FIC: Dianna Wears Red-Fifth Lesson

[Mad Hamlet <Mad-Hamlet@xxxxxxx>]

Disclaimer: All this belongs to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy Inc.
(Grrr+ICY-arrggh)


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A Mad-Hamlet Production


Dianna Wears Red-Primus
Fifth Lesson


It is a very relaxed atmosphere surrounding our table at the local
International House of Pancakes. Buffy, sitting across from me, is busy
devouring her second plate of the +IBg-Six Pack+IBk. Which consists of six huge
flapjacks just drowning in syrup, butter and blueberries. It also comes with
six sausages, and six slices of bacon. 

Mrs. Summers nibbles at her own plate of scrambled eggs; occasionally
glancing at her daughter seated beside her and how she appears to be inhaling
the food, not exactly chewing it.

I shake my head in wonder as Buffy, still chewing on the last bite of her
pancakes, chomps down one slice of bacon in a single bite. 

"That's simply not kosher," I mumble quietly. 

"That a religious based statement, girlfriend?" Buffy grins at me, smacking
her lips loudly. 

At the word 'girlfriend' Mrs. Summers, who was sipping at her orange juice,
makes a slight strangled cough. She manages to contain it and not spray her
drink all over the table. Buffy pays it no mind, and I follow her example.

"Nope," I shake my head again, "That's a thigh based statement. Yours are
going to balloon up like...uh...er...." My brain fumbles the ball.

"Balloons?" Buffy adds helpfully, her eyes glittering with humor. 

"Yeah, uh...like balloons," I agree weakly. "Okay, heh, that didn't really
work out like I had planned."

"Um," Mrs. Summers says. Or not says. 

"Yeah, Mom?" Buffy asks. "What's up?"

"I was just wondering...er...I mean, that is you've made your position very
clear, Buffy, but I'm still curious," Mrs. Summers glances at her plate of
mostly untouched eggs. "I'm curious how all..." Her voice dies away and she
waves her hand slightly to indicate Buffy and me.

"How it all started, Mom?" Buffy asks, now in a more subdued voice. She
glances at her mother out of the corners of her eyes, not looking at her
directly.

I try not to sigh to loudly. I know this is what Buffy wanted to do, she said
she didn't want to have any more secrets but, as if we haven+IBk-t dropped
enough bombs on her poor Mom, now Buffy wants to share how she's...what?
Becoming a midnight streaker? Or a hunter? Something less human yet
more...more Buffy?

Buffy silently puts her fork and knife down. There's a few scraps of sausage
still on her plate but Buffy ignores the remaining food and just stares at her
plate, I'm not sure she's seeing it. 

I stretch my left leg out slowly and gently brush her legs with it, some
form, any form of contact will do. Her eyes flicker up to meet mine and a
small grateful smile flashes across her face for a second. Then she stares
back at her plate, looking more on the inside then anything outside.

"Okay Mom," Buffy speaks. "I'll tell you but there's more to it then just..."
she repeats Mrs. Summers hand gesture. "Though that is the best part, and the
most welcome."

"Oh dear," Mrs. Summers says, resting one elbow on the table, her chin
resting on her hand. "There's more."

It+IBk-s not a question.

Again Buffy's eyes flicker to meet mine. I smile slightly, "Yeah, Mrs.
Summers," I say also quietly. "Lots."

"I'm listening." Mrs. Summers says calmly. 

"Well..." I stutter, "I'm...I'm not sure where to begin really. Buffy?"

Buffy's silent for a moment, still staring at the uneaten food in front of
her, soaking in the blueberry, syrup combo. Then, surprisingly, she snickers a
bit. 

"I just realized something," she says through her quiet laughter. "Maybe my
life isn't that strange after all."

My eyes widen a little at that, Mrs. Summers also looks a little surprised. 

"Uh, okay Buffy," I say quietly, leaning forward slightly. "How'd you reach
that conclusion?"

"Well," Buffy looks at me; her stare is one of warmth, confidence, and just a
flash of humor. "Like many great changes in peoples lives all over the world,
Mom, this, Willow an' me, " Again an exact copy of Mrs. Summers innocent hand
gesture, waving her hand at herself and me. "Everything I'm going to tell you,
it all started in a bar."

***


Okay, breakfast's over. Lets go find Dr. Walsh, cause her and I have a few
things to discuss. 

Hm... she's not in the containment area, and the lab is empty, funny that.
Usually their are experiments going on there twenty four seven. Maybe she's
topside.

I head to the locker to grab civilian garb and on the way bump into Evens,
also changing.

He's sitting on a bench in front of a wall of lockers, struggling to put on a
shirt and it looks like the shirt is winning. I lean against the doorframe and
just watch. He finishes putting on his T-shirt and I catch him wince slightly
as he pulls his head through. Other than the wince he seems okay. 

"Evens," I say, nodding at him. He glances up and then bolts to his feet, and
makes a pretty good attempt at standing at attention. I notice he clenches his
teeth, I suppose he's trying not to voice and he seems to be favoring his
right leg slightly.

"At ease soldier," I command, he settles into a relaxed stand, eyes straight
ahead. "No, I meant that all the way Evens. We're off duty, topside procedure
okay?"

Evens grins, and slumps to the bench, again wincing slightly. "Thanks Riley."
He says. "How ya doin' anyhow?"

Topside procedure means we're supposed to treat each other like normal
students, no military at all in any of our mannerisms. I settled down on the
bench next to him. "I'm okay," I reply. "Feel like a large, walking bruise
but...I'll survive. You?"

"I'd sum it up the same," Evens shrugs, bends over and starts lacing up his
shoes. "Whatever that thing was seemed to not pay me much attention. I
remember getting hit twice, once in the thigh, once in the ribs," He sits back
up and twists at the waist slightly, gritting his teeth. "Yeah, still a bit
tender."

I stand up, head to my locker. "Riley Finn," I say to the vocal recognition
lock, with a quiet 'click' it pops open. I grab my clothes, green T-shirt,
brown button down, blue jeans and belt and toss them on the bench. 

"You got a cover story in mind?" I ask Evens as I pull off my military vest.

"Well," he says, he walks to his locker and pulls his backpack from it. "I
was planning on using the old 'Touch football game with the buds that went
crazy' one. Think it'll still work?"

"Yeah," I reply pulling on my T-shirt. "That'll do, mind if I use it too? Can
explain how we all got bruises if we back each other up."

Evens stops in the doorway, "Think it'll come to that?"

I shake my head slightly; this kid has got a lot to learn. "Evens," I say,
sighing slightly, "In terms of probability, no such precautions are not
necessary, but we don't deal with probabilities, we deal with possibilities.
So even the possibility, no matter how remote is worth planning for. In other
words, yeah, it could come to that." 

I catch his eyes and stare at him without blinking. "Are we clear soldier?" I
say quietly.

Instantly his bearing changes, shoulders back, spine stiff, standing at
attention in the doorway with his backpack slung over his shoulder. 

"Sir, yes sir!" Evens snaps out.

"Cool." I nod.

He takes his cue from my response and all military bearing vanishes.

"Later Riley, gotta get to class." Evens waves and the door slides shut
behind him.

"Dismissed." I say to nobody and finished getting dressed.


I toss my fatigues in the locker, grab my books and shove them in my totebag.
I head for the Prime Elevator that will take me directly to the frat house
several stories above my head. 

Exiting the Elevator I leave the frat house and make my way across campus to
the Psychology department, which is also run by Dr. Walsh. Pretty much the
same way she runs The Initiative, with an iron fist. 'Bout the only difference
is there I don't have to salute and all I have to deal with is bad papers, not
some evolutionary throwback trying to gut me with its claws.

I stop in front of Dr. Walsh's door and knock carefully. 

"Come," I hear her through the door. 

"Dr. Walsh?" I inquire, "Can I talk to you for a moment?"

"Riley, of course," Dr. Walsh says, swiveling in her chair from her computer
screen to face me, with a warm, welcoming smile on her face. It's a little bit
unnerving watching this woman go from ruthless military commander to a polite,
gifted...well...human being! "Have a seat, Riley," she gestures with a hand,
inviting me to make myself comfortable. 

You have to know Dr. Walsh like I do to see the command in the way she
phrases it.

"Thank you, Ma'am," I reply.

"Riley," she laughs slightly. "I'm not your mother, or some military ogre,no
need to be so formal. Relax, tell me what's on your mind."

I can feel my face getting hot; I recognize the chastisement for what it is.

"Thanks Dr. Walsh," I lean back, cross my legs, the picture of a 'normal
guy'. "It's about my...uh...study group, Dr. Walsh."

"Study group," she echoes, without inflection.

"Yeah, the one for extra curricular studies..."

"One moment," she interrupts me holding up her hand to stall any protest I
might make. As if I'd contradict her openly!

Dr. Walsh reaches under the desk and I hear a high whine that quickly climbs
beyond my ability to hear it. Dr. Walsh now sits at her desk, her fingers
steepled, her eyes looking steadily into mine.

"You can speak freely, Agent Finn," she says after a few moments.

I uncross my legs and sit up straight, again utilizing the practice of
staring over her shoulder without wavering and not meeting her eyes.

"Ma'am," I say. "I'm having concerns about my squad under Freeman's
command."

"Is this personal, Agent Finn?" Dr. Walsh asks, looking at me over her
steepled fingers.

"I'd prefer my second-in-command, Agent Gates, were to replace me since I
have been placed on special assignment." I say briskly. "Agent Gates is a good
man, he knows the rhythms of the team and-"

"Isn't fit to command a pre-school recess." Dr. Walsh interrupts me again,
her voice laced with derision.

Her tone nearly makes me forget myself, I almost glance at her but manage not
to. "Oh don't mistake me, Agent Finn," Dr. Walsh continues, leaning forward
slightly. "Agent Gates is an excellent soldier, quick to obey orders, follows
them through to the letter and can get the objectives completed with admirable
efficiency, but, even you, Agent Finn, have to admit that he likes the
err.+ICY" Here she pauses and raises her eyebrows slightly. "Physical aspects
of his job a bit too much." 

I give a mental shrug; she does have a point. Forrest can be a little too
eager for some rough and tumble from time to time.

"Agent Freeman scored second highest in Command Simulations during the
Initiative trial, he held himself in esteem while commanding Beta Squad. Your
men will be in good hands." Dr. Walsh says turning back to her computer and
then she resumes typing. "You have your assignment Finn, carry it out."

"Yes, Ma'am," I say, I'm trying not to grit my teeth.

"Oh, and Riley?" Dr. Walsh turns again to face me. "Did you get those reports
done?"

"Yeah Dr. Walsh," I smile back at her. This is weird how we can just switch
from military to civilian like this. Even I'm doing it. I reach into my
totebag and hand her the corrected papers. "Here ya go."

"Oh this helps me out a lot." Dr. Walsh says, taking the papers. She scans
the top one and makes a slight clucking sound. "Only a B Minus?" she asks
rhetorically. "I expected better of this one."

I shrug, "He got careless," I reply.

"Well, that's that then." Dr. Walsh says turning her back to me, placing the
papers on her desk. "Thanks again Riley, and take the afternoon off you still
look a little beat up after your...er...football game?" she ventures.

"Yeah," I smile sheepishly. "Football game."

"Have a good one, Riley." Dr. Walsh says turning back to her computer. 

"You too, Dr. Walsh." And I step back into the hallway.

I manage not to slam the door on the way out.

***

"You're turning into an animal?" Mrs. Summers asks. She finished her orange
juice a long time ago but she's still holding onto the empty glass so tightly
her knuckles are white.

Buffy rolls her eyes. "No Mom, that's the exact opposite of what I'm trying
to tell you."

"Doesn't sound like it to me," Mrs. Summers mutters, she lifts her glass to
her lips to drink and, seeing its empty places it back on the table. Buffy
raises her hand and gets the attention of the waitress. 
	
"Two orange juices, please," she says, holding up two fingers. "Anything you
want Will?"

I'm so wrapped up in watching these two, daughter and mother, have their
discussion I forget that I'm actually part of the whole deal until Buffy asks
me the question. 

"Huh...what?" I jerk upright a little, then give an embarrassed smile.
"Um...no...Buffy I'm alright, that is okay...fine with...my...." I hold up my
half empty glass of coke. "See? Not empty. I'll wait till its empty," still
smiling I nod my head at the waitress. "Thanks though."

The waitress smiles politely, jots down a few notes are her pad and
disappears into the back. 

"You run around at night," Mrs. Summers says.

"I've been doing that for years," Buffy counters.

"Naked." Mrs. Summers finishes.

"Damnit," Buffy fumes, drumming her fingers on the table. "You weren't
supposed to know about that part."

"I'm sorry," I squeak, "It just...storta slipped out, Buffy. You did say you
didn't want to keep any secrets from your mother."

"Yeah, but Will," Buffy replies, leaning back in her chair and crossing her
arms. "There were some aspects of it that I'd have preferred we kept to
ourselves! I mean, why not just tell my mother what we did last weekend?"

"I'd rather you didn't," Mrs. Summers says weakly. She's holding her head in
her hands and massaging her temples, slowly.

"Why not, Mrs. Summers?" I query. "What's the big deal of two girls
sharing...what was it Buffy? Four ice cream sundaes?"

"Five," Buffy replies nonchalantly. "It was five. And I don't think Mom
wouldn't want to know about those Willow, rather what happened after."

Now I'm really confused. "Harrison Ford movie night? Your Mom's doesn't like
Harrison Ford? How can anyone find fault with Indy?"	

"You're a cutie," Buffy says leaning forward now and resting her elbows on
the tables. "But sometimes you scare me, Will. My mother likes Harrison Ford
just fine."

"He's okay." Mrs. Summers amends. "Sean Connery really carried the last
movie."

Glaring briefly at her mother before turning back to me Buffy continues, "I
think she wouldn't be interested in what happened after that," she says
putting extra tension on the 'after'. 

Oh!

"Oh!" I say.

I get it.

"I get it," I say. "Yeah wouldn't want to be telling your Mom about how-"
My brain catches up with my mouth at the very last second and I clap a hand
over my mouth. "Nnnthnngg." I mumble.


"Buffy," Mrs. Summers says quietly, ignoring my near blab. "You were assuring
me you're not turning into an animal?"

"I'm trying to figure out how, Mom," Buffy replies. 

"You mean you don't know?" Mrs. Summers replies, her voice climbing in
volume. 

"No," Buffy shakes her had violently, long her whipping around, the light
from the window glistening in her clean and...darn. Got distracted. How does
she do that to me anyways? 

"That's just it, Mom," Buffy continues. "I do know, I know its right and good.
It works with me, works deep inside here," she places her hand over her heart.
Hey, that's my job! "I just don't know how to convince you, or anybody elseof
it."

Mrs. Summers doesn't look like she's buying it. She's frowning slightly,
staring at her only daughter without blinking. She doesn't say anything
either. Buffy too has stopped talking and staring right back at her mother;a
stalemate.

Nobody's saying anything, even in the normal humm of conversation from other
customers seems to fade away. Neither woman is giving an inch in their
beliefs. Mrs. Summers is depending on parental concern and, probably, yet
another thing she can't understand about her daughter. Something else that
puts Buffy just a little farther out of her reach; another factor of her
daughter+IBk-s life that she can't share.

Wait a sec...is that ...that...Mrs. Summers feelings or...uhm...maybe, maybe
my own? 

Buffy herself isn't backing down either. She's not going to either. Her lips
are drawn across her face in a flat line, arms crossed across her chest, she's
not blinking, she's so still she's not even breathing. Or doesn't look like
it.

I guess I can understand her, she's been doing this for a long while now and
one of the things that+IBk-s kept her alive is her instincts. Okay, they'renot
flawless but...she trusts them. Heck, I trust em' too and...I guess that means
that...

"I trust her." I say quietly.

Both Mrs. Summers and Buffy turn to stare at me, Mrs. Summers looks a little
surprised and Buffy's features have softened a bit.

"I'm sorry, what did you just say, Willow?" Mrs. Summers asks me. She's not
staring at me, I mean not hard staring but she's not...she's being
...uhm...she's just looking at me. A lot.

"I...I...said that I trust her, Buffy I mean, Mrs. Summers." I say again.
I've got my fingers wrapped around each other under the table. I start sliding
my thumbs together. 

"She's...she says this is alright. That she's okay," I press on. "And I
believe her. Cause...well..." I shrug helplessly. "She's happy."

"Happy." Mrs. Summers repeats my word, and not as a question either.

"Yes happy." And now it's my turn to look at Mrs. Summers without flinching.
"She, Buffy, hasn't had a great time...ever really and she's happy now.
Happier then I've ever seen her. I mean, sure, she's had good times and bad
times but there's...I dunno..." I lean back in my seat, brain whirling, trying
to find how to express what I, myself have just realized. "There's always been
this slight melancholy about her but...now...now there isn't anymore."

I glance at Buffy who's just looking back at me, her ...I guess...she's
looking at me softly. A small smile works at the corners of her lips
and...and...hey! Is she blushing?

She's BLUSHING!!

I made Buffy blush!

Yay me me me! Oh...no wait. That means I've humiliated her in front of her
mother, oh she's going to be so angry; Buffy hates being embarrassed, I'll
have to buy some chocolate ice cream to make it up to her! Yeah, chocolate ice
cream and ...er...Oreos. Yeah, she'd like Oreos. And what else...

Buffy's fingertips gently sliding along my cheek distract me from my inner
thoughts. She's leaning across the table and looking me right in the eyes. No,
I guess she wasn't blushing, her eyes look kinda shiny. Oh God! I made her
want to cry! Okay, TWO tubs of chocolate ice cream!

"I think, Willow," Buffy says, her voice sounds a little horse. "That you had
something to do with me being happy." 

	
Now I think I'm going to start crying. 

Buffy and me...are we going to start crying in the Internationals House of
Pancakes? This is a nightmare!

If I blame her for making me cry, who owes who the ice cream? 

"Ahem," Mrs. Summers clears her throat. Buffy sits back down, quickly
mouthing the words 'love you'. Mrs. Summers is looking at me so I give Buffy a
wink.

"So, you can't explain exactly what's going on inside Buffy, but you're
convinced that its a good thing, and you Willow," Mrs. Summers pauses and
sorta...doesn't look at anything. I remain quiet then, "You trust what's going
on? Is that about it?"

"Yeah, I guess that's about right," I answer with a shrug.

"It's a good thing, Mom," Buffy adds, she reaches across the table and grabs
my hand. "So's this."

Mrs. Summers takes a deep breath, holds it and lets it out slowly. "Okay
honey," she sits back in her chair. "This is something that has to do with
the...other stuff and I guess I have to trust your judgement."

Buffy herself lets out a sigh, probably one of relief. I know I would in her
place. "Thanks Mom. Hey, I am going to tell Giles about what's going on. I'm
sure he's got some stuff on it buried in a book somewhere."

"And what if you learn that this...event...change...whatever," Mrs. Summers
replies. "Isn't a good thing after all?"

"Then I'll..." Buffy pauses and squeezes my hand. "We'll handle it."

	
***

Old habits die-hard. Every time the stewardess, or another passenger walks
down the aisle behind me my right hand clenches tight. The itch to have my
best knife is unbearable. That's impossible though, my best knife was left
behind in my cabin. 

I hate this; I hate being off the earth, surrounded by steel and plastics.
I'm starving for something to eat but the wave of nausea that hit me when they
dropped their 'dinner' in front of me nearly had me running for the bathroom. 
It gets worse. To 'fit in' it was suggested I dress in more appropriate
clothing. So now I'm sitting on a plane, in an environment that it totally
foreign to me and wearing clothing that was made from some synthetic nonsense.
Alright its comfortable but there's the nagging feeling in my head, insisting
that none of what I have on is actually real and if I move too fast it'll all
go flying to pieces. 

To cap it all off I'm surrounded by very ugly things. Destroyers, patient,
evil, ruthless things that go about taking and taking and giving nothing back.


Okay, there's a small chance I'm being slightly extreme but I can't help the
fact I don't like people. I particularly don't like people who come all the
way out where I live, calling in old favors. I prefer it when people forget
favors. I should have known better. These particular people don't forget
anything. I doubt they've forgotten anything since that damn apple. Course
they don't believe in that and, come to think of it, neither do I. So they
came, with their damn accents, and attitudes and tell me I am needed. 

They have a job for someone, how did they put it? 'A specific individual with
a truly unique set of skills'. Why couldn't they just come up and asked like
normal people. 

I stare out the window at the clouds blocking out the land below, my idle
fingers begin to drum on the armrest as I seek a hole, somewhere, in the cloud
cover, something to reassure me that the ground is actually still there.

"Don't like flying?" Great. My seatmate finally got desperate enough to try
and begin a conversation. It only took him, what, seven hours? 

I sigh and turn away from the window, "Look, no offense or anything but you
smoke too much, drink too much, your digestion sucks and that twenty four hour
deodorant you're wearing? Yeah, it conked out about three hours ago. I
generally don't like people and am not interested in small talk. Go away." I
turn back to the window.

Out of the corner of my eyes I can see his face pale, maybe he's not used to
being talked to like that. Well, if he doesn't like that, but wants to keep
talking to me he better get used to it. I notice the 'fasten seat belt' sign
activates and my ears pop. We're descending, must be landing soon.

"Uh..." my seatmate stutters. "How...how do you know all that?"

"Your breath reeks," I reply without turning around.

He gives a nervous chuckle, "What are you, some kind of doctor?"

I spin around and give him my 'look'. It's the hard stare that makes angry
bears decide to find something else to bellow at, it's that gaze that pushes
away fellow predators and prevents them from taking what's mine. It's the
features of what I am and what I use to express my territory.

"No," I say, his breathing increases and I watch the pulse in his neck start
to flutter. "I'm a hunter."

***

	
"No Mom, you don't have to come in with us, we'll be fine," Buffy says to her
mother still inside her car. Mrs. Summers has given us a lift from the
restaurant to outside Giles house. We've been sitting here for a few minutes
though while Mrs. Summers tries to...be motherly I suppose. 

"Are you sure Buffy?" Mrs. Summers ask, being the concerned mother in every
way and form. I think, cause its not like I saw it often from my own mother. 
"I mean I could lend ...morale support. It was a bit of a shock but... I'm
getting used to the idea. I could say something, I mean...be some sort of
buffer?" 

"Mom," Buffy says getting out of the car. "We'll be fine. I trust Giles and
Xander and.+ICY"

"Anya," I fill in the blank, I open the car door and move to stand beside
Buffy, unconsciously she reaches back to take my hand. To Mrs. Summers' credit
she doesn't take her eyes off her daughter. Not even a flicker.

"Yeah, Anya...uh... her. Well, I don't trust her trust her but I trust Xander
to trust her so .+ICY" Buffy breaks off. "Does that actually make any sense?" 

"Somewhat," Mrs. Summer smiles. "Alright honey, I'll be at the gallery if you
need anything. Er...will you girls be spending the night? I can clean up the
guest room or...if...you prefer..."

Buffy rolls her eyes, "Couple Mom, we're a couple. So, yeah we prefer."

"Oh, alright dear." Mrs. Summers says weakly. "I said I was getting used to
it. I'll keep at it, get all the way through, fast as I can."

"I love you too, Mom," Buffy smiles. 

"Thanks for breakfast Mrs. Summers," I say waving.

Mrs. Summers looks at me, still smiling warmly. "You're very welcome Willow.
I'll see you two this evening then, all right?

"You got it Mom," Buffy says.

Putting her car in gear smoothly, something Buffy still has yet to master,
Mrs. Summers pulls away from the curve. I can't help it, I wave until she's
out of sight. I want to make a good first impression...but that doesn't make
any sense 'cause I've known Mrs. Summers for years. Oh...uh...maybe I want to
make a good first impression as her daughter+IBk-s girlfriend.

Hey, girlfriend, I thought girlfriend. 

And I'm comfortable with it, now all I gotta do is be able to say it.

"Shall we?" Buffy asks me, inviting me down the path that leads to Giles
house. 

"Do you love me?" I ask impulsively.

"Yes," Buffy replies without hesitation. "As sure as I love salty potato
chips!"

"Hey, you did read King Lear," I reply. "I'm impressed. Sorta. The potato
chips threw me." 

"Don't admire me too much," Buffy says. She tugs at my hand gently and I
follow, letting her pull me into an embrace. "Been wanting to do this all
morning," she murmurs. She pulls me close and wraps her arms around me, I do
the same. She moves her hands up and down along my back and I sigh and let my
head rest on her shoulder.

She's warm and soft, smells kinda good. Bit of residual syrup smell
but...that's all good. 

I just let her hold me, and I hold her, enjoying the contact.

"I do love you," Buffy whispers in my ear.

"Then I'm ready," I whisper back.

Reluctantly, cause I could stay in her arms all day, we let each other go,
though I keep a firm grip on her hand, and head down the path to the Scooby
meeting.

***

	
Despite Dr. Walsh's assurances that Freeman can take care of my men, and the
advice she gave me to take the afternoon off I still have a few misgivings
about the whole thing. 
	
In other words I'm mad as hell and trying to work through it by beating the
body bag in the gym to death. 

I circle the heavy bag warily, treating it like it was the most dangerous
creature on the face of the earth, if I make single mistake it'll rip me to
pieces. Alright, I might be projecting a little too much on a large, heavy,
bag of hard rubber but who cares?

I move in with a low jab that has all my weight behind it, if I'd hit a human
with this it'd leave him doubled over, gasping for air as his lungs tried to
refill with air, if I put all my strength behind it I'd probably crush his
sternum. 

I back off two steps, feet shuffling quickly, as if I'm trying to back outof
range of any attempts at counterstrikes. Normally two steps would get me out
of range but most of the things I go up against have longer limbs, so I back
up another step quickly. Then I move in again. 

I hunch down, center my gravity, feint left and then come up with the right
to deliver a crushing overhand blow, again I keep the extension short and put
my weight behind it. A blow like this, if connecting right would shatter a
man+IBk-s jaw, or his nose depending on where I wanted it too go. Might even
drive him to his knees. 

I remember that thing in the dorm room, a blur of white and ...eyes. I
remember eyes. I wonder if I hit that thing like I'm pounding on the body bag
would it even notice?

Alright this isn't helping me relax. If anything I'm getting angrier. Another
left right sends the bag spinning away from me slowly, like a man reeling away
from the fight, the setup is perfect. I step in, pivot and go for a spin kick.


I push the anger down, I squeeze it from my mind, feeling the boost to
muscles and speed, this will probably be the finest spin kick I've ever done.
I can feel the air whipping around me for that split second I'm in motion; the
sweat gluing my shirt to my back and chest. Halfway through the spin I bring
my leg up, letting centrifugal force accelerate me even further and,
perfectly, the bulk of my shin and flat top of my foot connects with the side
of the bag.

A loud crack echoes throughout the empty gym and the bag starts spinning
madly. I imagine what a blow like that would have done to a man, probably have
taken his head right off.

But I don't fight men, I fight monsters and last night a monster beat me, but
not just me but four other men who could, maybe not beat me, but at least hold
their own against me for a while. This thing, if had hit it with that most
beautiful spin kick, would it have felt it? Would it have slowed down at all
or would it have just ignored it, maybe just like I might ignore a mosquito. 

Could I stop it?

I don't know, I really don't know.

Someone's applauding.

I turn around to see Forrest leaning against the doorframe clapping his hands
slowly. He's got a cane leaning against his thighs, but seems, for the most
part well enough.

"Forrest," I say, a grin splitting my face. "You're out? I'm surprised." I
reach out to shake his hand, which he accepts with a smile.

"Checked myself out bud; you know how it is Riley, the medcenter doesn't even
get daytime TV and I could not miss my soaps." He jokes. I think.

He nods in the direction of the body bag still slowly spinning, "Anybody we
know?" he asks.

"How about an incredibly fast, white blur that happened to obliterate us last
night?" I reply. 

Forrest continues nodding slowly. "I hear ya bud, I hear ya. The doc got
anything in mind? Cause I'm eager for some payback." He slams his right fist
into the palm of his left hand. "We know the bitch who lives in that room
right? We going to...ah...intercept her maybe? For questioning?" 

Maybe....just mmmaaaayybbbeee...Dr. Walsh wasn't that far off assigning
Freeman to take over my squad. Forest+IBk-s eyes suddenly have a bit on an
unhealthy sheen to them and his smile is just a bit too wide for my liking. 

"Sorry man," I say, surprisingly meaning not one word of it. "Ixnay on the
interception."

Forrest does a double take, "What?" His voice echoes off the walls. "Has
command lost its mind? That little bitch is a traitor! She tried to help the
fuckin' thing that did this to us Riley!"

"Yeah, I know Forrest, I know," I hold my hands up, trying to calm him. "But
command has something else in mind. Dr. Walsh wants me to take this on solo."

Again Forrest shouts, "What?" very loudly. Too loudly.

I pull him into the gym and slam the door shut. "Keep it down!" I hiss at
him.
   
"Why not just paste a sticker to your bald head reading, 'Hi, I'm your handy,
dandy, black op soldier, how can I help you today?'"

Forrest stares at me angrily, but I meet his stare inch for inch, pound for
pound. I'm right and he knows it, there's also the fact that I'm his superior
officer. 

Forrest breaks and looks away, "Yeah, okay, damn. You're right," he mumbles.

"Damn straight I am," I nod. "Now look Forrest, I've been given some special
assignment. Something like infiltration. We know who the girl in that room was
and Doc Walsh wants me to...I dunno... become her friend or somthin'. Maybe
even start something romantic."

Forrest is staring at me like I've just proposed sodomy.

"You're kidding," he finally says.

I shake my head, if he laughs at me, injured or no I'm gonna pound him.

"Science wants this thing bad," I explain. "Real bad and alive. You're
probably right that this girl knows the thing and that's the link the doc
wants to try and exploit. She doesn't want to take any chances with this HST
getting away so that's why all this..." I wave my hand angrily. "James Bond
shit."

Forrest keeps staring at me for a bit before he shrugs. "Okay," he says.
"Okay tactically I guess it makes sense. Don't mean I like it none."

"You and me both, bro." I sigh. Walking over to a nearby bench I grab my
towel and start wiping the sweat off my face. 

Forrest hobbles across the gym and sits down on the bench next to the wall.
So who is this girl anyhow?" he ask me.

"Rosenberg," I answer, still wiping my face. This keeps me from seeing his
face. "Willow Rosenberg."

Then I put the towel down. Forrest is staring at me with a slightly maniacal
grin on his face, then he begins to laugh, then his laugh grows to the point
where it almost sounds forced. Every once in a while his laughter is
interrupted by his barely recognizable cries of 'Oh man.' and 'You're screwed
buddy.' which just makes him laugh harder.

"What?" I say helplessly. "Whaddya know, Forrest."

Forrest stares at me incredulously, a huge grin on his face. "You...you don't
know?" he starts chuckling. 

I bend down, grab him by his shirt collar off the ground and life him off the
ground. "What the hell are you talking about, Forrest?" I want to shake him.

He just chortles a few times (Real men don't giggle.) and holds up his hands,
"Hey man, relax, relax its just kinda funny. Put me down, I'll tell ya, I'll
tell."

I set him on his feet and he's still snickering, finally he stops, sighs,
snorts, and shakes his head once last time. "I'm not too sure bud, but ...man
you sure know how to pick em'..."

"Forrest." I growl, gritting my teeth.

"Okay, okay," he says hastily. "Look its just rumor but... you sure her name
is Willow Rosenberg?"

"Yes," I say impatiently. "I'm positive. Now what the hell is going on?"

"S'just the grapevine," Forrest says still grinning at me. "Can't be sure
man, can't be sure but the word out there is that your little girlfriend-to-be
is taken."

"Yeah, so?" I answer. I don't HAVE to have a romantic relationship just to
get possible info. 

"By another girl." Forrest finishes.

"Huh?" I huh.

Forrest rolls his eyes, "She's gay numnutz boy, your precious little
assignment is a carpet munching dyke!"

Oh great.


END-Fifth Lesson


W.B. Yeats: What rough beast, its hour come at last, slouches toward Bethlehem
to be born?

Mad-Hamlet: Me.