Chapter 29:  Safe as Houses

Skaya followed the old man into the geometries of the Institute’s lower depths.  The paths were marked with weirdly familiar symbols.  Above one archway: a pyramid with a lone, baleful eye perched at the top.  Etched onto a square of marble flooring: a clock with hands frozen at six and twelve, guarded by a sly-faced moon.

This part of the building was only as creepy as Rupert allowed it to be, she realized.  Her Watcher traded in secrets that were older than many gods, but it was possible that most of this crap was just for show; stuff to keep the plebes from getting too nosy.  He was smart like that.  If Skaya was the Revolution's strong right arm, then Rupert and his Institute of Post Normal Science was its giant, pulsing, thinky brain.

Rupert Giles.

They weren’t friends, exactly.  She would say she trusted him about as far as she could throw him, but the truth was she could throw him pretty far.  No, she wouldn’t leave her guard down, but she needed him now.

Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, she thought, as her hand brushed the back of the man's jacket.

Memories from before the War were already becoming a little cloudy, fading to gray.   For the longest time the nightmare was hers alone.  One girl in all the world, battling Hell in obscurity and the cutest shoes a teen allowance could afford.  It started out as a cozy little destiny built for two: a Slayer and a Watcher in a world full of folks who’d rather go their whole lives without worrying about monsters jumping out of the shadows at them.

But then, Hell-A happened.  Then a dragon barbecuing a skyscraper live on the 6’o’clock news, and YouTubed demons stampeding down Hollywood Boulevard.   In the words of a dearly departed friend, the world was “bent and buggered proper, sans the dinner and movie, pet.”   It was as though her curse had been suddenly and violently thrust upon the entire planet.  People were angry and afraid, and they had every right to be.

After the purges started, everyone had a different plan.  The Witch and the Watcher were at odds from the very beginning.  Giles toed the Council line, pushing for patience and self-concealment and quiet, cautious resolve.  Skaya thought it was very British of him.

But Willow Rosenberg would have none of it.  Something burned inside her.  The way she talked about "them" and "they'", she could’ve been talking about any old nest of vampires or demons, something to be unceremoniously staked or baked.  If human beings had become 'they', then what did that make Willow?  What did it make the Slayer?

Reactions to the new war were predictable.  Tara dutifully carried water for her lover, and Xander went along with the Math of Oldest Friends.  Oz strummed his way towards whatever patch of Hell looked coolest.  Angel - weary of heartbreak and corporate management - vanished into the shadows, never to be heard from again.  Cordy disappeared along with him, probably hoping to sleep through this latest sequel of Apocalypse Now-ish.  Faith and Wes defected, Anya defaulted and Spike, as always, deferred.  That vampire loved nothing better than a good, violent brawl, but he waited to see which direction his beloved Slayer would break.  As usual, it seemed the battle lines were being drawn directly across Buffy’s heart.

Buffy Summers. The little moron mangled beasties by the boatload, but never had any idea why.  "Good" and "evil" were subjects more mysterious than Trigonometry -- boring details for the nerds to sort out.  Skaya remembered all those mind numbing afternoons spent in the well of the high school library, or huddled like thieves in the Magic Box.   She'd always felt allergic to all those piles of musty books, spilled across long tables like they were at a cram session for some big, boring test she had no hope of passing.   Just like Spike, the Slayer was always waiting for someone else to choose - to shout eureka! and point her in the general direction of butt-kickery.  Then, after all the blood and dust had settled, she could get back to focusing on the truly earth-shaking problems of shoes and boyfriends and ex-boyfriends and ex-boyfriends-to-be.

There were no shortcuts this time around.  Just the Watcher and the Witch and the moral canyon between them.  So Buffy Summers picked a side.  Stupidly, almost randomly, it had been Willow’s.

Her vampire tagged along, of course, loyal down to the last atom of his being.  Together with the others, they tried to wage the Witch’s campaign of terror as humanely as they could.   But as the war raged on, so did Willow Rosenberg’s bitter contempt for anything remotely "human".  More and more, it felt like Giles had gotten it right.  There were good reasons that shadowy beings and secret societies were kept all shadowy and secretive, and that the worlds of Man and Magic had been so stubbornly held apart for so long. 

If only she’d figured it out sooner, seen the writing on the wall.  But those were days were long gone.  "Buffy Summers" was as dead as Xander Harris, and more dusted than William the Bloody.  Skaya the Scourge was all that remained of her, and vengeance was all she had left to give.

“Watch your step,” Rupert advised, shaking her loose from her thoughts.  “Things tend to get a bit confusing, down here…”

They descended a winding stone staircase.  The further they walked, the darker the world became.  A noise like a hundred snakes hissed up at them from the depths. She heard the Watcher mutter a small word, and a ring of silver flame burst from his left hand, revealing the way down in rippling iridescent waves.

The stairs deposited them into a squat passageway that seemed carved out of volcanic rock.  Crumbled black statues lined the way in, their elongated limbs and sharp features more demonic then human.  The tunnel spanned about a dozen yards before abruptly vanishing into a thick blue mist. She could make out a person’s shape in it.  It floated moth-like in the swirling vapors, legs crossed, hands pressed together in some twisted mockery of prayer.  As they drew closer, the grim lines of Ethan Rayne’s face snapped into focus.  The warlock was whispering words; an alien poetry so quick and lilting that the overlapping echoes sounded like a note from single droning horn.

“Rayne?  What the hell is this?”

 “He can’t hear you, Buffy," said Giles.  "He’s between worlds at the moment.”

“Don’t call me that.”  She waived a hand in front of the old Chaos worshiper’s eyes.  His trance had turned them a rich orange, the color of molten iron.  “And, what do you mean, between worlds?”

“It’s the only way he can hold open the portal.  We’ll need to keep you out of sight until we can deal with our Rosenberg situation.”

“Out of sight where?”  She gazed into the gently folding mists.  It wasn’t just a fog, she realized.  The corridor melted and swirled along the seam of it, as though submerged underwater.

“It’s rather like a safety deposit box, I suppose,” replied the Watcher.  “Rayne designed it to be hidden from even the most powerful seer.   To protect certain…”  Something strange happened in his face, then.  He removed the glasses, rubbing them with a renewed zeal.    “Certain assets.”

She frowned at him.  This wasn’t her style.  Hiding.   Frankly, most days it was hard for Skaya to care whether she lived or died.  But she didn’t want Willow to be the one to do it.  Anyone but that coal-eyed bitch.  “Sounds kinky.  But if you lose?  I’m, what, stuck in here forever?”

 “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,” he replied, eyes shimmering down at the lenses, fingers scrubbing and scrubbing.  “If we fail, I’ve a feeling Willow will find some way to grind the truth out of us.  I’ve heard her methods are very persuasive.”

When the old man finally met her gaze, there was a certain familiar vintage of softness there.  An old ache leapt up inside, so raw and unexpected that it terrified her.   “And besides," he added, "I think you’ll be...”  But the lips defeated the tongue before it could finish, and the pale eyes sank to reconsider the wisdom of whatever he was about to say.  The bastard was being Hella British tonight.

“What else have you got locked up in there, Giles?”

He just shook his head.  “Everything is going to be just fine,” he lied.  “I’ll get word to you soon, I promise.  Just trust me.  If only this one last time…”

She studied the whole setup again.   Looked from the Watcher to the portal to Rayne’s horrible eyes and back, whirled her fingers through the boiling blue steam.  It felt surprisingly solid, tugging at her coat sleeve like the fingers of greedy children. 

She lidded her eyes, took a shallow breath.

Thought, Screw it.

Went through.

***

Arranged in the parlor as they were – five of them in a loose circle around Ethan Rayne’s coffee table, a sixth trussed up on the floor, reciting the Lord’s Prayer to an old gooseneck lamp – was an experience that resisted all known labels.  ‘Uncomfortable silence’ would be a majestic understatement.    

Only Rayne himself seemed unaffected.  He sat slurping his tea like a mischievous old spinster, a smug curl teasing the ends of his mouth.  The notion of being this close to his face without sticking a boot in it was a weird new sensation for Buffy.  Of all the opponents she’d ever faced, only Warren was more reptilian and only Spike more unpredictable.  Rayne wasn’t 'evil', in the old-fashioned sense of the word.  He was something a thousand times more dangerous. 

As Buffy thought this, the man suddenly acknowledged her with his impenetrably black eyes, and she was possessed by the chilling notion that he heard her, somehow.

“It’s been fun seeing you all again,” said Ethan, as tranquil as an owl in a hayloft. “Especially you, Ripper.  Been so long, I almost jumped ship on our little bargain.”  Giles shot the warlock a wary look.  “Well,” he added darkly,” it’s not as if I haven’t gotten other offers…”

Xander was still gawking at Drusilla, blown sideways.  “SO, A SAINT YOU SAY?”  His voice was inappropriately loud, Old-Deaf-Guy-ish.  “THAT’S JUST.  GOLLY.”

Giles shook his head.  “Xander, don’t start.”

“START WHAT?  WHO’S STARTING?”  Xander had been acting a little off-kilter since the moment Rayne answered the door, but the revelations of the past hour seemed to have steered him straight off the highway.  “I THINK IT’S A GREAT PLAN.  I’M ON BOARD WITH THIS PLAN.  I’M IN ON THE GROUND FLOOR, BABY.”

Ethan sipped and sipped again.  “Well, there’s much to be done yet.  Events are in motion, on the other side.”

“Yes about that,” said the Watcher.  “Willow mentioned-“

“WILLOW MENTIONED.  GOLLY…”

“-mentioned something about a convergence.  Some sort of emerging pattern, across the dimensions.”

“Yes, well, I'm afraid it’s a bit technical, Ripper,” Ethan replied, suddenly dripping with condescension.  “Best way I can explain it is that our reality and hers are distant in form, but close in essence.  There are shared themes, metaphorical tides.  They impose order upon the chaos of the Multiverse, and then chaos upon that order, and so on, and so forth.  The similarities aren’t always sensible or proportional, but they can provide footholds from one dimension to the next. It's all quite literary, actually.”

“Well, that sounds very nice.  But how does it help us?”

“Well, it doesn’t necessarily help you, mate.  But for us so-called worshipers of Chaos, it means we can thrust our hands across the boundaries between worlds, and perhaps even alter the pattern.  For instance, I’ve already been in touch with my other self, there."  Rayne grinned like a shark, and sunk another bag into his cup.  "Nice chap," he said.  "Shame we’ll have to kill him.”

Giles seemed to drink this idea down smoothly, either understanding what the warlock was babbling about or pretending to.   But no matter how creepy Ethan was, Buffy found his air of arrogance weirdly comforting.  If he actually could help Willow to perform her sacrifice -- to banish The Now -- then maybe it was possible he could also bring the woman back home.  Whether he would actually do it, or what tricks he’d have hidden up his sleeve after he did, was a whole other bag of beans, of course.  

Agent of Chaos, and whatnot, she mused.

Guess that’s what crossbows are for...

Spike ignored them all, continuing his scientific study of a floorboard.  This was the first time she’d seen him in actual clothes since Sunnydale, and the effect was searing.  It made the distance between them somehow feel more real and excruciating.  And although the Dauphin had prepared her - in his own frustrating way - the image of him cradling Drusilla was a dagger in a lung.   Her demon had howled like a wounded dog, and, for the first time in a long time, she heard the rest of herself wailing right along with it. Buffy's world usually seemed too huge and strange for love, but down in the freezing darkness it was now love, love and nothing else, suicidal and screaming and red raw.  Love that hurt like a murder weapon.

She picked idly at a patch of lint on her skirt and swallowed a gulp of warm spit, feeling sickeningly human.  On the floor near Spike’s feet, Drusilla continued to chant prayers, her little girl voice mocking all the world’s favorite old delusions. “And lead us not into temptation,” she whispered.

And exactly what sort of God would  'lead people into temptation', Buffy wondered.  It occurred to her that out of everyone in the room, or maybe even the world, "Saint" Drusilla probably had the best answer for that.

No wonder she’s totally nuts.

***

The girl was about eight feet away, a measurement he collected via a pair of foolhardy glances and a wolfish twitch of the nose.  While the Watcher and his mate talked shop, while Dru played the penitent and Xander the wheedling nob, Spike the Vampire sat weighing his paltry options.

1.      Don’t look at her.

2.      Look at her.  Wanker.

3.      Yell at Watcher.

4.      Jump out the bloody window.

He reached for the lowest hanging fruit.  “Enough!” he barked. “Gonna drive us all potty, you keep at it!”

They all turned to gawk at him.  Her included.  Thinking fast, he lit a ciggie, managed to locate a fascinating patch of ceiling.  “Carryin' on like Dr. Phil and bloody Oprah," he said.  "Jus’ tell me who or what to point my fangs at and be done with it.”

“Perish,” Dru said, momentarily snapped out of her prayers.  “Perish and be plentiful, my love.   The bright morning by the hillside.”   Her eyes were wet with the Vision, but there was suddenly no question to whom she was speaking.  Something chill ran all through him, but he’d be damned if he let it show.

  “Spike,” Rupert sighed, his voice reverting to form: a haggard, pompous git once more.  “It’s not quite so simple as that.  There are rules-”

“Oh sod your rules, Watcher!”  He was feeling genuinely angry now.  Righteously pissed off in fact.   “Bloody rules and regulations and traffic lights.  Had rules for Sunny Hell too, an’ look where it got those poor bastards.  Not to mention all of us.”

“Yes, well, that’s very helpful-“

“He’s right,” said Ethan Rayne, his bastard eyes gleaming.  He was still so irritatingly mellow, filled with the cool wind of politicians and murderers.  “We’re running out of time, and I can only do so much from here.  Might have to break a few eggs, Ripper.”

“What are you saying?”

“Saying we might have to send someone through.  To the other side.”

Spike stole a glance at the Watcher.   That craggy Oxford tenor of his was cracking a little, the old badger’s face gone snow white.  “Are you mad?” he asked.

“Hardly,” Ethan answered, and took another docile gulp of tea.  “This thing that’s coming – this nothing, this Now.  It’s not an enemy, so much.   Can’t negotiate with it.  Can’t punch it around.  Can’t use tricks to turn it back or slow it down.   It is mindless and bodiless, like a force of nature.  So yeah, we might have to bend the rules slightly.  Take our bloody chances.” 

“Willow,” Buffy said.  “Willow’s closing in on her... me.  The Dauphin showed me.  But she’s not going to make it.  Not in time.”

Rayne nodded. “She’s clever, your girl.  But she’s jumped into a world she doesn’t quite understand, to kill a version of the Slayer who is more ruthless and vengeful than she could have possibly imagined.  She nearly died in combat with her once, already.  I fear her next attempt won’t turn out so well.”

“I’ll go.”  The girl’s voice was cast iron.  Spike gave up and looked.  Her face reminded him of that night in the gas station, on the lamb from a slag goddess.  It suddenly felt like no years had passed between then and now.   They were doing it all over, trapped in the same sodding orbits.  The notion put its claws in him. 

This is how we are.

But Rayne just shook his head dismissively.  “You can’t,” he said. 

“Why not?”

“Because, darling, you are already there.  As am I.  As is Mr. Giles.” 

The cheeky cunt left off there, dabbed his mouth with a nappie.  It set Xander all a-twitch.  “As is…” the boy mewled, willing the words with his hands.  But they never arrived.  “Oh,” he said, taking the point at last.  “Well. Darn it.”

 “No worries Xander.  You’re not going through.”  The warlock grinned, and cocked his head at Spike.  “He is.”

***

Lieutenant Ruddock appeared suddenly beside him, guiding the beam of his flashlight out along the prison's cavernous walls.

“We’re going in,” he said.

This wasn’t good news.

At least the suit was way cool.  Black with lots of pockets, very Mod Squad.   Andrew tapped the earpiece (also cool).

"Twisted-Sister-this-is Gold-Leader,” he whispered.  “We’re going in. Over.”

Static.  Damn.

“Gold-Leader-to-Twisted-Sister.  Do you copy?  Over.”

“Shhh!” Ruddock hissed.  “Godammit, Wells, what the hell did I just tell you?”

“Um… no unnecessary radio communications?”  Ruddock glared at him, doing his mean 'Sergeant Rock' thing again.  “But this is, like, totally necessary.   Dawn's our Mission Control.  Plus, she’s like... smart.”  Ruddock muttered something Andrew didn’t catch, and grumped off into the darkness. 

Guy has a serious attitude problem, he thought

The vaults underneath the Ecto Containment Unit were as huge and creepy as anything Andrew had ever seen back in Sunnydale.   This was where the Council kept all their scariest bad guys - the ones they couldn’t kill, anyway.  "Worst of the worst was what Polly told him, back in the dorms.  Time traveling phantoms and giant Space Worms, and something she called a "Fury."  That last one in particular didn’t sound so friendly.

  Anyway, they went in.  Lt. Ruddock took point, with Polly Doakes and the rest of Andrew’s Elite Strike Force tailing in close behind.  It had been a few minutes since the power went out, and the little blossoms of emergency light just made everything ten times spookier, caking every nook and cranny in long black shadows.  The humming sound of the generators was like the soundtrack to a nightmare, hives of metal bees.  About twenty feet above them, a big sign hung down from a hinge, its faintly glowing letters warning them that they were about to enter “D-Block.”

Nope.  None of this was of the good variety.  This was Aliens Vs. Predators meets Freddie Vs. Jason meets Sanitarium III: Nuns of Pestilence.

If it was a movie, Andrew figured, then this would be the really quiet part, the scene right before everything went all World’O’Suck.  Like, he’d be walking along, looking all badass and stuff, joking with his buds about how he's gonna kick some Satanic booty and THEN SUDDENLY BAM!  SOMETHING JUMPS OUT AT HIM, OH GOD!  And the whole audience goes “Oh!” and “Ah!” and “Huhhhhhhhh!”

Usually, it turns out to be a cat or, like, a mop falling out of a closet or something lame like that.  He’d be safe, for now.  The audience would laugh it off.  Maybe clap a little.

But they know, he thought. 

They know it’s coming, and there’s nothing they can do to stop it...

“Okay, listen up people,” said Ruddock.   “We’re gonna split in two squads.  Polly, I want you to take Angie, Palmer, Frenchie and Stiles and go check out the containment deck.   The rest of us will fan out and cover administration, maintenance and… for... for god-sakes, what is it now?!”

Andrew lowered his hand timidly.  “Um, it’s just, this whole splitting up thing?”  He felt his face and stomach twist, a towel wrung from both ends.  “Not so sure that’s the greatest idea in the world, you know?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, it’s just,” he stammered.  “I mean, it never really works out so good.  People are always like ‘oh hey, let’s split up, we’ll cover more ground that way.’  And then, you know...”

A dozen sets of eyes blinked back at him.  He tittered nervously, sawed a little finger across his throat.

“Hhhhhhhhkk,” he explained.

“Okay, slight change of plans,” said Ruddock.  He pointed at Polly.  “You take Andrew.”

And with that, Elite Strike Force B-Squad scampered.off into the bowels of the vault, their footfalls receding like a round of half-hearted applause.

Polly led the rest of them up the stairs towards the containment deck.  Where, Andrew assumed, various things were contained.  A ring of massive metal bulkheads loomed above an arcade of interlocking platforms and catwalks.  Andrew jiggled his flashlight up and down the seamless, rust-red coving.

"So," he whispered, “if this is a jail, then where are the doors?”

"There aren’t any doors,” said Polly.  “Nothing down here is ever supposed to get out."

"Well, what about that one?”  He shined the light on gaping hole in a bulkhead, about sixty feet away.  The wall seemed like it was torn inwards, by something roughly the size of pickup truck.  “Oh,” he said.

Angie sidled up next to him, and shined her light on it too.  "Looks like your pet was here, Wells," she murmured.  A second after she said it, something flinched near the edge of her beam, and sent a blade of shadow slashing through it.

Huhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

Polly gritted her teeth, drew a long sword from a scabbard across her back.  Angie and the rest of the gang followed suit, guns and blades clicking into place as they crept down the length of the catwalk towards the shattered wall.  There was a new sound beneath the droning of the generators, now; a soup of human voices that giggled and whispered and screamed.   Andrew’s heart rebelled against it, two tiny fists hammering his ribcage.  As they peered into the cell’s cavernous innards, the soldier named Palmer traced the edge of the hole with his light, settling on a pair of numbers etched into the steel.  “Sixteeen,” he said.

“Oh God,” he heard Polly Doakes whisper. “Oh no, no, no, no.”  The young Slayer’s voice was ragged, verging on terror.  A ‘scared Slayer’ was a fairly new concept to Andrew, as mysterious as a talking dog.  He didn’t like it.  Polly turned to him, balloon-eyed and drained of color, practically in tears.  “Andrew,” she gasped.  “Oh God, Andrew, I’m so sorry."

"What do you mean?"

"We should’ve never brought you down here.”

“What is it?” he asked.  “Is it the worms?  Those time-guys?”

"Oh shit," cried Angie, like she just realized the same thing.  “Oh shit, Poll, we gotta get him outta here.  Now.”

Before Andrew could figure out what was happening they were all moving, retreating in a hasty line towards the stairs.  But something was standing in their path, now.  It was an outline of a person, slight and boyish.  The pack of young warriors instantly fell into a defensive wedge.  Their arsenal bristled back at the small silhouette, a gleaming fringe of Death. Shoulders sloped and passive, head cocked at a shy angle, the figure shouldn't have been the least bit threatening.  But something down at the bottom of Andrew's soul was vibrating like a harp string.

Why? he thought.

Why is it looking at me?