Distance and Perspective [Buffy the Vampire Slayer]

Disclaimers:
1) This story is set in the universe of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, which is owned by Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. It is part of my Controlled Circumstances series, and as such follows on from my works There is No Depression in New Zealand and Falling Cherry Blossoms; however, my muse decided that (at least parts of) this had to get written first.
2) This story also incorporates characters, situations, and other concepts from the strategy-RPG Jagged Alliance 2, and may include other crossovers in later portions (this disclaimer will be updated as necessary).
3) I have used canon material from the above works wherever it suited the needs of the story, but where necessary I have taken my own interpretation of that canon, written my own material to address oversights or plot-holes, and indeed outright ignored some portions of the canon which clashed. Basically, if it screened in an episode of Buffy that came after ‘Graduation Pt.2’, I’ve probably already discarded it.
4) I welcome criticism of my works, but if you tell me that something is wrong, I also expect an explanation of what is wrong, and a suggestion of how to fix it. Note that I do not promise to follow any given suggestion.
5) Reference for formatting conventions:
{ Transmitted or written }
« French (note spacing) »
«Croatian or Russian (again, note spacing)»
「Japanese」


SUMMARY
With the 1997 Cultural Festival cancelled, the Scooby Gang find themselves with an unexpected chance to get away from the Hellmouth for a few days, in search of new experiences and fresh perspectives on their lives.
And if you think it’s just as easy as that? Welcome to the Hellmouth — you must be new here.

Spoiler: Cast List

‘SCOOBY GANG’
Rupert Giles, Sunnydale High School librarian, Watcher to Buffy Summers [British Council of Watchers]
Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, newly-hired Sunnydale High School assistant librarian [British Council of Watchers]
Jennifer ‘Jenny’ Calendar, Sunnydale High School computer-science teacher
Buffy Summers, Sunnydale High student (junior), Vampire Slayer
Cordelia Chase, Sunnydale High student (junior), leader of ‘Cordettes’ clique
Alexander ‘Xander’ Harris, Sunnydale High student (junior)
Willow Rosenberg, Sunnydale High student (junior)
‘Angel’, ensouled vampire

SUNNYDALE HIGH SCHOOL — FACULTY
Royce Snyder, Principal
Alain DeJean, French teacher
[...]

SUNNYDALE HIGH SCHOOL — STUDENTS
Percy West, SHS junior, basketball team hopeful
Harmony Kendall, SHS junior, Cordette
Gwen Ditchik, SHS junior, Cordette
[...]

SUNNYDALE ADULTS
Joyce Summers, Buffy’s mother
Charlene ‘Raven’ Higgens, former LAPD sharpshooter, operative on Wesley’s team
Louisa ‘Buzz’ Garneau, Jenny Calendar’s cousin, operative on Wesley’s team
SSGT. Michael A. Nantz USMC (ret.), operative on Wesley’s team
[...]

SUNNYDALE HOSTILES
Richard Wilkins III, Mayor of Sunnydale, sorceror
Ethan Rayne, Chaos sorceror and troublemaker-for-hire
Spike AKA ‘William the Bloody’, vampire, notorious for killing two Slayers
Drusilla, vampire and semi-lucid Seer
Dalton, vampire
[...]

INDEX
Part One
Part Two
Part Three [WIP]

 

Sunnydale High School,
Sunnydale, California, USA
08:27, Monday, October 6, 1997

It was, of course, a bright day in Sunnydale, and the students were streaming into their school ahead of another pass through the education system. Of course, some of them knew things weren’t quite as ‘normal’ as they first appeared, particularly the trio now approaching the main double-doors.

“Looks like the clean-up crew worked fast,” Buffy noted, eyeing the new windows in the lounge. “Smashed in on Thursday night; covered in plywood by first bell Friday; Monday morning, you’d never know Spike and a pack of vampires came through there like the Kool-Aid Man.”

“Public buildings around here do bonus rates for rush repairs,” Xander shrugged. “A couple of years ago, my Uncle Rory was on a roofing crew that got quad-time for an overnight job at City Hall.”

“Overnight? He’s lucky he lived to collect,” the Slayer snorted.

“Nothing like a rousing game of Sunnydale Roulette!”

Willow flicked a glance at her blonde friend. “Speaking of Thursday... how’s your Mom?”

The Slayer grimaced. She’d been worrying about that herself. “She’s been pretty quiet. I’m not sure if it’s just the denial and repression kicking in, or what.”

As they came inside and turned towards the library, Xander looked to the girls quizzically. “This has been bugging me all weekend. Not wanting to jinx anything, but... does anyone else feel like Spike was a total let-down? All that big talk Giles and Angel gave him, killer of two Slayers and all, and all it took to scare him off was a woman with an axe?”

“I hear a lot of guys are a disappointment the first time out –” Buffy smirked.

“On behalf of my gender: ‘hey’!”

“– but if more Big Bads turn out to be Big Duds when they show up in Sunnydale, that’s just fine with me,” she continued, pushing open the library doors. “This Slaying gig is hard enough even when the demons don’t actually live up to their hype.”

And then the trio stopped short. They’d expected Giles to be the only one here, since apart from Miss Calendar nobody at Sunnydale High actually came to the library if they could avoid it... but this morning, he had company.

“– the contrary, the Council’s overhauling training procedures – it was long overdue even in your day, but better late than never, I suppose.” A lean, dark-haired, bespectacled man sitting at the study-table, paging through a large diary. He was thirty or so, upper-class British by his accent, dressed ‘smart casual’ in navy-blue chinos and suit-jacket over a white dress shirt. “Greater emphasis on field work.”

“I see.” Giles was standing behind the counter, sorting some returned books, but spared a glance – and his best dry tone – for the stranger. “No longer all books and theory, then?”

“Oh, there’s still a good bit of that, but thankfully, Interventionism holds sway for the moment, which has brought practical matters to the fore.” New Guy summoned a sardonic smirk of his own. “I understand that by the end of the curriculum, trainees will actually have faced two vampires themselves. Under ‘controlled circumstances’, of course.”

Giles looked at him over his glasses. “There’s no danger of finding those around here. Or anywhere in the field, I believe.”

“Controlled circumstances? Oh, I’m well aware. Made the same point myself, when I heard the proposal.” This was delivered quite feelingly, before New Guy spread his hands helplessly and laid on the acid. “Unfortunately, we haven’t been able to push the reforms that far, just yet. Still too many Traditionalist types who insist that upstarts – like myself – can’t truly grasp the Council’s position or harbour the proper respect for its heritage. Personally, I think the bastards could use a little time in the field themselves. If nothing else, the shock to their systems might actually remind them of their humility.”

With a cough – or was it a muffled laugh? – Giles turned his gaze to the newly arrived children. “Buffy, Willow, Xander, good morning to you all. This is Wesley Wyndam-Pryce. He’s... something of a roving trouble-shooter for the Council.”

Wesley stood and approached them, smiling affably as he shook their hands in turn. “Miss Summers. Mister Harris. Miss Rosenberg. It’s good to meet you all.”

“Um, okay?” Buffy managed, shooting Giles a puzzled look. “It’s... nice to have some extra help?”

“Oh, proper help is still being arranged, Miss Summers. As you may have overheard, the Council is, ah, going through some ‘restructuring’ at the moment.”

The school’s rarely-used PA system crackled to life before he could continue. {“Would the following students report to the Principal’s office immediately: Cordelia Chase. Alexander Harris. Willow Rosenberg. Buffy Summers. Report to the Principal’s office immediately.”}

“What is it this time?” the Slayer sighed, then offered Wesley an apologetic smile. “Sorry, but they’re playing our song. Nice to meet’cha!”

– – – – – – –​

Principal Snyder’s office was as warm and welcoming as it had been on Buffy’s last visit, with Sheila. Was that really only last Monday? Gee, doesn’t time fly when the Hellmouth’s having fun! And Snyder’s expression was, if possible, even more frown-y and not-of-the-pleasant.

“I’m sure the four of you have heard the rumours about the cultural exchange program. The Peruvian artifacts for the museum were seized by Customs over smuggling allegations, and the visas for all the exchange students have been delayed by paperwork problems at the INS, so yes, the program’s officially been cancelled for this year.” Snyder’s eyes raked across them all. “That’s left some unexpected room in the school’s annual budget, and there’s been a lot of debate over how to re-allocate those funds, a lot of proposals and pet projects. It took direct intervention from City Hall to settle all the arguments.”

“... Yay for getting things done?” Xander suggested.

Snyder gave him a disgusted look. “Harris, every word you say is so inane and meaningless I can feel my brain-cells dying with every syllable. Don’t speak. Not in this office.” He pointedly turned his attention onto the three girls. “The winning proposal was from Alain DeJean, whereby some of the most promising students in his French classes would be given the opportunity to practice their skills ‘live’, by spending two weeks on Martinique, in the Caribbean. Personally, I think he was trying to get a working vacation out of the whole thing, but Mayor Wilkins loves the idea. He personally approved the trip, on the condition that he had final say over which students and teachers got to go.

“Four of the picks, I can understand. Mister Giles is already fluent in French, and he’s an ideal chaperone. Miss Calendar has a working knowledge of the language, and she’s familiar with you all, so you’re more likely to listen when she lays down the rules. Rosenberg, your patent inability to score anything less than a 96 on a test makes you a shoo-in. Chase, I imagine your father’s going to be hearing from Mayor Wilkins’ re-election campaign in the near future.”

Willow’s expression said, Um, yay me? Cordelia, on the other hand, turned her eyes and hands heavenward. “Thank you, God! A long trip to a tropical island, and I get academic credit for it? Finally, being around you losers actually works out in my favour!”

The principal ignored that, turning his eyes to Buffy and Xander with an expression of sheer revulsion. “I don’t know how you arranged it, Summers, and I’m not sure I care to guess. It certainly wasn’t based on your academic performance or sterling disciplinary record, no matter what nice things DeJean might have been giddy enough to say to your mother after the... incident on Parent-Teacher Night,” he noted sourly. “But you’re in, too. Harris... I have no idea what anyone involved was thinking. My personal belief is that this opportunity should go to somebody with a real future, not on a fast-track to a career in minimum-wage hellholes, and that putting you on that plane is a waste of time and money for everyone involved. But Mayor Wilkins hand-picked you, and that’s the end of it. I can only assume he decided to make you a charity case.”

“Like that’s anything new,” Cordelia sniffed.

“Pick up your permission forms and other documents from the school office. You leave Saturday. Now all of you, get out of here before you miss first period.” After a long moment, Snyder gave them a parting thought, with a creepy-beautific little smile. “One more thing. Martinique is part of Overseas France, like Hawai’i is a State of the USA, and so it’s subject to French law. France hasn’t used the guillotine on anyone for almost two decades, but there’s always the possibility that they’d make exceptions in... extraordinary cases. I choose to take a great deal of consolation from that image.”

– – – – – – –​

When the Scooby Gang convened in the library after last bell, Wesley’s reaction to the news was... not what Buffy had expected.

“Mayor Wilkins intervened personally, you say? And hand-picked all those going?” He frowned thoughtfully, musing, “That’s... interesting. I suspect Zed will be insufferable on the subject.”

“Wait, wait, wait: I would’ve thought you guys would be über-freaked. Y’know, Hellmouth? No Slayer for two weeks? Spike on the loose?”

“Hmm?” The ‘troubleshooter’s’ attention came back to her, and he surprised her again by smiling broadly. “Oh, that’s being handled. Buffy, the Council has been trying to arrange this for quite some time. The thinking was that we’d have to step in and make the offer under the guise of a private educational trust, but apparently, simply putting a flea in the school’s ear was enough.”

“The Council wants this? OK, why?” Xander gave him a suspicious look. (Now that Buffy thought about it, he’d been a little off ever since Snyder’s office. Cordelia, on the other hand, was not-so-covertly eyeing ‘Giles, the Next Generation’, visibly evaluating his date-ability.) “Last time I checked, you guys were all about giving the Slayer orders and the whole ‘sacred duty’ thing, not paid vacations!”

“There have been some... developments within the Council in the last few years. Developments which have, if you’ll pardon my crudeness, firmly applied a long-overdue size-10 boot to its arse,” Wesley noted ruefully. “I’ve been updating Mister Giles on all the political background, so you can ask him for the details if you wish, but in short, when Buffy’s predecessor faced a major crisis, for various reasons the Council’s reaction was too little, too late, and focused more on cover-up than anything useful. The resulting scandal obliged several key policy-makers to, ah, take early retirement, and their replacements have been moving quickly to correct the problems they left behind.”

Buffy arched her brows at him. “‘Quickly’? I’ve been the Slayer for more than a year, and I’m only now seeing them get results.”

“By bureaucratic standards? That’s a new land-speed record,” Wesley observed dryly. “When you reach Martinique, you’ll be staying at a private villa in the hills overlooking Fort-de-France. We’ve arranged for it to be cleared of all but a handful of guests; those who are there are... colleagues and consultants, mostly. People that we think you – all of you – would quite probably benefit from meeting. Most of them have been through the mill, just like you have, so they’re likely to understand anything you choose to speak about, rather than call for nice young men in clean white coats.”

“Almost sounds like group therapy,” Willow observed.

“More of a meeting of the ‘Ancient and Benevolent Order of Them What’s Been Shot At’,” he returned, half-smiling at a private joke. “Ideally, some form of counselling would be a very good idea, considering the traumas and horrible experiences you’ve all gone through in the last year or so, but we’re having trouble finding qualified people with the right backgrounds. For now, the best we can do is give you a chance to relax in a pleasant, peaceful setting and talk through those memories with people who’ve been in your shoes.”

“In French,” was Buffy’s sour observation. Mister DeJean had positively gushed about the chance they were getting – to the whole class, seemingly oblivious to the searing death-rays of jealousy every other student had been glaring at the Scoobies – and made it clear that as visitors to France, they would obliged to at least try to speak the language the entire time they were there. “Did you see my last French test?”

“Actually, yes,” Wesley nodded. “M’sieur DeJean thinks your pronunciation is horrific, your accent makes him want to rupture his eardrums, and the less said about your vocabulary, the better... but he has been complimentary of what little written work he’s seen out of you, as it does demonstrate a solid grasp of the underlying grammar and structure.” He flicked a significant look at Willow; caught between blushing and preening, she did a little of both. “And we can, uh, weight the scales a little. There are spells which can assist in learning other languages, and I can use one of them before you leave. It’ll only last a few weeks, but while it does endure, whenever you hear French, the meaning will reach your mind in English as well, rather like a magical version of the simultaneous translators the United Nations use. It won’t directly improve your proficiency, so it’s not strictly cheating, but you’ll pick up grammar and vocabulary much faster than normal.”

The Slayer turned an old-fashioned look on Giles. “You couldn’t have mentioned this earlier?”

“It’s not a spell I’m familiar with, Buffy!” he protested. “Not to mention that using magic to improve your grades seems a little... underhanded.”

“It’s not about artificially improving their marks, Rupert. It’s a study aid, and one that will help them gain proficiency in a useful skill,” Wesley pointed out, undaunted – but a little irked – by Giles’ disapproval. “If that tyrannical little batrachian in the main office accuses any of them of cheating when he sees the results, I’d very much like to see him prove it without talking himself right into a straitjacket.”

“Be that as it may, this whole proposal still puts all of us in the French West Indies and Spike on the loose here in Sunnydale.” Giles wasn’t about to back down. “Not the most comforting of prospects.”

“After the way Mom scared him off? Spike’s probably gonna hide for a week or two,” Buffy shrugged.

“I wouldn’t bet on it.”

The interjection came from the doorway to the stacks. Buffy’s eyes lit up at the sight of Angel standing there, and Willow smiled at her friend’s joy. Xander gave the vampire his usual flat look. Cordelia’s hungry gaze shifted from Wesley to the new arrival. Semi-accustomed to his stealthy arrivals and departures, Giles and Miss Calendar simply nodded hello.

Wesley whipped around, flinging up his left hand in a ‘stop’ gesture, a septogram of runes of electric-red light forming before his open palm. His right hand flashed inside his jacket.

A little wide-eyed, Angel raised placatory hands before Wesley could finish his draw. “Take it easy. I’m on your side.”

“Angelus.” Wesley’s voice was even, his eyes guarded. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t take your word for that.” But after a moment, he did dismiss the half-finished spell with a waggle of his fingers, bringing his (still-empty) right hand back into the open. “A word to the wise: it is unwise to startle people who’ve spent time in combat zones, or live in them. One of these days, Miss Summers’ reflexes might slay you before she can override them.”

We can dream, said Xander’s expression.

“Remember: stomp. Or maybe yodel,” Buffy added, her eyes twinkling.

“... duly noted.” Angel approached the railing, keeping a wary eye on Wesley. “New Watcher?”

“An envoy,” Giles confirmed. “It seems we’re to be given a... rest-cure, of sorts. He’ll be acting as the school’s librarian in our absence, and as the Council’s point of contact in case of emergencies.”

“That could be a problem.” Angel’s gaze went to Buffy. “Spike’s impulse-control hasn’t got any better, but I know how he thinks. He’ll treat Thursday night as just a test, a way to see what you brought to the table. He’s methodical like that; he’ll keep feeling you out and wearing you down until he thinks he can finish you off, and he’s not too proud to back off and come back another time if he needs to. If you’re not here at all, if he thinks you’ve gone into hiding, he might do something drastic to draw you out.”

“Something drawn more from your history than his own, perhaps?” Wesley asked with deceptive mildness. “Nailing a puppy to a gate-post, or the like?”

“Ewww!” Cordelia gagged. “Vampire or not, who does that kind of thing?”

Angel actually looked shame-faced for a moment, not that Cordelia was looking the right way to notice. “Word is, he killed the Anointed One and took over what was left of the Master’s followers for cannon-fodder.”

“And what of Drusilla?” Wesley interjected. “She and Spike are reputed to be inseparable.”

Giles gave the younger Briton an odd look. “I was given to understand that a mob destroyed her in Prague almost a decade ago.”

“If she’s here, I haven’t seen her.” Angel shrugged. “I’ll keep my eyes and ears open.”

“Very good.” Wesley flicked a finger around him, indicating the Scooby Gang. “Now, these six will be away for two weeks from this coming Saturday – I’m sure Miss Summers will give you all the details when she gets the chance. I’ll be ‘holding down the fort’, as an American might say, and I’d appreciate it if you keep me updated on developments in the local shadow community. There will be others working with me, but you don’t need to know who they are, or where; they’re aware of who you are and have instructions not to bother you unduly.”

Buffy turned an unfriendly expression on the younger Watcher. “That’s kind’a rude, don’t’cha think? Angel’s been a big help since I got to Sunnydale –”

“Clearly we have different definitions of ‘help’, Miss Summers. You might have been persuaded by borderline stalking behaviours and cryptic warnings from the shadows, but his bona fides have yet to be proven to me,” Wesley returned evenly. “My own team is in place, and they will keep things under control while you’re away. How useful Angel will be in your absence still remains to be seen. In this business, trust has to be earned.”

Xander was regarding the new Watcher with growing admiration as this went on, until Willow subtly trod on his foot and shook her head at him in rebuke. He stifled the smirk, but otherwise ignored her. For her part, Buffy was still glaring at Wesley; he didn’t seem to notice, instead regarding Angel with a deceptively mild expression.

After a long moment, Angel nodded. “... that’s probably fair.”

“Good! Glad that’s settled,” Xander grinned. “Okay, now, girls, remember, we need lots of photos from your trip. Bikini shots would be very welcome, and I seem to remember that France is the home of the topless beach, so if you’re feeling daring....”

“Dreams are free, lame-oid,” Cordelia snarled, reluctantly tearing her gaze away from Angel and Wesley. “If you even try to take that kind of picture of me, they’ll never be any good to you, because I’ll rip your eyes out of your head.”

“That’d be a neat trick, Cordy.” Xander ignored the venom. “Since I’m not gonna be there.”

Buffy summed up the collective reaction to that with a blank “What?”

Xander met her gaze, hefted the forms they’d collected from the office, and dropped them on the study-table with an air of resigned finality. “Buff, even if it’s all paid for by the school, I still need two key things to go on this trip: a passport, and my parents’ consent. One, I can’t get in time; the other, I’ll never get at all.”

About to ask ‘why’, Buffy caught Willow’s subtle head-shake and thought better of it, willing to wait until she could ask the redhead in private.

Unfortunately, Cordelia was, as always, far less considerate. “Oh, you mean because your Dad’s a loudmouthed jerk who just got fired for saying things to customers like ‘the problem with California is that it’s too full of spooks, gooks, kooks, kikes and dykes’?”

Everyone flinched a little at that. Willow gently rubbed Xander’s arm in silent comfort, while Giles turned a not-entirely-friendly look on the cheerleader. “Cordelia, have you ever actually heard of ‘tact’?”

She dismissed the idea with a blithe gesture. “Oh, please: ‘tact’ is just not saying true stuff. I’ll pass.”

“‘Things I never thought I’d say’ for a thousand, Alex: Cordelia’s got a point.” Xander shifted uncomfortably. “Mom might go for this, but she won’t cross Dad, and he likes to say, ‘there are two kinds of country – the ones where they don’t speak English, and the ones that actually matter’.”

“I see.” Wesley kept his words soft, but reached into his jacket and produced something, tossing it onto the table in front of the younger man, where it landed with a slap on top of the discarded forms. Xander blinked and picked up the small blue leatherette booklet in wonder, even as Wesley repeated the process with Buffy and Willow: freshly-issued US passports for each of them. “I did say the Council’s been trying to arrange this for some time. As for your parents? I think I can find the right argument to convince them.”

– – – – – – –​

The younger members of the Scooby Gang had dispersed for the time being, headed home to give their parents the good news but already planning to meet at the Bronze to celebrate later that evening. The adults had repaired directly to the library office, where Wesley had produced a thirty-two-ounce bottle of Sprite and a hip-flask full of fine, amber-coloured Arulcan pisco, filled three coffee-mugs with crushed ice with a flick of his wrist and a flare of electric-red light, then proceeded to mix a light white piscola for each of them.

Forethought, preparation, resources magical, material and mental, and a certain degree of panache, Giles had to concede. If he’s truly representative of what’s to become of the Council, we may be in better hands than I’d feared. “I must confess, Wesley, you’re not quite what I expected from your, ah, family background.”

“Braced yourself for Arnold Rimmer, and got Ace instead?” the younger man chuckled, tilting his mug in salute. “I fell in with a succession of, er, disreputable companions after I left Oxford. ’Twas an ongoing scandal to my Father and to Uncle Quentin, of course, but remarkably good preparation for dealing with a world where books – or The Book – don’t hold as many answers as Watcher training assumes.”

Then it sounds like you were luckier in your choice of company than I was. “I’m still having trouble crediting the idea that the Council is taking such an active interest in the mental health of a Slayer. It’s both sudden and-and-and quite unprecedented.”

Wesley’s expression darkened again. “Many things are unprecedented – until they’re done, which creates the precedent. In the past, ‘Slayer mental health’ was mostly regarded as a self-correcting problem,” he noted, not even trying to conceal his contempt. “Before the rise of psychology and psychiatry, a Slayer was expected to simply bear up, like a good soldier should. If she cracked under the strain, events would soon see a new, as-yet unbroken Slayer taking her place. Fortunately, recent developments have brought a little more humanity to thinking on the subject.”

He scowled into his mug for a long moment, then half-drained it before continuing, more thoughtfully but no less passionate. “As a young friend once said to me, albeit with rather more profanity: if you’re going to send people out to do a job for you, especially a godawful violent one like this, you owe it to them to at least try to get them the tools, training, and support they need to actually get the job done. Otherwise, what good are you?”

How and when on Earth did the eldest son of Roger Wyndam-Pryce become such a firebrand? Giles wondered, sipping his own drink to buy time to compose his thoughts. Normally, he wasn’t a particular fan of carbonated lemonade, but the dash of brandy in the mix was smooth and warm enough to elevate the blend to proper pleasantness. Much as the Traditionalists like to paint Interventionism as a creed most attractive to bomb-tossing anarchists, I never thought I’d actually meet someone so close to the stereotype!

“I just hope I make it through this trip without making too big an idiot of myself with the locals,” Jenny smiled. “My spoken French isn’t all that great.”

“We have mutual acquaintances in Montréal who assure me otherwise,” Wesley shrugged. “Not to mention your cousin Louisa.”

Oddly enough, Jenny’s eyes widened at that, and she flicked a quick (almost alarmed?) glance at Giles before focusing very hard on the younger Briton. “You know Buzz?”

That got her another chuckle and a dry smirk. “We crossed paths down in Arulco earlier this year. A woman that formidable is hard to forget.”

“The Monaco Marriott couldn’t, even if it wanted to,” Jenny nodded. “Five-figure repair-bills kind of stick in the mind.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that particular, ah, cautionary tale.” There was something odd in Wesley’s gaze. “But she, and the others that we both know, assure me that they have every faith in your ability to handle matters. In fact, they asked me to pass on a letter to that effect – it’s in my briefcase, please remind me to hand it over when we leave.”

“That’s... nice of them.”

After another moment or so, Wesley made a face and considered his drink again. “Frankly, I’m a little more concerned about Sunnydale’s Mayor taking such a hand in matters, including hand-picking the names that he did. Most men in his position would use something like this as a thinly-veiled bribe to woo supporters, a reward to those already his cronies, or a genuine opportunity for those of sufficient academic standing.” He raised his mug again, musing, “A politician making himself so useful, much less without prompting? That’s cause for unease, in my book – makes me wonder what we don’t realise we’ve given him.”

– – – – – – –​

“Buffy, are you home?” came a shout from the front door.

“In the kitchen, Mom!” The Slayer was sitting at the counter, scowling at her latest worksheet. Stupid Mister DeJean. Making me do extra French homework before he packs me off to make me speak it for two weeks? I thought this was supposed to be a reward, not a punishment! She glanced up as her mother came in. “Hey! How was your day? Bet’cha haven’t got news as good as mine!”

“We’ll see,” Joyce Summers said with a shrug as she came through the door – with a slightly sheepish-looking Angel right behind her. “I ran into your ‘history tutor’ outside. He said something about you having a surprise for me?”

“Oh! Uh.” Buffy gave her sort’a-boyfriend a dirty look – I thought vampires were supposed to be stealthy! Oh, you’re not gonna hear the end of this for a while, buster! – then waved the papers she’d been given at the school office. “Well, y’see, they’re doing this whole field-trip thingy for French class instead of the cultural festival, and I kind’a got picked to go.”

A few minutes of explanation later, Joyce was, as almost always when dealing with her daughter, caught with mixed emotions, though in this case delight was the primary ingredient. “And this ‘educational foundation’ Mister Giles works with... has already taken care of most of the paperwork? Including going to the State Department for your passport? I didn’t know they could do that without consulting me!”

“What can I say? They really wanted to be helpful,” Buffy shrugged. For a change!

“Ah. Well, this trumps my news,” the elder Summers sighed. “I got a call from your Aunt Arlene just before I left the gallery. Her husband’s coming out here for business, consulting on a construction project at Crestwood College, and he convinced his boss to let him make it a family visit. They’ll arrive Sunday, but it looks like they’ll have gone back to Illinois before you get back from the Caribbean.”

“You mean I’m gonna miss a whole week or more of my bratty little cousin Dawn running around the house? Oh, shoot!” Buffy mock-lamented, with a swing of her fist. “I’ll just have to lie on the beach and bask in, er, ‘deal with’ my disappointment!”

“You’re not being fair, Buffy.” Joyce broke out Parental Look #23: Mild Reproof. “She was six the last time you saw her, and you were eleven.”

“And she ruined one of my favourite ‘New Kids on the Block’ posters by drawing all over Donny’s face with my new lipstick!” An instant later, Buffy heard what she’d just said and flicked a horrified look at Angel... who looked impassive as ever. Oh, thank God, he has no idea how uncool I just sounded.

– – – – – – –​

Jenny Calendar hung her keys over the kitchen counter, then dropped into her armchair with a sigh. After a few moments to soak in the quiet and try to relax while she still could, she took a deep breath, reopened her eyes, and reached for the envelope Wesley had given her, opening it with a pen.

By the time she finished reading – and the message wasn’t even a full page – she felt like the chair was reeling sideways beneath her. My God, she thought at last, laying the letter aside with hands that shook faintly. I know Rupert thinks we’re living in the End of Days, and seeing this in black-and-white almost makes wonder if he’s right!

Her eyes fell on her modest liquor cabinet, and for a long moment she wavered. No. Not yet. Let’s leave fortifying myself until after I’m sure there’s a need for it, she eventually judged, picking up her Tallon address book and the telephone. It took a moment to find the page she needed – and a little longer to remember the cypher to decode its actual meaning – but she had the right number within a minute.

{“Société Historique d’Amérique du Nord, bonjour?”} said the voice on the other end.

« Jenny Calendar, Sunnydale, 9-4-7-3-8. Please put me through to Léon Garneau. »

{« One moment, please. »}

After a half-minute of hold-music – clearly chosen by a younger member with a lively sense of humour, she concluded dryly – the line clicked to a new connection. {« South-West Operations. »}

« Uncle Léontel, it’s Jenny. I met with Wesley Wyndam-Pryce today. »

{« Ah, very good! »} the man in Montréal smiled. {« He’s on schedule, then. I expected as much. Before you ask: yes, the letter is genuine. The original proposal came from young Pryce and his people, but it has unanimous approval from the Directorship. Louisa is already in Sunnydale, providing security – she should drop by in the next couple of days. »}

« It’ll be good to see her again. Has she calmed down much since ‘The Matter of Rudy Roberts’? »

{« ‘Calm’ would be a strong word. »}

Considering the trail of carnage that little spat left across half the Riviera, I’d say ‘alas, poor Sunnydale’... but it would almost be an improvement for parts of this town! « Change this radical is never painless, Uncle. I don’t know how some of the people here will take it. »

{« If they don’t get over their hurt feelings, you’ll know they aren’t worth the effort you’ve put into them. »} She could almost hear the Gallic shrug on the other end. {« This is going to happen, Guenièvre. And you have your instructions. » *click*}

– – – – – – –​

Sunnydale City Hall
Sunnydale, California, USA
19:23, Monday, October 6, 1997

{“Mister Mayor? Your last appointment is here,”} came over the intercom.

“Thank you, Carol. Please send him in. And why don’t you go ahead and go home now?”

{“Thank you, Sir!”} his secretary all-but-chirped.

Richard Wilkins III looked up from the document he was reading long enough to turn ‘Charming Smile #7’ on his guest – and surreptitiously activate the privacy wards on his office. “So glad you could stop by! Please, sit. How are you settling in? Are the premises up to your needs?”

“More than adequate, Mister Mayor,” Ethan Rayne nodded graciously, taking the offered seat. “Though I do have to say, literally setting up shop while ‘Ripper’ Giles is in town does make me... a little uneasy.”

“Not to worry, Mister Rayne.” Wilkins finished his reading, made a margin-note with a flourish of his fountain-pen, then set the papers aside and turned his full attention to his guest. “He and his little band of scamps been called out of town for ‘family business’ for the next couple of weeks, and I’ve helped smooth the way for them. He’ll be back for the week of Halloween itself, of course, but as much as the night itself might be... uneventful for certain of our town’s residents, this new fellow, Spike? He seems like the type to keep your old friend and his little troupe quite preoccupied until your commission is complete.”

“That’s reassuring,” Rayne said, almost meaning it. “But I feel we both need to clearly establish your exact needs for this commission before I get started. Managing customer expectations is crucial to any business-arrangement, you see. My last commission-client chose to withhold certain key details, and since I couldn’t account for them in my preparations, he found himself rather disappointed with the results. Admittedly, by its very definition Chaos is unpredictable, but I’m sure we’d both prefer to avoid a similar misunderstanding here.”

“Indeed!” Wilkins let his smile broaden into ‘#15’ for a moment. “I have some... campaign promises coming due. Specifically, an arrangement with the demon Lurconis: four newborn babies, to be delivered on the seventh of next November.”

“I see.”

“Now, the people of my town are quite fruitful in their own right, so the municipal Maternity Ward should be full enough to meet Lurconis’ needs in that timeframe, but I didn’t get where I am by leaving things to chance. I’ve already taken certain measures, but it would be helpful if you could help ensure something of a... baby boom between now and, oh, the end of March. Encourage people to celebrate their marriages, as it were, with greater enthusiasm.”

“Or indulge in their earthier instincts, for those not yet married.” Rayne nodded in understanding. “Easily done, with the right enchantments. I still have much of your advance, so I can contact suppliers for additional stocks of appropriate costumes – naughty nurses, tavern wenches, Playboy bunnies, that sort of thing. And I can reach out to the wardrobe departments of certain ‘film studios’ in Los Angeles, as well.”

“It sounds like you have things well in hand, then.”

Rayne hesitated a moment before speaking again. “And what of the Slayer? My last commission was... functionally intended to assassinate a Slayer, using me to make the process untraceable, but since I didn’t know of her status, the situation I placed her and her friends in was... apparently eminently survivable for them all. If you want me to arrange anything particular for this Slayer and her friends, it’s best to tell me now.”

After impassively considering his guest for a moment, Wilkins reached into a drawer for a folder of surveillance photographs, covertly taken by certain Sunnydale PD detectives over the last year. “The Slayer herself, Buffy Summers. Her best friends, Willow Rosenberg and Xander Harris. Cordelia Chase, a sometime ally. Jenny Calendar, one of their teachers, with your old friend Rupert Giles. Now, their efforts are... useful to me, at least for the time being, so you’re to make every effort to ensure they do not come to harm when you play your little... practical joke. Summers herself needs to remain physically capable of performing her duties, as well, so if she patronises your establishment, you’ll need to make sure her costume doesn’t... impact her self-control, shall we say?”

“And the other four?” Both men knew there was no question of attempting anything against Giles himself, of course.

“As you say, Chaos is inherently unpredictable. They’re a surprisingly capable young group, so I suspect they can handle whatever you throw at them, but if they emerge from the process more inclined to... indulge their hormonal impulses?” Wilkins shrugged. “Lurconis demands only to be fed, Mister Rayne. When you order bacon and eggs for breakfast, do you ask for the names of the sow, or the hens?”

“Not as a habit, no.”

Wilkins nodded a well, there you are. “Now, they all leave town on Saturday, and they’re due back on the twenty-sixth. I’m afraid your competitors are going to be facing some setbacks before the end of the week, so I imagine your grand opening next Monday morning should be quite the event! And you’ll have two whole weeks of uninterrupted business before you have to worry about those meddling kids.”

“Greatly appreciated, Mister Mayor.”

 

Sunnydale High School,
08:21, Tuesday, October 7, 1997

Xander headed for the lounge with a sigh. Ah, decisions, decisions. Will breakfast be a pair of Snickers bars today? Or do I go wild and pick up a twelve-ounce bag of M&Ms, then skimp on lunch by getting a ham-roll from the cafeteria without paying for the ketchup that actually masks the taste of the cardboard?

I know Mom’s trying to try, even through the hangover, but Jeez! Aren’t parents supposed to put more into making sure you have breakfast and lunch for the day than just handing you a half-roll of quarters?

“Harris, there you are!” A large hand fell on his shoulder.

He glanced around – and up, and up some more – at his accoster. Oh, wow. The best part of how much I need this is how much I really, really don’t. “Percy. How’s the air up there?”

The aspiring point-guard gave him a grin full of saccharine bonhomie. “We need to chat.”

“Gee, Perce, can it wait? I’m kind’a late for the most important meal of the day, here!”

“Funny.” The hand shifted, then shoved, and Xander bounced off the front of the vending machines. “I don’t know how you got picked for that trip, but it’s just too bad you’re not gonna be able to make it.”

Xander had never had much time for the school jocks – something about how most of them were preening, self-important jackasses who thought their ability at playing with their balls excused their being overbearing assholes with cruel streaks. And now, even mostly-sure that he wasn’t going anywhere anyway no matter what New Watcher Guy said, he found himself feeling oddly contrary. “Really? Why is that?”

“I don’t know, I don’t care.” Percy’s grin took on a nasty edge. “You pick something to tell Snyder. All I know is, you’re gonna stay here in Sunnydale, and I’m getting on that plane for an island getaway with Summers, Chase and Rosenberg. I could really do with some ooh-la-la before the season starts.”

Three words: ‘oh’, ‘hell’ and ‘no’. Xander straightened, his jaw setting – and his right fist closing tightly around the roll of quarters. “Yeeeaaah, not happening, Perce. Even if it was up to me, Buffy and Willow are my friends. Inflicting you on them for two weeks falls under ‘cruel and unusual punishment’.”

Percy’s nostrils flared, his whole face twisting in fury to match – and he grabbed a fistful of Xander’s shirt, the other hand bunching up. “You’re not listening, Harris –!”

“Percy!”

The basketballer’s head snapped around towards the interloper. Seeing who it was, he instantly smeared-on his best charming smile. “Miss Calendar! I was just –”

“Manhandling a fellow student?” she finished with deceptive mildness, her eyes pointedly dropping to where Percy was holding Xander’s shirt. “Barely a month before the start of basketball season? Y’know, it’d be an absolute shame if you got cut from the team because of something as silly as, oh I don’t know, a disciplinary issue?”

Percy followed her gaze. He took her meaning. And slowly, reluctantly, he let his grip slacken and drop. “We’re gonna finish this later, Harris.”

“No, Percy, it’s finished now,” she told him, with a nasty-sweet smile. “Let me guess: you heard about Martinique and got attacked by the Good Idea Fairy? Clearly you didn’t hear that the Mayor chose who’s going. And if he finds out someone was trying to bench one of his picks... well, the School Board is only a phone-call away! And the competition for athletic scholarships is so fierce.”

Give him credit, Percy actually tried to hold his ground for a few more seconds... but under Miss Calendar’s steady regard, he eventually turned and slunk away.

“Xander, are you all right?” the teacher asked, giving him a sympathetic look.

Oh, I’m just great, Miss! Getting my ass kicked is one thing, but at least nobody’s gonna say I can’t take it like a man. Getting rescued by a teacher? A female teacher? Jeez, why don’t’cha just skip the middleman and make me come to school in a dress for the rest of the year? Xander plastered on his best self-deprecating grin and straightened his clothes, long-honed skills letting him show nothing of his thoughts. “Please! After that time Rodney Munson beat me up every day for five years? Percy is small-time.”

She held his gaze for a moment longer, then visibly chose not to push. “Well, a couple of people from the school newspaper want to meet with all of us out in the Quad at morning break for a group photo. Snyder’s making them do an article on the trip, so he can take credit for it.” She rolled her eyes, then glanced from the vending machine to the half-roll of quarters still in his hand. “And don’t forget to eat something before you go to study hall, okay? You can’t concentrate if you’re hungry.”

– – – – – – –​

Sunnydale High School,
12:33, Tuesday, October 7, 1997

Willow turned away from the hand-dryer – and yipped in alarm as she almost ran into another girl. “H-harmony! Hi! W-when did you come in? What d’you want?”

The blonde’s ‘smile’ reminded Willow of nothing so much as a shark spying a school of tuna. She tipped her head to Gwen Ditchik, silently telling her to guard the door, before carefully checking each of the toilet stalls and turning back to Willow. “Thought we should have some girl-talk. Just you and me.”

“A-a-about what?”

“Mostly? Hot French guys in Speedos, and how much they’d be wasted on you.” The shark-smile did not shrink one bit. “You remember how my Dad works with the town planning office, right? Well, it’s the weirdest thing, but somehow, someone keeps breaking into their computer-system to go through all their blueprints and stuff. Sewer maps, layouts for service tunnel networks, that sort of thing. Same with the coroner’s office, which is really icky if you ask me.”

Willow gulped. Not good. “Oh. Gee. Th-th-that’s, that’s too bad.”

“I know, right? What with hacking being a Federal offence, and all?” Harmony leaned in a little. “Wouldn’t it just be a shame if someone at this school got arrested for it? I mean, a straight-A record doesn’t get anybody out from under Federal charges. Even if they didn’t end up doing actual prison-time for it, the whole thing would set them back years in their education, and the big colleges? Yale, Harvard, MIT, all those guys – they could never touch anybody with that kind of record. They’d be as good as radioactive.”

“B-b-b-but accusations aren’t proof!” the redhead tried.

Harmony shrugged that off. “The Feds would still have to investigate, though, and that takes months. The hacker would be investigated, their family and friends would be investigated... Snyder’s just itching for an excuse to expel some of the people here, and that’d be handing it to him like an Oscar envelope!” She leaned in just a little closer, putting her mouth almost to Willow’s ear. “And all they’d need to get all this started is just a name, or a hacker-handle. Like, maybe... ‘Scarlet Succubus’?”

Willow went clammy-cold all over.

After a long, long moment just staring directly into Willow’s wide, terrified eyes, Harmony pulled back again. “See? Isn’t it nice to have some real girl-talk?” she asked, her shark-smirk approaching peak smugness. “Now, what you tell the school is up to you, but let’s be clear, OK? I’m going to Martinique with Cordelia, not you. Y’know why? Because if I don’t go to Club Med... you go to Club Fed. Got it?”

– – – – – – –​

Bric & Broc (abandoned factory/vampire lair),
12:52, Tuesday, October 7, 1997

“Teachers have been naughty, and now the students are caning them,” Drusilla murmured in her usual dreamy fashion, fiddling with one of her dolls. “Young Turks, and White Russians, and little wingless birds who stuck their long noses where they shouldn’t, and now it’s all topsy-turvy. All those plump cats, so upset at being thrown out of their warm beds.”

Well, that came out of nowhere! Her paramour reflected ruefully, looking up from the TV. That’s the problem with loving a Seer; they might be able to trace all these wider patterns of Reality, but good bloody luck getting ’em to focus on how it relates to here-and-now. Nonetheless, he muted the TV before crossing to Drusilla’s side and resting a gentle hand on her shoulder. “What is it, Pet? What’s happenin’?”

“The pebbles took a vote, and now the avalanche has started,” she frowned. “But not all the pebbles wanted to go down the hillside, and one of them’s come bouncing to our door. Ooh, she’s all angry and cruel, Spike!”

“I like her already,” he grinned. “Any idea –?”

Clong clong clong

‘William the Bloody’ snapped his bleached-blond head around, peering intently at the factory’s main entrance. “See what that’s about,” he told the sentry-vampire – today it was Dalton, the least moronic of the band they’d seized from The Annoying One. “And don’t get a bloody sunburn doing it, either!”

When the door opened, however, there was no-one outside – just a padded catalogue-size envelope sitting on the footpath. Dalton brought it to him with a puzzled expression; the address-panel bore only the word {SPIKE} in marker-pen.

“Open it,” he ordered, backing up a step or two. No knowing what they put inside, and let’s not find out the hard way!

Duly tearing open the flap, Dalton poured the envelope’s contents onto a table. All that lay within was a cell-phone and charger-unit, with a Post-It stuck to the front saying {1 PM}.

Somebody likes playing games, then. I’d had enough of that bollocks even before those bloody Pikeys jammed Angelus’ soul back into him, Spike judged sourly, glancing at the clock on the wall. Two minutes to show-time, then. They’d better be on time – buggered if I’m going to miss The Bold and the Beautiful over this!

At the stroke of one, the phone started ringing, and Spike punched the blue {YES} key before it finished the second bar. “Funny. You do know Dracula’s a poser and a wanker, right?”

{“I’d say ‘spoken like an expert on being both’, but starting our association with snide little insults isn’t going to help either of us get what we’re after.”}

She’s British, she’s posh, and she’s probably got a double-barrelled name. And doesn’t that narrow down who and what she might be? “Might be fun, though.”

{“You’ve attained quite a bit of notoriety by killing two Slayers, William. Would you rather bandy words, or secure help in completing your hat-trick?”}

“Who says I need help, luv?”

{“You may not. Drusilla, on the other hand?”}

Spike’s face shifted with the sudden ripple of fury that provoked, and his demon snarled into the handset. “What. Do. You. Want. Bitch?”

{“I just told you: I want to help you kill your third Slayer. And her entire little entourage of heretics, misfits, and morons, to boot.”}

“And what does a Watcher get out of helping me kill a Slayer and another Watcher?”

There was an outright smirk behind her next words. {“And who says I’m a Watcher?”}

“The thousand-quid accent, and knowing who, what, and where I am? All pretty good clues.”

{“Oh, you’d be surprised by how little those things narrow the field of candidates,”} she purred. {“But as to my motives? Revenge. Vindication. Other things, that are none of your concern just yet. Once Buffy Summers and her troupe are all properly removed from play, we’ll both have free hands to pursue our aims here in Sunnydale, and perhaps even to assist each other in achieving them. In the meantime, consider the free mobile phone a sign of good faith – it’s registered to a shell company, and the service plan is paid up to the end of next September. Do keep it close... but don’t bother trying to call me back. Unless I’ve scheduled another call, you’ll get nothing but a ‘disconnected’ message.” *bip*}

– – – – – – –​

Sunnydale High School,
15:02, Tuesday, October 7, 1997

“— going to do, Buffy?” Willow had spent the entire afternoon stewing on Harmony’s threat, and by the point she and Buffy finally walked into the library and could talk freely, she was almost vibrating with anxiety. “I-I-I can’t go to jail, I can’t not get into college! I, we needed to know those things for your Slaying, but nobody’s gonna believe why I did it or even ask in the first place and what are my parents gonna say if the Secret Service questions them and –”

Giles looked up from where he was sorting books behind the counter. “Dare I ask what’s happened now?”

“Harmony decided she wants in on this trip thing. Says she knows who Willow is in the hacker world, and that she’ll rat her out to the Secret Service if Will doesn’t let her swap places with her.” Buffy’s expression bared a lot of teeth. “Giles: do the Watchers have any rules against Slaying people for being galactically selfish harpies?”

“U-unfortunately, yes,” he said, turning troubled eyes on Willow. “I-I, uh, I’m afraid I’m at a loss.”

“I’d suggest giving her Wellington’s answer: ‘publish and be damned’.” Wesley had been shelving, and now descended from the stacks level with an air of faint amusement.

Willow goggled at him. “B-b-but she said she’ll go to the Feds!” she squeaked.

“And if she’s actually that foolish, she’ll be lucky if they simply pat her on the head, say ‘that’s nice, dear’, and chivvy her out the door,” he shrugged. “Miss Rosenberg, the cybercrime units of the California Bureau of Investigation and of the United States Secret Service are already very much aware of your activities as the ‘Scarlet Succubus’... and they have you filed as a ‘white hat’ hacker.”

“W-w-wait. They do?”

“Oh, yes,” he nodded, with an easy, reassuring smile. “Your, uh, early experiments in the on-line world brought you to their attention, and while professional caution demands that they keep an eye on you, they’ve also been apprised of your involvement in resolving the matter of Moloch. With that as conclusive proof of your being on the side of the angels, I don’t see them taking any sort of clearly malicious report in any kind of good humour – especially not once they get a quiet heads-up from myself or Miss Calendar. This may be a degree of, ah, low cunning you didn’t quite anticipate from Miss Kendall, but if she thinks that setting law-enforcement on you over a school trip is going to get her anywhere, she’s about to learn that she’s nowhere near as bright as she thinks she is.”

Buffy gave him a long, incredulous look, then shook her head, trying to wrap her brain around what she’d just heard. “Harmony, ‘thinks she’s bright’? Those are words I never thought I’d hear together!”

Giles, on the other hand, was levelling hard eyes at the new Watcher. “The Council’s already handled this? Without telling me?”

Wesley blinked. “I thought –” He broke off and shook his head ruefully. “No, that’s a foolish thing to say; I know full well how patchy our communications can get, so that shouldn’t be such a surprise. On the other hand, that you’ve been placing so much reliance on Miss Rosenberg’s computer-skills without confirming they weren’t going to bring the authorities down on your heads? That’s disappointing, to say the least. I should’ve thought a man with your chequered history would be more attuned to potential issues with the plod.”

Wait: Giles has a ‘chequered history’? Buffy’s eyebrows shot for the ceiling, and Willow outright boggled at the older Watcher. “Okay, we’re missing something, here,” the Slayer judged, her eyes agleam at the prospect of a really juicy story. “And I can’t wait to hear this.”

Giles glared imminent death at his younger colleague. After a few moments, Wesley made a conceding gesture and shrugged one shoulder to their charges. “While many people regard their youth as a time of mistakes, your Mister Giles managed to earn a certain notoriety during his ‘wild time’. And the most lurid legends die the hardest, especially in our community. Beyond that, it’s not my story to tell.”

“Your discretion is appreciated,” Giles smiled tightly. “If a touch belated.”

Buffy mustered her best disappointed pout, but further discussion along that line was forestalled by Xander’s arrival, and Wesley set the last book he’d been holding on the counter. “Mister Harris –”

“Hey, Wes, it’s ‘Xander’, OK?” the teen broke in. “‘Mister Harris’ is my Dad.”

“I see.” Wesley gave him an understanding nod, even as Jenny came through the door behind him. “Your arrival is well-timed, Miss Calendar: I was hoping to ask a favour of you.”

“Oh?”

“In all the rush to get here, I, uh,” he winced ruefully “overlooked the need to obtain my California driver’s licence, and although the team-mate who’s been driving for me left the car and keys with me, they themselves are preoccupied for the next couple of hours. I was hoping you might give me a lift over to Xander’s house, so we can deal with this permission-slip business.”

“Sure.” She flicked a glance to Xander, who didn’t quite meet her eyes. “That okay with you, Xander?”

“Actually, it might be best if Xander stays here,” Wesley cut in, shooting the boy an apologetic look. “As I said yesterday, I’m going to be framing my arguments to appeal to his father’s attitudes, and after Miss Chase’s little ‘revelation’, I’m... not sure that’s a conversation Xander will care to hear.”

“Thanks, Wes. I think I’ll sit this one out,” Xander nodded feelingly, digging into his bag for the form in question (which was already a little crumpled) and handing it to the Englishman. “I dunno how you’re gonna pull it off, but what I don’t witness, I can’t be made to testify about.”

– – – – – – –​

2451 Campos Verdes Way (Harris residence), Sunnydale
15:53, Tuesday, October 7, 1997

Even after the long and somewhat disconcerting conversation they’d had in the privacy afforded to them by the drive over here, Jenny had to admit: she’d seen some well-run snow-jobs in her time, and Wesley had gotten off to a good start. Simply seeing a well-dressed Englishman getting out of the back seat of a two-tone Mercedes 500E after being chauffeured across town had clearly already set a certain impression in the mind of Tony Harris, and Wesley was leaning into that hard.

“— with the Ætheling Circle, a... private educational trust, let’s call it, that has branches all over the world,” he was saying smoothly, playing up his accent. If he was at all bothered by the way Tony Harris was trying his best to crush his knuckles in one beefy paw, it didn’t show.

After a few moments, Tony grunted and released the handshake, waving his guests into the living room. “So what brings you here, Mister ‘Private Educational Trust’?”

“Has Xander spoken to you about the upcoming trip to Martinique?”

“Yeah,” the elder Harris shrugged, nodding his guests into seats. Wesley took the second armchair, silently motioning Jenny towards the couch, as Harris went to the fridge for a fresh beer and sat down in his own armchair. A small forest of empties had already grown on the floor to one side, and Tony drained a third of his fresh bottle before turning slightly reddened eyes on his guests. “Don’t really see the point – it’s not like the kid’s gonna need to know French when he’s flippin’ burgers.”

Jenny had to bite down hard on her response to that, and she was a little surprised to see Wesley actually blink and take a deep breath in similar fashion. “Are you also aware of the incident at Parent-Teacher Night?”

“We couldn’t make it, so I only know what we heard later. Somethin’ about a bunch of gangbangers gettin’ whacked up with angel-dust and tearin’ up the high school?” Tony shrugged again.

“Yes. And it may surprise you to learn that your son, and some of his friends, were instrumental in resolving the situation with a minimum of bloodshed. In the process, he demonstrated courage, cool-headedness, and quick thinking under severe stress – qualities that would stand him in good stead in later life, especially with my employers. Mister Giles also works with us on occasion, and he forwarded Xander’s name for our attention. Which is where we come to the Martinique business.”

“Really?” Tony’s eyes narrowed. “How’s that?”

“The Ætheling Circle has operations all over the world, Mister Harris. We’re mostly concerned with identifying and supporting young people with extraordinary talents and helping them achieve their full potential, through scholarships, personalised training and mentorship programs, one-on-one tutoring and counselling at need, things of that nature. Doing that here in the First World can be straightforward, but sometimes it isn’t. Moreover, our work does often take us to less... gentrified parts of the globe. While Xander doesn’t meet the criteria for our primary programme, he does possess the kinds of qualities we prize in our field-representatives and their personal security officers.” Wesley smiled crookedly. “To be quite honest, we’re considering offering Xander and several of his friends... what you might call ‘apprenticeships’ with us, and Martinique is something of a ‘sales pitch’, letting us showcase some of the, ah, perks of joining our organisation.”

“Yeah? And those are?”

“A career above the service industry, for a start; the work certainly can be dangerous at times, but it’s also challenging and worthwhile. There are also, uh, other benefits. I understand you were once in the US Navy?”

Tony twitched, taking a swig from his beer to blunt the pain of that raw nerve being probed. “Six years, before they canned me. Hell, I’m lucky I didn’t wind up in Leavenworth! My Chief at Sigonella was in bed with the local Mafia, working a black-market scam in gas and tyres. All I did was shuffle papers and drive trucks for the guy, but when the Carabinieri caught him, shit rolled downhill.”

“Believe me, I’m more than familiar with that phenomenon,” Wesley chuckled, unbuttoning the cuffs of his left sleeve. When he peeled them back, Jenny did a double-take at seeing the – tattoo!? – on his forearm: a dagger, with a scroll laid across its pommel that read { Per Mare, Per Terram }. “Royal Marines, myself. My first posting out of Lympstone was going straight across the water to Belfast with Four-Five Commando. I made lance-jack in my last year; I’d’ve happily done more than just four-and-out if my family hadn’t leaned on the Corps to make me come home and ‘fulfil my obligations’.”

“Wait a minute: an accent like that, a high-falutin’ family with that kind of push – and you were an enlisted man?”

Another chuckle. “I got the same reaction from almost everyone I met: a bloke like me, posh accent, double-barrelled name... carrying a rifle like some private-school oik? They didn’t know what to make of me, either. Even from the first, the recruiters wanted to put pips on my shoulders, like every other toff who comes to them out of Oxford. I had to be rather insistent on the point that giving a snot-nosed student like me a commission and a platoon-command wouldn’t serve either my goals or the best needs of the Corps.”

Tony considered him for a long moment, then dredged up a crooked smile and a not-terrible Clint Eastwood impression. “‘You’re a good man, Lance-Corporal. A good man always knows his limitations.’”

“Exactly!” A rueful expression, then Wesley moved back on-topic. “My point is that in your overseas service, you found that foreign countries have different legal environments, and that can have... advantages.” A tip of the head at the bottle in Tony’s hand. “For instance, here in America, drinking ages range from eighteen to twenty-one, on the basis that only adults can be trusted to treat alcohol responsibly. In France – including Martinique – the attitude is that the best way to encourage teenagers to act like adults is by treating them as adults, including access to adult privileges, and letting them learn their own limitations from there. On this trip, if Xander chooses, he would be free to walk into a bottle-store in Fort-de-France and buy beer or wine of up to five percent ABV, and the shopkeeper wouldn’t even bat an eye. He’d need to be eighteen to buy anything more robust, but if someone else were to provide spirits, there’s no restriction on consumption, especially in a private residence.”

That earned him a skeptical snort. “Real man’s a drinker, yeah, but the kid’s never shown any interest in gettin’ blasted before. Why would he do it out there?”

“Over the years, I imagine that within his hearing, you’ve lamented the early end of your Navy career because the law said you ran afoul of it. Perhaps he’s exercising an over-abundance of caution? He may prove more willing if the law is on his side.”

“Huh.” The elder Harris actually stopped and thought about that.

Wesley’s thin smile now took on a slightly leering note. “For that matter, while the California age of consent is eighteen, and the sex-ed program at Sunnydale High is firmly based in abstinence, in France the legal age is fifteen, and both education and enforcement are approached from a more pragmatic standpoint. While I don’t know much about Xander’s love-life up to now, nor do I particularly care to, it’s entirely possible he harbours excess concern for the consequences of ‘fishing for jailbait’, particularly in a town where gossip travels quickly. Far from the sight of prying eyes and wagging tongues, in a more permissive environment, he may feel less... self-conscious about ‘completing his education’.”

Tony’s gaze flicked to Jenny. “Aren’t you gonna be one of his chaperones?”

Meaning, “won’t it be your job to cock-block these kids?” Jenny silently translated, feeling a little slimy. “I am... but you have to give kids room to make their own choices, and sometimes their own mistakes. Giles is a little more stiff, but” she leaned forward a little and plastered on her best salacious smirk “I think I can keep him distracted while we’re down there.”

“Oh, honey, I bet you could,” Tony grinned, his eyes lingering on how her posture had lowered her blouse’s neckline an inch or two. “And if you finally get the kid laid, more power to ya. He’s been passin’ up what that Rosenberg skank’s been offerin’ for the last ten years – if it wasn’t for that stash of porn he and his buddy Jesse got their hands on, I’d’a started worryin’ if he’s queer.”

Wesley shrugged, letting that concern pass. “Still, my point is that we’d like to offer Xander an apprenticeship with the Ætheling Circle, and hopefully show him what we can offer him in return for his own strengths and talents. Trust me when I say, after sampling those offerings, he’s not likely to return from Martinique as the same lad who left.”

A semi-derisive snort answered that claim. “Almost sounds like the same thing the Navy recruiter told me.” After a long moment, though, Tony finished his beer and added the slain soldier to the honour-guard beside his armchair. “But, hey, it gets him outta my hair for a couple of weeks, and it starts makin’ a real man of him? Sounds like a good deal. Where’s that form I need to sign?”

– – – – – – –​

Neither Wesley nor Jenny trusted themselves to speak before they got into the car again. As Jenny put the keys in the ignition, she met her passenger’s gaze in the rear-view mirror. “Did we really just sell Xander’s Dad on permitting this trip... by convincing him it was going to be effectively unsupervised? That we’d be turning four teenagers loose in a foreign country for two weeks of sand, surf, sex, and shots?”

“And the more depressing part is: it worked. Makes you feel like you need a shower, doesn’t it?” he noted sourly, opening a silver case to retrieve and light a Cohiba cigarillo. “Though it does lend weight to my ‘sadistic bastard’ theory.”

“Don’t get me started, Wes.”

– – – – – – –​

When they got back to the school, a stern blonde woman was waiting just outside. Lean-framed, in her early thirties, with the unmistakeable bearing of paramilitary training, she was wearing a loose black leather jacket over a white polo-shirt and sharply-creased black trousers... and as she crossed to meet the car, Jenny caught a glimpse of a big silver pistol holstered on one hip under the jacket.

As Wesley disembarked, he greeted the woman with a nod and a smile. “Hullo again, Raven!”

“Sir.” The nod was returned crisply. Looking past Wesley for a moment, she turned a politely-professional smile of her own on Jenny and offered one hand, the other lifting her wrap-around Oakley sunglasses to reveal dark-blue eyes with genuine warmth glinting in them. “Charlene Higgens. Thanks for covering for me.”

“Jenny Calendar. No problem,” the teacher assured her over their handshake. The older woman’s grip was notably calloused – almost certainly the product of long hours handling weapons – but its firmness was carefully measured. “Wesley and I needed a little time to talk, anyway.”

“So I understand, ma’am,” ‘Raven’ noted, bland humour twisting one side of her smile for a moment. “Shall I take it from here? Buzz is waiting inside.”

“Yeah, I think Wes and I covered everything for today,” Jenny chuckled, dropping the Mercedes keys in the blonde’s hand. “Nice to meet you!”

As Jenny headed inside to get her things, Wesley arched a brow at his colleague. “So: how did the job-interview go?”

A disgusted look and a hrmph preceded a proper answer. “Sunnydale PD has been the biggest joke in California law enforcement since before I entered the Academy. And now I have a clue why.”

“That bad, hmm?”

“After the North Hollywood thing in February, every department in the country has been screaming for people with weapons skills and tactical training. An applicant with twelve years in LAPD, six of them as a SWAT sharpshooter? Sir, by all rights, they should’ve been offering me a blank check, and all I got was... yawns.”

“That is curious. And when you implied you had experience dealing with ‘suspects on PCP’? A skill-set even more in demand amongst SWAT teams and their ilk world-wide?”

Raven met his gaze steadily. “As soon as I started to raise the idea... they couldn’t get me out the door fast enough.”

“Indeed.” Wesley mused on that for a long moment. “I believe our younger colleagues would say, ‘something weird is going on’....”

– – – – – – –​

For all the humour she’d shown Raven, Jenny had broken into a near-run the instant she got inside. After hours or not, who the hell thought it was a good idea to let Buzz into a school full of impressionable young minds!? Gods and heavens, I hope it’s not too late!

She near-skidded back down to a walk again just short of the library door, took a moment to try to reassert her composure – and brace for the worst – then pushed the doors open.

Louisa Garneau was sitting on the counter, a pack of Lucky Strikes in one hand and an unlit smoke dangling from her lips, giving Giles a glare that spoke of imminent murder as she yanked her head back to evade his hand snatching for the cigarette. “Try that again and you lose an arm, Limey!”

“I’ll do whatever I have to in order to keep you from bringing open flames so close to my books,” he returned stiffly, a hint of temper creeping into his flat gaze. Beyond him, Willow was sitting at the central table, computer and study-books forgotten in alarm as the situation developed. “If you want to poison yourself outside, that’s your choice, but California’s smoking laws aside, I will not have this library go the way of Alexandria because you could find no better cure for boredom than a nicotine fix!”

Buzz met him glare-for-glare for a long, long, long moment... then slowly smiled and returned the cigarette to its packet. “So you’re not just a spineless bookworm? Good. Can’t have Jenny winding up with a wimp.”

“Nothing comes of that but boots to the head,” Jenny inserted dryly, quickly inserting herself into the little tableau. “I didn’t figure you for the Cheesehead Inquisition, Buzz.”

“Someone’s gotta do it, and your Dad’s kind’a busy winning drag contests,” the other woman grinned. She slipped down off the counter and unashamedly bear-hugged the new arrival. “Good to see you again, Jenny.”

“You, too, Lou. I don’t think we slept much during the Bihać thing,” Jenny noted, with a little effort. Is she trying to crack my ribs? Damn, she’s really been working out since I last saw her! Linda Hamilton wishes she’d had this kind of steel-cable physique when she was doing the Terminator sequel. Buzz was slightly taller and barely a year younger than herself, but choice and chance had led to the cousins’ lives taking far different courses – as the shoulder-holstered pistol between Louisa’s white blouse and black denim outerwear amply attested.

Buzz released her and stepped back, making a dismissive noise. “Yeah, it was amazing just how fast and far we made the Serbs back off once people would actually let us get weapons,” she noted with disgust. “It’s not like UNPROFOR was actually a force that could provide real protection, or anything.”

Jenny flicked a moment’s glance at Rupert, who was observing all this with an arched brow. I need to pick my words carefully for now. This would be so much easier without the idiotic power-games being played in the background.... “Louisa, uh, spent some time in Bosnia during the wars.”

“She means, I came out of college with a shiny new photojournalism degree and, being a naïve little idiot like most college kids, went into the Pocket actually thinking a Nikon gave me the power to make things better for people there.” Another scoffing noise. “In the end, I didn’t start making a real difference until I picked up a weapon.”

“I... see,” Giles managed, eventually and rather dubiously.

I’m not sure you do, Rupert. Straight-laced, sober-sided Watcher your whole life? Something tells me you don’t realise how much dirty work goes into this profession of ours. Jenny shook off the thought.

The library doors swung open again, and Buzz’s hand was halfway to her sidearm before she saw the newcomers and stopped herself. Cheerleading practice had just ended, and Cordelia and Harmony had stopped by. (Even with three adults in the room, Willow froze, like a mouse hypnotised by a cobra.) Cordelia parted ways with the blonde, heading into the stacks with Giles in search of a book. As they went, Harmony glanced across Jenny and Buzz, visibly dismissed them all as unimportant to the moment, and sauntered over to the central table, shark-smirking at Willow. “Hey, there, Willow. Had a chance to think about what I said?”

“Uhhh... y-y-yeah,” the redhead nodded, almost convulsively.

“... And?”

«What’s going on?» Buzz murmured to her cousin.

Thanks a lot, Lou. Do you know how long it’s been since I spoke Croatian? Jenny noted dryly, trying to find the right words. «She wants to go to Martinique in Willow’s place.»

«Fuck that!» Buzz bristled at the very thought, and when she addressed the cheerleader, her voice was very, very dangerous. “Fuck off, blondie! You have no idea what’s going on.”

“Lou, don’t,” Jenny said quietly, setting a hand on her cousin’s arm. When the taller woman glanced at her, Jenny warned her off with a shake of her head. Willow’s got this under control, her eyes said silently, and prayed she wasn’t mistaken.

Harmony ignored the byplay behind her and cocked her head. “I’m waiting, Rosenberg.”

Willow turned desperate eyes on Jenny, silently pleading for intervention. For a moment, the teacher considered speaking, even drew breath... then reconsidered, and confined herself to a silent nod and a steady look. We’ll back you up, Willow, but you can handle this alone. You’re stronger than you realise. Beside her, Buzz glared daggers at Harmony’s back and gave the redhead her own confident smirk.

Near-panic flickered across the girl’s face, then she turned her gaze back to Harmony. After a long moment, she took a deep, steadying breath, her jaw setting as she jerked her head at Buzz. “Y-y-yeah, I-I’ve thought about it. A-a-and I like her answer: ‘F-Fuck off, blondie! You have no idea what’s going on.’”

Harmony’s jaw dropped so hard and fast, Jenny was surprised she didn’t bruise her chin on the tabletop. “Ex-cuse you? You know what’s gonna happen –”

Willow had clearly screwed up even more courage than she realised, because she actually dared interrupt the blonde, surging out of her seat and facing her with fists clenched by her sides. “Yeah, I do! And I only wish I could be there when they laugh in your face! ‘Publish and be damned’, Harmony, now f-fuck off and let me get back to doing something important!”

Harmony just stood there, slack-jawed and blinking, utterly lost for words.

Harmony.exe has encountered a fatal error and closed down, Jenny noted dryly. Good grief, she never even considered that Willow might actually say ‘no’, did she?

“Harmony, what’s going on?” Cordelia and Giles had returned from the stacks, and now the head cheerleader was frowning down at her minion from the landing.

“Y-your brain-dead lackey over there t-tried to blackmail me into giving her my seat on the trip,” Willow shrugged, her voice still hot. “I-I told her to grab her vibrator and b-buzz off, instead.”

Giles went a little pink. For her part, Cordy actually ha-ed a near-laugh. “So crude as that, huh? Sounds like you need to switch to the extra-strength Midol, Willow.” That said, she turned hard eyes on said minion. “Harmony? Explain.”

“W-what?” the blonde stammered incredulously. “Y-you’re taking her side?”

“It’s all I’ve heard, so far. Again: explain.”

“You... it’s going to be nothing but these freaks on that plane with you! I thought you’d want an actual friend along –”

That earned her the patented Cordelia Chase thousand-watt ‘you-have-screwed-up-now!’ smile. “Harmony, if a thought ever actually went through your head, it’d be the fastest trip in North America.”

Harmony’s jaw dropped again, and she simply stood there, gaping at the head of the Cordettes, baffled, betrayed.

“Go home, Harmony. We can talk about this later.”

As the blonde near-staggered back out of the library, almost in a daze, Cordelia and Giles headed to the counter to get her book issued, while Jenny and Buzz both approached Willow, who’d gone from angry-flushed to near-hyperventilating almost as soon as Harmony’s back was turned. Jenny slipped one arm around her young charge’s shoulders, both to steady her and reassure her. “That must’ve felt good,” she grinned.

“Y-y-yeah, it did,” the redhead stammered, a little wonderingly. “B-b-but why didn’t you say something?”

“Because I’m not always gonna be there, Willow,” Jenny said gently. “If you fight a girl’s battle for her, you protect her for a day. If you teach her that she can fight her own battles, you protect her for a lifetime.”

“Besides, scratch a bully, and you find a coward,” Buzz snorted contemptuously. “In the Bihać Pocket? The Serbs were really fuckin’ ‘brave’ about dropping shells on unarmed civvies and troops who couldn’t even find rifles, but the instant we actually got some firepower of our own? Those chickenshits took off running and didn’t stop until they got to Banja Luka.”

For her part, Cordelia glanced over at them on her way to the door and gave the tableau a smile of faux-pity. “Funny how you’re only brave when you’ve got back-up, Willow.”

Buzz glared bullets at her. “Says the girl whose whole power-base hinges on attacking people who won’t fight back!” Her voice was frost on diamonds. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be, ‘Queen C’?”

Cordelia’s own glare clashed with Buzz’s for a long moment, like swords striking sparks from each other, before the cheerleader made a show of checking her watch and walking away.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Flicking a glance at her own watch, Buzz growled. “C’mon, Jen, let’s get moving. I’ve got a thing in a couple of hours, and we need to do some catching-up first.”

Do we ever! Jenny noted to herself. “Willow, will you be OK to get home?”

“Y-yeah, I-I’m good,” the redhead nodded. “I-I’ve got a cross and some holy water.”

“Fair enough... but we’re still gonna walk you out, OK? It’s on our way.” Jenny waved a ‘see ya later’ to Giles as Willow quickly packed her things. Buzz, meanwhile, was retrieving her cigarette, and as the three women went out the library doors, she looked back and gave Giles a taunting wink as she struck her engraved Zippo.

They actually made it all the way to the street before they were accosted (again!): Principal Snyder came storming up to them as they reached the footpath, his nostrils flaring in outrage. “I don’t know who you are, but there’s no smoking on my campus!” he all-but-screamed at Buzz.

Louisa Garneau gave him an amused look, then quite deliberately stepped down off the kerb, onto the roadway. “Well, then: it’s just as well for both of us that I’m not on your campus, isn’t it?” she countered, with an impudent grin and a deep drag on her cigarette. Just as he started sucking in breath for a proper explosion, she blew a long plume of smoke right into his face... and smirked even wider as he coughed and spluttered for clean air, flapping his hands to try to clear away the toxic blue-grey cloud.

“Buzz....” sighed the long-suffering Jenny.

“Aw, c‘mon, it was a little funny!” Her cousin shrugged at her over the car’s roof, not the least whit repentant.

And as the two climbed into Jenny’s yellow Bug and drove away, Willow gave the rapidly-reddening Snyder a helpless shrug before turning to look after her newest hero, sighing in admiration. She’s just so cool....

– – – – – – –​

1630 Revello Drive (Summers residence)
17:53, Tuesday, October 7, 1997

Joyce Summers sighed in relief as she pulled into her driveway. Another day over. Who would’ve expected that an art gallery in a small town like Sunnydale would be so busy?

Locking her Jeep, she started to turn towards the house... then stopped and growled as she remembered something. And I completely forgot to get anything for dinner! Buffy eats enough on her own, but Xander and Willow will be here for a cram-session ahead of their trip, so I’m looking at three teenaged appetites to feed. Great going, Joyce – A+ parenting skills!

“Excuse me, ma’am?”

Despite what her daughter would recount (with great relish) in later tellings, Joyce most definitely did not ‘squeak in fright’ at hearing a male voice so close behind her. She might have jumped a little, but grown women did not ‘squeak’, thank you very much! After a half-second for a deep breath to steady her heart-rate, she turned to face the speaker. Oh, my....

He was in his early thirties, tall, blond, lantern-jawed, and attractive in a way that simply wasn’t fair to a woman who’d been without male company as long as she had. Coupled with the visibly toned physique, it was almost overwhelming, and Joyce found herself suddenly dry-mouthed in a way she hadn’t been in far too long. He offered her a greeting handshake and a respectful smile, both of which she met cautiously. “Sorry if I startled you, ma’am. Mike Nantz. I just moved in at 1627,” he provided, nodded at the house diagonally across the way.

“J-Joyce. Summers,” she responded, distantly proud that she’d kept the verbal stumbling to a minimum. “Nice to meet a new neighbour.”

That earned her a sheepish admission. “I was, uh, actually hoping I could impose a little? ABC’s doing a special report ahead of their nightly news that I’d really like to see, but I just found out my TV got dropped during the move. Could I come in and watch it on yours, instead? I’ll be out of your hair once it’s done.”

Now, let’s not be hasty, here! Joyce shook her head a little, trying to rein in her rampant imagination. And stirring libido. “I... that’s no problem at all, Mister Nantz,” she assured him, waving him towards the door.

It was his turn to shake his head. “‘Mister’ Nantz. That’s going to take getting used to,” he admitted ruefully, giving her a polite amount of room to open the front door. “For so long, it’s been ‘Sergeant Nantz’, or ‘Staff Sergeant’....”

“Oh, you’re in the military?” That would explain why he’s so in-shape for his age, she noted, silently waving him inside.

“Marine Corps,” he nodded. “Well, I retired a couple of months ago, but it’s hard to break the old habits.”

Entering the house took them into the middle – well, into immediate earshot – of another discussion in the dining room. As Joyce had half-suspected, Buffy and her friends were at the dining table, books spread out before them, but (once again) the thread of their studies had been lost in their conversation.

“– actually said that? You actually said that!? To Harmony!?” Xander’s grin was so wide, it threatened to wrap around his head. “Way to go, Willow!” he chortled, abandoning his homework for a moment to haul his childhood friend from her seat and bear-hug her. The already-blushing redhead squeaked in startlement, but shamelessly melted into his embrace. “I just wish I could’ve been there to see it myself!”

“Me, too. Long overdue, Will,” Buffy agreed, herself grinning (and shaking her head at their antics). “I just hope she takes the hint and backs off a little, from now on.”

“Too much to hope for – Harmony’s got the memory of a goldfish,” Willow noted sourly, still leaning her head on Xander’s shoulder with a dreamy expression. “But if we get to the weekend without her bugging me again, that’ll mean almost three solid weeks of peace. I’ll take that, any day.”

Buffy was about to add something when she noticed her mother, and Nantz – and the shift in her bearing was astonishing. Her eyes narrowed, her grip on her pencil shifted, and she was suddenly almost quivering with tension. “Who’s your friend, Mom?”

“New neighbour, actually,” the retired Marine provided smoothly. “I just moved in across the road. My TV got broken; there’s a documentary in a few minutes that I’d like to see, and your mother was kind enough to let me come over.”

“Uh-huh.” Buffy’s tone was neutral, and her suspicious gaze didn’t waver in the least.

“Buffy!” Joyce reproved her. “That’s no way to treat a guest!”

“No, it’s okay,” Nantz told her calmly, giving Buffy a nod that held understanding and... respect!? “It always pays to be careful.” With that, he stepped into the living room and found the TV remote, making sure Buffy could keep her eyes on him the whole time.

What is with you? Joyce silently asked of her daughter, before heading into the kitchen to assess her options for dinner.

– – – – – – –​

Trading glances, the three teens reached a silent agreement and adjourned to the living room, where Mrs. Summers’ guest was just finding the right channel. “So what’s the big, Mister Neighbour?” Buffy asked, mentally measuring the fellow. If he turns out to be a vamp, this could get not-of-the-fun real quick. I’ve fought bigger, but he moves like a trained killer. “Something about the stock market?”

The blond barked a laugh. “Hardly. The last troops are coming out of New Zealand this week, and ABC’s running a half-hour piece on the Insurrection. I’ve met too many Americans who tuned in to the Atlanta Olympics, instead of keeping track of what was happening with my Marines. I want to see how it gets summed it up for the people who came in late.”

“Your Marines?” Xander shot a startled glance to an equally-nonplussed Willow. “You were part of the Intervention?”

“‘From go to whoa’, as the Kiwis say,” he nodded with sombre pride. “Guess you didn’t hear me introduce myself. Staff Sergeant Michael A. Nantz, United States Marine Corps, Retired. Finished my twelve with 13th MEU – Bravo Company.”

“You were One/Four? No shit!” Xander breathed, suddenly impressed. “My Uncle Rory did two tours in Vietnam with One/Four. He owns a business on the edge of town, these days.”

“Really? I’ll have to look him up,” Nantz smiled. “Always a privilege to meet one of the Old Corps.” Glancing towards the kitchen, where Joyce was out of earshot, he lowered his voice, with a slight confidential lean towards Buffy. “And relax – we already have a mutual colleague.” This was accompanied by his fingertips drawing circles in front of his eyes.

Willow jolted. “Wait, you work with Wesley?”

“When I was Down Under, I saw and did some unusual things – I even ran into some locals about your age who were doing what you do.” A motion of his hand took in Buffy and both her chief Slayerettes. “For now, I’m just here to make sure Mrs. Summers will be okay while you’re away.”

“And you can do that?” Buffy raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“I’d say ‘ask the two pests I had to clear out of my basement when I moved in’, but you’d need to pour them out of the dust-buster, first.” It was off-hand, a simple statement of fact from a man long past any need to brag about anything.

After a long moment of thought, the Slayer nodded approvingly. “Okay, that’s fair. But no funny stuff with my Mom, buddy!”

That earned her a snort of repressed laughter and a chiding expression. “I respect your concerns, and I don’t have any particular ambitions as yet, but if anything does end up happening between me and your mother... that’ll be between me and your mother.”

Oh, is that how it is? “I don’t think you heard me,” Buffy smiled. In the background, Xander and Willow recognised the imminent danger and started backing away a little. Contrastingly, if Nantz was alarmed, it didn’t show in his face or body-language.

“Oh, he did. And so did I,” her Mom’s voice cut in sternly. She’d come to the doorway in time to hear that last exchange, and was seemingly torn between glaring at her daughter and approving of the newcomer. “Buffy, I love you for looking out for me, but who I date is not up to you.”

“Mom -!”

“Like the Staff Sergeant said: if anything happens, it’ll be a matter between two consenting adults. Your opinion is noted, but it’s not relevant.”

‘Consenting’!? “What!? No!” the appalled blonde whined. “There will be no ‘consenting’ here! You’re my Mom, and you’re old, you’re out of the ‘consenting’ business!”

“Oh, God, I hope not!” Joyce declared fervently. Then she gave their guest a considering look... that turned into a long, lingering once-over. “Are you out of the ‘consenting’ business, Mike?”

He played along, blatantly checking her out and apparently liking what he saw. “Not by a long shot, Joyce! I am a little out of practice, though....”

“Really? Me, too. But I think we can fix that.”

“Mo-o-om!” screeched the scandalised Slayer. “You’re flirting! And leering! There’s leering and flirtage going on! You’re doing the opposite of what I said!”

“A little trick I picked up from you, honey,” Joyce smirked.

Xander had a long and loud ‘coughing fit’ that required covering his mouth with one hand, and Buffy shot him a foul look for the betrayal. Willow was trying to sink down through the floorboards. Thankfully, the cheery strains of the ABC News jingle heralded the start of Nantz’ program, rescuing everyone from their mortification.

{ “At a White House press conference earlier today, President Gary Nance officially declared that the last American combat forces have been withdrawn from New Zealand, where paramilitary forces loyal to a corporate oligarch attempted to overthrow the government in May of last year,” } Peter Jennings told his viewers, over footage of camouflaged vehicles and men boarding ships under bright, sunny skies. { “Since the surrender of the last rebel holdouts almost three months ago, U.S. and other Coalition forces have been assisting domestic and international agencies with reconstruction and relief efforts. Now, with government services and infrastructure mostly restored across a nation once ravaged by both civil war and the bizarre weather phenomena that complicated the fighting, President Nance sent the newly-elected New Zealand Government and Parliament a recorded video-address.” }

The feed cut to President Nance, sitting behind his desk in the Oval Office, addressing the camera with his trademark sombre dignity. { “The people of New Zealand have fought long and hard to regain control of their own country, and American involvement was only ever a helping hand to that end. We are overjoyed to see that the greater need for that help has passed, and to witness New Zealand reasserting its own institutions and governance.” }

Back to Jennings. { “Despite the campaign mostly enjoying bipartisan support, some Republican commentators do continue to criticise the President’s decision to intervene in the South Pacific nation, saying that New Zealand had abrogated all U.S. responsibility for its defence when it closed its territorial waters to all nuclear-powered and nuclear-armed ships in 1987, causing friction with the US Navy’s neither-confirm-nor-deny policy of the time. CNN contributor Pat Buchanan went so far as to say on-air that the campaign, spearheaded by the Marines of the 13th Marine Expeditionary Unit and eventually involving forces from twelve nations, was ‘nothing but a cynical ploy to distract from domestic blunders like the Waco siege and the rushed, bungled ‘reforms’ of the ATF and DEA that followed’. Senate Majority Leader John McCain himself was quick to respond to the claim.” }

Cut to McCain, being interviewed in a Capitol hallway between official duties. { “New Zealand has been a staunch ally to the U.S. since World War Two, and it is a nation with a genuine, abiding, deep-running commitment to democracy. Yes, we’ve disagreed at times, but friends can disagree and still remain friends. And whatever our disagreements, to say that we made a mistake by coming to their aid is not just the worst kind of wrongheaded ignorance, it is a fundamental betrayal of every U.S. soldier, sailor, airman, Marine, and Coast Guardsman who participated in this proud feat of arms, and most importantly the sacrifices of those who fell in the name of freedom.” }

“The man actually gets it,” Nantz murmured.

“You’d hope so, after five years in the Hanoi Hilton,” Xander noted. That earned him a questioning look from Nantz, but the program was already moving on.

Buffy had mostly spent the summer of ’96 dealing with her Slayage-related expulsion from Hemery and Mom and Dad divorcing, not to mention trying to put the Slaying behind her after Merrick had died; she should probably be paying closer attention, but she quickly found herself getting so lost in a whirl of unit-numbers and maps changing colours and ‘freak blizzards’ that about the only impression that stuck in her mind was ‘local bad guys try bad stuff; Americans and other good guys show up to help local good guys; weather does Weird Stuff that makes life hard for everybody; bad guys lose, slowly’. On the other hand, Nantz and both her friends were fascinated, not least by the Marines who had helped put it right, and she found herself almost more intrigued by their interest. She found herself asking about it in an ad-break; Nantz had been there, so that was him explained, but why were Xander and Willow so big on the whole Marine thing, especially this thing in some little banana-republic?

“Will and Jesse and I spent a lot of time out at Uncle Rory’s place when we were younger,” Xander shrugged. “Our parents would drop us there for the weekends – I guess they figured he was cheaper than a weekend babysitter, but they always called him ‘’crazy‘’. I mean, he says himself that he came back to ‘The World’ with ‘a Bronze Star, three Bolo Badges, and a head full of loose wires’. We’d spend the days listening to his funny stories and learning things he picked up in the Corps, and overnight we’d camp out in tents and playact at being Marines on a field exercise, while he went back in his cabin with a fifth of bourbon and sometimes, uh,” he glanced at Joyce and visibly changed his choice of words “a ‘young lady of negotiable virtue’.”

Buffy went a little pink at the idea, then turned piercing eyes on Nantz as something struck her. Maybe I can nip this whole thing with my Mom in the bud! “Marines do that kind of thing, huh? Have you?”

“Rory was always nice to the three of us – w-well, back when there were three of us,” Willow deliberately barged in, earning herself a quick glare from the blonde. “W-we haven’t been back since, well, y‘’know. When we went camping, Rory would give us pre-packaged dinners he’d put together from C-rations, to go with the whole pretend-Marine thing, and h-he always made sure that mine was kosher and had Tabasco sauce and a pound cake, or sometimes fruit cocktail. Th-they weren’t too bad, considering they were older than we were.”

“Spot the favourite child,” Nantz grinned. “We got MREs, which are supposedly an improvement over those old C-Rats, but sometimes that little bottle of hot-sauce was the only thing that made them edible. By the end, some of my Marines got turned onto New Zealand-style ketchup, instead – most of their companies add sugar and ginger to the blend, to give it a little ‘body’ without the hard pepper-kick of Tabasco. The Kiwis call it ‘t.f.’, for ‘tomato flavouring’, or ‘tucker fu–’” He cut himself off with a cough, almost too late remembering his audience’s ‘tender ears’, which occasioned general amusement. Then the ad-break was over again, and he was once again hyper-focused on the documentary.

When the whole show was over, Buffy wasn’t sure she knew much more than she had before, and said so. “Did I miss something, or did they never say what the whole thing was about? What was this ‘Housemann’ guy after?”

“You can’t really pack ten years of build-up into twenty minutes of TV,” Nantz shrugged. “Housemann was putting his pieces in place at least that long ago, but he was the only one who really knew the how and why of things, and he disappeared six weeks before things kicked off. As far as anyone can tell, one of his flunkies decided to make a play for the top job by pulling the trigger without orders, some of the others weren’t on board or weren’t ready, and voilà: instant cluster-fuck.”

Joyce cleared her throat and gave him a reproving look.

“Oh, c’mon, Mom, it’s not like any of us haven’t heard words like that before,” Buffy sniffed. “We’ve all seen the uncut Die Hard, and Will and Xander just told you they all but lived around a Marine and his language for a while.”

“How about a practical apology?” Nantz posed. “I mean, I’ve disrupted the evening for everyone, and Joyce hasn’t had a chance to even look at the kitchen, but I’ve got my separation pay from the Marines. The least I can do for your hospitality is shout tea for everyone.”

Buffy gave him a blank look. “... huh?”

He winced. “Sorry: ‘Tea’ is what the Aussies and Kiwis call ‘dinner’. I was offering to treat everybody to pizza.”

Joyce glanced about at the suddenly highly-interested teenagers in her living-room and sighed. “I don’t even need to ask, Mike; I’d be out-voted no matter what I said. ’Phone’s in the kitchen. You and I can split a large Italian; kids, go with him and tell him what you want, but don’t go overboard.” Suddenly she took on a puckish grin and pointed a warning finger at him. “And our second date had better be a little more fancy, Mister!”

“... ‘second date’?” Nantz looked highly intrigued.

“‘Second date’?” squawked a horrified Buffy.

– – – – – – –​

1627 Revello Drive (Nantz residence)
19:22, Tuesday, October 7, 1997

Nantz closed the door behind him and, with a resigned sigh, turned to face the Inquisition.

Raven was sitting at the living-room table, her SG551 field-stripped and spread on a cloth before her. Next to her elbow sat a speaker-repeater for the parabolic-mic Buzz was operating through the upstairs bedroom window, through which (judging by her intrigued expression) the former LAPD SWAT sharpshooter had heard virtually every word said at 1630 since he’d walked out the door almost ninety minutes ago. She cocked an amused eyebrow and dryly repeated, “‘Just gonna make first contact’, huh?”

“The situation developed rapidly. I had to ‘semper gumby’,” he shrugged.

“Hey, I’m not the one you have to explain it to,” she grinned. “Wesley’s probably going to have a cow, though. You’re not supposed to be watching Joyce Summers that closely.”

“I can’t protect her if I’m not around her, and this gives me a reason.”

“And when Buffy decides to strangle you with your own entrails for breaking her mother’s heart?”

Nantz shrugged again, retrieving his sheathed Ka-Bar and holstered Beretta 96 from the table so he could return them to his belt. “I’m not planning on doing that, but if it ever happens... well, I guess it’ll be an interesting day.”

Spoiler: Author’s notes

Charlene ‘Raven’ Higgens and Louisa ‘Buzz’ Garneau are both characters originating in the (excellent!) strategy-RPG Jagged Alliance 2; in that game they’re mercenaries sub-contracted through the agency A.I.M., but here they’re, uh, in a slightly different field, albeit a closely-related one. Despite their notably different demeanours and personalities, both women were voiced by (and to different extents based on) Sir-Tech developer Brenda Romero, who has been a pillar of the computer-gaming industry for decades. If you ever play the game, both characters bring valuable skills to the table and are well worth hiring. Be warned, though: Buzz and Lynx had a bad break-up between JA1 and JA2 (a version of which might make it into a later instalment of this fic), and that significant emotional event has... left its mark on Buzz.
(Sadly, Buzz didn’t make the starting roster for the recently-released Jagged Alliance 3, but I can always hope for official DLCs or properly completed fan-mods....)
Incidentally, I should point out that the above images of Raven and Buzz are not my creation; they came from the Jagged Alliance Bear’s Pit forums, courtesy of a user named firebat who AI-upscaled the original in-game portraits, and are used without permission, without claim of ownership, and without intent to profit.

SSGT. Mike Nantz is, of course, an import from Battle: Los Angeles, aged-down a little to match his rank and position in the movie (if he’d reached the end of his twenty-and-out like the movie tries to portray, he’d be at least a Gunnery Sergeant in a company staff position, not running around as a platoon-leader). The alt-history New Zealand Intervention is my substitute for the alien invasion, but don’t worry: as later instalments will go into, Shit Got Weird in his time down here in Aotearoa, and Nantz fell in with the professional purveyors of Weird Shit.

The Presidency of the U.S. is an incredibly controversial thing IRL, especially since The Orange One and his ego came into the picture, so I figured I might as well side-step a whole mess of arguments about whether I was portraying the personality of a real-life POTUS properly by putting a fictional one in the job instead, then pick-and-choose which RL and fictional events I mentioned him confronting. In this timeline, the Whitewater scandal broke early enough that Arkansas’ Bill Clinton was too radioactive to nominate, so the Democrats ran Minnesota’s William ‘Bill’ Mitchell in his place. Mitchell was duly elected in 1992, suffered a brief health issue in late ’93 but came back with renewed energy and a whole new outlook, then got caught up in a financial scandal, faced a joint session of Congress, and was in the process of falling on his sword when he suffered a[nother] stroke. VP Gary Nance was sworn in as #43 during Mitchell’s incapacity, served out the rest of Mitchell’s term after his death, and was re-elected on his own merits for a second term, even though the Republicans tried to paint him as a warmonger who’d gotten the nation into multiple “ANOTEHR VIETNAM(S)!!1!” between New Zealand and the former Yugoslavia.
And let’s face it: whatever his origins, ‘Bill Mitchell’ set a fresh example of integrity in a public official that was, and is, sorely needed.