I have a weird muse. I promised myself that I'd
concentrate on my Buffy/Gargoyles crossover, but
instead this story rather loudly insisted that I
write it. A crossover between Buffy and The
Pretender. Enjoy.
Disclaimers; Joss and Mutant Enemy created the Buffy
stuff for 20th Century Fox. The Pretender is owned
by NBC and TNT right now, to the best of my
knowledge.
Rating; PG-13 to R
Spoilers; This is an Alternate Universe, set just
after "Goodbye Iowa". In the Pretender universe, it
takes place after the TNT Pretender movie "Island of
the Haunted".
Author's note; Rather than bog down the plotline
with a generic subplot about Buffy and Willow
finding themselves and each other, I'm writing them
as already together as the story starts. And Tara's
not in this story. In this universe, she's already
got a girl, she's happy, she and Willow are friends,
let's just leave her alone. 'Kay?
Distribution; Ask first. I've got a big enough ego,
I'm likely to say yes.
Feedback; It's the cherry on the cake of my writing.
JDMeans@xxxxxxx
Summary; He's not a Watcher, but he knows more about
what's going on in Sunnydale than even the Council.
His name is Jarod.
The Centre Cannot Hold
by Kirayoshi
Chapter One
Turning and Turning
Oh-oh, yes I'm the great pretender
Pretending that I'm doing well
My need is such I pretend too much
I'm lonely but no one can tell
Oh-oh, yes I'm the great pretender
Adrift in a world of my own
I've played the game but to my real shame
You've left me to grieve all alone
Too real is this feeling of make-believe
Too real when I feel what my heart can't conceal
Yes I'm the great pretender
Just laughin' and gay like a clown
I seem to be what I'm not, you see
I'm wearing my heart like a crown
Pretending that you're still around
--The Platters
"The Great Pretender"
Sacremento, California
Why do I even bother?
The thought ran unbidden in her head for the
thousandth time as she, Sydney, Broots and a pair of
sweepers burst into the hotel room. Before even
entering the room, her ever-present Smith and Wesson
.44 cocked and ready, Miss Parker knew what she
would find; a red notebook, some sort of esoteric
clue, an immaculately cleaned hotel room and no sign
of the quarry.
Sure enough, set upon a twin bed whose sheets were
tucked in so smartly she could have bounced a
quarter off of the bed was a handsome wooden chest,
the familiar red notebook leaning against it. "Miss
Parker," the sweeper on her left said sternly, "I'd
advise caution. Maybe we should get a hazmat team
to look at that chest."
"Please," Miss Parker rolled her eyes as she
approached the box. "He is many things, most of
them annoying, but he's no killer." She grabbed the
notebook, and glanced at the newspaper clipping
sandwiched inside the pages; "SLUMLORD CHARGED WITH
RUNNING SLAVE LABOR RING". She skimmed down the
story, reading how a tenement manager had forced the
immigrants who had lived in his run-down building to
work at slave wages in conditions that could
charitably be described as appalling, until the
police found him in his own sweatshop, chained to a
sewing machine table. Typical, she thought. As
always, he was fighting for the innocents, against
those in power. She then reached for the box and
felt the warm smoothly polished maple as she lifted
the lid. She scowled as she saw the chest's
contents; a crude wooden stake and a cellular phone.
Two seconds after she caught sight of the phone it
started to ring. "His sense of the theatrical is as
strong as ever," Sydney observed, his voice carrying
a faint edge of paternal pride. Miss Parker shot
him a glower that would curdle milk at ten paces and
grabbed the cellular from the chest.
"Broots," she barked at the balding computer expert,
"front and center."
"I'm all over it," Broots answered, anticipating
Miss Parker's orders before she could give them.
Broots pulled his laptop computer out of his
backpack, and connected an audio jack from the
laptop to the cellular.
Miss Parker opened the phone and held it up to her
porcelain face. "What now, Jarod?" she barked into
the phone.
"Welcome to the Hotel California!" the familiar
voice of her prey announced from his end of the
connection. "Such a lovely place, such a lovely
face."
Miss Parker scowled into the phone. "I'm surprised,
Jarod. After six years away from the Centre, I
figure you would have discovered the Eagles long
before now."
"Actually," Jarod replied in cheerful tones, "I
discovered them my first year outside. I just never
had the opportunity to spring that song on you until
today."
Miss Parker shook her head in dismay. "Just cut to
the chase, Jarod," she growled. "What's the game
this time?"
"The game?" Jarod quizzed knowingly. "It's the same
ol' game we've played since day one; I run, you
chase. And I for one am getting tired of it.
Aren't you?"
"We play the roles we're given, Jarod."
"No, Miss Parker," Jarod answered, his tone less
playful and more serious. "You follow the orders
you were given. I play the roles I see fit. I'll
only return to the Centre on my terms. I just
wanted to warn you."
"Warn me?" Miss Parker's eyebrow raised.
"There's a storm coming, Miss Parker. One hell of a
storm. And there's going to be fallout. If I were
you, I'd seek cover."
Miss Parker pondered his words for a second before
she continued the line of argument. "Are you saying
I'm in danger?"
"I'm saying that you're as much a prisoner of the
Centre as I was," Jarod answered. "You, Sydney,
Broots, you're all prisoners. But you have always
held the keys to your cages in your hands. You can
escape the lies, the deceits, the labyrinth of ploys
and counter-ploys, any time you want. All you have
to do is show some initiative."
"You realize," Miss Parker intoned, "that even a
cellular call can be traced."
"I do realize that," Miss Parker could envision
Jarod's smile as he spoke. "And you'll probably
find my phone. But, as the Eagles put it, I'm
already gone." The phone crackled for a second as
the line went dead.
Jarod tossed the cellular he was using into a nearby
trashcan and strolled away, toward a waiting
motorcycle. He smiled inwardly, imagining Miss
Parker chewing bricks at having lost him again. He
was always of two minds regarding the constant game
he played with Miss Parker. On the one hand, he had
no intention of letting Miss Parker or anyone else
drag him back to the Centre as a prisoner. On the
other hand, he knew Miss Parker. She was one of his
few friends growing up under the Centre's care. He
knew that her iron bitch act was just that, an act.
For a brief moment last month when they were trapped
in an Irish convent during that terrible storm, she
let her guard down and let herself be herself in
front of Jarod.
But he couldn't let whatever affection he felt for
Miss Parker deter him from his mission. The Centre
was