I believe you about the horrifically. Never occured to me that there could be slash about historical figures. Except for Marlowe's Edward II, I suppose.

I believe you about the horrifically. Never occured to me that there could be slash about historical figures. Except for Marlowe's Edward II, I suppose.

It was only surpassed in ookiness by her Snyder/Joyce/Holland Manners threesome.

Plei wrote Kissinger slash. It was horrifically beautiful.

Go on, click. You know you want to.

"Snyder/Joyce/Holland Manners"

Being a literary geek, I thought for a second you meant Gary Snyder and James Joyce. That might have been interesting. But...Snyder, Joyce, and Holland Manners? That's gotta be the most random pairing ever. Did she put a bunch of character names in a hat and draw them out?

How about Quentin Travers/Jonathan/Lorne?

It was only surpassed in ookiness by her Snyder/Joyce/Holland Manners threesome.

Oh, dear heavens, I remember that. I had forgotten it. But now I remember it.

Bring on the Kissinger slash! For lo, it was ever so much, er, less stressful on the psychic eyeballs.

How about Kissinger/Holland Manners slash? Assuming Kissinger's existence in the Jossverse, they had to have met. (I hope no one takes issue w/ my suggestion that Kissinger would be willing to deal with an evil law firm)

Part Thirty-four: Not enough time in the world

In an aspect of Los Angeles, suspended outside of time, Illyria’s body quaked with small tremors as she strained to keep a sea of monsters at bay. She was slipping. Although she could feel her power flowing back to her, it was still too much for the borrowed body she wore, and she knew that if she faltered, the dissipation of this pocket universe would prove volatile, opening a doorway in time that would leave the Earth merciless before an onslaught of demons, gods and things older than both.

And in a city that covered a planet that was, in some ways, also hidden inside Los Angeles—a city hidden within a pinpoint in time—Faith buckled in surprise as Xander, possessed by the spirit of a hyena, leapt at her with a feral swiftness that knocked her off guard. The two entwined in combat, their blows pummeling one another. Justine leapt forward to assist the other slayer, but found her way blocked by a frail-looking old man with a sword.

And underneath crystallized pieces of the souls of gods, Amy and Willow chanted in one voice, a voice that seemed to come from beyond them. Their gestures were mirrors of each other’s now, the light flickered rhythmically between them as three mystics watched on, silently granting them will.

And in Los Angeles as they understood it, a doorway of light emerged in the lobby of the abandoned Hyperion Hotel, appearing before Buffy Summers and Riley and Samantha Finn. The three had waited near-wordlessly for hours, fidgeting with weapons, staring at watches. When the portal appeared, each looked to the other silently, then—hands shading their eyes—the three stepped into the light.

“She can’t hold it,” said Spike, his gaze fixed intently on Illyria. And he was right—the waves of energy being absorbed into her were cut fissure into her body, and blue flame erupted from what was once flesh. The shield she’d erected began to buckle, and the torrent of demons stepped forward. Angel and Spike flew forward first, their fists landing like jackhammers. Oz transformed into a wolf, but instead of following into combat, he stayed back with Illyria and Gunn, now nearly dead from his earlier wounds, and guarded them from harm.

Justine dodged Doc’s sword, but with each stroke the blade seemed closer. Faith knocked Xander off of her, and tried to move toward the elderly demon, but he was too quick, spinning and nicking her. Xander attempted to pounce, but Connor blocked him, and soon the two were locked in combat. The warriors formed into a tableaux of sorts, their ballet almost choreographed. But one stood apart from the combat—Dawn Summers, sister of who most considered the real slayer and once a key to unlock the doors between dimensions. For Dawn, it was as though a presence took hold of her, and with an eerie stillness, she walked past the battle and looked up at the sky. “It’s turning red,” she said, and suddenly all combat ended. “The sky is turning red.”

Illyria could feel her body disintegrating. She was dying, she figured, and as the realization hit her, she thought of Wesley—wondered how he’d managed to survive past his death, what he was planning now. “Whatever you’re planning, Wesley,” she said. “Do it quickly.” And as the words left her mouth, a doorway of light appeared, and the slayer and two human soldiers joined the fray—not enough to turn the tide, but enough to keep it at bay a few minutes more. Illyria smiled, and thanked Wesley silently, but then, she looked forward in time—she could do that again, she realized--and knew they weren’t out of danger.

Rupert Giles watched as the two young women—he could hardly help but think of them as children still, despite their power—transitioned into the third part of Wesley’s spell. Indeed, Giles was impressed by the elaborate nature of Wesley’s plan, its exacting attention to detail. He watched the two women—two powerful witches, both of whom he knew he should have paid more attention to—and saw them push themselves past exhaustion, saw them begin reaching into the fabric of the (continued...)

( continues...) pocket dimension, and extending the time within it, drawing it back to the “real” world by force of will. His own time seemed relatively slow, however, when a gunshot fired and Willow screamed with pain, falling out of the ritual. Giles turned as if in slow motion, and Ethan Rayne stood holding a pistol, wearing a menacing smile.

And in an aspect of Los Angeles, suspended outside of time, Illyria’s body disintegrated completely, and heroes and monsters alike watched in horror as the sky collapsed.

Wow, Victor. There's a lot to juggle here. On my first pass, I'll just make two nit-picks:

And in a city covered a planet that was, in some ways, also hidden inside Los Angeles—

I can't parse this in a way that makes sense.

“Whatever you’re planning, Wesley,” she said. “Do it quick.”

Unless this is intentionally evocative of Fred and a Southern colloquialism, Illyria's speech is formal enough that you want 'quickly' instead of 'quick' here.

I'm eager to see how this looks when mixed in with the rest; this scene demands a lot more of the reader's attention to keep track of multiple people at once. But it's good work; I look forward to seeing more of it.

Victor, I fell behind in reading this thread, and had to skip. Are you going to post everything in one place once you are done?