened afterward to cash in on movie geeks.

“You went there, right?”

“Just a burger and a Coke.”

Xander seemed all right. The eye patch made him look kind of secret agenty, but really, he was pretty laid back. Of course, Connor was anxious to hear what he had to say about his father.

“I don’t really know anything,” said Xander, sipping his soda. I know the government put together a team of mostly former bad guys to deal with the situation—which is OK, in a “Mod Squad” kind of way—but I’ve got a couple friends hooked up in the gig.

“I know this part,” said Connor. “They asked me to join, but I didn’t trust them. The whole thing was just …”

“Intense. I get that. But let me ask you a question….”

Xander had a way from shifting from … well, goofy… to serious in a heartbeat. His whole demeanor changed, and for a second, Connor realized that he kind of was a mystical secret agent sort of … guy. He didn’t have a name for it. Xander called himself a “Watcher,” but Connor didn’t know what that was supposed to mean.

“Why were those demons back there so afraid of you?”

“I guess they remember me from… oh”

Xander smiled, but there was a something both warm and terribly sad in that smile. Like he had figured something out, and was sorry that you had to know it, too.

“Right. No one’s supposed to remember you. I didn’t find out about you until the other day, and I’m pretty sure I’d have heard about Angel having a kid. So how did…”

“So how did the government know who I really was?”

“You want dessert?” asked Xander. “I want dessert.” Xander turned to flag the waitress while Connor processed the information. But as Xander turned, a thin, graying man in glasses was suddenly standing behind him.

“I’m sorry,” said the man. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Xander began sliding back against the seat, quickly drawing a revolver concealed beneath his jacket.

“You.”

“Now, now boys. If I’d come to fight, you’d already be dead. I just figured I’d come to extend an invitation.”

“Connor, run.”

“Connor, sit.”

Connor was paralyzed with indecision. This man seemed frail and genial, but Xander was clearly panicking, the gun aimed unsteadily in his shaking hand.

“You can call me, Doc, Connor. We’ll get along famously. I know a lot about losing loved ones.”

“Connor…”

“Don’t listen to him, boy,” said Doc, a blade quickly appearing in his hand. “This really doesn’t need to be a drama. I just want to have a nice, civilized discussion.”

Everything then happened at once. Xander fired, and the bullet’s impact seemed to stagger the old man, but not knock him down. Xander then leapt from the booth at the old man, who clasped his left hand around Xander’s throat while the right one stabbed the blade into his torso. Xander screamed in pain, dropping the revolver.

Connor stood to attack, but could see Xander—dazed and battered—mouthing the word to him.

“Run.”

And without another word, Connor leapt through the diner window, and in a symphony of glass, escaped into the night.

Ooh, excellent.

Oh man. I got the shivers.

Oh man. I got the shivers.

Heh. Thanks, all. Closing in on the end--definitely in the second half somewhere. But still weirdness to go.

And where's Anne W? It was her that called Doc, right?

Yes! 'Twas I! Can I feel all gloaty? Is that allowed?

Yes! 'Twas I! Can I feel all gloaty? Is that allowed?

Gloat away! Of course, it'll get even weirder, if I ever get five minutes again to write...

Part Nineteen: Bring On the Bad Guys

There’s some sort of rule that says these things have to happen at midnight. Ethan could explain it, if he was inclined, but he was otherwise engaged. His face was stony as he finger-painted symbols onto his bare chest. The night fell around him like rain. He could feel the way the wind shifted direction for no reason.

Amy awoke from a dream of cities, her skin clammy and drenched in sweat. Her throat was chalk. Speech was beyond her. She could feel the energies converging. It was familiar to her. It was …

“Oh my God,” she said, pulling the blanket to her chest as she sat upright. “I understand.”

Samantha Finn sat in Rupert Giles’ office, neither drunk from last night’s whiskey nor tired. She and Giles had watched the sunrise, two soldiers reduced to the role of fretting from the sidelines, although he had finally succumbed to dozing off. She, on the other hand, was far too tired to sleep. She was startled to hear the ring on her Blackberry. Rapidly, she pulled the machine from its belt holster and read the e-mail—the first she’d received at this address in weeks.

“Rupert,” she said, shaking the man awake. “We need to go. We need to get Buffy, and we need to go.”

And Connor ran. The streets seemed labyrinthine and unfamiliar, towering above him like mountains in the shadows. Like gods in the shadows. And when that thought hit him it struck like a thunderclap, stopping him in his tracks.

“Jasmine,” he said, the force of the name causing his teeth to quiver. “But it…”

A fist connected with his jaw, knocking him a full ten feet into the side of a building.

“Hey kid,” said Faith, sliding calmly toward him, like a cat. “First rule of running away? Don’t stop.”

“You,” said Connor, rising shakily to his feet. “I know you.”

“Aw, I don’t think so,” said Faith. “I’d remember a cutie like you.” She pounced, an ornate knife appearing in her hand, as if by magic. Connor had never seen anyone move that fast. Not even his father. He barely moved out of her way, but she was barely even disoriented. He rolled to the side, but she landed next to him, spinning to face him as she hit the ground. Moving faster than he could think, he spun and kicked, his foot connecting with her head and knocking her into the wall.

It wouldn’t stop her long. He turned and ran again, unsure exactly where to go. Oz’s team was in Hawthorne, too far to run. He’d never make it. He decided to worry about it later. Survive first. Run. A wall of flames ignited in front of him, bursting from the ground. He could feel his heart racing faster as he watched a silhouette step through the flames—a lithe woman in black, her skin so pale her veins showed through, her hair and eyes obsidian.

“I … I know you,” said Connor. “You’re Angel’s friend. Willow.”

“Ah,” said Willow. “I need to tip my publicist good this Christmas. Word of mouth is getting around.”

With a wave of her hand, Connor was propelled backward, landing at Faith’s feet.

“Gee, Morticia,” said Faith, smiling and rubbing the flat of her blade against her cheek. “I didn’t get you anything.”

Faith kicked Connor in the chin. Blood was beginning to cloud his vision. He was pretty sure that wasn’t a good thing.

“Now ladies,” said a voice. “Leave a piece of him for me.”

Connor looked up to see Xander Harris standing above him. At least, He thought it was Xander. He seemed younger, and the eye patch was missing. There was something different about the way he held himself. Those sudden moments of intensity he’d earlier displayed seemed to have manifested completely. There was something different in his aura. Something savage.

Connor clenched his hands into fists, and prepared himself to go down fighting. Suddenly, there was a bright flash of light, and all of them turned to see its source.

Amy Madison stood at the end of the alleyway. Her hair unkempt, wearing hastily thrown on sweats—she looked as if she’d been dragged from bed. Flanking her on either side were Oz and Justine, who also looked (continued...)

( continues...) like they’d been awoken hastily.

A nexus of energy swirled around Amy’s hand.

“Step away from the kid,” she said. “We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”