It was the morning after Operation Grey Knights - the liberation of Sunnydale - had been brought to a successful conclusion and after a flurry of activity as friendly casualties had been evacuated, along with the patients at Sunnydale Hospital, the pace of operations had slackened to what would be the 'normal' state.
All throughout the night, units of the Seventh Infantry - which had not been called upon to take part in Operation Grey Knights - had run patrols, supported by Predator recon drones, through what had used to be a fairly ordinary small town... before the Sunnydale High School Graduation of 1999 had forcibly ripped the blinkers from the general populace. Although Operation Grey Knights had been a complete success, all of the vampires in Sunnydale had not been eliminated. A few had been trapped in basements, and as they dug their way free during the night, brief spatters of weapons fire had sounded through the town as they were eliminated. Some of those vampires had been armed, which meant that some of those bursts of weapons fire had become brief, brisk, firefights - which had resulted in another handful of friendly casualties.
But, on the whole, the night had been a fairly quiet one.
When the Black Hawk transport helicopter settled lightly near the remains of Sunnydale High School, it caused some nearby soldiers who were having a coffee break-slash-rest to look around with interest as the rotor blades slowed to a halt before the side door popped open. The first person to hop out was some sort of officer-type, and as such was ignored for the moment. The second person was an attractive blonde, which drew some comment from the idly watching soldiers.
"Woah - She's cute."
"Yeah, right. As if she'd even look at you."
"Well, a guy can dream, can't he?"
"Sure... so long as you don't expect them to come true any time soon."
"Shut up, smart-ass. What, you think she'd go out with you?"
"No, but then again, I've already got a girlfriend, remember? Y'know, the fiery chica who'd skin me alive and then roll me in salt if she thought I even looked at another woman in the wrong way... Hey, I think I recognise her!"
"Sure, from your dreams."
"Shut up. Remember the briefing we got before this op started? Particularly the bit about the teenagers fighting the nasties that lived here before Graduation? She's one of them... and the other three just joined her," he added, as three more figures hopped from the chopper.
"Yeah, now I recognise her as well. Buffy Summers, right? Something about her being a 'Slayer' as well."
"That's right, which I suppose also answers the question of what they're doing here." When he got questioning looks from the others in the group, he clarified, "Well, that pile of rubble is what used to be Sunnydale High, right?"
"I know that. I ain't that stupid."
"Could have fooled me." Dodging the helmet that was half-heartedly swung at him, he continued, "So this is where everything started. And they were students here. I'm pretty sure that I don't have to spell out the rest."
There was a chorus of mumbled agreement. It was pretty easy to work out that the four teens had seen just about everybody they knew killed. After that, imaginations filled in the rest. Just then, an all-to-familiar voice broke into their thoughts. "Well, looky here. If you guys have got time to sit around drinking coffee, I guess I'll have to find something else for you to do."
As one, the group of soldiers twisted around to see their squad sergeant, who'd seemingly appeared using the magic that all sergeants are taught, standing behind them. Shit. Busted, they thought, also as one.
"Honest, sarge," one protested. "We were gonna be quick, but then..." he pointed to the chopper and the four teens.
The sergeant looked in the direction indicated, and then nodded. "I suppose I'll let you off this time," he said. "But finish your coffee quickly, because I've still got something for you to do."
"Yes, sergeant," the soldiers chorused, grabbing mugs and draining them. As the soldier who'd acted as spokesman was rinsing out his mug prior to replacing it in his web-gear, he noticed the teens reach into the chopper and take out four rather large floral wreaths.
"Hey sarge," he said. "I've got an idea..."
As the four young people carried the wreaths to the rubble in silence and propped them against convenient pieces of rubble, they noticed with some surprise that someone had taken the time to put up a flagpole and run up the Stars and Stripes, but the task of finding out when that had happened, along with who had done it, was put aside for the moment. If things had gone according to plan, Xander thought with just a touch of self-recrimination, we wouldn't be doing this. Sure, the rubble would still be here, but we wouldn't need to mourn so many dead. There were two reasons why the touch of self-recrimination was only a small one.
The first was the talks he'd had with Jim and Sam, along with Joyce. Over the last two days, they'd gradually convinced him that what had happened wasn't entirely his fault. There was still some way to go before he fully accepted it, but the major hurdle had been overcome.
The second was standing beside him, clutching his arm as they stood there with their heads bowed.
Buffy had invested a lot of her emotional stability in helping him, and if he broke down here, it would probably destroy her. He might suspect that some of the reason as to why she'd thrown herself into the task was as an anodyne to the gaping fissure ripped in her heart by Angel's death, but generally, he believed her explanations of repaying him for the help he'd given her over the years. Now that she was taking the time to mourn Angel properly, he would put aside the dislike that he'd had for the souled vampire, and offer her what help he could.
Wrapped up in their thoughts, they never heard the sounds of movement, until a loud voice barked behind them - That sort of leather-lunged voice can only belong to a sergeant, the lingering remnants of Xander's Soldier Boy memories whispered - "'TOON! TEN-HUT!"
The four spun around to see a platoon's worth of soldiers - all that had been in the immediate area - snap to attention, rifles at the 'shoulder-arms' position, with another seven soldiers standing slightly off to one side, in the same position. "'TOON! PREE-SENT... ARMS!"
They watched in growing amazement while, as one, the soldiers thrust their rifles out in front of their bodies, and heard the SLAP as hands shifted position to the butt of their rifles, and the STOMP as their right feet shifted position. The Scoobies stared in amazement as the soldiers offered their salute. After a brief pause, the sergeant drew in a deep breath before continuing. "GUARD... FIRING VOLLEYS... LOAD!"
The seven soldier who made up the honour guard dropped their rifles to the 'low port', with the rifle held at a forty-five degree angle across their bodies, and chambered a round, pausing as they awaited the next command.
"PRESENT!"
Seven rifle butts were snugged into shoulders, the barrels held at a forty-five degree angle to the ground.
"FIRE!"
CRACK! Seven rifles fired as one, causing the Scoobies to start slightly.
"RELOAD!"
The honour guard returned their rifles to the low port position, and chambered another round, even though one had automatically been chambered by the M-16's action. Xander straightened unconsciously as the cycle was repeated twice, for a total of three volleys. The only thing missing to make the event properly formal was a bugler playing 'Taps', but Xander's Soldier Boy memories supplied that inside his head... well, something similar, anyway.
'Last Post', the memories whispered. When Xander silently queried the memories, their only response was a sort-of mental shrug. It's what I know...
With the volleys complete, the honour guard was returned to the 'present arms' position, and the sergeant performed a crisp about-face, before raising his hand to the salute with equal crispness. For a minute or so, the only sound in the area was the flag snapping in the light breeze that sprung up.
Once the minute was over, the sergeant dropped the salute, before performing another about-face, returning the soldiers to the 'shoulder arms' position before dismissing them. As they returned to their tasks, Buffy could see the group of officers whose attention had been drawn by the sound of gunfire drop their own salutes. A lump rose in her throat as she took in the spontaneous gesture of respect. Sensing her mood, Xander draped a supporting arm across her shoulders, and she unconsciously leaned into him, as she had done on previous occasions when he offered her his support. Beside them, Oz and Willow hugged each other tightly.
A soft, respectful voice broke into their thoughts. "Miss Summers? Miss Rosenberg? Mister Harris? Mister Osbourne?"
The four turned to see an officer in full combat gear standing behind them, his rifle slung, and his helmet cradled under his left arm. Oak leaves on his collar marked his rank, but the fact that they were embroidered in black thread meant that they couldn't tell whether he was a Major or a Lieutenant Colonel. An interesting thing was the way his English accent contrasted with his American uniform. His next sentence, however, cleared up both questions. "Lieutenant Colonel Robert Jackson, usually of the Queen's Irish Hussars, but now on exchange duty with the Seventh Infantry Division," he introduced himself, and the fact that he pronounced the first part of his rank as 'leftenant' simply nailed his English-ness. "Allow me to express my condolences for the terrible events that took place here a few days ago."
"Thank you, Colonel," Buffy said, and the others nodded their agreement.
Taking in the scene, Jackson shook his head slightly. "From what the fellows who actually took part in yesterday's operations told me that it was quite a bracing affair." Three years' exposure to Giles had clued the Scoobies into the English habit of understatement, so they had a glimmering of how tricky the operation had actually been. "Which leads to my question, I guess," Jackson continued. "How did the four of you fight these things using only bits of wood and archaic weapons?"
Buffy bristled slightly, but Xander's hand on her shoulder calmed her down somewhat. "Probably because we didn't have the time to work out how to make modern weaponry effective, Colonel," Xander said, before shrugging. "We had to deal with potential end-of-the-world situations on a regular basis, and most of the time in-between was taken up with researching the latest Big Bad to rear its head, which didn't leave a lot of time for other things. I guess the reason we stuck with stakes and crossbows was that we knew they worked."
Jackson had seen the expressions flickering across Buffy's face and he held up his hands placatingly. "Please, don't take that as a criticism of your efforts. I think you did an amazing job, myself." He paused to consider what he was going to say next. "But now that there will be serious research devoted to devising modern-style weaponry, will you use them?"
Xander nodded straight away. After a short pause, Oz followed suit. Buffy and Willow exchanged glances, which caused Jackson to raise an enquiring eyebrow. Willow was the first to speak. "I'm not real fond of guns, Colonel. My parents..." Her voice trailed off at the mention of her parents, killed by the Mayor, and a tear trickled down her cheek, and she sniffled.
Oz wrapped his arms around her, offering comfort and support, and Xander placed a hand on her shoulder. "No-one's expecting you to use them straight away, Wills," he said gently. "How about you give them a try and see what happens from there?"
Willow sniffled again, and nodded slightly.
"Attagirl, Wills," Xander said, giving her shoulder a light squeeze.
Seeing this, Buffy explained her hesitancy. "I've never been fond of guns, either," she said. "But if they're going to help with the Slaying, I suppose I might as well give them a try."
"Buff, no-one's going to force you to do anything you don't want to," Xander said. "That is, if anyone can force you to do anything you don't want to do." A smile flickered across Buffy's face, which warmed Xander's heart. Her smiles had always had that effect on him, but this smile was to be treasured, as it was the first time she'd smiled since Angel's death. Sure, it had lasted only a fraction of a second, but it was a start.
The four of them stood in silence for a moment longer before Jackson made his farewells and left them to their contemplation.
Shedding his Load Bearing Equipment - the American name for what Jackson was used to calling 'webbing' - and laying his rifle and helmet on it, Jackson eased himself into the folding chair that he'd claimed. He'd already had one collapse on him when he'd sat down on it too hard... and to make it worse, it had been seen by other people, and he wasn't going to take the chance of repeated public humiliation.
Deep in thought, he was startled when the brigade commander spoke up. "What did you think of them?"
Stifling a few curses - swearing at a superior officer is always a bad idea - Jackson spoke without looking around. "They're good kids, but they desperately need some rest. I've seen similar expressions on soldiers going home after a deployment to Northern Ireland, particularly Belfast," he said, not adding that he'd worn a similar expression after a year spent in a place where you couldn't know from day to day if you were going to see the end of that day, being near-universally hated - one side hating you for who you were, and the other hating you for your inability to completely protect them...
The brigade commander's voice interrupted his thoughts. "So, a nice long holiday for them, then?"
"As I said, Boss," Jackson replied, using the British term for a superior, "they desperately need it. A month or so away from here will do them wonders." He shrugged before continuing. "I hear Florida is good at this time of the year, and I'm sure your government can afford it."
The brigade commander nodded. "And I don't think anyone will complain about the cost, either."
Their reflection over, the Scoobies surveyed the hive of military activity that was now Sunnydale. "The Army seems serious about this," Willow commented, and the others nodded. On the flight in, they'd seen the steel-mesh temporary field runways used by Predator recon drones, and the heavy equipment that was just starting to lay the concrete for a permanent installation, along with sandbagged revetments housing Apache gunships - permanent hangars were under construction for them as well.
They'd also seen four-vehicle units of Bradleys prowling through the remains, escorting engineers as they pulled down the buildings and removed the rubble, creating a field of fire completely devoid of cover two kilometres in diameter.
Outside the 'free-fire' zone, there had been a tracery of white tape, with surveyor's pegs marking out square areas. Permanent fixed positions, Xander's solider memories had whispered to him. Fire trenches, rifle pits and positions for vehicles, with depth and interlocking arcs of fire. They'd also seen soldiers in the process of laying wire obstacles and minefields, with the obvious - to Xander, anyway - intent of channelling any attackers into pre-defined kill zones.
And just because there was a concentration on defences facing the Hellmouth didn't mean that the outer approaches were being ignored, either. Similar work was in progress on the outside of the defensive positions under construction, although those obstacles wouldn't be as dense.
"Hardly surprising, Wills, given what happened," Xander replied, as he caught sight of Jim - who'd accompanied them on their trip - make the sign of the cross before bowing his head. He could see Jim's lips moving, but as whatever Jim was saying didn't carry to where they were, Xander was forced to assume that Jim was praying for those who'd died.
Seeing the brief expression of grief that crossed Xander's face, Buffy picked up his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. Giving Buffy a weak smile - I'm alright... really - Xander waited in silence until Jim finished his prayers and made the sign of the cross again before approaching the small group.
"Shall we?" Jim asked, indicating the Black Hawk.
The Scoobies nodded, and as they walked back to the helicopter, Buffy asked, "Is there some sort of way we can thank the troops who liberated Sunnydale?"
Jim thought about it for a moment before replying. "Most of them would think that they were just doing their jobs, Buffy, and probably be embarrassed by the notion that they needed thanking for it," he said.
"This is not the sort of thing they signed up to protect America from," Xander said. "I'd say that this sort of thing goes 'above and beyond'." The others nodded to back up what he said.
"When we get back to Miramar, I'll see what can be done," Jim replied as they climbed into the helicopter and strapped themselves in. In the cockpit, the pilots were powering the engines up. Once the rotor blades had reached operational revolutions, the Black Hawk gently lifted off and began the return trip to Miramar.
Settled into a private room, Faith was contemplating her future - not something she normally gave a lot of attention to, but since her world had been broken into a thousand pieces by the revelation of what Richard Wilkins had done, not to mention how skilfully he'd manipulated and used her, she felt the need to decide what she was going to do now.
The conversation she'd had with the Judge Advocate General officer a few minutes ago had gone towards helping her decide, but Faith knew that, in the end, the decision was solely her responsibility. Others might help, but she was the one who had to live with the consequences.
"I've spoken to the others," the JAG officer had said, "and from their testimony, it would appear that Mister Finch's death was entirely an accident, given the circumstances. As for the time when you were assisting Richard Wilkins, it would appear that you were the victim of a skilled deception operation which took advantage of your situation." He paused and gave her a level look. "Speaking personally rather than professionally, Miss Williams, the main cause of Finch's death was gross stupidity. In the environment that was Sunnydale, stupidity is just as fatal as on any other battlefield.
"And as for the other," she'd said in a more gentle tone of voice, "I'm a lawyer, not a psychologist, but even I can tell that you just happened to fall foul of a skilled manipulator. The Psy-War - Psychological Warfare - guys at Pendleton were forced to admit professional admiration for the way Wilkins operated, and those guys do that sort of thing for a living."
"What are you saying? That I was stupid for not noticing what was happening?" Faith had said with a touch of anger.
"No, Miss Williams, nothing of the sort," the JAG officer had replied. "The whole point of a good Psy-War operation is that the target never knows that the op is running at all. Given your circumstances at the time..." She'd trailed off, unable to find words to describe the situation without appearing to insult Faith.
"So, what's going to happen to me now?" Faith had asked, changing the subject.
"To you?" the JAG officer had replied. "Nothing. Like I said, the official finding was that Mister Finch's death was an accident, or to use the correct terminology, a 'friendly fire' incident as a result of Mister Finch's stupidity in approaching you without warning just after you'd finished fighting a group of vampires.
"You'll receive counselling, and be given an extended period of leave - like the others - but that'll be it. No trial, and no jail time."
Faith had felt relieved at that, and she'd stumbled through her thanks to the JAG officer, who'd smiled at her before leaving.
A quiet knock jarred her from her thoughts, and she looked up to see four of the people she'd hurt the worst by helping Wilkins clustered in the doorway. "Mind if we come in, Faith?" Xander asked.
Seeing no reason not to talk to them, Faith nodded, and after grabbing chairs and dragging them into position at her bedside, the Scoobies were seated. She wasn't surprised at how close together Red and Wolf-boy were sitting, but when B and X-man sat similarly close together, that was the cause of some surprise. Something interesting there, I'd bet, she thought, but decided to leave it for later.
There was a brief moment of silence, which made Faith uncomfortable, so she broke it by saying what was on her mind...
"I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry."
Hearing those words from Faith came as something of a surprise, if not a downright shock. "If I hadn't helped the mayor, then none of this might have happened," Faith continued, and to the Scoobies' surprise, she seemed to be on the verge of tears. The 'ultimate bad-ass' was gone and, for what was probably the first time, they saw the emotions under the surface.
They saw the self-loathing, the fear and the guilt, and as they remembered how they'd acted towards her, they felt their own shame as they realised that they'd never really given her a chance.
"No Faith," Buffy said, and to Faith's surprise - and a little of her own - impulsively grabbed Faith's hand and gave it a gentle squeeze before letting go. "We're the ones who should be apologising to you. The way we treated you when you arrived, and especially after the deputy mayor's death..." She trailed off, unable to find the right words, and shrugged helplessly.
Willow picked up the thread. "We'd like to start afresh, with a blank slate, Faith," she said, which came as a slight surprise, given the history between the two. "This time, we won't mess it up like we did the last time."
As she realised what she was being offered, Faith had to blink back tears as the implications sank in. They're not gonna make any promises, but they're gonna do their best to make up for what happened before, she thought. I guess the question is, do I deserve a second chance? Looking at Xander and Oz, she asked, "What do you guys think?"
Oz, running true to form, shrugged and said simply, "I think it's a good idea."
Xander smiled and said, "You're getting a second chance, Faith. Not only that, we'd like you to give us a second chance as well." He, too, picked up her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze before releasing it and continuing, "While putting the past behind us might be a bit tricky at times, it's something we're going to have to do. This seems like the best way to start, that's all."
Despite herself, Faith found that she was responding to the genuine warmth in Xander's voice, and that she was smiling back at him. "Thanks, Xander," she said simply.
"You're welcome, Faith," he replied, before leaning over and giving her a brief hug. Over his shoulder, she saw Jeeves appear in the doorway, obviously looking for them. Oz noticed him, and nudged Red, who in turn, nudged B and X-Man.
Xander turned around, and seeing that Giles wanted to talk to them, turned back to Faith and said, "Looks like G-man wants to talk to us about something, which means we gotta go for now. You just concentrate on getting better, you got that?"
Faith grinned and said, "Five-by-five, X-man."
"Good," he added with a slight grin.
Somewhat to Faith's surprise, the others hugged her as well - even Wolf-boy - before they left, adding their own best wishes.
Once they'd left, Faith wriggled slightly to find the most comfortable position. I've been given something I thought I'd never get - a second chance, she thought.
How do I make sure that I don't screw it up this time?
Once they arrived back at the house they'd been staying - which now seemed to be their new home, and which Xander had christened 'Slayerette House' - Giles led them into the dining room, while Joyce prepared hot drinks for everyone.
When everyone had a steaming mug sitting before them - hot chocolate for Joyce and Willow, tea for Giles, and coffees all 'round for the rest - Giles started the conversation. "How did the visit with Faith go?" he asked.
"She's hurting, Giles," Willow replied. "It's like she just realised that she was being used by Wilkins, combined with her finding out... well, about Graduation," she added.
"She let slip her 'tough-girl' cover, Giles," Xander contributed. "And what's under it is ugly. She really needs a second chance," he added, before turning to Joyce. "If it's not too much trouble, can you go talk to her, Joyce?" he asked, feeling uncomfortable about addressing Joyce by her first name, even though she insisted. "It'd do Faith a world of good if she had some of the same sort of support you gave me after... well, after."
Joyce nodded. "It'd be a pleasure, Xander. I'd be happy to do what I can to help," she said.
"Thanks, Joyce," Xander said, smiling.
Giles took a sip of his tea, then said thoughtfully, "Nonetheless, Faith will still require some form of guidance, while she recovers from her injuries, and after she resumes her duties as a Slayer, even though I suspect that she will be given the same opportunity for time off as you."
"You mean a Watcher, Giles?" Willow asked.
"Precisely, Willow," Giles replied. "However, a lot of my time will be taken up with the new department the government is setting up to deal with the supernatural, so much of the burden will rest on your shoulders."
"You want us to become Watchers, Giles?" Buffy asked with some surprise.
"Not you in particular, Buffy," Giles replied, "as you will have enough on your plate when you resume Slayer duties yourself."
"You mean that I'm being considered for a Watcher's job?" Xander asked, in a slight state of shock. "I mean, I can understand Willow being offered the job - she's got a real knack for the research stuff - but why me?"
"A Watcher's primary role - and one the Council seems to have forgotten - is to guide and support the Slayer. Training and research is only a part of that role. You see, I've noticed that the reason that Buffy has survived longer as the Slayer than any other recorded in the Watcher Diaries for at least a millenium is that she does have the sort of support that the Council should provide, but seems to have eschewed in favour of control."
Xander and Willow squirmed slightly, uncomfortable with the praise that was being lavished on them, while Oz simply sat quietly, taking a sip of his coffee as he waited for Giles to continue. Buffy, however, was the next to speak. "I don't know if I've thanked you guys enough lately - including you, mom, and you, Xander - but if it wasn't for the help you've given me, well, I don't want to think about what would have happened."
Joyce was the next to add her own thanks. "I owe you a debt of gratitude as well. If it wasn't for you, my daughter would probably not be alive today. That's a debt I can never repay, or thank you enough for," she said, smiling at Xander, Willow and Oz. Xander and Willow blushed, and even Oz's normal stoicism wasn't entirely able to conceal his emotions.
"Pity that didn't help at Graduation," Xander muttered.
"You did everything you could, Xander," Giles said firmly. "You were simply the victim of cruel misfortune, that's all."
"I know that, Giles," Xander said with a sigh. "It's just that... sometimes I have trouble believing it here," he added, tapping his chest over his heart.
"What sort of role would we have, Giles?" Willow asked, in an attempt to change the subject.
"The same sort as mine, I would imagine," Giles replied. "Advisory, mainly, but where I would be advising government officials, your role would be more 'in the field', so to speak."
"Government officials, Giles?" Xander asked. "You mean that you'd be advising the President?"
Despite the image he portrayed, Xander had made enough deductive leaps similar to this over the years that Giles felt no real surprise at his insight. "Something along those lines, Xander," he admitted.
"Talk about playing in the bigs, G-man," Xander said with a smile.
"Don't call me... I give up. I've persisted with that exercise in futility for as long as possible," Giles said with a sigh.
"Boo-yah!" Xander crowed, his spirits lifted by the concession. "Who da man, huh?"
"But Giles," Willow said with a smile, "don't you know that beating your head against a brick wall burns one hundred and fifty calories an hour?"
Giles sighed. "Normally, I would agree that exercise is beneficial to one's health, Willow," he said, "but that particular form of exercise would be more detrimental than beneficial."
"Huh?" Xander asked, confused.
"He means that he'd get a really big headache," Willow translated.
"Then why didn't he just say so?"
"He did."
"In English, I mean."
"He did."
"Okay then, in American."
"I think that's the one language he hasn't mastered yet," Oz put in with a smile, while Buffy and Joyce snickered at Giles' expense.
Giles took another sip of his tea, projecting an air of affronted dignity, but in reality he was carefully hiding a smile. Supporting the Slayer included looking after her emotional well-being as well, and if that meant the occasional joke at his expense... well, it was something he could stand. Truth be told, sometimes he rather enjoyed the banter that had flown between the teens, and he was glad to see it return.
Getting the discussion back on track, Willow asked, "You said we'd have more of a field role, Giles. What did you mean by that?"
"Under the terms of the proposal that was presented to me this morning while you were visiting Sunnydale, Special Forces teams would be set up and equipped to hunt vampires and demons, with the regular military garrisoning the fortifications that are currently under construction in the Sunnydale Exclusion Zone and providing extra firepower if required," Giles replied.
Understanding that the same terms that had been offered to Giles were being offered to them as well, the Scoobies felt no real need to discuss anything. Exchanging looks and nods, they made their decision.
Xander acted as the spokesman. "We're in," he said simply.
For the second time that hour, Faith heard a gentle knock at the door. Putting down the magazine she'd managed to persuade a nurse to buy for her, she looked at the door to see Buffy's mother standing there. "Mind if I come in, Faith?" she asked.
Is this the first part of the second chance I've been offered? Faith wondered. "Sure, Mrs. S. Come on in," she said.
Mrs. S came into the room, but didn't sit down. Which means that this isn't going to be a long visit, or she plans to take this conversation elsewhere, Faith thought.
"How are you doing?" Mrs. S asked, to get the conversation started.
"Could be better, Mrs. S, but I'm still alive at least, so I can't complain," Faith replied.
"I think you can call me Joyce, Faith," Mrs. S - Joyce replied. When Faith opened her mouth to protest the decision, Joyce said, "I insist."
Knowing that Joyce could be just as stubborn as her daughter - which was probably where B got her stubborness from - Faith didn't make any further attempt to argue.
"Do you feel up to a short walk, Faith?" Joyce asked. "I think we should have our little chat over a mug of hot chocolate, and when I was a 'guest' here, I sampled the cafeteria's hot chocolate and it was pretty good."
When was Joyce in hospital? Faith wondered. Seeing the confused expression on her face, Joyce turned her head slightly to one side. Although the bruises had mostly faded, the gash was still stitched up and higly visible. Damn, that's gonna leave a scar, Faith thought with a surge of guilt. "I'm sorry," she said softly, as tears welled in her eyes.
Joyce perched on the edge of Faith's bed. "You didn't do this, Faith, so it's not your fault," she said. When Faith started to protest, Joyce cut her off firmly, "No, Faith. I'm not going to let you take the blame for a situation you had no real control over." With a slight smile, Joyce added, "I wouldn't let Xander take the blame, so why should I let you?"
Faith couldn't help but grin slightly at that. "Now, are you allowed out of your bed?" Joyce asked seriously.
"Sure," Faith replied. "So long as I go in a wheelchair and take Mister Drip-Feed with me," she added indicating the wheelchair and intravenous apparatus that was plugged into her arm.
"We'll work together," Joyce said, standing up and moving the wheelchair next to Faith's bed. "I'll drive, and you can bring your friend along for the ride."
Once they'd reached the cafeteria and obtained hot chocolates - which Joyce insisted on paying for, waving aside all of Faith's protests and claims that she would repay Joyce for them - they found places at an outside table. The brightness of the sun dazzled Faith momentarily, but her eyes soon adapted to the change in available light.
"This is nice," Joyce said contently. She took a sip of her drink, before continuing more seriously, "They're worried for you, Faith, and I can see why. How about we start with your story - or as much as you feel like telling, anyway - and see where we can go from there?"
Faith didn't need to be told who 'they' were. She was uncomfortable with recounting what had happened to her to somebody else, but the expression of geniune concern on Joyce's face convinced her.
Slowly at first, but picking up speed as she went along, she told of growing up in South Boston, running away from abusive parents, and how she'd been placed in the care of foster parents, who'd been just as abusive... just in different ways. When she recounted what had happened to her - even leaving out the worst details - she saw an expression of anger flicker on Joyce's face.
"They'd better hope that I never run into them," Joyce said in a near-snarl, which came as a shock to Faith for two reasons. The first was the out-of-character anger from Joyce, and the second was that someone was becoming angry for her, rather than at her.
Feeling a little reassured by the show of support, Faith continued her story, telling of running away from the foster parents, and how she'd fallen in with a street gang. The nightmares that had marked her being Called as a Slayer had passed almost unnoticed, just another in a regular series of bad dreams. It wasn't until the arrival of Linda Pryce that she realised that the dreams of fighting vampires and monsters had had a meaning outside of her generally-shitty life.
Of course, it had taken some time to fully convince Faith of her destiny, but once she'd accepted that she was a Vampire Slayer, she'd thrown herself into the task with a passion. Where Buffy had complained that being a Slayer was ruining her life, for Faith, the same situation was a large step up.
Telling of Linda's death at the hands of Kakistos caused Faith to start sobbing, and while Joyce held her in a comforting hug, Faith told of how he'd pursued her across the country, as she sought the protection of her sister Slayer - Buffy. Once in Sunnydale - and with the destruction of Kakistos - she'd thought that her life could only improve, only to have her hopes dashed when the Council dumped her in that flea-bag motel. To make matters worse, Buffy had taken a superior attitude, which caused Faith to assume an attitude of her own in self-defense, which hadn't helped matters.
She told of the guilt and fear she'd felt when she accidentally killed the deputy mayor of Sunnydale - which caused a renewal of her sobbing - and the attitudes of the Scoobies, which had sent her emotions into a tailspin. Now patrolling solo, as the others refused to trust her - with the exception of Xander, who did what he could, but he'd been unable to make much headway - she'd drawn the attention of Richard Wilkins, who'd lured her to his side by skilfully manipulating her emotional turmoil. The fact that he seemed to be geniunely concerned for her well-being had simply been to ensure that she felt grateful to him.
Faith finished her story with the fight with Buffy that had resulted in her being put into a coma, and looked at Joyce, waiting to hear her judgement.
During the story, Joyce had resolved two things. The first was to see if there were any five-bedroom houses on-base, as there was no way she was going to leave Faith alone now. The second was to have a talk with Buffy and the others.
Seeing the expression on Faith's face - that of a person awaiting judgement - hardened Joyce's resolve to help the emotionally-battered girl. Draining her hot chocoate, she rose to her feet and said, "The first thing I'm going to do is get more hot chocolate. When I come back, we're going to decide what happens next, okay?"
"Okay," Faith replied in a near-whisper.
While she was waiting for the hot chocolates, Joyce spotted a payphone. Dropping a quarter into the slot, she dialled the number for the chapel, and when Jim answered, she said, "Hi Jim, it's Joyce."
"Hello, Joyce," Jim said in response. "Is there something I can help you with?"
"Actually, there is. I've been talking with someone who desperately needs some help, and you're better at this sort of thing than I am," Joyce replied.
"Don't sell yourself short, Joyce," Jim said with a chuckle, before turning serious again. "Is this about Faith?" he asked.
"Yes," Joyce replied, slightly surprised. "How did you know?"
"Sam told me about visiting her in hospital yesterday, and how she seemed to be suffering from some emotional difficulties," Jim replied.
"You don't know the half of it," Joyce said. "Faith's just finished telling me her life story. I won't go into detail - it's her story to tell - but it's a truly disturbing tale."
"This sounds serious, Joyce," Jim said. "Where are you now?"
"The hospital cafeteria."
"I'll be there as soon as I can."
"Thanks, Jim."
"Don't mention it, Joyce," Jim said. "Even if it wasn't my job, I'd be happy to help in any way I can."
After hanging up, Joyce saw that the hot chocolates were ready. Nice timing, she thought as she fished through her purse for the money to pay for the drinks. Carrying them out to Faith, she placed them on the table and resumed her seat before speaking.
"Before we make any decisions, Faith, there's someone I'd like you to meet. He helped Xander and Buffy through their own emotional problems, and I think he can do the same for you..."
The US Air Force transport followed the directions of the air traffic controller as it floated in to a perfect three-point landing, types belching smoke as they took up the strain. Engines howling in reverse, the small jet came to a halt before it taxied to the terminal, where a squad of Marines from the nearby Quantico barracks were forming up.
When the door opened, the first person out was a FBI agent, who blinked in mild surprise as the firepower arrayed outside before turning back to the doorway. "Come on, you," he ordered, and there was a rattle of chains as Quentin Travers, handcuffed and in leg irons, shuffled down the airstair with another pair of agents escorting him. Once he reached the tarmac, he was bustled into a waiting vehicle - the same model Suburban that was armoured for use by Secret Service agents on escorts for the President - while the Marines piled onto two armoured Humvees. The three vehicles formed a small convoy, with the Suburban in the middle, as they sped to the FBI Headquarters at Quantico.
The whole process had taken just under five minutes from the time the transport landed to when the convoy left the gates of Andrews.
From the other side of the one-way glass that made up most of one wall of the room, Travers did not cut an imposing figure. Still in the same suit as he was arrested in, and sporting a two-day growth of stubble, not to mention thoroughly jet-lagged, his rumpled state was the subject of discussion between an Assistant Director and the Special Agent-in-Charge of the Washington office.
"Doesn't look like much, does he?" the SAC asked.
"Don't let appearances fool you, Roy," AD Michael Jefferson replied. "You've read the reports provided by New Scotland Yard and Rupert Giles. This man is arrogant and he seems to possess few, if any, scruples. That's a dangerous combination, particularly for someone in a position of authority."
"I know that, Assistant Director," SAC Roy Jacobson replied. "That attitude seems to be endemic among this 'Council of Watchers' as well. Both the New Scotland Yard report and Ambassador Thomson's report state that the Council just assumed that they'd be the ones punishing Travers for his transgressions." He snorted before continuing. "As if he'd be properly punished, anyway. According to Giles' report, Travers is one of the more powerful members of the Council. God alone knows what sort of favours he'd be able to call in to save his own neck."
"True," Jefferson replied. "But he isn't going to be punished by them. He's going to face an American court, under our laws. I suppose you'd better offer him the deal we worked out."
"Showtime," Jacobson whispered as he left the observation room.
Although he didn't show it, Quentin Travers was in a foul mood. He had worked tirelessly to preserve the human species from the forces of darkness for years, and now, because of one event - tragic though it may be - that had nothing to do with him, he had been arrested like some common criminal? He seethed as he remembered the brief extradition hearing, the speed of which had made it clear that the British government had wanted him out of the country as soon as possible.
And now?
Taken to an American Air Force installation, met by a military escort - he supposed that was either some sort of backhanded compliment, or a contemptuous display of the power that he was facing - whisked to the American equivalent of New Scotland Yard, and deposited in this bare room, without any chance to make himself presentable, let alone recover from the negative effects of his travels.
He was still marshalling his resources when the door opened and a suited FBI Agent entered. Crossing the room in silence, the agent sat down opposite Travers before he said a word. "I'm Special Agent-in-Charge Roy Jacobson, from the Washington bureau, and we're going to have a little chat."
"What makes you think I'm going to tell you anything?" Travers sneered. "And even if I was, I refuse to speak without either a representative from Her Majesty's Embassy or legal representative present."
Jacobson's only response was to raise an eyebrow. "Very well, Mister Travers," he said, and nodded to the reflective mirror on one wall, which even Travers had recognised as one-way glass. A few seconds later, another suited man entered and introduced himself as Luke Dennis, representative of the Washington Public Defender's office.
"And since I have been fully briefed on this case, I believe we can continue with a minimum of delay," Dennis said blandly.
Travers boggled for a second. "You mean to tell me that you anticipated this turn of events?" he asked somewhat incredulously.
Jacobson shrugged nonchalantly. "We had suspicions," he admitted, before leaning forward. "Here's the deal, Travers. We feel that we have enough to press for the death penalty under federal kidnapping laws. If you're co-operative and tell us all about the Council of Watchers and how they operate, we'll settle for a nice long jail term instead and, maybe, one day, you'll be able to return to England - assuming that you're allowed back in the country."
Travers paled for a second, but rallied. "What makes you think that you can obtain such a punishment?"
"Like I said, we have lots of testimony, particularly from Joyce Summers. You should remember her - she is the woman you set up to be kidnapped, after all. There's even backup testimony from her daughter, Elizabeth Summers and Rupert Giles, as well."
The mere mention of Summers' name was enough to over-ride any sense of self-preservation that Travers might have possessed. "That mutinous bitch-"
"Bad-mouthing Summers will not help you here, Travers," Jacobson interrupted the incipient rant. "After all, she is rather well-regarded both here and back in England for her actions in saving some lives at the Graduation Massacre in Sunnydale three days ago. In fact, she - along with her friends - were decorated for their courage."
Hearing that sent Travers' blood pressure to dangerously high levels. "Don't you know what she did? She-"
Once again, Jacobson interrupted. "Frankly, Travers, I don't care. Summers is not the one facing charges which carry the death penalty - you are. Summers is not the one sitting in this room right now - you are.
"So, can we pretend for the moment that she doesn't exist so we can remain on-topic here?" At Travers' grudging nod, Jacobson continued. "Personally, I think you're getting a pretty sweet deal here. After all, it was your organisation's secretiveness that lead to the loss of thousands of American lives. If you didn't have information we could use, I'd strap you into the electric chair and pull the switch myself." He smiled thinly before continuing, "If it comes to it, I imagine there would be a number of willing volunteers to do that particular job, starting with Summers herself. After all, you did arrange to have her mother kidnapped, and you fired the man she regards as a father for showing concern regarding her welfare, so I can imagine that she's not overly pleased with you."
It was by a great effort of will that Travers controlled his temper. "So I am being made into some form of scapegoat, then?"
"Hardly, Travers," Jacobson snorted. "You're the only one of your little secret society who has broken American laws, which means you get to face American courts."
"What makes you think that the Council will stand for this?" Travers asked, trying to sound defiant, but the prospect of death was starting to work its insidious magic on him.
"Council?" Jacobson asked blithely. "What Council? As we speak, my British counterparts are taking your precious 'Council' apart at the seams. By the end of the day, there won't be a 'Council'." His voice hardened as he continued. "Now, Travers, about our deal. Yes or no? Either way, I don't care."
Travers glanced over at his 'lawyer', who looked back at him impassively before nodding fractionally. He looked back at Jacobson and, in his eyes, saw... nothing. Jacobson truly did not care whether Travers accepted the deal or not, and that frightened Travers badly.
Up until this point, Travers' life had been one of privilege, with his every need - and whim - catered for. Being part of the Council of Watchers had satisfied his lust for power, and the fact that he'd wielded his power in secret had only made it sweeter. Travelling to America to administer Summers' Cruciamentum had been the most dangerous thing he had done, and even that had been planned to minimise the risk inherent - to him, anyway. Even the political squabbles of the Council had been relatively safe affairs, as each member of the Inner Council realised that internecine warfare would do irreparable damage to their own power base, which tended to keep such affairs relatively civil.
Now, he faced a man who could kill him and not worry about it. There were no threats that he could make that would sway his interrogator, no pleas would gain him mercy, and bribery was simply not to be thought of.
For the first time in his life, Travers knew real fear.
And like all cowards, he folded like a bad hand of cards.
A broken man, Travers nodded dumbly, becoming the first rat to abandon the sinking ship that was the Council of Watchers.
The skylight and windows hadn't even been repaired yet when Phillip Watkins made his second visit.
This time, he was accompanied by an escort of New Scotland Yard detectives and armed uniformed officers from the London Metropolitan Police, although the SAS were on standby in case of unforeseen events. Using sheer bureaucratic firepower - in the form of arrest warrants and deportation orders - to gain entry, he was soon standing in the conference room facing the Council of Watchers as, the police fanned through the building, making arrests, and seizing documents and artefacts.
"Gentlemen," he said smoothly to a shell-shocked Council.
Charles Montgomery rose to his feet. "What is the meaning of this, Minister?" he asked, using bluster to hide the very real fear he felt.
"The meaning of this? To put it simply, as of twelve hours ago, your 'Council of Watchers' is now an illegal organisation," Watkins said, skimming the official Hansard transcripts of the joint Parliamentary sitting across the desk. Nodding for the uniformed officer accompanying him, he continued. "As you can see, Her Majesty's Government does not appreciate being deceived in the manner in which your organisation has perpetrated for the last few millennia." The uniformed officer stepped forward and handed Watkins a sheaf of paper, copies of which were sent skimming across the desk.
"Those are deportation orders for every person present in this room, along with the handful of Council members not present today. You will also find court orders seizing all documents and artefacts within this building. In short, gentlemen, you will be allowed to leave the country with some personal belongings and whatever money you have on your persons, as all of your bank accounts which we have managed to locate have been frozen."
Montgomery looked up from the documents, his face ashen as he took in the full scope of the disaster. "Surely, you can't mean to-"
"We can mean to, and we do mean to shut you down," Watkins interrupted, all traces of civility gone. "Since you refused to... I believe the appropriate phrase is 'play well with others', you are now being red-carded and sent from the field."
"But some of the artefacts in our vaults are quite dangerous-"
"And they will be left there, until they can be studied by the appropriate people," Watkins said as he delicately drove the knife home. He twisted it with a gentle smile when he said, "I believe Rupert Giles' name was mentioned in that regard." He kept the smile on his face at the Council's reaction to the fact that the Field Watcher who they stripped of his position for 'mutinying' against them would, in the end, have the last laugh. Watkins twisted the knife a little more when he added, "That is, if the American government will let him go. I understand he will be quite busy - along with his former charges - assisting the American government formulate a policy to deal with the supernatural, now that you have been removed from the field of play.
"As for the documents you have in storage, I have not been made privy to what will be done with them, but it is my understanding that the Field Watchers will be contacted and given a simple choice: co-operate, or join you in exile."
Exile. That word, more than anything else that Watkins had said, drove home the fact that the Council of Watchers were not going to be given the same option. Montgomery made the effort anyway, though.
"Surely we can come to some sort of arrangement..." he began.
"No, not really," Watkins cut him off, and paused as another uniformed officer entered the room and murmured something in his ear. He looked at the officer with a raised eyebrow, as if to ask, "Really?" The officer nodded, and Watkins said, "That's splendid news," before turning back to the Council.
"Any offer you might make to exchange information in return for being allowed to remain in this country is now even more useless, as Mister Travers has just made a deal with American law-enforcement authorities. In return for not getting the death penalty for arranging the kidnapping of Joyce Summers, he will surrender all of the information he possesses on the operation of this Council," Watkins informed them.
With that final death-knell, the Council of Watchers faded into history, not with a bang, but a whimper.