STORY TITLE: The Circle of Scooby
PART: 18 of?
AUTHOR: Red Jacobson (
red.jacobson@gmail.com)
DISTRIBUTION: FanFiction.net, Archive of Our Own, Twisting the Hellmouth
DISCLAIMER: None of the Characters You Recognize belong to me, the Buffy the Vampire Slayer/Angel Characters belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy (Grrr! Argh!), and the Boondock characters belong to the Estate of Robert A Heinlein and his publishers. The concept of Highlander Immortals and all associated characters are the property of Rysher Entertainment.
SUMMARY: The activation of the world's slayers has caused massive destruction throughout the multiverse, and the Circle of Ouroborus is determined to prevent that from happening and recruit three natives of the critical timeline to save the
Multiverse!
FEEDBACK: Of course! It Makes Me Write Faster
RELATIONSHIPS: Xander/Cordelia/Tara, Buffy/Willow, Giles/Jenny, Kendra/Oz
RATING: PG-13
WORD COUNT: <5,125>
SPOILERS: A Crossover with RAH's Lazarus Long Books. I'm afraid that, while I'm going to do my best to explain things, at least a passing familiarity with Time Enough For Love, The Number of the Beast, The Cat Who Walks Through Walls, and To Sail Beyond the Sunset would help you understand who these characters are. There are no spoilers, but if you don't know how the Buffy the Vampire Slayer story goes by now, why are you reading this story?
CREDIT WHERE CREDIT IS DUE DEPARTMENT: I'm borrowing a bit of Cordy's childhood background from my buddy IronBear's stories, specifically Rio Blanco on the Mouth of Hell, and the Hell-er-nator Stories. If you want some amazing Xander/Cordelia stories, do yourself a favor and check him out!
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I'm going to try something unusual for this story, no lemons. Frankly, they've gotten to be a bore to write, and I imagine they've become boring to read as well. Hope this goes well.
CREDIT WHERE CREDIT IS DUE DEPARTMENT, PART DEUX: The 'Ritual of Disavowal' is borrowed from Vidicon's Waifs and Strays Universe on TTH.
AUTHOR CORRECTION FROM PREVIOUS CHAPTER: In Chapter 13, the Boondock Interlude, I made a mistake with the dates given that had the records sealed. The first was 1983, and for some reason, I typed 1979; the correct year was 1961. I was able to correct the section on most of the sites where I publish, except for the Pit of Voles, and the chapter was no longer in the document manager to edit.
Chase Manor
Saturday, November 8th, 1997
Late Afternoon
Checking his watch, Charles noted that the flight operations desk at his private terminal was still humming with activity under the bright overhead lights. He tapped the speed dial on his phone, and after a single chime was connected to Winston, the bespectacled controller perched behind a bank of monitors. "Good afternoon, Winston," Charles began, voice calm over the line. "I need the jet fully inspected—engines, hydraulics, cabin systems—and polished inside and out. Be ready for departure at 09:30 tomorrow. It's a one-way flight, so whoever is next in rotation can look forward to enjoying Dinner at home." He paused, checking off each point mentally. "I'll arrive around 08:45, and I'll supply the destination and finalize the logs when I get there."
Winston's voice crackled back, crisp and dutiful, repeating each instruction flawlessly. Satisfied, Charles ended the call and punched in the number for The Westin, Times Square. The rich tone of ringing on the other end cut through the terminal's quiet hum—once, twice, a third ring—before his wife's voice floated over the line, smooth and amused.
"I thought it'd be at least a week before I heard from you," Margaret teased, each word curling around him like silk. "That you're calling after only a couple of days means things are either spectacularly good—or terrifyingly awful. And I haven't been that naughty lately—well, except when you were here—so I'm guessing celebrations?"
Charles felt a twitch at the corner of his mouth. "Mostly good," he admitted, picturing her lounging among plush pillows and city lights. "Just a few minor points to clarify. Nothing that would require digging a grave for you behind the garden shed."
"Oh, thank heaven," she replied with a chuckle as bright as champagne bubbles. "I just got my nails done—and wet earth does nothing for perfect enamel."
They shared a laugh, their voices mingling in warm intimacy. Charles leaned back against the polished counter, imagining her smile, and said, "I'm flying east tomorrow morning. I'll text you the arrival time and have a car waiting. Then we'll catch up, dress for Dinner, and find someone—maybe a blonde, a brunette, or a fiery redhead—to join our little escapade."
Margaret's response was a low, sultry murmur: a request for plastic sheeting, an array of ice creams, decadent syrups. "We've both been good about the gym," she purred, "so we can splurge on a sundae that's as wild as we feel."
Their conversation crescendoed into playful, raunchy banter until both admitted they needed a cold shower to cool their flushed skin. When Charles finally hung up, he felt a surge of relief—Margaret wasn't worried about his "minor points." Either his matters were innocent, or she trusted her explanation would satisfy him just as thoroughly as a night of shared mischief.
Devon MacLiesh's Garage/Rehearsal space
Earlier That Afternoon
Kendra was almost bouncing with excitement. Not only is she getting to enjoy unplanned time with Oz, but she's getting to sing with the band. It wasn't like the Dingoes happened to play songs that she knew; no, from what Oz told her, the lead singer, Devon, picked out some songs to learn specifically for her to sing. She was familiar with all three of the songs, but didn't have them memorized yet, so this should be fun.
Following Oz through the side door to the garage, she paused to let the sudden shift from sunlight to fluorescent haze recalibrate her senses, then smiled, shy and bright, at the three boys already halfway through tuning up. Heading toward the group, Devon handed her three lyric sheets for the different songs. She knew she wouldn't have any difficulty with 'Total Eclipse' or the Human League song, except for learning all the lyrics, but Natalie Imbrolio might be a stretch. Mentally shrugging, you never knew until you tried, she concentrated on memorizing the lyrics while Oz joined the rest of the band, taking his guitar from its case and making sure it was tuned properly.
Hearing Devon let the band members know that they would start with 'Total Eclipse of the Heart,' Kendra focused on the lyrics for that song. She'd heard the song a few times, so she was sure her voice could handle it, but it would take a bit of practice to get the lyrics locked into her memory. Sitting quietly, listening to the music, and trying not to wince when one of the band, even Oz, made a mistake. She knew it was natural, since this was the first time playing the song, and they did get progressively better as they learned the song. When they were ready, Kendra stood and moved to the microphone, hitting her mark easily, and she was off and singing. The smile on her face, if she only knew, was the sort of smile seen on a 6-year-old on Christmas Morning.
After running through the song a couple of more times, Devon handed out the music for 'Torn', and once Kendra started singing, she relaxed; she could easily handle the range, and so she focused on the emotion in the song; if she didn't connect with the song, it would sound as fake as a Milli Vanilli concert. Fortunately, she found the connection easily enough, so she let herself be lost in the music until Devon called a break to take care of a nature call. Finishing what she needed to do and washing her hands, she stepped out of the powder room and bumped into Oz as he walked past. Sharing a brief laugh, they went back to rehearsing.
They went over the Human League song and then a few other songs that they just started playing for another hour, when they had to shut down, Devon's dad would be using the garage for the rest of the day and evening, so Kendra helped with packing up and storing the equipment. The boys grabbed their instruments, except for Kenny, who just used a tarp to cover his drum kit, and Devon mentioned that he'd heard about a party someone was throwing by the old quarry, but Kendra begged off, pleading an early curfew and a stack of English homework. She didn't mention that she had slayer training at dawn, or that she needed the alone time to process what it felt like to be just a girl, in a band, not a weapon or a project. Oz also claimed a history essay he needed to finish, and he walked Kendra out to the van.
The sun was setting, the dusk was pink and blue, and the air was crisp enough to make her wrap her arms tight around her jacket. Oz unlocked the passenger side, then circled to the driver's door. She waited for him to say something, anything, because Oz was not the kind of person to fill silences unless there was a good reason. So when she caught him glancing at her, brows raised in a silent question, she blurted, "That was fun."
"I know," said Oz. "That's why we do it."
"I'm still having a hard time getting used to everything, meeting you, getting to sing with your band, it's beyond anything I'd imagined when I took the flight from Kingston."
Oz smiled, small and honest. "And I'm very glad we met, and I know I've said it before, but I could listen to you sing for hours."
She could feel her pulse tick up a notch. "Thank you for inviting me. For making room."
"You don't need an invitation," Oz said. "This is your place, too. You earned it."
They sat in the van, engine off, a slow-motion moment where neither seemed in a rush to move. Kendra wanted to say something, something that explained how much it meant to her, but her tongue tied itself into knots. So instead, she blurted the next thing on her mind:
"I was wondering… about the next date."
Oz cocked his head, receptive.
"I liked our date," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "I liked that you weren't expecting anything. That you let me try things at my own speed. And… I think I would like to do more with you. But—" and here she faltered, because what she wanted to say was strange even to her own ears—"I have this curiosity. About other things. Other people. Well, actually, it's not people, it's… girls. I never had a chance to explore that. I think I want to, but I don't know how. Or who?"
The confession hung in the air. Oz's lips curled in the faintest grin. He reached over, gently rested his hand on hers.
"It's cool," he said, voice soft and even. "You want to experiment. That's normal. And I can help, if you want."
Kendra squeezed his hand, her grip strong, grateful. "You don't mind?"
He shrugged, and his grin grew a little mischievous. "Not unless you want to observe the effects on a control group. I could be your control."
She laughed, genuinely, tension melting away. "I might take you up on that."
He put the key in the ignition, but didn't turn it. Instead, he leaned in, slow, giving Kenda plenty of time to pull away. When she didn't, he brushed her cheek with the back of his hand, then kissed her—a soft meeting of lips, brief and electric. For a second, Kendra was dizzy; not from the kiss, but from being wanted, from the knowledge that she could want, too.
When they broke apart, both of them smiling, Oz started the van and pulled out of the driveway and headed back to Revello Drive. They rode in silence, comfortable with each other's company. As they reached the turn onto Revello, she suddenly had a wicked thought and said, "Oz, there's a shady area just around the next bend. Can you turn in there? I want to show you something."
"Sure," he replied, heading to the area Kendra wanted. When he parked the van, she unbuckled her seat belt and moved to the back of the van, where there weren't any windows and turned on the overhead light.
Oz watched her curiously, but with a growing excitement, he had a feeling he knew where Kendra was going, and was really looking forward to whatever it was she wanted to show him.
Shrugging her jacket off, she gripped the bottom of her blouse and pulled it up, giving him an excellent view of her bra-covered breasts. But then Kendra reached up and unhooked the front hook between the cups and pulled them apart. Oz's eyes widened, and he smiled widely. "Wow!" was all he managed to say, and Kendra giggled.
"Next time, if you keep behaving so nicely, I'll let you touch them."
"Urrk!" was the only thing he managed to say, although he did look disappointed when she closed her bra and pulled down her blouse.
Kendra was shocked at herself, having the nerve to flash Oz like that, but it did give her a warm feeling knowing he appreciated what she had. Although considering how well he took the idea of her being curious, she shouldn't have been surprised.
"I'm sorry," she said, though she wasn't. "Didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."
Oz just smiled, unruffled. "It's a pretty good measure of the moment."
Kendra, emboldened, reached toward him, palm resting lightly atop the denim, feeling the heat beneath. "Would you like me to take care of it?"
Oz's eyes widened, then shuttered, like he was weighing a thousand possibilities. "Only if you want to."
"I want to see if I can make you feel as good as you make me feel," she said, steady and direct. "But only if you're okay with it."
He nodded, once, and leaned back, letting her set the pace. Kendra slid closer across the seat, her movements clumsy at first, but gaining confidence as she felt him relax beneath her touch. There was no hurry, just a slow, mutual exploration; she kissed him again, deeper this time, and he responded with gentle insistence, his hands never straying from safe, respectful territory.
They didn't rush. It was messy, awkward, and perfect in its own way. When it was over—and Oz's breathing slowed, and he looked at her with a kind of dazed, worshipful gratitude—Kendra felt a surge of pride and accomplishment she'd never known before. She was trembling a little, not from fear but from the aftershock of desire, and when she met Oz's eyes, she saw only acceptance, maybe even awe.
They sat in silence for a long minute, then Oz said, "You're amazing, Kendra. Really."
She smiled, ducked her head, feeling suddenly shy again. "Thank you for trusting me."
"Thank you for trusting me back," he replied, and it was clear he meant it.
Kendra looked out the window, watched the last shards of sunlight glint off the windshields of the parked cars. She realized, in that moment, that she wasn't afraid anymore—not of monsters, not of loneliness, not even of herself. For the first time since she'd been called, she felt whole, real, and ready to take on whatever came next.
Oz started the van, and they drove in easy silence, the music from rehearsal echoing in her head. She leaned her head against the cool glass, closed her eyes, and let herself float in the warmth of the memory.
Carpenteria Botanical Garden
Mid Afternoon
Saturday, November 7th, 1997
Romulus Snyder stood at the edge of the pond, the sleeve of his woolen blazer pushed back just enough for the crisp late autumn sun to glare white on his watch. He flicked a stale chunk of baguette into the air with a precise, almost mathematical satisfaction, and watched as the ducks in their motley flotilla blitzed the target with a chaos that belied the peaceful trappings of the Carpenteria Botanical Garden. Someone had once told him that ducks, left unchecked, would eat themselves to death, and he believed it; the proof was never more than a few breadcrumbs away.
He could have been reviewing budget reports or prepping for Monday's meeting with the mayor about the school levy, but Rom's mind chewed at something else: the odd, impossible fact of Heather's birthmark on Tony and Jessica's daughter. He'd stared at the picture again and again, searching for evidence of a flaw, a doctoring, some slip of the hand that would explain away the surge of cold, queasy recognition he'd felt in standing in the hotel conference room. But there was nothing, just an old Polaroid picture of Heather and Xander splashing in a kiddie pool, and on little Heather's back, the lightning bolt birthmark, exactly where he'd seen the birthmark on his adoptive sister Heather many times since she'd moved in with the family.
He tossed another jagged chunk, and the ducks mobbed it, sending ripples out to the reeds. Rom let his eyes drift to the garden's perimeter, where the wind was stirring the long grasses and a solitary heron stood like an inkblot against the gold. He had always prided himself on his skepticism—his refusal to fall for the easy supernatural explanations, even when they'd been all but mandatory in the Misfits. Yet the weight of this evidence, the way the universe kept shoving impossible things under his nose, made him feel like a man losing track of his own story.
If Heather had survived, she would have made contact. She wouldn't just haunt the periphery of a Harris family album, a ghost in the margin, and she certainly wouldn't have left that mark untended unless she couldn't. Unless the Council or something worse had gotten to her first. The idea made his jaw clench; he'd sworn, all those years ago, that nothing would blindside them again, that the old betrayals would never repeat on his watch.
Rom flicked the last of the bread into the water, wiped his hands on a monogrammed handkerchief, and checked his watch. It was about time he was heading back to Sunnydale, even though, with the shocks to his system he'd received today, it was very tempting to get in the car and drive to LA, get a hotel room for the night and get shitfaced on room-service booze. It probably wouldn't help, but at least he wouldn't care, or the hangover would be enough to shove all the questions away. No, it was too risky, Wilkins would want to know why he did something out of character, and that was the last thing he wanted the Mayor to be curious about!
He moved away from the fence, smoothing the creases of his slacks, and strode toward the exit, still trying to find a rational explanation for the connected birthmarks.
Nash Antiques
Saturday Afternoon
The air throughout the upper floor was so still that Heather thought she could hear her own blood moving beneath her skin. She paced the amateur dojo in agitated circles, trailing fingers over the glass display cases, unable to stand still since Margaret's sudden appearance the night before. Every time she stopped, she saw the afterimage of the girl she had rescued from Machida's cult all those years ago. Margaret was surprised at first, but, feeling the 'buzz,' explained why Heather was still walking around. If it were just Margaret, Heather knew she could depend on her fellow immortal's discretion, but it was so much more complicated. Why the hell did she have to fall in love and marry Chuck? And Rom, her brother, was willingly sticking his head in the lion's den, working for that damned Wilkins. She couldn't let her friends, her Misfits, face that smiling monster, but she was scared, scared of their reaction, and seeing how they've all aged, while still looking 18 years old!
"You want water?" Connor asked, voice gentle, holding a bottle out to her. He watched from a position leaning against the wall, watching her with concern on his face. He had the look of someone not fooled for a second by her efforts at casualness, but not about to call her on it, either.
She shook her head, then immediately changed her mind and snatched the bottle from his hand. The cap spun off and hit the floor. "Shit," she muttered, and took a long, grateful swig. "I totally wrecked her day, didn't I?"
"She was stunned, but she'll get over it." Connor's gaze flicked over her, assessing, then softened. "She's your friend, so she'll want to talk. Just… maybe not right away."
Heather put the bottle down and leaned back against a display case. She tried to laugh, but it came out as a ragged exhale. "I feel like a science experiment that just exploded all over the lab. Do you think she's going to tell Chuck and the others?"
Connor's face did a subtle dance—amusement, then caution, then something like empathy. "No chance she keeps this to herself. She'll talk to Charles the minute she gets her legs back under her." He hesitated, then said, "You knew this was coming, right? Sooner or later?"
Heather nodded, but she kept her eyes on the water bottle. "Knowing it doesn't make it easier. When it's just you and me, or our little team, it's…" She struggled to find the words. "It's like I can almost forget I'm dead and buried to the guys and Jessica, but now Margaret has discovered I'm still walking around, and if it weren't for feeling each other's buzz, she probably would have run screaming. Meeting someone that you know was dead, and seeing them walking around, especially after dark, is not even close to a good thing."
Connor moved around the counter and perched on a battered wooden stool a few feet from her. He kept his hands open and visible, the way he always did when someone was skittish. "She'll come around. You're not what she expected, but you're still you—just… a little more haunted." A lopsided grin. "And a lot mouthier."
Heather gave him a look, but some of the tension unclenched in her jaw. "I'm not mouthier. You're just used to being the only one with strong opinions."
He chuckled, and for a second, the store felt less like a mausoleum and more like a clubhouse. "Fair. But you don't need to get everyone to like you all at once. Let it settle. You've got time."
Heather wanted to believe that. She wanted it so badly her teeth hurt. She remembered what Margaret had said, about second chances, and wondered if that was really possible when your first chance had ended in such spectacular disaster.
"Do you remember what it was like?" she asked, voice small, almost breaking. "When you first woke up in this life and realized you couldn't go back?"
Connor's answer was so soft she almost missed it. "Every day. But it gets easier. You find a new way to belong."
She picked at the label of the water bottle. "Was it worth it? Coming back?"
He didn't answer right away. He just looked at Heather not with pity, but frankness, the way an artisan might appraise a rare, slightly defective artifact. "Some days, it's all I want. Other days, I wish I could've stayed gone and saved people the drama. But then people like you show up, and I remember I've still got a reason to be here."
Heather couldn't quite meet his eyes, but she felt the steadying comfort of his presence. "What if they all hate me for not contacting them?" she blurted, before she could stop herself.
"They won't," Connor said, voice ironclad. "The group of you were the literal 'We Few, We Happy Few, We Band of Brothers,' and bonds like that don't fade away. Hell, didn't Margaret say that Charles is back in touch with the rest of your group? They will be surprised, but they'll accept you, I'm sure of it. After all, I know the man, granted, not as Russell Nash, but I'll be there, and some of the others, to help you explain things. I'm not going to promise it will be easy, but it's not impossible either."
She stared at him for a long moment before shaking her head and laughing, "I'm sorry, but I really can't picture you as a Scottish Norman Vincent Peale, no matter how much of the 'positive thinking' you are trying to shovel my way."
With a laugh, Connor reached for his training sword, the blade deliberately dulled to avoid the possibility of a neck slice, and handed Heather her training blade. The two of them moved to the center of the room and took their positions.
They were both tired and sore, but much calmer by the time they finished.
Boston,
Doctor Diana Dormer's apartment,
Saturday night.
Faith's dreams were always loud; they thrashed and screamed and gnawed at her nerves, ravenous things that never slept, only circled. This one started with a scream, echoing off the damp stone of a collapsing basement, where a dozen faces blurred in the shadows, all of them terrified, all of them knowing that something monstrous had them surrounded. Faith had the taste of copper in her mouth and the ache of running in her legs. Kakistos was there—always there—with his split hoof and his never-ending smile, a smile that stretched wider the closer he got. This time, she tried to fight him, tried to keep the others behind her, but her arms felt like rubber, and her fists bounced off him like she was punching a side of beef in a butcher's freezer.
The dream twisted. The basement yawned into a black void, and then suddenly Faith and the Doc were no longer in Boston, but on an airplane, slicing through the dark on a midnight flight. The overhead lights buzzed and flickered. Faith sat in an aisle seat, a window to her left, and Dr. Dormer beside her, reading a battered copy of "The Art of War" and sipping tea from a thermos. Across from them were three kids—her age, maybe a little older, a guy with a lopsided grin, and two girls, one of them looking like she'd be right at home as a Victoria's Secret model, except for the wide open smile that reminded her of a Pepsodent toothpaste commercial. The other girl was cute, more than beautiful, but she had the 'Earth Mother' vibe going for her. She knew them, or she would. They laughed the way people do when they're running from something together and pretending they're not scared. She laughed too, realizing she wasn't scared for the first time in months.
The seatbelt sign blinked on. The cockpit door swung open, and for a second, Faith thought she saw Kakistos in the pilot's uniform, but when she blinked, it was just a normal guy, mustache and all, whistling a tune she'd heard once as a kid. Faith reached out, touched the window, and watched the clouds scroll by below them. The doc nudged her, said something, but the words were lost in the rumble of the engines. Faith looked down at her hands and saw they were clean, no blood, no bruises, just the way hands are supposed to look. She settled into the seat, let herself believe that maybe, just maybe, she was headed somewhere better.
She woke up with her heart still pounding, the sheets twisted around her legs like she'd been wrestling an octopus. The room was dark except for the glow of a streetlight slanting through the blinds, and the faint, comforting clatter of someone in the kitchen. Doctor Dormer, probably brewing her weird herbal tea, humming quietly off-key. Faith rolled onto her back and let her breath steady.
A few minutes later, the door eased open and Diana peered in, hair wild from sleep, glasses perched at a crooked angle on her nose. "Another bad one?" she asked, her voice gentle as a hand on Faith's shoulder.
Faith tried to play it cool, shrugging, "Just the usual. Kakistos and his greatest hits." She sat up, rubbing her eyes, and caught the faintest whiff of honey and chamomile drifting from the mug in the doc's hand. "You got any of that for me, or is it all strictly for grown-ups?"
Diana chuckled, padding across the carpet in her mismatched socks. She set the mug on the nightstand and perched herself on the edge of Faith's bed. "You know, some people find meditation helps. Or writing down dreams. Or, if all else fails, bad British television." She smiled, real and unguarded, the way Faith was still getting used to after all these months.
Faith wrapped her hands around the mug, letting the warmth soak in. "Thanks, Doc." She took a careful sip, then made a face. "Still tastes like lawn clippings, but I'll keep an open mind." She hesitated, glancing up through her bangs. "You ever get nightmares?"
"All the time," Diana said softly. "But I've noticed they get quieter when you talk them out. At least, that's what the books say." She let the silence settle, neither of them needing to fill it with more than the hush of the city outside.
Faith stared at the cup, tracing the swirl of steam as if it might spell out her fortune. "You think it means anything? The flying dream?"
"I think it means you want to believe there's a way out. That you're not stuck where you started." She nudged Faith's knee, just enough to make her look up. "And I think you're a lot stronger than you think, Faith. More than anyone's given you credit for."
Faith didn't have an answer for that, so she just sipped her tea and listened to the city breathe. For the first time in a long time, the shadows in her mind felt a little less crowded, and the monsters kept to the corners, at least for now.
She finished her tea and lay back, watching the ceiling crackle with passing headlights. Dr. Dormer left the door open a crack when she went back to the kitchen, the warm light spilling into the room like a promise. Faith drifted, and when sleep took her again, the world outside the plane window was clear and streaked with sunlight.
End Chapter Eighteen