RoundRobin: Chapter 8 - Kirayoshi

["amberbensonfan" <AmberBensonFan@xxxxxxxxxxx>]

Disclaimers;
I'm just visiting Planet Joss here. (Full disclaimers in part 1)
Rating; PG-13
Summary; Meanwhile, across the pondâ?¦

Rising from the Wreckage
Chapter eight
By Kirayoshi

The Cotswolds, England;

Rupert Giles closed the ancient text he was studying, rubbed his eyes 
with the heels of his hands, and cursed himself for the ten-
thousandth time since he returned to his native land. Ever since he 
came back to England, he had buried himself in research, attempting 
to find any information, description, prophecy, anything that could 
point him toward this great threat his source had warned him about.

Above all, he hated lying to Buffy about his true reason for leaving 
her (abandoning her, his inner daemon corrected him). Just hours 
after that incident with the musical magic, he had received a phone 
call from an anonymous source, warning him of a great threat that 
would originate in Europe. When Giles pressed him for a name, the 
source simply answered, "Call me Mr. Dent."

He initially dismissed the source out of hand, but then his source 
said something unusual; that Giles would briefly forget who and what 
he was. A few days later, Willow's reckless dabbling in magic did 
indeed wipe out his memory. He then regarded Mr. Dent's information 
a little more seriously.  

Buffy was in no shape to fight anything major, certainly after she 
was still trying to regain her bearings after her sudden(and as it 
turned out unwished) resurrection. So he opted to face the threat at 
its source. If it originated in Europe, it would likely strike at 
England before arriving in the States. So he invented an excuse, 
that he didn't feel that Buffy needed him anymore, and left Sunnydale 
to confront this new threat. If Buffy chose not to forgive him for 
deserting her, it was a small price to pay to insure her safety.  
Maybe if for once he handled the world-threatening menace, she could 
rest. And maybe finally heal.

After he returned to England, he requested access from the Council to 
some of their more esoteric volumes, and once they learned the reason 
for his request, they were more than happy to comply. Quentin 
Travers even invited him to the Council retreat in the Cotswolds, to 
allow him to study uninterrupted.

But so far, he had little to go on, only a name for the threat. The 
Beast. That was the only concrete information he had to go on, and 
it wasn't enough to gain any substantial information. Not that his 
search was totally fruitless; he did learn something interesting 
regarding 'The Three who are One'. Several queries through the 
Search function of the Council computer system (a last ditch resort 
for the normally techno phobic Brit) revealed a prophecy regarding a 
great threat attacking the "Western end of the New World".  
California, he surmised. And given the existence of the Hellmouth in 
Sunnydale, it wasn't a stretch. The prophecy then spoke of the Three;

"Three will stand against the Darkness---
One will be raised from madness,
One will be raised from death,
One will be raised from darkness.
These are The Three, Who Are One---
United in power,
United in weakness,
And united in love,
For all time"

This sent Giles' mind to work; he realized that two of the Three may 
already be in place. Tara had been raised from the madness that 
Glory wrought upon her, when Willow restored her mind after Glory's 
attack. And certainly Buffy had been raised from death, whether she 
desired it or not.  

And considering the dark magic that Willow had been throwing about, 
that could easily make her the third. He found himself breathing a 
sigh of relief; at least if he was reading this prophecy correctly, 
it meant that Willow would recover from her darkness. How this 
prophecy might affect the relationships between the three young women 
was another matter entirely. But Giles was prepared to maintain an 
open mind.

He would have considered the prophecy further, but a cursory glance 
at his watch reminded him that he had an appointment. On the flight 
back to England, he had an idea regarding how he could aid Buffy 
further. Of course, it relied on the good graces of the senior 
members of the Council, and they often didn't see eye to eye with 
Giles. Oh well, he mused, all he could do was ask. He replaced the 
text he was studying, and left the library for Quentin's office.

<<>>

"I must admit, Rupert," Quentin Travers rested his forehead against 
his steepled forefingers, "I always thought that you have brass 
ones. I find it somehow gratifying to know that I was right."

Giles knew why Quentin had requested meeting him in his office. He 
admired the burl-wood finishings, the deep mahogany desk behind which 
Quentin presided, the bay window with a broad view of the lawns 
outside the Watchers' Retreat, and the general aura of British 
stuffiness that permeated the retreat's rarified air; the effect was 
calculated to make Giles feel as though he were a schoolboy being 
called to the principal's office. Of course, Quentin didn't know 
Giles that well; after three years of the ultimately ineffectual Mr. 
Snyder, school principals held no fear for him. 

"I fail to see what is so unreasonable about my proposal," Giles 
answered calmly. "After all, we Watchers enjoy drawing a regular 
stipend from the Council, why shouldn't the Slayer? After all, she's 
on the front lines in this war."

Quentin Travers, Senior ranking member of the Council of Watchers 
regarded his former protégé with a bland distaste. "No Slayer 
before Miss Summers ever drew a stipend from the Council," Travers 
protested. "What makes her so special?"

"The fact that she has lasted longer than any Slayer before her, for 
a start," Giles nodded slightly as he began to present the logical 
argument he had prepared. He knew that getting emotional in front of 
Quentin would work against his purpose. So going against his desire 
to break Quentin's nose on general principles, he reined in the 
Ripper and presented his case calmly.

"First," Giles started to tick off his arguments on his 
fingers, "Buffy Summers has done more than any ten Slayers before 
her. The fact that we are here to argue this matter is due to her 
perseverance and her sacrifice. Second, Buffy has other 
responsibilities besides slaying; since the death of her mother 
earlier this year, she has become the legal guardian of her sister."

"I fail to see how that is the Council's concern," Quentin huffed.  
Giles could feel the Ripper straining to free itself, and tightened 
the mental chains that bound it. For Buffy's sake, he reasoned, he 
had to remain calm.

"Think of it as pragmatism," Giles suggested. "The Council would 
make it easier for Buffy to concentrate on her mission against evil 
by insuring that she didn't have to worry about bills and groceries.  
Furthermore, we no longer live in the Dark Ages. When the Council 
was formed to aid the Slayer, women weren't expected or even 
permitted to seek their own employment. Those days are long gone, my 
friend. To paraphrase someone I once knew and loved very much, 'I 
know our ways may seem strange to you, but you will join the twenty-
first century'."

Quentin stared at Giles for a few seconds, ascertaining whether he 
was willing to compromise on this matter. Seeing that Giles wasn't 
going to give an inch, Quentin sighed theatrically, and opened a file 
cabinet under his desk. "Well, Rupert," he announced as he produced 
a file folder, "the matter is academic now; the issue has already 
been voted on by the Council."

Giles sat up, anger illuminating his features. "And you didn't even 
have the courtesy to inform me, so I could present my case to the 
Council?"

"Your input wasn't deemed necessary," Quentin answered 
passively. "As I said, the vote was taken yesterday afternoon, after 
you submitted the proposal last week."  

Opening the file folder, and taking a small sheath of papers in his 
hand, Quentin announced, "As you know, Giles, on such major matters 
as this, a two-thirds majority is required to vote 'yay' for the 
measure to be passed." Giles began to shift slightly in his seat, 
fearing the worst. Oh well, we made the effort, Buffy, he thought 
anxiously. Sorry it didn't work out.

Quentin smiled slightly as he watched Giles in his uncomfortable 
posture. He decided to put him out of his misery. "The final vote 
of the seventy-five person Council," he droned as he read the paper 
in his hands, "taken at three-fifteen on the first of December, 
2001," Yes, yes, go on with it, Giles wanted to scream, "shows 59 
votes 'yay', 15 votes 'nay', and one abstention."

Giles found himself frantically working out the percentages in his 
head, only to see an oddly comforting smile creep its way onto 
Quentin's face. "Your proposal passed, Rupert. Buffy Summers will 
get her stipend."

"Oh, um, yes," Giles stammered, barely containing his joy at the 
surprise outcome of the vote. "Thank you, Quentin, thank you very 
much."

"Don't thank me, Giles," Quentin answered firmly, "I just delivered 
the news. Now then," he pulled out a blank sheet of paper and a 
fountain pen, "the real reason that I asked you here today is to 
discuss the particulars of her stipend. I believe that a thousand a 
month, in American dollars, is more than fair."

Giles quickly regained his composure and pursed his lips in thought; 
even though Buffy was unaware that he had even considered the idea of 
her receiving a stipend, he felt that it was his duty to represent 
his friend and former charge. "Quentin," he quizzed, "have you ever 
tried to live in California for a thousand dollars a month? I don't 
believe it can be done, even if she didn't have a teen-age sister to 
look after."

"Oh?" Quentin's voice rose slightly. "Then what is your bid?"

"Eight thousand," he said with a perfectly straight face.

Quentin's pen slipped from his hand and clattered to the 
desktop. "Eight thousand? Are you mad? When you said she lives in 
California, you said nothing about Rodeo Drive!"

It was Giles' turn to smile at Quentin's discomfort. "Quentin, old 
man, you don't understand the basic concept of negotiation. First, I 
ask for the moon. Then, we haggle."

Quentin considered Giles' words for a moment, then gave him a slight 
smirk. "Fifteen hundred."

"Seven thousand," Giles countered.

"Two thousand."

"Sixty five hundred."

"Twenty five hundred," Quentin said, "and I am not authorized to bid 
higher."

With supreme effort, Giles managed to suppress a chuckle; even if he 
had expected the Council to favor the stipend, he hadn't even dreamed 
that he would get more than fifteen hundred for Buffy. He managed to 
negotiate a larger share than he had even dreamed.  

He knitted his brow as he looked at the man across the desk. He 
decided to press his luck. "Twenty five hundred," he 
nodded, "retroactive from the time Merrick first contacted her. You 
can consult Merrick's journals for the exact date."

Quentin's eyes widened as Giles made his offer. He had 
underestimated the lengths Giles would go to care for his foster 
daughter. "You still have a father's love for Miss Summers." It was 
a statement, not a question, and for once Quentin said it kindly.

"How could I not?" Giles asked honestly.

Quentin barked a friendly laugh. "How about retroactive from the 
moment you first contacted her? If I'm doing my math correctly, that 
will be close to one hundred and fifty thousand dollars."

Giles nodded an affirmative toward his superior. "Very generous," he 
agreed. "Done." The two men reached across the desk and shook 
hands.  

"I will be meeting with a solicitor within the hour," Quentin 
informed Giles. "We will draw up the legal documents at that time, 
and within the week we will mail her the retroactive payment."

"I would like to be there," Giles said. "As a witness."

"By all means," Quentin said, getting up from the desk and opening a 
small liquor cabinet. Pulling out a bottle and two crystal tumblers, 
he asked, "Would you care for a glass of single malt scotch?"

"A dram, if you please," Giles accepted the glass thankfully.

"So, Giles, is there any other business keeping you here? Any luck 
tracking down this European threat?"

"Little luck so far," Giles admitted. "I have several ideas, but no 
evidence. I even thought that Dracula might be returning. His 
legend did originate in Wallachia, the country formerly known as 
Transylvania, in Eastern Europe."

"Dracula?" Quentin asked, surprise in his voice. "I read from 
Buffy's journals that she had succeeded in slaying Dracula last year."

"Indeed," Giles answered as he sipped his scotch. "But as you know 
from reading the journals, Dracula was no ordinary vampire. I do not 
doubt that he may rise again. However, as I said, I have nothing 
concrete linking him to this threat." Nursing his drink, he 
concluded, "I suppose I'll have to continue to soldier on."

"Well, good hunting, Rupert," Quentin answered. "Oh, before I 
forget, I received this in the mail." He produced a cream-colored 
envelope. "It's addressed to you." Giles opened the envelope and 
quietly read the contents. He pocketed the letter in his jacket, and 
rose from his seat. "Thank you, Quentin. Please inform me when the 
solicitor arrives."

"She should be here shortly," Quentin answered. Giles nodded a brief 
farewell, and turned to leave the office. Just short of the door, he 
turned around and said, "One question, Quentin. Just to scratch my 
curiosity. How did you vote regarding the stipend proposal?"

Quentin leaned back in his chair and answered, "One nice thing about 
being the Senior member of the Council, Rupert. You don't have to 
answer that sort of question."

<<>>

He eyed the interior of the dimly lit tavern for the seventeenth time 
since he arrived. Everything was the same as it was five minutes 
earlier; the deep red wood paneling, the swirls of cigarette smoke 
being scattered by the weathered ceiling fans, the fading green felt 
of the snooker table, the beeps and whistles emanating from the 
pinball machine in the corner, and the general air of melancholy that 
seemed to permeate the room, from the floorboards to the rafters.  
Typical of a Soho bar. Except for the six-armed bartender and the 
Fyarl demon bouncer, as well as the assortment of demons, vampires 
and other supernatural beings who frequented the pub.

Rupert Giles smirked sardonically at his thought. He and his mates 
had certainly made their rounds along the width and breadth of London 
during his misspent youth. He had recently watched a program on BBC 
about four middle-aged men prowling the London nightlife. Take 
twenty-five years off of each of them, Giles thought, and you'd have 
my mates. If the fellows on the telly were into summoning demons, 
that is.

He opened the letter he had received from Quentin and read its 
immaculate hand-written script for the hundredth time;

Giles,
I must speak to you in person. Meet me tonight at the Bell Book and 
Candle in the Soho district, seven sharp. Come alone, or you won't 
see me.
H. Dent

He glanced at his watch again; seven thirty-seven. Exactly two 
minutes since the last time he checked his watch. Giles wondered if 
the mysterious H. Dent was lost in traffic, or if maybe he had 
forgotten their appointment.

Giles was openly curious about the Bell Book and Candle, having heard 
of its reputation. A recently opened bar, it was reputed to be a 
neutral ground for the London nightlife, both human and inhuman. The 
owner of the pub, who only went by the name of Van Helsing, evidently 
enforced the peace within the pub, and from what he had heard from 
friends in the area the pub was both successful and peaceful. From 
his conversations with Angel, Giles knew that there was a similar bar 
in Los Angeles, although from what he saw so far, the Bell Book and 
Candle at least didn't have a karaoke stage.

It did, however, have a pinball machine. And a very loud one at 
that, as Giles broken concentration could attest. He turned around 
at one point, watching the man playing the machine. He glanced at 
the machine's back-board, seeing the garish images of Batman and 
Robin, facing down two of their most recognizable villains, the 
Riddler and Two-Face. Whoever was playing the game had racked up an 
impressive score, well into the hundreds of millions. And as Giles 
observed him, he looked more and more familiarâ?¦

Something clicked in Giles' mind, like a tumbler in a lock. A 
connection was made, and Giles found himself cursing under his 
breath, berating himself for not figuring it out sooner. He rose 
from his seat, approached the pinball player, and said loudly enough 
to be heard, "How's the game going, Mr. Dent?"

The player lifted his head, and regarded Giles with a lunatic 
grin. "Why, Ripper! How good to see you again! How about a hug?"

"Not in this lifetime, Ethan," Giles answered his former mate coldly.

Ethan Rayne chuckled throatily, then turned his back from the 
machine, allowing his third pinball to drain and his game to end. "I 
must say, you didn't take as long to find me as I thought you would."

"I'm ashamed that it took me this long," Giles growled. "I probably 
would have missed it entirely if I hadn't been associating with Buffy 
and her friends for five years, but the pop-culture clue was obvious 
once I knew where to look. H. Dent. Harvey Dent from the Batman 
comic book. He was the former district attorney of Gotham City, and 
a very handsome man, until the day he prosecuted a desperate 
criminal. The defendant threw a vial of acid into his face, scarring 
the left side completely. This drove Harvey insane, leading to his 
becoming the criminal mastermind Two-Face, a madman obsessed with 
duality. From there, it wasn't too far a leap to Janus, the two-
faced Greek god, whom you invoked four years ago last Halloween."

"Yes, Ripper," Ethan smirked sardonically, "guilty as charged. I 
shall have to be cleverer next time. But come, let us not take this 
Bata an Death March down Memory Lane. We have much to discuss."

Giles immediately grabbed Ethan's throat in his hand, pinning him to 
a support pillar near the billiard tables. "I'll give you ten 
seconds to convince me not to crush you larynx."

"Well," Ethan gasped, "for a start, there's the matter of the 
proprietor of this establishment not liking any altercations in his 
place." Giles turned toward the bartender, who now held three guns 
in his right hands. Grinning sheepishly, Giles lowered Ethan, who 
smiled broadly at the bartender. "It's okay, gents," he apologized 
gregariously to the patrons. "Just a friendly dispute over the 
pinball scores. Nothing to be worried about."

"Fine," the bartender grunted. "But one more outburst and I'll have 
you removed from here. One body part at a time."

"Fair enough," Ethan smiled, as the bartender lowered his guns and 
returned to serving his customers. "'Out you two pixies go, through 
the door or out the window'. I saw 'It's A Wonderful Life' too, you 
know. Although personally I would have had more fun in Pottersville 
than in Bedford Fallsâ?¦"

"Why did you contact me?" Giles asked, his voice a quiet growl. "Did 
you send me on a wild-goose chase to separate me from the Slayer?"

"Very good, Ripper," Ethan cheered. "But it wasn't entirely my 
idea. My, uh, former employer instructed me in the matter."

"Your former employer?" 

"Yes," Ethan said casually. "That would be the threat I warned you 
about. Oh, the threat is real enough, and more powerful than you 
could possibly guess."

"And you're working for it?" Giles challenged, anger tingeing his 
voice.

"Was working for it," Ethan corrected sharply. "Once I learned its 
true intentions, I chose to cut my losses. I'm not interested in 
destroying the world, only playing with it." Gesturing toward a pool 
table, he added, "Fancy a game? You know how I like to play, don't 
you?"

Giles nodded grimly, as he selected a pool cue from the cue 
rack. "Yes. 'On a cloth untrue, with a twisted cue'," he recited 
grimly, "'and elliptical billiard balls'."

"Oh, very good," Ethan laughed. "Gilbert and Sullivan?"

"The Mikado," Giles answered. "You may break."

"Fair enough." Ethan racked up the fifteen brightly colored balls, 
and then lined up the cue ball on the opposite side of the table.  
Bending down into a proper playing stance, he knocked the cue ball 
into the fifteen balls, scattering them across the table.

"Now then," Giles bent down over the table, "would care to explain 
how you escaped the Initiative compound?"

Ethan watched as Giles lined up his shot. "Oh, it's easy enough to 
escape from a government facility when the government's in the 
process of covering their asses and closing the facility. Besides, I 
had a little help. A Mr. Bester, to be exact, he helped me escape a 
few months ago, and in return I agreed to do him a service. I 
created the fiction of H. Dent, and sent you the warning about a 
threat from Europe. Mr. Bester, well, you might say he represents 
someone."

"And who might that be?" Giles asked as he made his shot, watching 
with satisfaction as the 4 ball fell into the side pocket. "Solids," 
he added.

"Someone with many names," Ethan intoned. "For the sake of the 
argument, I'll call it The Beast."

"The Beast?" Giles huffed. "How melodramatic. So, is this Beast a 
demon, or perhaps a form of were-animal?" He managed to sink two 
more balls, before missing his fourth shot. He stood back as Ethan 
approached the table, examining the position of the balls.

"The Beast is beyond any mere demon that you or the Slayer has ever 
faced." Ethan leaned forward with the cue lined up in his left 
hand. "Tell me, Ripper, have you ever wondered why so many cultures, 
faiths and mythologies have tales of great monsters?" He shot the 
cue ball at the nine-ball, sinking it effortlessly. "The Aztecs bled 
themselves to death in worship of a winged serpent Quetzacotl." He 
slammed the eight ball into the eleven, pocketing it. "The Egyptians 
feared Sehkmet, a mighty lioness, the blood of whose victims soaked 
the marshes of the Nile." He pocketed the ten. "As for the Greeks, 
take your pick!" The fifteen. "Typhon." The thirteen. "Echidnea."  
The fourteen. "The Kraken." The twelve. "And my personal favorite, 
Cerberus."

"And the point of your little Joseph Campbell lecture is?" Giles 
didn't try to hide the irritation in his voice.

"The point, my dear Ripper," Ethan answered jovially, "is that all 
these monsters, and many more, were merely aliases of one monster.  
The true parent of all monsters." He lined up a final shot and 
fired, pocketing the eight ball in an easy bank shot. "The Beast."

Giles pondered Ethan's words. "The Council knows," he 
commented, "that before humanity flourished in this world, demonic 
beings held sway. But the evidence held that all of the arch-demons 
were banished to other realms by the first Slayers, realms from which 
they continue to bedevil humanity."

"All, friend?" Ethan chuckled. "One remained, hiding from the crush 
of humanity. The Beast lived on, through all times, in many lands, 
leaving its legends behind. It bides its time, learning. Always 
learning."

"You'll forgive me, Ethan, if I think you're lying," Giles scowled as 
he ventured toward a table and sat down. "I have gone through 
several prophecies recently, and found no information pointing to 
anything called 'The Beast'."

"You want prophecy?" Ethan challenged. "I'll give you prophecy. The 
book of Revelation, Chapter 13, Verse 1. 'And I stood upon the sand 
of the sea, and saw a beast rise up out of the sea, having seven 
heads and ten horns, and upon his horns ten crowns, and upon his 
heads the name of blasphemy'."

Giles could feel the perspiration forming on his brow, and a familiar 
electrical charge of fear through his system. "Are you saying," 
Giles asked, "that this Beast is the creature of the Apocolypse?"

"It could be," Ethan mused. "Then again, it might not. The point is 
that The Beast fancies itself that creature. Its plans are large."

"What are its plans?" Giles asked calmly.

Ethan leaned against the pool table, flashing a dark look at 
Giles. "To conquer Hell, and make war against Heaven. And the Earth 
will be its battleground."

<<>>

Giles stumbled into his apartment, his mind swimming in a thousand 
questions. All leading to the same terrible conclusion; if Ethan was 
correct, this Beast would be a far greater threat than anything that 
Buffy had ever faced. And if Buffy failed against The Beast, the 
world would pay the forfeit.

At least he now had an idea what the true enemy was, he had a more 
clear direction for his research. Hopefully tomorrow, he would have 
more luck finding out about the Beast.  

That is, assuming that Ethan wasn't sending him down a blind path.  
Again.

He flipped on the light switch, and noticed the flashing light on his 
answering machine. An infernal contraption, he mused, but on 
occasion it has come in handy. He pressed the button on the machine, 
and a familiar voice chimed through the speaker; "Rupert, you naughty 
boy. I found out that you've been in London for over two weeks, and 
you haven't looked me up once. Oh well, I'm prepared to forgive you, 
if you agree to meet me at the Blue Parrot tomorrow night at eight.  
You're buying." *Beep*

"Hello, Olivia," Giles answered absently. Then the second message 
played;

"Hi, Giles. Uh, this is Dawn. I just thought thatâ?¦well, I was 
wondering how you were doing, andâ?¦Giles, it's going to hell here!  
Willow's gone, Buffy's depressed, everything's falling apart here!  
Look, I don't know why you left for England, but you were wrong.  
Buffy needs you here. We need you. 'Bye."

Giles stood silently, not moving for over a minute as he digested 
Dawn's message. He could hear the desperation in her voice, could 
almost see the tears in her eyes from the other side of the 
globe. "Dear God," he muttered to himself, "what is happening to us?"

Before turning in for the night, he called up Olivia to apologize, 
and to say that he wouldn't be available for dinner. He had work to 
do. He had to find out more about The Beast.

And then, he had to return to Sunnydale. His family needed him.

<<>>