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And here's the rest of it.
Sorry about the mess, hope it works out. I've spoken my peace and counted to three, Kirayoshi ======== Twenty minutes ago; "Do I have to change my name? Will it get me far? Should I lose some weight? Am I gonna be a star? I- Tried to be a boy, Tried to be a girl, Tried to be a mess, Tried to be the best, I guess I did it wrong, That's why I wrote this song This type of modern life, Is it for me? This type of modern life, Is it for free? So- I went into a bar, Looking for sympathy, A little company, I tried to find a friend, It's more easily said, It's always been the same. This type of modern life, Is it for me? This type of modern life, Is it for free?" Madonna's voice rang out of the speaker system as Buffy entered the Bronze and made her way to the bar. "Hey, Buffy," Steven announced the moment his boss made her appearance. "We're running short on pineapple juice." "I'm fine, Steven, you?" Buffy quipped at her assistant manager. "I'll call the food services company and holler at them. How's business?" "The joint is jumping," Steven announced happily. "We're still doing steady business with the crowd from the Cinerama." "Great," Buffy smiled. She looked around at the dimly lit cavernous interior of the Bronze, her new home away from home. Steven was tending the neon-lined juice bar with the assistance of their regular bartender Marcus, while several teens were playing pool by the western wall, and a large crowd was gathered on the main dance floor, grooving alone, or in groups of two or more to the loud percussive beats her sound system provided. She smiled; dozens of young people, drinking mochas, dancing, having a good time. Just like the original Bronze, she mused. Before all Hell broke loose. After Sunnydale fell, the first stop for the survivors was a hospital in Los Angeles, where Buffy and the others were treated for injuries sustained against the Bringers and the First. The doctors were able to heal her wounds, astonished that she had recovered so quickly, but the gash was too severe to heal without scarring, or a faint debilitating pain. As she recovered, Giles laid down the law; Buffy was hereby retired as the active Slayer, a decision that she and most of the former Scooby Gang seemed to agree with. Buffy loudly announced to anyone who cared to listen that she was hanging up her stakes, and named Faith the true Slayer. Once they had relocated briefly to Los Angeles, Giles made arrangements with Angel Investigations, who now controlled the legal firm of Wolfram and Hart. With Angel's legal connections, he managed to acquire and liquidate the funds of what used to be the Watchers Council before it was destroyed by the First Evil. He kept half of the sizable total in a private account, with the intention of rebuilding the council, and split the rest equally between Buffy and the former members of the Scooby Gang. "A reward for services rendered," he had stated simply. Each of the Scoobs received well over a million dollars, enough to restart their lives anywhere and in any way they saw fit. Buffy decided on Seattle, mainly because she had no family there, and no one knew who she was. A chance to fade into the crowd, to simply leave her past behind her and rebuild her life. The Red Hot Chili Peppers replaced Madonna on the house sound system as she examined the receipts from the previous night's business. A tall black man approached her, coughing slightly to get her attention. Buffy lifted her head and asked, "May I help you?" "I'd like to speak to the manager," he stated clearly with gentle authority. "You've got her," she answered with calm professionalism, offering a handshake. "Buffy Summers, owner and manager of the Bronze." "Lieutenant James Richardson, Seattle police." he replied, removing his wallet and flashing his badge for Buffy to see. Buffy squirmed slightly, and the Lieutenant nodded knowingly. "I only wanted to talk for a little, Miss Summers. You've recently opened this bar, but I didn't see the notice in your window for a liquor license application." "There's a reason for that, Lieutenant," Buffy answered coolly. "I don't sell alcohol here. I don't allow underage drinking or smoking, and no dealing. I opened the Bronze as a place for teenagers, a safe haven and a hangout spot. There was a similar place in my hometown in California, so I thought that the Bronze would sell well here in Seattle." "Hmm," Lieutenant Richardson hummed as he looked around. Indeed most of the patrons were in the high school age bracket, and all of them seemed to be behaving themselves. He glanced back at Buffy, whose attention was suddenly fixed toward a group that had just arrived and were making their way to a corner table. They sat down at the table and hunched their heads towards each other, murmuring quietly. "Excuse me," she walked around the bar and past the police officer, and steadily toward the table in question. She scanned the table quickly; four white men, all dressed in black leather duster jackets with their collars hitched up high over to partially obscure their faces and mirrored shades, their de facto leader sitting with his back to the wall, an air of cold menace around him. Not supernatural as far as she could sense, but sinister nonetheless. Street gang, probably drug dealers. "Is there anything I can do for you gents?" she asked civilly. The three 'lieutenants' chuckled slightly and mirthlessly. The leader rose his hand slightly, silencing the others. "Do you mind, missy?" he snarled through a gold-toothed shark's smile. "My associates and I are trying to do some business." Buffy folded her arms over her chest, her posture an unspoken challenge. "I should inform you," she smiled sweetly, "that this is my place of business, not yours. And I have a zero- tolerance policy regarding illegal drugs, or possession of weapons on the premises-" Her right hand shot inside the jacket pocked of the 'associate' to her left with lightning speed. Before any of the gang could blink, she displayed a semi-automatic handgun in her hand, causing the gangsta wannabe to blanch. "Hey, that's mine, gimme!" He lunged at her, only to find himself skidding face-first on the floor. He tried to get up, but Buffy slammed her boot firmly into his back. "Y'see, the way I see it, you got two choices," Buffy told the fallen gangster, but addressing the entire table. "You can leave in peace, or you can leave in pieces." "Actually," Lieutenant Richardson announced, approaching the scene of the brief altercation, "he's leaving with me." Buffy took her foot off of the young punk's back, and Richardson grabbed him by the collar of his duster. "Well, well, well," he greeted the punk with mock familiarity. "If it isn't 'Iceman' Isaacs. Long time no see, Ice. And that must make you," he turned his attention toward their leader, "'Phat' Albert Moretti! Oh, you've been a bad boy, Phat." He flashed his badge to the gangleader, making certain that Phat Albert knew he was no longer in charge of the situation. "You don't have nothin' on me, officer," Phat Albert grumbled menacingly. "Ain't that right, Ice?" He eyed his lieutenant with an unmistakable threat in his eyes. Iceman said nothing; he simply glared at the cop, eyes flashing fire and defiance. Richardson simply smiled, turning his attention to Iceman. "What say we take this thing downtown, so we can talk alone, without your buddies?" Turning to Buffy, he added, "It's been a pleasure talking to you, Miss Summers. I had been concerned about your security, but it seems like you have things well in hand." "Thanks, Lieutenant," Buffy smiled. "Feel free to look me up any time." "Glad to," he waved briefly with his free arm as he held Iceman's arm behind his back. Producing his handcuffs, he slapped them on Iceman's wrists, dragging him out of the Bronze. "Marcus Isaacs, you are under arrest for possession of an illegal firearm. You have the right to remain silent. If you give up that right to remain silent, anything you say-" The door swung closed behind the cop and his suspect. Buffy then turned her attention to the remaining three gangsters, who suddenly seemed significantly smaller and less cocky. "Now then," she announced, "I want you guys to do me a favor. I want you to put the word out on the street. The Bronze is off-limits to gangs, drug dealers, or any of your criminal buddies. I ever see you, or anyone whom I think might be buddies of yours, anywhere near my joint, well, let's just say that I won't be happy." She leaned in toward the cowering Phat Albert, her eyes flashing sparks. "And we want to keep me happy, don't we?" Phat Albert sat silently, eyeing Buffy in a stare-down. Buffy simply stared back, unblinking, giving him what Giles had once called 'The Eye of the Wolf', a stare guaranteed to intimidate ten newbie vampires at once. The Eye had the desired effect on Phat, who looked away, then raised his hand to his remaining lieutenants. "We're outta here," he commanded his troops, who filed in behind him as he left the table. "This place ain't fun no more." "What can I say," Buffy shrugged her shoulders, "you're not my target demographic. Toodles!" She chuckled merrily as the gang left silently, their tails firmly between their legs. Sean Paul replaced Chili Peppers on the sound system, imploring the dancers to 'Get Busy'. Buffy watched as the thugs filed out the front door and then turned to some of the customers who had witnessed the altercation. "Ladies and gentlemen," she announced, "there's no reason to be alarmed, just taking out the garbage. Go back to having fun, the floorshow's over for tonight." Steven offered her a high-five as she returned to the bar. "Way to take out the trash, boss-lady," he announced. "Aww, 'twern't nothing'," she drawled casually. Inside, however, she grinned hugely; it was an unusual experience for her to earn the trust of a police officer. And now that the word was out that she wouldn't tolerate criminal activity in her club, she felt that she could relax a little more. Returning to the cash register, she spent the next few minutes tallying the receipts before placing them in the bottom of the till drawer. As she finished her paperwork, she became aware of someone on the other side of the bar. Turning toward her potential customer, she announced, "Welcome to the Bronze. My name's Buffy. How may I serve...?" Her voice caught in her throat as she saw the greenest eyes God ever made gazing warmly back at her through a forest of reddish bangs. "I don't know about you," the sweetest voice Buffy ever knew bubbled merrily, "but right now I feel the need for more sugar than the human body can consume." Buffy gawked in stunned silence for a moment, her breath coming in short gasps, as she made several futile attempts to speak. Finally, one word managed to squeeze out past her lips; "Mochas?" "Yes, please," Willow Rosenberg regarded Buffy with an elfin grin that never failed in the past to warm her heart. "Hi, Buffy. Nice place you got here." She gave a brief sardonic glance at her best friend, then asked, "So, you gonna hug me or what?" Buffy swallowed one last gasp, then whooped loudly enough to drown out the sound system and grab the attention of nearby customers. Diving across the bar, she grabbed Willow in a bone-crunching hug, a hug that the redhead eagerly returned. "Oh God I missed you, Willow," she whispered hoarsely, half-laughing, half-crying. "I missed you too," Willow replied emphatically. For a solid minute the two long-lost friends embraced fiercely, not caring about the odd looks surrounding them, simply reveling in their closeness. Steven lifted his hand to his mouth and coughed theatrically. Buffy and Willow glanced toward Steven and clumsily disengaged the hug. "So," Steven drawled comically, "I'm gonna go out on a limb here. You two know each other?" "Steven," Buffy announced proudly, "I'd like you to meet the greatest, sweetest, best friend anyone ever had, Willow Rosenberg." Willow waved slightly, then extended her hand. "Willow, this is my assistant manager, Steven Shea." Steven accepted Willow's handshake, gallantly kissing her knuckle. "Hate to break it to ya, Steven," Buffy joked, "but she's gay." "Then we have something in common," Steven countered. As Buffy turned bright red, Steven quipped, "We tease each other like this all the time, Willow." "A pleasure to meet you," Willow answered, smiling. She scanned her surroundings approvingly, admiring the lounge chairs and sofas in some of the corners and hutches along the side wall. "Man this place takes me back," she whispered. "You done good, Buffy. Congrats." "Yeah, I like it," Buffy answered with faint pride in her voice. "Pays the bills. Uh, Steven, can you-" "Say no more," Steven waved his hands in a dismissal gesture, "go, catch up, do the bonding thing. I'll hold the fort." Buffy bowed toward her favorite corner of the club, saying, "After you, Willow." "Delighted," Willow nodded, taking Buffy's arm in hers and letting her lead the way. Buffy called out to Steven, "Oh, and two hazelnut mochas over at Booth three, please." As they reached their private booth, Willow took a seat on an overstuffed lounge chair while Buffy sat down on an upholstered ottoman. "So," Willow smiled, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, her hands clasped and her forefingers steepled and pointing at Buffy. "Tell me everything that happened to you since we left Los Angeles." "What kind of details do you want?" Buffy asked. "Vivid Technicolor and Surround-sound," Willow answered. "Sorry to disappoint you," Buffy sighed, "but this is pretty much it. I brought Dawn here for a change of scene, purchased a condo and this club, and I've lived a nice quiet life from there. Oh, and I just got accepted at the University of Washington." "Go, Buffy, you bomb, uh-huh, uh-huh," Willow chanted gleefully, raising her fist in the air. "So, that's it? No vampires, no sudden end-of-the-world situations to deal with?" "No and no," Buffy shook her head. Willow made tut-tut noises with her tongue against her palette. "How boring." "Hey," Buffy protested. "After seven years of covering the Hellmouth, I like boring." "Was I complaining?" Willow asked. "I've been kinda low-key myself here. Andrew and I, we've collaborated on a new company, TechnoPagan Games. We've debuted our first platform game, 'Night Shift' at Chicago's GameFest this year, and we've scheduled a release this November, just in time for the Christmas rush. Oh, you got a game system?" "I splurged and got Dawnie an X-Box for her birthday," Buffy admitted. "I'll send you guys a freebie," Willow promised. "Here you are, Buffy," a waitress interrupted, carrying two steaming cups on a tray, "two hazelnut mochas." Buffy glanced at the waitress to thank her, but stopped suddenly as she recognized her. "Dawnie," she regarded her sister in a scolding tone, "haven't we discussed your working here?" "You said I could work here part-time," Dawn answered, placing the drinks on a nearby coffee table, "if you needed someone to fill in. Shelly called, she said that she was stuck at the DMV, and would be a half-hour or so late for her shift. Didn't Steven tell you?" "I guess he did mention that," Buffy admitted. "Okay, but I also told you that your homework comes first." "Way ahead of you," Dawn chirped. "I did two pages of story problems, read ten pages of twentieth century history regarding World War Two, and just ran a spell-check on a three- hundred word essay; 'Othello, the Douche-bag of Venice'." "Dawnie!" Buffy yelped. Dawn raised her hands defensively. "Well he was!" "Maybe," Buffy shook her head, "but I hope you didn't use the phrase 'douche-bag' in your report." "I used the term 'misogynist'," Dawn answered. "But 'douche-bag' fits. I mean, really, the way he let Iago screw with his head!" "I'm gonna have to agree with her on that," Willow piped in. "I mean, did he even once ask Desdemona for her side of the story?" "Thanks for the support, Wi-" Dawn did a double-take as she first noticed the redhead sitting with Buffy, her mouth hanging open for a second before morphing into a broad grin. "WILLOW!" she shrieked as she launched herself into the redhead's arms. "Oh my God, it's really you! I missed you so much!" "I missed you, too, Dawnie," Willow assured the teen, returning her embrace as warmly. After a few seconds, Buffy cleared her throat dramatically. "Dawnie," she reminded her sister sweetly, "if you're gonna fill in for Shelly, you do have other tables to take care of." Willow disengaged the hug, leaving Dawn standing alone, grinning sheepishly. "Right. Let me know if you need anything else, Buffy." "Sure," Buffy answered. "When Shelly clocks on, you clock off, then have Steven fix you something, on me. We're celebrating!" "You got it," Dawn grinned, rushing off to her next table. Willow cocked an eyebrow in Buffy's direction. "What are we celebrating?" "We're alive," Buffy answered, "and you're back in my life. If that ain't a reason to celebrate, I can't think of one!" She lifted her mocha cup, touching the rim to Willow's. "Cheers." ======== "I am a Man Of Constant Sorrow, I've known trouble all my days. I left my home in California, The place where I was born and raised!" The guard at the courthouse lockup rattled his truncheon against the bars, silencing the hung- over impresario. "Harris!" he barked at the prisoner. Xander Harris glared at the guard with a single baleful eye, acknowledging the guard without speaking. The burly guard shoved a key into the cell door, and announced, "You're free to go, Harris. Get out of here!" Xander rose slowly on too-tired legs, staggering as he made his way to the door. Looking dolefully at the guard as he left, he grunted, "See ya 'round." "I hope not," the guard answered tersely. Xander nodded slightly as he left the cell, the guard following closely behind him. As he entered the waiting room, he saw a familiar, if not entirely welcome face. "Hey, Xander," Angel greeted him sternly. Xander regarded Angel with a raised eyebrow, before leaving the courthouse and ambling aimlessly down the street, absently rubbing at the leather patch that covered his empty eye socket. Angel ran briskly, catching up with Xander with minimal effort. "You'll be glad to know that Lorne's agreed not to press charges," he announced happily, stopping Xander in his tracks for a moment. "I doubt you'll be welcome in Caritas anytime soon." Xander turned away from the vampire, his head hung low. "That makes it unanimous, doesn't it?" he grumbled. "I guess I can say I've done it all now. Look, thanks for bailing me out and all, but I want to be alone now, okay?" He started to walk away, only to feel a cold hand clamp down on his shoulder. "Not okay," Angel answered. "You've been alone since the Hellmouth closed. You've done nothing but get kicked out of every bar in the greater Los Angeles area." Xander turned around slowly. "I guess there's one thing left to do," he quipped. "Move to San Francisco." "Not funny," Angel grimaced. "Look, I know I'm probably your least favorite person in the world right now…" "Actually that would be Marilyn Manson," Xander replied archly. "I generally don't give you enough thought to even rank you." "Shove it, Xander!" Angel barked at the younger man. "You try to convince me you're fine by making wisecracks, but we both know better. Look, I know you've lost a great deal this last year..." Xander shoved Angel away, and the vampire staggered briefly before regaining his balance. "You know exactly Jack Squat about what I lost!" Xander yelled. "I wasn't even there for Anya when she died! I never even found her body, before Sunnydale got swallowed up by that crater! I just stood there, too shocked to even register what happened. I was making jokes about losing the mall, when Anya's body was dragged to Hell!" "And somehow you think you're to blame for that?" Angel asked. "Look, only her body was lost in Hell. She sacrificed herself for you, Xander, for all of you. I have to believe that her soul's in God's keeping now. And she wouldn't want you to waste your life." "Yeah," Xander barked a mirthless laugh. "I can hear her now; 'Don't you dare throw your life away now, Xander, not after all the trouble I went through to save you and all'." A few more harsh chuckles, then Xander lowered his head in genuine sorrow. "Gods I miss her." Angel nodded sadly, seeing the grief in his slumping shoulders, the tear threatening to escape his good eye. "Then honor her. Prove that her sacrifice wasn't in vain. Live your life in her memory, but live. Look, I've been working with Giles, helping him with the rebuilding of the Council. He told me he was looking for construction personnel to build a new headquarters. First person I thought of was you." Xander shook his head slowly, hearing and recognizing the truth of Angel's words, but still not able to feel them in his heart. "I wish it were that simple, Deadboy." Angel bit back his usual request for Xander not to call him Deadboy. "I tried to contact the rest of my construction company after Sunnydale fell. Most of them have hooked up with other companies. And funny thing, most construction firms won't hire someone with a total lack of depth perception. Something about insurance rates going through the roof and all..." He allowed his line of conversation to die out. Angel regarded the sad young man with a measuring eye. Giles had informed him about the battle with the First Evil's minion Caleb. The battle that resulted in Xander's eye being gouged out of his skull. "What would you say," Angel spoke in measured words, "if I told you there was a surgeon who could give you a new eye?" "I'd say 'Put down the pipe'," Xander huffed. "I know that whole-eye transplants aren't possible. This isn't 'Minority Report' here." "I saw that movie too," Angel answered. "But since Angel investigations took over Wolfram and Hart, I've been introduced to some interesting people. The law firm has connections that Spielberg never dreamed of." Xander stared hard at Angel with his one good eye for ten seconds. He saw no twitch in Angel's lip, no telltale sign that he was lying. And he knew in his gut that, while he and Angel would in all likelihood never be friends, the vampire detective would never intentionally deceive him. "I'm listening," Xander muttered. ======== TBC Download NeoPlanet at http://www.neoplanet.com |