RoundRobin: Chapter 15 (Part 2) - Kirayoshi

["Jude <AmberBensonFan@xxxxxxxxxxx>" <AmberBensonFan@xxxxxxxxxxx>]

<<>>

"Okay, guys," Cordy announced as Angel's car sped toward 
UCLA. "According to my vision, our baddies du jour are holing up in a 
large auditorium on campus. I saw them near a table, with some kind 
of box-thing, and some jars with human hearts. And speaking for all 
of us, eww!"

"I second that 'eww'," Fred quipped casually. She and Cordy shared 
the back seat, while Willow rode shotgun, opposite Angel. Willow 
smiled at the easy repartee between Angel and his crew. Just like 
Buffy and the gang, she thought privately, or how we used to be.

She glanced over her shoulder and caught Cordy's stare. She flashed 
back to a few nights ago, remembering the glow of desire in Cordy's 
eyes, the scent of her skin, the heat of her body. She knew that it 
was for only one night, but it was still special; for a night someone 
cared about her. Someone made her feel good, warm, loved. Ironically 
her fling with her high-school nemesis gave her hope that she might 
reconcile with Tara.

"Any word from Gunn and Wes?" Fred asked nervously

"Just a sec," Cordy pulled out her cel-phone, and punched in some 
buttons. After a few seconds, she asked, "Yo, Gunn, where are you 
right now?"

"We're heading east on Wilshire Boulevard," Gunn answered in a 
clipped, strictly business voice, "approaching the Southwest quad. 
Wes is saying we should rendezvous at the corner of Wilshire and 
Westwood, and head-" Gunn's voice fell silent in mid-sentence.

"Gunn?" Cordy asked. "You there? Gunn?"

"Charles?" Fred asked worriedly.

"Okay, guys," Cordy nearly shouted. "Joke's over. Gunn? Wes?" Silence 
was Cordy's only answer.

"I know I recharged that unit," Angel observed. "Did Gunn forget to 
recharge his?"

"Not Gunn," Fred shook her head vigorously. "He wouldn't forget that."

"Maybe the demons at UCLA did something to cut off communications," 
Angel suggested. "Cordy, did you get an image of who or what we're up 
against?"

Cordy scowled as she tried to remember her vision. "Uh, yeah, kinda. 
They were tall guys. And thin. Bald, pale, black suits-Oh, and they 
moved like mimes."

"I always knew mimes were evil," Fred quipped.

"STOP THE CAR!" Willow screamed. Angel swerved to the curb, the 
brakes on his car shrieking to a stop. He turned toward the young 
hacker to find her jaw tightened, her breath coming in panting 
gasps. "Something the matter, Willow?"

Willow panted once again, reining in her breathing, before she tried 
to talk. "It's not the phone that went dead, it's Gunn's voice."

"What do you mean?" Fred asked, her brow knitted in concern.

"They're called the Gentlemen," Willow answered, gulping 
slightly. "We ran into them in Sunnydale a couple of years ago. 
They're demonic organ-harvesters. First they steal the voices of 
everyone within a certain radius, then they start carving out 
people's hearts." 

"Why steal everyone's voice?" Cordy asked, fighting off her revulsion 
at Willow's description of their current threat.

"Cutting off communication," Angel observed, "is a great way to sow 
fear and confusion, making their prey weaker."

"There's that," Willow nodded, "but also, only a woman's scream can 
destroy them. That's how we beat them last time. Buffy found the box 
where the Gentlemen kept the stolen voices and broke it. Once she got 
her voice back, she screamed and the Gentlemen blew up. I'm guessing 
that there are more of them out there, and they took over UCLA. And 
once anyone gets near the campus-"

"They'd lose their voices as well," Angel observed. The others simply 
nodded, pondering their options.

"But voices can come in," Willow thought aloud. "We got news 
broadcasts from outside Sunnydale when the Gentlemen first took our 
voices." Turning again to Cordy, she asked, "Hey, does that thing do 
text messaging?"

"Way ahead of you, Will," Cordy turned the cellular on again. "Hey, 
guys, if you're hearing me, send a text-message out. Willow says that 
the demons at UCLA have stolen your voices."

Five agonizing seconds later, the LCD screen on Cordy's cel displayed 
the words; "WE READ YOU C"

"Cool beans!" Cordy announced. "Okay, fearless leader, what's the 
plan?"

"Once we get near campus," Angel said, "we'll lose our voices as 
well. So we make our plan now. We have to know where the Gentlemen 
are holed up, and find the stolen voices. Cordy, you said they were 
in an auditorium?"

"Yeah," Cordy remembered. "On a big stage, with lots of empty seats 
around."

Angel pursed his lips in thought, asking, "UCLA has more than a few 
auditoriums, Cordy. Can we narrow it down?"

"Well," Cordy hummed, "it was a big one. Kinda old looking. And, oh, 
there was a pipe organ, a big antique pipe organ."

Fred looked up excitedly. "Royce Hall! I was there last month, 
attending a mathematics seminar!"

Cordy smirked at Fred, chuckling to herself at how her newfound 
friend could get so excited about mathematics. "Don't ever change, 
Winifred."

"Okay," Angel slipped easily into command mode. "Cordy, tell Wes and 
Gunn to meet us at-" He snapped his fingers at Willow, who handed him 
the UCLA map she was holding, and started to scan the paper. "Meet us 
at Charles E. Young Drive East and Dickson Plaza. We'll make it on 
foot from there, and storm Royce Hall." Cordy repeated the 
information in her cellular, and received a "WE'LL BE THERE" message 
in return.

Angel craned her neck toward the back seat. "Cordy, when we meet up 
with Gunn and Wes, you and Gunn are with me. We'll storm Royce Hall, 
and release the stolen voices."

"And then I start screaming?"

"Blue murder," Angel answered. "Willow, Fred, I want you to stay with 
Wes, and patrol the residential area. Odds are that the Gentlemen 
will be hunting at the dorms."

"Not on our watch," Cordy answered firmly. Willow and Fred nodded in 
agreement.

"Okay, people," Angel announced as he started the engine, and pulled 
into the right lane. "Any famous last words, say them now."

"I should have taken that left turn at Albuquerque?" Fred quipped 
nervously. 

<<>>

The kitchen of the Summers house was filled with the aroma of basil, 
oregano and bay leaf mixed with fresh tomato and bell pepper. After 
finishing her laundry, Tara was busy preparing a spaghetti dinner for 
herself and Buffy when the Slayer was done with her patrol. She 
practically had to order Buffy to avoid her usual stop at the Burger 
King, but for once the Slayer was going to enjoy a decent home-cooked 
meal after her patrol. Besides, with Dawn sleeping over at Janine's, 
Tara looked forward for some company for dinner.

Tara stirred the spaghetti sauce and lifted the spoon to her lips to 
taste. "Hmm," she murmured, "a little more basil." She wanted tonight 
to be perfect; after all she went through on a typical patrol, Buffy 
deserved a good meal. 

A strange giddy sensation flooded Tara's being; she hadn't been this 
anxious for a dinner date since last April, when she made spaghetti 
for Willow, to celebrate the anniversary of the first time they had 
made love. It had been a month since Joyce Summers had died and Tara 
desperately wanted to lift Willow's spirits with a romantic dinner, 
followed by dancing. Tara found herself grinning evilly when she 
recalled what followed the dancingâ?¦

And two weeks later, Glory ripped Tara's mind apart in her search for 
the Key... and things hadn't been right between her and Willow since 
then...

Tara shook her head violently, casting those unpleasant memories 
aside. She wasn't giving up on Willow. She may have abandoned her 
when she needed her, but never again. Willow would return when she 
was ready, and Tara would be waiting with open arms. Things would be 
right between her and Willow. 

And Buffy, a voice in the back of her head added. 

Tara filed that thought away, to be dealt with later. Tonight was 
about friendship and trust. Whatever happened later would happen 
later. She wasn't going to wait for it to happen, or want it to 
happen. She would simply let it happen the way it would mean to 
happen.

She had just pulled the romaine and Caesar dressing out of the 
refrigerator when she heard the front door shut. She poked her head 
out of the kitchen, and watched as Buffy dragged herself toward the 
sofa. "Buffy?" Tara asked worriedly. "You okay?"

"Yeah, Tara," Buffy answered wearily. "Just a rougher night of 
slayage than usual, I guess. I ran up against-ungh!" she groaned in 
protest as she turned toward Tara. "I ran up against some vamp gang-
bangers. Ugly bunch-ngh!"

The blond wiccan rushed to the stove and turned off the burner under 
the spaghetti sauce, located the first-aid kit under the sink and ran 
to the Slayer. "Shh," Tara urged Buffy, "don't talk. Let me take a 
look." She started to reach for Buffy's midsection, but Buffy tried 
to shoo her hands away. "I only want to take a look at those ribs. 
>From the sounds of things, they're badly bruised."

"Yeah," Buffy confirmed, her voice taut with pain. "Eighth and ninth 
lower rib, left side. That one vamp swiped me a good one with a 
nunchucku before I staked it."

"Take off your shirt, Buffy," Tara said clinically. Buffy's eyes 
widened at Tara's order, causing Tara to smirk slightly, holding up 
the tube of hydrocortisone cream. "I can't very well rub ointment 
onto your bruises through your shirt now, can I?"

Buffy snatched the tube from Tara's hand, growling, "I'll take care 
of this myself." She bolted from the sofa, and lurched toward the 
stairs. Before she could take three steps, legs weakened by strenuous 
kicking and running buckled, forcing Buffy to collapse to the floor. 
Tara gasped, and rushed to Buffy's side, lifting the injured Slayer's 
arm over her shoulder. "C'mon, Buffy, just relax," she urged 
soothingly. "I'll take you upstairs and get you fixed up."

"Under the circumstances," Buffy groaned, old pains compounded by her 
fresh bruises and cuts, "I won't argue with you." Buffy leaned 
against Tara, allowing the young witch to guide her up the stairs. At 
every other step, Buffy felt Tara's hair brush against her nose, and 
inhaled scents of jasmine and shampoo, combined with a sweet musky 
scent uniquely belonging to Tara. The scents worked to compound 
Buffy's arousal, already heightened by her rigorous battle with a 
cluster of newbie vampires. 

She prayed that Tara would simply deposit her to her room and let her 
be. At the same time, she wanted Tara to remain with her, to rub her 
ointment into her bruises, to massage her aches, to run her hands 
over her body. And more, she wanted to return the favor, to feel Tara 
respond to her touches and pressures, to unleash her passion on the 
lovely blond witch for the remainder of the night. Even weakened from 
her fight, she still felt a building desire for Tara, and feared that 
she wouldn't be able to control her libido much longer.

So much for philia or agape, she thought ruefully, but not without 
humor

<<>>

Wesley stood in the center of De Neve Drive, in front of the Saxon 
residential suites, with Willow at his left and Fred at his right. 
They stalked the streets quietly, staying alert for anything out of 
the ordinary. As if being unable to speak was normal, Willow thought 
darkly. The unending quiet that blanketed the residential area of 
UCLA was more frightening than Willow had expected. Even with her 
previous experience with the Gentlemen, she didn't expect the silence 
to be so all-consuming. 

She counted her blessings that at least there wasn't any rioting as a 
result of the presence of the Gentlemen. She remembered how people in 
Sunnydale had reacted when the Gentlemen attacked two years ago; the 
rage, the despair, the large numbers of people gathered in prayer 
meetings, desperate to understand what was happening. She remembered 
her own fear, even when she was with Buffy; although being near the 
Slayer had quelled her despair to some degree, she still felt a deep 
dread. She knew that her tendency to babble was her defense 
mechanism, her way of coping. With her voice gone, she didn't have 
that defense.

Thank the Goddess I found Tara then, Willow acknowledged. If we 
hadn't met, I wouldn't have survived that one...

She shook her head, finishing her walk down memory lane. Neither 
Buffy nor Tara was with her now, no matter how she might want them 
near her. And she and the others had a job to do now.

An abrupt rustle of paper shocked her out of her remorse, sending her 
spinning on her heel. She sighed with relief; a sudden breeze had 
lifted the corner of a nearby paper banner that hung from Rieber 
Hall. Willow smirked slightly as she read the banner; "HAPPY HOLIDAYS 
FROM THE FACULTY OF UCLA" She had spent Christmas with Cordy and 
Angel and the others two days ago, and reflected that in a few days, 
this terrible year would be over...

A sudden leap of intuitive logic seized her brain, and with it came 
panic. She grabbed Wes by the shoulder, urgently trying to get his 
attention. Wes and Fred gawked at Willow worriedly. Willow kept 
tugging at Wesley's sleeve, frantically pulling him toward the 
banner. Wesley finally took a look at the banner, while Willow 
pointed at the words 'HAPPY HOLIDAYS". 

After a few seconds, Wes and Fred both came to the same conclusion 
that Willow had; there was a reason that the UCLA campus seemed 
deserted. It was deserted. Most of the students had left for winter 
break. But why would the Gentlemen seek out a deserted hunting 
ground? Wesley couldn't understand their reasoning, unlessâ?¦

He faced Willow and Fred, seeing their eyes widening in fear and the 
blood draining from their faces. He mouthed a single word, unspoken 
but still understood by the other; "Trap!"

No sooner had the word been communicated then the bushes around them 
started to shake violently. The three turned back to back, grabbing 
the weapons they had the prescience to carry with them, as six thin 
figures sprang from the bushes, and onto the street in front of them. 
The Gentlemen stood, floating above the sidewalk, their arms moving 
fluidly but mechanically, like theme park animatronics. Their faces 
were putty-colored, the skin stretched like tarp over their bald 
heads. Their lips were pulled back into carnivorous smiles, revealing 
gleaming teeth. The lead Gentleman brandished a scalpel that glowed 
dimly in the light of a streetlamp, and eyed Willow like a crow 
staking its claim on a roadkill.

Wes and Fred stood in front of Willow, shielding her from the 
advancing demons. Wes nocked his crossbow and fired a bolt directly 
into the leader's heart. The Gentleman stopped and examined the bolt 
chest before yanking it out. He then lifted his arm, striking 
Wesley's head hard with the back of his hand, knocking him over and 
sending him sprawling against the concrete. 

Fred pulled a handgun out of her purse, and fired a clean shot into 
the lead Gentleman's chest. She smiled with satisfaction as the shot 
knocked her target back, thinking that having Gunn take her to the 
firing range to learn how to handle a firearm hadn't gone to waste, 
and also that her clip contained specially designed hollow-tipped 
bullets full of holy-water. Fred's confidence faltered when the 
Gentleman stood straight, not even acknowledging his bullet wound. 
With a fist to her face, he knocked Fred back, tumbling along the 
sidewalk.

The Gentlemen then turned their attention toward Willow, who gasped 
soundlessly as the fiends advanced. She staggered backward away from 
the Gentlemen, but tripped on a stray stone and fell to the ground, 
desperately scooting away from her monsters. The lead Gentleman bent 
down and waved his scalpel in front of Willow's eyes, before lowering 
it toward her breast.

Willow instinctively crossed her wrists, as two words formed in her 
mind with the force of a thunderbolt; "Repello monstrum!" A shockwave 
spread from her crossed wrists and out toward the Gentlemen, mowing 
them down like dry wheat. The monsters struggled to regain their 
footing, but Willow's unspoken spell kept them away from her.

Fred watched Willow taking on the Gentlemen, but was interrupted by 
the chirp of her cel-phone. Flipping her phone open, she heard a 
welcome voice; "Fred, Angel here! We freed the stolen voices. You can 
talk now. We gotta find the Gentlemen and take them down!"

"Way ahead of you," Fred shouted. She then turned toward the 
Gentlemen, inhaled deeply and let loose with a keening wail. As she 
screamed, the Gentlemen convulsed, before their bodies exploded into 
a gelatinous substance. Within seconds, the threat had been destroyed.

Wesley and Fred both lifted themselves off of the sidewalk, and Wes 
offered a hand to Willow. She took it numbly, not daring to face 
either of them. Wesley regarded the shuddering, scared form before 
him, her arms crossed over her shoulders, her breathing coming in 
short gasps. "Willow," he ventured, "are you okay?"

"N-no, I'm n-not," she stammered, slowly turning away from Wesley. "I 
wasn't g-going to-to-" She fell into Wesley's waiting arms and began 
to sob against his shoulder. Wesley simply held the young woman, 
offering whatever cold comfort he could, while Fred watched over them 
both. "Angel," she spoke quietly into her cel-phone, "we're ready to 
go home."

<<>>

Damian Bester was infinitely patient. Who he was and what he was made 
him patient by definition.

This did not mean that he took failure lightly.

And for the second time in as many weeks, his minions had failed him. 
As he sat in his corner office at the Wolfram and Hart building, he 
ruminated on his recent failures.

He thought he had recognized his quarry. From what he had learned 
about Willow Leanne Rosenberg, her past failed relationship with the 
werewolf Oz indicated that she would be susceptible to a lupine 
attack. And he also knew of her past experience with a group of 
Gentlemen. The psychological aspect of these attacks should have 
destroyed her spirit, before the physical attacks destroyed her body.

But twice her magic had saved her. Odd, he pondered, considering that 
her earlier encounter with his minion Rack had supposedly eliminated 
her desire to use magic. Odd indeed.

His window of opportunity with Willow had disappeared. He had lost 
his best chance of either swaying or destroying her. No matter, he 
thought, she was simply a pawn. He had many other pieces in play, and 
would still have plenty of opportunities to destroy the Three Who Are 
One before they could fully come into their destiny.

"Miss Morgan," he barked into his office speaker-phone, "what's the 
status of Mr. Spike's-" he paused, thinking of the most apt word, "-
indoctrination?"

"He's coming along swimmingly, Mr. Bester," Lilah Morgan 
answered. "Warren has informed me that Spike's chip should be 
realigned and reinstalled within the next forty-eight hours."

"Good," Bester purred. "We need to step up the timetable with him. As 
soon as he is brought into our inner circle, we need him field-ready. 
He's going back to Sunnydale before the week is out."

<<>>

On the return trip to the Hyperion Arms, Willow sat in back with 
Cordy, while Fred rode up front with Angel. Willow stared intently at 
her hands as they rested in her lap, not daring to face the others. 
Cordy regarded her friend with sad eyes; with the demonic aspects she 
had just acquired to strengthen her, she finally regained her own 
life. She didn't want to see Willow falling to despair so soon.

They pulled up to the curb, and slowly filed out of Angel's car. Once 
they were inside the lobby, Willow suddenly turned to Cordy and 
asked, "What do my eyes look like?"

Cordy blinked for a second, and looked at Willow's face. "Uh, I like 
them. You could use a little eye-liner, though, just enough to accent 
them, y'know?"

"What color are they?" Willow shouted impatiently.

"Uh, green," Cordy answered. "Why?"

Willow released a breath she wasn't aware that she held. "They should 
be black," she answered. "That's what magic does to me, makes my eyes 
black. Makes my soul black."

Angel leaned in toward Willow and examined her eyes closely. "They 
look fine to me, Willow. No dark magic here."

"Don't tease me, Angel," Willow growled testily. "I weakened. I used 
magic, even after all that had happened! After my magic hurt Buffy, 
nearly killed Dawn, I promised myself I wouldn't use it again! And I 
failed!"

"No, Willow," a familiar voice emerged from a nearby chair, "you 
didn't fail." For the first time since their return, Angel and the 
others looked around the lobby, and noticed the familiar tweed-clad 
form of Rupert Giles sitting in a wing-back chair, a cup of tea 
resting on the end table next to him.

Lorne appeared quickly from a nearby hallway, smiling nervously at 
Angel. "Uh, the Brit arrived shortly after you guys left for UCLA. He 
says you know him."

"It's okay, Lorne," Angel assured the demonic lounge owner. He turned 
to the Watcher and extended a hand. "Hello, Giles. It's been awhile."

"I'm glad to catch you up late," Giles answered, accepting Angel's 
handshake. "But then again, when else would you be up?" He rose from 
his seat and strode toward the miserable young witch. "Hello, Willow. 
It is good to see you again."

Willow looked away from Giles, shame and grief fighting for dominance 
within her. "Have you come to take me back to Sunnydale, Giles?"

"Only if you are ready to return," Giles answered plainly. He stood 
beside her, wanting to comfort her, but knowing that the situation 
had to be handled delicately; as important as Willow was to fulfill 
the prophecy of the Three Who Are One, she wouldn't be any good to 
anyone if she broke now.

Willow slowly turned a tear-stained face to the older Englishman and 
said, "I let you down, didn't I, Giles?"

Damn delicacy, he cursed mentally as he scooped Willow up into his 
arms and allowed her to cry over his shoulder. "No, my child, never," 
he insisted. "You never let any of us down, Willow. Never let 
yourself think that, not for an instant!"

Willow lifted her head to look into Giles' gray eyes. "But what about 
my magic? I misused it too much to ever be trusted with it."

"Willow," Giles spoke in the gentlest tones he possessed, "power such 
as yours is bound to be used wrongly. Mistakes are made, unknown 
factors come into play. It's part of being human. The only way that 
you could truly misuse your gift is if you fail to learn from your 
past mistakes." He swallowed briefly, and added, "If anything, I let 
you down. I tried to dissuade you from your studies of magic, 
belittling your successes, berating your powers. I allowed my own 
experiences, my 'Ripper' years, to color my perceptions when you 
turned to magic. I let my fears guide me, when instead I should have 
been more supportive. And for that, Willow, I apologize."

Willow had managed to rein in her tears, although Giles could still 
see tear-tracks running down Willow's face. "As for you magic, from 
what Buffy and Tara had told me, it was the dark magic you had been 
delving into, especially what Rack turned you onto, that caused the 
trouble."

"But the temptation's still there, Giles," Willow admitted, shame 
causing her cheeks to redden to where they matched her hair. "What if 
I'm not strong enough to beat it again?"

Giles lifted her chin with his knuckle, bringing her eyes to meet 
his. "Willow, I've gotten to know you very well over the last five 
years. If anyone is strong enough to withstand the temptation of 
darker magic, you would be it."

"And if that's not enough," Cordy volunteered gently, "Buffy sure as 
hell is. She's your best friend, girl; take advantage of that. She's 
got strength to spare, I'm sure she'd be glad to give you some."

Giles regarded Cordy with alarm flashing in his eyes. "I find myself 
in the strange position," he admitted, "of admitting that Cordelia 
Chase is absolutely right. Willow, I don't know how much the others 
have written in their e-mails to you, or told you in their telephone 
conversations, but we need you. Something large is about to happen in 
Sunnydale, and only together will we have a chance to weather this 
threat. But I won't pressure you into returning if you don't feel 
that you're ready. But consider this; you are not evil, and neither 
is your magic. But you are so much more than just your magic. I can 
help you control your powers, and stave off the temptations of dark 
magic, if you'd let me. And no matter what may have happened in the 
past, Buffy, Tara, Xander, Dawn, even Anya, we all want you back. 
We're better with you than we would ever be without you."

Willow sought the depths of Giles' eyes, and saw in them no artifice. 
He spoke from his heart to her, and she recognized his words as 
truth. She allowed his arms to hold her again, and for the first time 
since that terrible night one month and a lifetime ago, when she 
crashed the car and Dawn slapped her face, she felt a healing taking 
place within her. And she also knew that only among her friends, her 
family-Tara, Dawn, Xander, Buffy-could she complete healing.

She released the embrace, and asked Cordy, "Hey, you sure you're 
gonna be all right? No more headaches from your visions?"

"Not unless they involve Adam Sandler," Cordy answered 
cheerfully. "That guy always gives me a headache. I swear, if I hear 
that damn Chanukah Song once moreâ?¦"

"You're preaching to the choir there, Cordy," Willow laughed out 
loud, a good healing laugh. Turning back to Giles, she said 
solemnly, "Take me home."

<<>>

On the day I went away... 
Goodbye...
Was all I had to say... 
Now I...
I want to come again and stay... 
Oh my my...
Smile, and that will mean that I may

Cause I've seen blue skies, 
Through the tears in my eyes
And I realise.. 
I'm going home.

-Rocky Horror Picture Show
"I'm Going Home"