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?

Karl, corrections made. Thanks.

Are you going to post everything in one place once you are done?

That's the plan, assuming I ever finish it. Maybe I'll just end it there. (:

Part Thirty-five: …To be the bad man

Ethan was remarkably fast. No sooner had he shot Willow, than he swung the pistol upside Giles’ head, knocking the Watcher to the floor. Wesley was drawing his pistol, but Ethan—still smirking—uttered a word Amy couldn’t understand and, in an instant, Wesley vanished, replaced by another diamond embedded in the wall.

“But… but … I thought you were on our side,” stuttered Amy, dazed and too weakened from her and Willow’s spells to act quickly. She tried to draw ambient magical energy to her, but it was doing no good.

“Oh, puh-LEASE,” said Ethan, rolling his eyes. “Don’t you get it? I’m the bad guy. I’m always the bad guy. And so are you. Please don’t tell me you’ve been falling for that redemption crap the werewolf has been … No. No, I can see it. Gods below, what is it with the Sunnydale crowd? ‘Oh, I’m a vampire, but I have a soul!’ ‘I’m a werewolf, but I really like tofu!’ ‘I’m the bad slayer, no! Wait! I’m …”

“Don’t you care that the world is going to end? Soon?”

“Of course I care,” said Ethan, still manic. “When the dimensions thin, which should be any minute now, the gods of chaos, whom I worship, will be free to wander the Earth to their hearts’ content. And I’ll be rewarded.”

“Rewarded?”

“Oh, yes. I’m hoping for something in a gold pocket watch. With my name engraved on it? Something to keep track of things as I wander the rubble of the world.”

“Don’t you get it? There won’t be any world left!”

“Oh, sure there will. The gods and demons will take their time trashing the place—fighting each other, gathering slaves. It will all be bloody marvelous.”

“You’re one sick puppy, you know that?”

Ethan’s smile grew even broader, his eyes more narrow.

“Thank you. About time someone around here figured that out. Of course, I can see you’re trying to figure out how to stop me. You can’t. Even if you get your strength back, you’re going to need it to hold the universe together while I walk out of here.”

“The … universe?”

“Well, a good chunk of it, anyway. But don’t worry. Willow could do it. Oh, but you’re not Willow, are you?”

This week's challenge for Open on Sunday is "Hair". This is rather creepy: the setting declares itself, I think.

Quickening

The spell, translated precisely, meant "Quickening."

There was the blood of a deer. There was preparation, and thought; there had been no humility, no sense that this was right, or wrong, or anything other than needful.

The spell was meant to quicken: in this instance, to quicken the flow of blood, the rebooting of a heartbeat, quickening air into lungs.

The spell, interrupted, didn't quicken - rather, it caused a surge. Flesh, lungs, heart, vision, and Buffy screamed, clawing her way from her coffin. The last thing to regain its own light was her bright hair, nearly gone to dust.

Part Thirty-six: Burning

They were losing. Justine was certain of it. She didn’t know exactly why the skies were turning red, but she knew it was a bad omen.

“Wesley blew it, didn’t he?” asked Faith, under her breath. Justine nodded blankly. Neither woman took their eyes off Doc, who stood brandishing a sword at them. Connor was behind them, standing between Xander and Dawn. Marcie seemed to have disappeared. More so.

“Well, then,” said Doc. “Seems we have a bit of a problem. The pocket dimension is gone.”

“Does that mean …” stuttered Faith.

“Sure does,” said Doc. “Means the dimensional gateways to Earth are beginning to open. Pretty soon it’ll be tourist season for pan-dimensional visitors.”

“We have to get to Wesley,” said Justine.

“Go,” said Faith. “I can take him.”

“Oh, by all means,” said Doc, and it bothered Justine just how level and friendly his voice remained. “You see to your friend. The lady and I will finish up here, and I’ll catch up.”

Doc’s smile was the most frightening thing she’d ever seen. Justine glanced once more at Faith, to be certain, and as soon as she did, Faith leapt forward, she and Doc embraced in combat. Justine ran.

She didn’t know where she was going, so she just ran on instinct. Minutes passed, and she seemed drawn to an electric hum in the air, a subliminal pulsing of energy. She followed it, and it led her to a gargantuan temple, as ruined and monolithic as everything else here–A house for gods that no longer existed.

Justine entered cautiously. The Watcher, Giles, was unconscious on the floor. The witch, Willow, was down, too—injured and bleeding. And Amy stood in the middle of a mystical vortex, a whirlwind of energy engulfing her. Her skin seemed on fire, and she was screaming.

“Amy,” said Justine, tentatively reaching her hand toward the engulfed witch. “What’s happening? What are you doing?”

“She’s … holding the flood gates closed,” said a weak voice. It was Willow. “Can’t … help her. Too … weak.”

“Who did this?” said Justine, panic running through her veins like ice water. “Where’s Wesley? Where’s…”

“Ethan,” said Willow, obviously near blacking out. She needed medical attention immediately. “Betrayed …”

Amy seemed to stare out of the flame at Justine. The energies were tearing at her—Justine could see the agony etched on her face. She didn’t know what …

“Will,” muttered the Watcher, starting to come too. Justine looked to the young witch lying bleeding, and realized she’d already removed her jacket to try and staunch the wound.

“No,” said the Watcher, pointing toward Amy. “Lend her … your will.”

There were things she knew to her bone. She knew she was a slayer—albeit one that was called among many. And she knew slayers served Watchers, although Buffy had broken that rule, too. And she knew that what Watchers did was sacrifice their slayers for the greater good. This was why she’d been called: to be sent to her death.

Justine didn’t reply. She just stepped to the edge of the fire, and without a word, she thrust her arm into the flame, grabbing Amy’s hand. The energy was consuming both of them now. She felt the heat down to her bones, to her cell structure. There wasn’t a part of her that wasn’t on fire. She clenched Amy’s hand tight, and grit her teeth. She didn’t scream, and her tears evaporated as she burned in silence.

Huh. If I'm guessing right, this should come in at an even forty parts.

I may well have just jinxed myself.

Don't overthink it, Victor. Parts is parts; we'll like it no matter how many there are. It looks good from here.