Rogue Squadron
When Richard Wilkins came to Sunnydale, he began construction on the intricate tunnel system beneath the city. He did this
so that his sewer dwelling allies could get around, day or night, and while Wilkins never used the tunnels because, frankly,
they were filthy! the system had been a prime attraction for vamps and demons alike over the years. Where else in the
world, besides Paris, could you navigate from point A to point B without ever venturing above ground?
Mayor Wilkins also set construction teams to work expanding and maintaining the tunnel system in perpetuity. They
continued to grow after the mayor’s death, so that of the things Wilkins left behind after his botched ascension, the tunnel
system was his greatest legacy.
Jonathan Levinson appreciated the irony in the fact that a man who tried to ascend to a higher plane managed to create
the most complex subterranean passageways this side of the Isle of Crete.
Also of value was that while Mayor Wilkins had designed these tunnels for nefarious purposes, the good guys were the ones
using them now.
At his hip, a walkie-talkie staticked to life, startling him from his reverie. Jonathan whipped it from its holster and toggled
the talk button.
“This is Echo 1,” he whispered. “Password?”
A tinny, slightly annoyed British accent answered. “It’s Gold Bikini,” Wesley said.
Jonathan enjoyed a private laugh, but it was short-lived.
The walkie-talkie crackled again. “Echo 1,” Wesley said. “Abort the mission. Code Calrissian. Repeat. Code Calrissian.”
Jonathan lowered the walkie with fingers stiff as gaffi sticks. “They knew we were here,” he murmured.
After a moment of dumb fear, Jonathan tuned the dial to channel 19 and clicked the talk button again. “Echo 2, this is Echo
1, do you read?”
No response, save the tinselly whirr of radio noise.
“Echo 2? Do you copy?”
Nothing.
Jonathan was alone in the dark. He didn’t know what had gone wrong. Part of him said, hey, pack it in and run while your
little legs can still carry you. But Warren and Andrew might be in trouble, plus his odds of survival plummeted if Ripper got
his hands on the Slayer.
Jonathan knew enough about TriadCorp and The Coven’s plans… If the mission went south, they had a contingency set up.
Just in case.
He clipped the walkie-talkie to his belt and made his way deeper into the tunnels, toward Room 900.
Meanwhile, in the bowels of Sunnydale.
Andrew paused, grimacing. Describing the tunnel systems as bowels was – while accurate – well, it was gross.
He was waiting for Jonathan to show. Andrew was early, on count of the snafu at the beach, but had confidence that
Warren would take care of everything. And Andrew would wait. And while he was waiting…
Andrew could never quite resist the mystery of the Abyss, as the Witches called it. Therefore, he slipped quick as The Flash
along the paths to the door labeled Room 900. He pulled his access card from the pocket of his lab coat and swiped it over
the computer panel. A digital interface screen dialed out from the wall, its LED bathing the gloom in a translucent blue glow.
A message scrolled across in bank-gothic lettering: Access Code?
This made Andrew quiver in his nethers. He had a thing for technology, and this place tweaked all his kinks. His fingers
tingled as he keyed in the 10-digit code and pressed enter.
The readout blinked. An androgynous computerized voice said, “Place your right hand on the scanner bed.”
Andrew licked his lips and muttered, “Spare the talk, Seven of Nine. You know what turns me on.” He placed his palm on the
screen. A bar of light ran the length of his hand, which he enjoyed beyond decency.
A satisfying clunk and whoosh of air later, the door rolled back to reveal the enormous silo-shaped cave that was Room 900.
Andrew raised his arms as if to embrace a masterpiece and went inside.
This was the place where all the magic happened – this circular room 400 feet in diameter by 900 feet in height, with its deep
pit of swirling gray murk and banks of ionic inhibitors, generators, and supercomputers. To his right was his work table with
its impressive array of scientific gadgetry that would make Geordi La Forge salivate, though to be fair Andrew could only
work about a third of the devices. On the left, rising four stories above the main floor was a metal platform resembling
Beelzebub’s diving board. That was the newest addition to the room, and Andrew was still waiting to learn its purpose.
The Dimensional Gaps Project was Warren’s baby. All he talked about was the geo-political ramifications of being able to
create and control dimensional gaps, and he would get tweaked when Andrew and Jonathan snickered at the word
ramification.
Andrew knew he was partly responsible for the project, too. After all, he was the one who had translated the Taonyx
Parchments, and since then, doors had been opening for him, metaphorically and metaphysically. Physically, too. That’s
what the Parchments did. They opened portals between worlds, almost exactly like Stargate. There was a device involved, a
kind of universal remote. So far Andrew had only heard about that.
The Abyss itself was a dimensional gap, the first one opened by The Coven, but as far as Andrew knew, no one had been able
to travel through it.
Thing was, Ripper and his Witchy Women didn’t want to hear about what would happen on a cosmic scale if they left these
doors open. Since no one knew how to close said dimensional gaps, they had no choice but to leave them open. Therefore the
fate of worlds rested on the shoulders of three small men.
Andrew grinned. One small man and two regular sized ones.
He checked his watch again. Still a half-hour till the rendezvous. Andrew approached the lip of the yawning pit. He cast a
furtive glance at the door, which had swished closed again, waiting to seduce its next victim with its sleek keypad and
sultry monotone.
Andrew approached the tower. He gripped the metal handrails and began to scale the frighteningly steep rungs that echoed
with a hollow pong! sound with every step, which under other circumstances, he would have found entertaining. Now it
sounded ominous, as did the cold steel of the handrails, and the waft of stench like dead stuff on a beach that hit him three-
quarters of the way up.
Still, curiosity being his kryptonite, he continued until he reached the platform.
Forty feet up didn’t seem like much, but when it was a metal platform extending over a bottomless crater filled with what
looked like boiling ink, it seemed like a cajillion miles. Andrew’s knees locked and his heart pounded like a frightened Tribble
in his chest. He couldn’t move, and then, it got worse.
There was something alive down there, something with whippy tendrils stirring in the greasy muck, something with eyes like
pustules and a thousand gulping mouths that would devour everything whole if it bridged the gap.
Andrew felt the Abyss drawing him forward. He twisted away, but his knees stayed stubbornly put, so that he crashed hard
onto his left elbow and hip.
That thing… That monster was dragging him toward the gap. Andrew could feel it on him like icy talons, and every place it
touched felt foul and rotten as an alcoholic’s teeth. Andrew clung to the rail. A quick look down showed that if he fell, he’d
still disappear into the Abyss, where he would be digested for a thousand years in the belly of that hideous creature.
Andrew scrambled backward, swung his legs over the top step, and rushed down to drop the last few meters to crumple at
the base of the tower.
Just as the door slid open, revealing Ripper first, and then…
“Slayer?” Andrew shouted, getting to his feet.
She was beautiful as a butterfly, or a fresh spring flower, but she was really dirty and covered in…
Ripper hauled her passed Andrew.
“Is that blood?” he asked, tagging along. “Ripper, is it…?”
Ripper shoved her ahead, then turned on Andrew, a gun in his hand. All Andrew saw was the big round barrel pointed at his
nose.
“You’ve begun the last phase of the ritual, have you?”
Andrew couldn’t control his shaking. Even his teeth chattered. He said, “Uhm… about that. We’re stalled till Mercury rises,
which is six hours away, so we’re in a… a h-holding pattern.” His breath ran out, and he was still staring down the gun.
Behind Ripper came a chilling sound, one that sent shivers racing up Andrew’s spine. The sound of the Slayer, laughing.
Ripper and Andrew turned to face her. She stood, legs shoulder width apart, arms folded, head tilted to the side. Andrew
didn’t know what he feared more – the thing in the pit, or her: the Slayer.
“I know what you’re doing, Ripper,” she said. “It will never work.”
Ripper rolled his eyes. “Save it,” he spat. He then turned the gun on her. Andrew was wondering, why the Sarlaac doesn’t
she split his ribcage and paint the walls with his ex-Watcher entrails? when Ripper went to a metal chest and dragged out
the chains.
Andrew clenched his fists. Those were the chains…
“These have been tested,” Ripper explained, panting as he hobbled to Buffy’s side, chains dripping from iron shackles, the
neck cuff gripped between his hands. “On a Slayer. So you can be assured you’ll not break free…”
Buffy lifted her chin, and Ripper smiled. “Ah yes, I see you recall Faith. She put up a fight, but I have too much at stake not
to have a trial run.”
Andrew watched in horror as Ripper clamped the iron collar on Buffy’s neck, chains jangling tunelessly. Then he cuffed each
wrist, and when he went to chain her ankles, Andrew thought she’d take her chance and clock him in the chin, or at least
shove him over. He was old and she was the Slayer. Why wasn’t she taking him?
Ripper ran the length of the chain to the fist-sized bolt in the wall. He slipped it through, and locked it off. She was the
prisoner. Ripper had caught her, just like that.
Andrew gaped, his jaw unhinged. She was the Slayer, the hero, their last hope, and she was giving up! He wanted to scream
at her, but it would totally blow his cover as a double agent.
At that moment, the walkie-talkie on Andrew’s work table hissed to life. Andrew jumped like a womp rat in a rainstorm.
“Echo 2, this is Echo 1, do you read?”
Ripper clapped his eyes onto Andrew, penetrating him with a stare of pure evilness, and Andrew got why Buffy wasn’t
fighting back. He breathed out a wheezy laugh.
“That would be Jonathan,” Andrew said. We walked stiff-legged to the table and snapped the walkie off. “We play war
games. Y’know, when we’re not busy inventing doomsday weapons or translating ancient rituals for calling, um…” he
exhaled sharply… “whatever’s in the Abyss. Shout-out to, um, big bad evil in pits.”
Ripper glowered at him. “Whatever. You’re here, with her. I’ll ready the Coven and will return in time for Mercury’s rising.”
He left them, dragging his ruined foot behind him like a club. When he reached the door, he turned. “Oh, almost forgot.” He
took a control from his pocket and thumbed a button. On cue, a pair of two-story warehouse doors on the opposite side of
the pit rolled open. Eight Raggoth demons stepped out, like they’d been waiting in cold storage, and probably had been.
Ripper gave them a look made of smug. “See you at the ritual,” he said, and left them.
The Raggoth demons positioned themselves around the pit, and since they were muscle-bound like John Cena-times-ten and
she was in chains, there was no way she could fight them.
Andrew rushed to the work table, scattering parchments in his haste to snap the walkie-talkie back on.
“Jonathan? Jonathan, do you read?” he rasped into the receiver. “Hello?”
“So you’re the one who started the ritual,” Buffy said in a dreadful monotone. “Why does this not surprise me?”
“See, that was a large misunderstanding,” Andrew whispered, keeping the talk button on the walkie depressed. “When
Warren gave me those scrolls to translate, we thought we were opening a space-time continuum conduit into a galaxy far,
far away. I didn’t know I was initiating an inter-dimensional self-destruct sequence. Also the giant monster in the pit’s a
surprise...” He placed his palms on the table. He was sweating but his throat was asbestos dry. Realization struck him and
he turned panic-sick eyes to hers. “Oh God, Warren. He went to get you out…”
Buffy lowered her eyes. “He did,” she said. “He’s dead. I’m sorry.”
Andrew’s knees buckled and he dropped. This attracted the attention of the nearest two Raggoth, who, like hyenas,
preferred to attack if you were down. Andrew gathered his strength and got back up, but clung to the table to stay that
way.
“Warren’s dead?”
Buffy’s already stony expression hardened. She said, “Ripper shot him in the face.”
Andrew charged her, spitting angry, gripped her shoulders, which he would never do had he been in his right mind. He shook
her, though, rattling her chains. “Why didn’t you attack him, then? Why didn’t you kill Ripper? You had chances aplenty.”
She turned her haunted eyes to his. “You wanna be next to die?” she asked. “Do you? First Dr. Kriegel, then Spike and Angel,
now Warren. I can’t fight Ripper. Not like this.”
Andrew scoffed. “Not in chains.”
She turned to face the wall. He watched her face, watched how the muscles in her smooth, luminescent cheek worked, and
he realized she was fighting… only it was tears.
“Hey…” he said, releasing her.
She shook her head. “I keep daring to hope,” she said. “I keep thinking there will be a way out of this, but people are dying.
I’m not even supposed to be here. If I fight Ripper and I lose, I lose everything. If I win, I’ll still probably lose everything.
How can I fight? Can you tell me that?” Her voice broke. “Can you tell me?”
Andrew blurted, “How can you not?”
Buffy’s brow furrowed. She said, “Well, that simples things up.”
She tugged on the chains experimentally. They bit like cold teeth into her skin. The collar made Spike’s bite mark all itchy.
Plus, the Raggoth demons moved closer, mouths slavering at the prospect of sucking marrow from Slayer bones.
Buffy tried another approach. “You translated the scrolls,” she said.
“Partly. They were in proto-Tuwarik. I’m pretty good with it.”
She stared at him so hard he grew uncomfortable. He scratched his head, shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He
glanced at the Raggoth, who stared forward like those puffy-hat-wearing guards at Buckingham Palace.
“Wanna get back at Ripper for Warren?”
Andrew darkened. “With every shred of my being.”
“Then I need your help,” Buffy whispered.
Andrew was nodding. On the outside. On the inside, he was shrieking to run away to Mexico as fast as his legs could carry
him. However, there was Jonathan to consider, who couldn’t run very fast, and the idea of avenging Warren made his blood
hot.
“Andrew?” Buffy said.
He took a breath. “What about these guys?”
“Get me out these chains. I’ll take care of them.”
Andrew steepled his finger and thumb on his chin while he thought about what he could use to cut through chains that a
Slayer couldn’t break.
Then he had it. He picked up the walkie and real quiet-like said, “Echo 2, do you read?”
The reply came back immediately. “I’m Echo 1, doofus.”
Andrew racked his forehead with the walkie. “Right,” he said, shooting a sheepish look at Buffy. “Echo 1, this is Echo 2, do
you read?”
“I read. I’m on my way…”
“Change of plans, copy?”
A pause, then Jonathan said, “I copy.”
“Operation Meltinator. Room 900. Can you get clearance?”
On the other end, Jonathan was already diverting to their secret lab. “Consider me there,” he said. “Over and out.”
Andrew plunked the walkie on the table and made his hands into balled fists. “It’s done,” he said.
“Now we wait,” Buffy said.
An awkward silence ensued. Buffy shifted her weight.
Finally, he said, “Wanna play rock-paper-scissors?”
Buffy smiled. She said, “You don’t change much, do you?” she asked, which Andrew thought was strange since they had
never officially met.
When Richard Wilkins came to Sunnydale, he began construction on the intricate tunnel system beneath the city. He did this
so that his sewer dwelling allies could get around, day or night, and while Wilkins never used the tunnels because, frankly,
they were filthy! the system had been a prime attraction for vamps and demons alike over the years. Where else in the
world, besides Paris, could you navigate from point A to point B without ever venturing above ground?
Mayor Wilkins also set construction teams to work expanding and maintaining the tunnel system in perpetuity. They
continued to grow after the mayor’s death, so that of the things Wilkins left behind after his botched ascension, the tunnel
system was his greatest legacy.
Jonathan Levinson appreciated the irony in the fact that a man who tried to ascend to a higher plane managed to create
the most complex subterranean passageways this side of the Isle of Crete.
Also of value was that while Mayor Wilkins had designed these tunnels for nefarious purposes, the good guys were the ones
using them now.
At his hip, a walkie-talkie staticked to life, startling him from his reverie. Jonathan whipped it from its holster and toggled
the talk button.
“This is Echo 1,” he whispered. “Password?”
A tinny, slightly annoyed British accent answered. “It’s Gold Bikini,” Wesley said.
Jonathan enjoyed a private laugh, but it was short-lived.
The walkie-talkie crackled again. “Echo 1,” Wesley said. “Abort the mission. Code Calrissian. Repeat. Code Calrissian.”
Jonathan lowered the walkie with fingers stiff as gaffi sticks. “They knew we were here,” he murmured.
After a moment of dumb fear, Jonathan tuned the dial to channel 19 and clicked the talk button again. “Echo 2, this is Echo
1, do you read?”
No response, save the tinselly whirr of radio noise.
“Echo 2? Do you copy?”
Nothing.
Jonathan was alone in the dark. He didn’t know what had gone wrong. Part of him said, hey, pack it in and run while your
little legs can still carry you. But Warren and Andrew might be in trouble, plus his odds of survival plummeted if Ripper got
his hands on the Slayer.
Jonathan knew enough about TriadCorp and The Coven’s plans… If the mission went south, they had a contingency set up.
Just in case.
He clipped the walkie-talkie to his belt and made his way deeper into the tunnels, toward Room 900.
Meanwhile, in the bowels of Sunnydale.
Andrew paused, grimacing. Describing the tunnel systems as bowels was – while accurate – well, it was gross.
He was waiting for Jonathan to show. Andrew was early, on count of the snafu at the beach, but had confidence that
Warren would take care of everything. And Andrew would wait. And while he was waiting…
Andrew could never quite resist the mystery of the Abyss, as the Witches called it. Therefore, he slipped quick as The Flash
along the paths to the door labeled Room 900. He pulled his access card from the pocket of his lab coat and swiped it over
the computer panel. A digital interface screen dialed out from the wall, its LED bathing the gloom in a translucent blue glow.
A message scrolled across in bank-gothic lettering: Access Code?
This made Andrew quiver in his nethers. He had a thing for technology, and this place tweaked all his kinks. His fingers
tingled as he keyed in the 10-digit code and pressed enter.
The readout blinked. An androgynous computerized voice said, “Place your right hand on the scanner bed.”
Andrew licked his lips and muttered, “Spare the talk, Seven of Nine. You know what turns me on.” He placed his palm on the
screen. A bar of light ran the length of his hand, which he enjoyed beyond decency.
A satisfying clunk and whoosh of air later, the door rolled back to reveal the enormous silo-shaped cave that was Room 900.
Andrew raised his arms as if to embrace a masterpiece and went inside.
This was the place where all the magic happened – this circular room 400 feet in diameter by 900 feet in height, with its deep
pit of swirling gray murk and banks of ionic inhibitors, generators, and supercomputers. To his right was his work table with
its impressive array of scientific gadgetry that would make Geordi La Forge salivate, though to be fair Andrew could only
work about a third of the devices. On the left, rising four stories above the main floor was a metal platform resembling
Beelzebub’s diving board. That was the newest addition to the room, and Andrew was still waiting to learn its purpose.
The Dimensional Gaps Project was Warren’s baby. All he talked about was the geo-political ramifications of being able to
create and control dimensional gaps, and he would get tweaked when Andrew and Jonathan snickered at the word
ramification.
Andrew knew he was partly responsible for the project, too. After all, he was the one who had translated the Taonyx
Parchments, and since then, doors had been opening for him, metaphorically and metaphysically. Physically, too. That’s
what the Parchments did. They opened portals between worlds, almost exactly like Stargate. There was a device involved, a
kind of universal remote. So far Andrew had only heard about that.
The Abyss itself was a dimensional gap, the first one opened by The Coven, but as far as Andrew knew, no one had been able
to travel through it.
Thing was, Ripper and his Witchy Women didn’t want to hear about what would happen on a cosmic scale if they left these
doors open. Since no one knew how to close said dimensional gaps, they had no choice but to leave them open. Therefore the
fate of worlds rested on the shoulders of three small men.
Andrew grinned. One small man and two regular sized ones.
He checked his watch again. Still a half-hour till the rendezvous. Andrew approached the lip of the yawning pit. He cast a
furtive glance at the door, which had swished closed again, waiting to seduce its next victim with its sleek keypad and
sultry monotone.
Andrew approached the tower. He gripped the metal handrails and began to scale the frighteningly steep rungs that echoed
with a hollow pong! sound with every step, which under other circumstances, he would have found entertaining. Now it
sounded ominous, as did the cold steel of the handrails, and the waft of stench like dead stuff on a beach that hit him three-
quarters of the way up.
Still, curiosity being his kryptonite, he continued until he reached the platform.
Forty feet up didn’t seem like much, but when it was a metal platform extending over a bottomless crater filled with what
looked like boiling ink, it seemed like a cajillion miles. Andrew’s knees locked and his heart pounded like a frightened Tribble
in his chest. He couldn’t move, and then, it got worse.
There was something alive down there, something with whippy tendrils stirring in the greasy muck, something with eyes like
pustules and a thousand gulping mouths that would devour everything whole if it bridged the gap.
Andrew felt the Abyss drawing him forward. He twisted away, but his knees stayed stubbornly put, so that he crashed hard
onto his left elbow and hip.
That thing… That monster was dragging him toward the gap. Andrew could feel it on him like icy talons, and every place it
touched felt foul and rotten as an alcoholic’s teeth. Andrew clung to the rail. A quick look down showed that if he fell, he’d
still disappear into the Abyss, where he would be digested for a thousand years in the belly of that hideous creature.
Andrew scrambled backward, swung his legs over the top step, and rushed down to drop the last few meters to crumple at
the base of the tower.
Just as the door slid open, revealing Ripper first, and then…
“Slayer?” Andrew shouted, getting to his feet.
She was beautiful as a butterfly, or a fresh spring flower, but she was really dirty and covered in…
Ripper hauled her passed Andrew.
“Is that blood?” he asked, tagging along. “Ripper, is it…?”
Ripper shoved her ahead, then turned on Andrew, a gun in his hand. All Andrew saw was the big round barrel pointed at his
nose.
“You’ve begun the last phase of the ritual, have you?”
Andrew couldn’t control his shaking. Even his teeth chattered. He said, “Uhm… about that. We’re stalled till Mercury rises,
which is six hours away, so we’re in a… a h-holding pattern.” His breath ran out, and he was still staring down the gun.
Behind Ripper came a chilling sound, one that sent shivers racing up Andrew’s spine. The sound of the Slayer, laughing.
Ripper and Andrew turned to face her. She stood, legs shoulder width apart, arms folded, head tilted to the side. Andrew
didn’t know what he feared more – the thing in the pit, or her: the Slayer.
“I know what you’re doing, Ripper,” she said. “It will never work.”
Ripper rolled his eyes. “Save it,” he spat. He then turned the gun on her. Andrew was wondering, why the Sarlaac doesn’t
she split his ribcage and paint the walls with his ex-Watcher entrails? when Ripper went to a metal chest and dragged out
the chains.
Andrew clenched his fists. Those were the chains…
“These have been tested,” Ripper explained, panting as he hobbled to Buffy’s side, chains dripping from iron shackles, the
neck cuff gripped between his hands. “On a Slayer. So you can be assured you’ll not break free…”
Buffy lifted her chin, and Ripper smiled. “Ah yes, I see you recall Faith. She put up a fight, but I have too much at stake not
to have a trial run.”
Andrew watched in horror as Ripper clamped the iron collar on Buffy’s neck, chains jangling tunelessly. Then he cuffed each
wrist, and when he went to chain her ankles, Andrew thought she’d take her chance and clock him in the chin, or at least
shove him over. He was old and she was the Slayer. Why wasn’t she taking him?
Ripper ran the length of the chain to the fist-sized bolt in the wall. He slipped it through, and locked it off. She was the
prisoner. Ripper had caught her, just like that.
Andrew gaped, his jaw unhinged. She was the Slayer, the hero, their last hope, and she was giving up! He wanted to scream
at her, but it would totally blow his cover as a double agent.
At that moment, the walkie-talkie on Andrew’s work table hissed to life. Andrew jumped like a womp rat in a rainstorm.
“Echo 2, this is Echo 1, do you read?”
Ripper clapped his eyes onto Andrew, penetrating him with a stare of pure evilness, and Andrew got why Buffy wasn’t
fighting back. He breathed out a wheezy laugh.
“That would be Jonathan,” Andrew said. We walked stiff-legged to the table and snapped the walkie off. “We play war
games. Y’know, when we’re not busy inventing doomsday weapons or translating ancient rituals for calling, um…” he
exhaled sharply… “whatever’s in the Abyss. Shout-out to, um, big bad evil in pits.”
Ripper glowered at him. “Whatever. You’re here, with her. I’ll ready the Coven and will return in time for Mercury’s rising.”
He left them, dragging his ruined foot behind him like a club. When he reached the door, he turned. “Oh, almost forgot.” He
took a control from his pocket and thumbed a button. On cue, a pair of two-story warehouse doors on the opposite side of
the pit rolled open. Eight Raggoth demons stepped out, like they’d been waiting in cold storage, and probably had been.
Ripper gave them a look made of smug. “See you at the ritual,” he said, and left them.
The Raggoth demons positioned themselves around the pit, and since they were muscle-bound like John Cena-times-ten and
she was in chains, there was no way she could fight them.
Andrew rushed to the work table, scattering parchments in his haste to snap the walkie-talkie back on.
“Jonathan? Jonathan, do you read?” he rasped into the receiver. “Hello?”
“So you’re the one who started the ritual,” Buffy said in a dreadful monotone. “Why does this not surprise me?”
“See, that was a large misunderstanding,” Andrew whispered, keeping the talk button on the walkie depressed. “When
Warren gave me those scrolls to translate, we thought we were opening a space-time continuum conduit into a galaxy far,
far away. I didn’t know I was initiating an inter-dimensional self-destruct sequence. Also the giant monster in the pit’s a
surprise...” He placed his palms on the table. He was sweating but his throat was asbestos dry. Realization struck him and
he turned panic-sick eyes to hers. “Oh God, Warren. He went to get you out…”
Buffy lowered her eyes. “He did,” she said. “He’s dead. I’m sorry.”
Andrew’s knees buckled and he dropped. This attracted the attention of the nearest two Raggoth, who, like hyenas,
preferred to attack if you were down. Andrew gathered his strength and got back up, but clung to the table to stay that
way.
“Warren’s dead?”
Buffy’s already stony expression hardened. She said, “Ripper shot him in the face.”
Andrew charged her, spitting angry, gripped her shoulders, which he would never do had he been in his right mind. He shook
her, though, rattling her chains. “Why didn’t you attack him, then? Why didn’t you kill Ripper? You had chances aplenty.”
She turned her haunted eyes to his. “You wanna be next to die?” she asked. “Do you? First Dr. Kriegel, then Spike and Angel,
now Warren. I can’t fight Ripper. Not like this.”
Andrew scoffed. “Not in chains.”
She turned to face the wall. He watched her face, watched how the muscles in her smooth, luminescent cheek worked, and
he realized she was fighting… only it was tears.
“Hey…” he said, releasing her.
She shook her head. “I keep daring to hope,” she said. “I keep thinking there will be a way out of this, but people are dying.
I’m not even supposed to be here. If I fight Ripper and I lose, I lose everything. If I win, I’ll still probably lose everything.
How can I fight? Can you tell me that?” Her voice broke. “Can you tell me?”
Andrew blurted, “How can you not?”
Buffy’s brow furrowed. She said, “Well, that simples things up.”
She tugged on the chains experimentally. They bit like cold teeth into her skin. The collar made Spike’s bite mark all itchy.
Plus, the Raggoth demons moved closer, mouths slavering at the prospect of sucking marrow from Slayer bones.
Buffy tried another approach. “You translated the scrolls,” she said.
“Partly. They were in proto-Tuwarik. I’m pretty good with it.”
She stared at him so hard he grew uncomfortable. He scratched his head, shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He
glanced at the Raggoth, who stared forward like those puffy-hat-wearing guards at Buckingham Palace.
“Wanna get back at Ripper for Warren?”
Andrew darkened. “With every shred of my being.”
“Then I need your help,” Buffy whispered.
Andrew was nodding. On the outside. On the inside, he was shrieking to run away to Mexico as fast as his legs could carry
him. However, there was Jonathan to consider, who couldn’t run very fast, and the idea of avenging Warren made his blood
hot.
“Andrew?” Buffy said.
He took a breath. “What about these guys?”
“Get me out these chains. I’ll take care of them.”
Andrew steepled his finger and thumb on his chin while he thought about what he could use to cut through chains that a
Slayer couldn’t break.
Then he had it. He picked up the walkie and real quiet-like said, “Echo 2, do you read?”
The reply came back immediately. “I’m Echo 1, doofus.”
Andrew racked his forehead with the walkie. “Right,” he said, shooting a sheepish look at Buffy. “Echo 1, this is Echo 2, do
you read?”
“I read. I’m on my way…”
“Change of plans, copy?”
A pause, then Jonathan said, “I copy.”
“Operation Meltinator. Room 900. Can you get clearance?”
On the other end, Jonathan was already diverting to their secret lab. “Consider me there,” he said. “Over and out.”
Andrew plunked the walkie on the table and made his hands into balled fists. “It’s done,” he said.
“Now we wait,” Buffy said.
An awkward silence ensued. Buffy shifted her weight.
Finally, he said, “Wanna play rock-paper-scissors?”
Buffy smiled. She said, “You don’t change much, do you?” she asked, which Andrew thought was strange since they had
never officially met.
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.Chapter Index.
Anywhere Out
of This World
Blood, Pressure
The Drawing Board
All's Well
Anywhere Out of
This World
Mourning Sickness
Welcome to Hell
Relative
Matters of Time
& Fishes
International Calls
Empty as Houses
Lusty Wrong Feelings
Enthralled
Thanksgiving
Seduced
Innocents Lost
Burn
Flashback
Not A Chance In Hell
Empty Rooms
Two Roads Diverged
Starfall
Blindsided
Not Her Own
Outta Here
The Valley of the
Shadow of Death
Comes the Rain
Smoke and Mirrors
Drawn to You
Team Angel
By Fire Reborn
Salvage
Ashes to Ashes
Life Is...
With A Little Help
Appearances Deceiving
Familiarity
Sweetness
Not All Who Wander
That Old Black Magic
For Lorne
Drawn Together
Lost to Sand
Fall of Triumvirate
Parallel Lives
The Lovers
Avenger
Double Cross
Pursuit
Ripper's Girl
Pandemonium
Negative Space
Raveled Threads
Asunder
Human Hands
Singular
Fragmented
Symmetry
Plans
Rogue Squadron
Legends
Mea Culpa
Things Unsaid
Home Sweet Gone
Eleventh Hour
Last Call
Anywhere Out
of This World
Blood, Pressure
The Drawing Board
All's Well
Anywhere Out of
This World
Mourning Sickness
Welcome to Hell
Relative
Matters of Time
& Fishes
International Calls
Empty as Houses
Lusty Wrong Feelings
Enthralled
Thanksgiving
Seduced
Innocents Lost
Burn
Flashback
Not A Chance In Hell
Empty Rooms
Two Roads Diverged
Starfall
Blindsided
Not Her Own
Outta Here
The Valley of the
Shadow of Death
Comes the Rain
Smoke and Mirrors
Drawn to You
Team Angel
By Fire Reborn
Salvage
Ashes to Ashes
Life Is...
With A Little Help
Appearances Deceiving
Familiarity
Sweetness
Not All Who Wander
That Old Black Magic
For Lorne
Drawn Together
Lost to Sand
Fall of Triumvirate
Parallel Lives
The Lovers
Avenger
Double Cross
Pursuit
Ripper's Girl
Pandemonium
Negative Space
Raveled Threads
Asunder
Human Hands
Singular
Fragmented
Symmetry
Plans
Rogue Squadron
Legends
Mea Culpa
Things Unsaid
Home Sweet Gone
Eleventh Hour
Last Call
.Chapter Index.
Anywhere Out
of This World
Blood, Pressure
The Drawing Board
All's Well
Anywhere Out of
This World
Mourning Sickness
Welcome to Hell
Relative
Matters of Time
& Fishes
International Calls
Empty as Houses
Lusty Wrong Feelings
Enthralled
Thanksgiving
Seduced
Innocents Lost
Burn
Flashback
Not A Chance In Hell
Empty Rooms
Two Roads Diverged
Starfall
Blindsided
Not Her Own
Outta Here
The Valley of the
Shadow of Death
Comes the Rain
Smoke and Mirrors
Drawn to You
Team Angel
By Fire Reborn
Salvage
Ashes to Ashes
Life Is...
With A Little Help
Appearances Deceiving
Familiarity
Sweetness
Not All Who Wander
That Old Black Magic
For Lorne
Drawn Together
Lost to Sand
Fall of Triumvirate
Parallel Lives
The Lovers
Avenger
Double Cross
Pursuit
Ripper's Girl
Pandemonium
Negative Space
Raveled Threads
Asunder
Human Hands
Singular
Fragmented
Symmetry
Plans
Rogue Squadron
Legends
Mea Culpa
Things Unsaid
Home Sweet Gone
Eleventh Hour
Last Call
Time Is Running Out
Primal
Anywhere Out
of This World
Blood, Pressure
The Drawing Board
All's Well
Anywhere Out of
This World
Mourning Sickness
Welcome to Hell
Relative
Matters of Time
& Fishes
International Calls
Empty as Houses
Lusty Wrong Feelings
Enthralled
Thanksgiving
Seduced
Innocents Lost
Burn
Flashback
Not A Chance In Hell
Empty Rooms
Two Roads Diverged
Starfall
Blindsided
Not Her Own
Outta Here
The Valley of the
Shadow of Death
Comes the Rain
Smoke and Mirrors
Drawn to You
Team Angel
By Fire Reborn
Salvage
Ashes to Ashes
Life Is...
With A Little Help
Appearances Deceiving
Familiarity
Sweetness
Not All Who Wander
That Old Black Magic
For Lorne
Drawn Together
Lost to Sand
Fall of Triumvirate
Parallel Lives
The Lovers
Avenger
Double Cross
Pursuit
Ripper's Girl
Pandemonium
Negative Space
Raveled Threads
Asunder
Human Hands
Singular
Fragmented
Symmetry
Plans
Rogue Squadron
Legends
Mea Culpa
Things Unsaid
Home Sweet Gone
Eleventh Hour
Last Call
Time Is Running Out
Primal