Rooftops blazed by beneath her feet. Occasionally it was the crunch of gravel; sometimes tar; once, she clanged across a tin roof, sure-footed despite the smooth metal, the sound of her passage ringing like a steelpan drum. Then there was the silences, when she would fling herself into the air, jumping impossibly high to reach the next building in her route. Marc called what she did parkour. The word sounded French, but she didn't know what it meant, and hadn't cared enough to bother looking it up. It was sufficient to know that it was her favourite activity, after fighting and reading.

Illyria, former god-king of the world, reading and running... she was a humiliated caricature of herself. She preferred not to think about that – a very human reaction, but she preferred not to think about that, either.

The jaunt had been long and wide-ranging, nearly three hours of leaping from roof to roof in the dead of the night. She'd stumbled across few demons or vampires, which was unfortunate, as a good brawl was all that was left to make the night perfect. The evil demons had taken to avoiding "her" section of the city, as the stories of a brutal and deadly demon-hunter circulated amongst the underworld. The area around the Hyperion had always been risky once Angel had moved in... but Illyria's recreation had pushed the borders back by far. Ironically enough, the area was becoming known as one of the safest places for humans, and more people could be seen wandering the streets after nightfall than anywhere else in the city since the Demon Riots'.

Of course, the lack of "viable" targets made it harder for the demoness to have any real fun. But she found she didn't mind. Perhaps her reputation could be rebuilt, one dusty corpse at a time. She should be pleased... fear was power. Power was everything. The humans denied it, but it dictated every aspect of their lives. Their relationships, their politics, their economics, even their scientific pursuits.

But something didn't feel right.

A leap, and the brief moment of only the wind as her companion as she soared through the air, over a street to the roof of a small market on the other side. A lone human, likely a vagrant, shuffled along the pavement, never looking up to catch the reddish shape which flashed by overhead.

It had been a mere three days since she'd finished her "mission" with Sergeant Landon. He'd assured her that while what they'd discovered was far too much hearsay for direct action against Wolfram and Hart, it would certainly catch attention within a human government currently very sensitive to being accused of "ignoring non-human influences". The firm had no friends before the demon riots. Now, being under the scope of a nervous human populace could damage them irreparably. As always, there were human politicians eager to exploit the tension that held the nation, to focus it in some way that would make themselves look like champions. It was a form of plotting that Illyria could respect.

What was this sense of discontent, then? There was the obvious, of course... in her time, justice – as dictated by herself – had been swift, efficient, and extremely violent. In short: satisfying. The pace and procedure favoured by humans confused her, especially when it was obvious that the Wolf, Ram, and Hart had built themselves a considerable power base in exactly that arena. But this was no longer her world, as Wesley had told her... repeatedly. And though it galled her to admit it, even to herself, she longer had the power to confront Wolfram and Hart as she would prefer. Their last battle had nearly been her end.

Her consciousness spun, in multiple directions, as it always did; always aware, always thinking. She had no subconscious. She did not get "gut feelings" as Angel and Spike had always relied upon. If Spike was here, she'd ask him what this leaden sensation in the belly of her shell meant. If Wesley...

No. She would not have asked him.

She increased her pace slightly. The streets and human constructions passed swiftly beneath her feet. Her small, slender form was light and easy to throw about; sometimes she could gain enough altitude to feel like she was in her old body again. The night wrapped around her like a cloak, with street lights and the occasional store front lighting the city in the still-dark hours of the morning, like stars below to make up for the lack of stars above. At these hours, it was possible for even Los Angeles to become silent. And that helped her mind to become silent; no human voices, no rumbling of engines, or any of the other reminders of modern life, the life which sickened and intrigued her at the same time.

Perhaps, she reflected, her sense of anticipation/foreboding had more to do with the sudden cessation of the unexplained memories that would come to her during her meditations. She hadn't realized that she desired them until they stopped. And at the same time the Child had stopped appearing, though she was certainly less missed. And at the same time, the question had remained unanswered: Why?

I can only be here when you want me.

"What-" Illyria's head snapped around at the familiar voice, just as she began her leap to the next roof. There was a glimpse out of the corner of her eye of a small, lithe form, a shadow amongst shadows, and even her supernatural senses couldn't be sure that she'd actually seen anything.

The sudden surprise caused her to jump too hard. The retaining wall shattered under her foot, spending the force from her legs into empty air, sending the leather-clad demoness fumbling. Arms pinwheeled as she found herself in mid-air, her arc carrying her well short of the other rooftop two body-lengths above her.

"Oh, crap."

The parts of Illyria's mind that weren't suddenly concerned with the inevitable outcome of gravity found themselves amused that those words had come from her own mouth. One aspect wondered what caused it. Another part snidely noted that tumbling through the air four stories up was well-sufficient cause.

Crashing into the side of the next building, her hand snapped out and seized a drainage pipe that ran down the length of the structure. The iron creaked in protest as her hand nearly crushed it, staying her fall as she bounced roughly against the brick. Her feet dangled above the alley, which was bare and dark in the starless night just before the dawn.

Silently berating herself, she secured her grip, looking up to see if she could climb to the roof. The pipe would have none of it; with a snap a rusty section above her shattered, and with a squeal of tortured retaining straps, peeled away from the wall. The Old One was left suspended briefly in the middle of the gap – before the insolent, cowardly tube gave up, shearing away completely. Then she was in free fall again, a useless piece of deformed metal in her hand.

A four-storey drop, and she landed on her feet like a cat, crouching to absorb the energy. The concrete walk she landed on webbed beneath her from the impact.

Illyria stood, unharmed, but glaring at the piece of crushed and warped pipe in her hand as if it had personally insulted her. Tossing it aside with a growl, she looked up, and saw a single human standing in the doorway to the nearby building. He was heavy, an apron spread across his round belly, powdered with flour. Unshaven and balding, a hairnet was stretched over his head in comic denial of reality. He stared at her, eyes wide, and the cigarette he'd been smoking during his break hung limply from his lips. The smell of fresh bread filled the alley from the open door behind him, mixing unappetizingly with the burning tobacco.

The two stared at each other for a long moment, and it was actually Illyria who cracked first. The demoness snapped impatiently, "What?"

He didn't answer, instead just turning and walking stiffly into the building, closing the door quietly behind him. His expression didn't change.

Snorting, she turned away, looking up at the lightening sky, where the occasional cloud shifted from purple to pink as they scudded across her sight. Dawn was coming, and the humans were beginning to rouse. She might as well walk the rest of the way... her game for the night was finished.

With a thought, her red-brown armour morphed into jeans and a jacket; and likewise the blueness of her lips, hair, and skin, the signs of her demon taint, faded into more human colours. After pausing a moment to inspect her appearance, Illyria began her walk home.

--------

"My fellow Americans, as you all know, the world, or at least our perceptions of it, experienced a dramatic shift months ago..."

With a yawn, Connor fairly staggered down the stairs of the Hyperion, wrapped up in his housecoat. Though the sun shone merrily through the windows of the former hotel, it was still far too early for his tastes.

It was partially his own fault, of course. He'd insisted on picking Lorne up from his red-eye flight into LAX from Vegas the night before, despite the demon insisting he could take a cab. Lorne thought Connor was just a really nice kid – Connor was honest enough with himself to know that it had less to do with pure niceness than it did with lingering guilt from his mistreatment of the demon after his return from Quor'Toth, even if the psychic didn't remember it.

At least it had been a pleasant drive. Lorne certainly liked to talk. And Connor may have been bred to brood, but he did like to listen.

The television echoed throughout the lobby. Marc, for all that he put conscious effort into exemplifying the lazy college student, had a fondness for early mornings that Connor thought quite deplorable. But then the young man was part Brousha, and maybe that species liked mornings. Certainly not half-vampires, or dhampirs, or whatever the hell Wyndham-Price had said he was.

How had he known that, anyway, when the rest of the planet still remembered differently? It made Connor vaguely nervous. His own memories might be fuzzy, but he could still remember both Angel and Holtz each being vaguely dismissive of the Council of Watchers... describing them as insular and neglectful in some instances, overzealous and self-righteous at others. He'd seen all demonstrated in Roger Wyndham-Price. That the Council would have blocked or overcome Vail's spell, and kept tabs on him besides, was disconcerting.

At least he didn't have a Slayer beating down his door. That would suck.

Dismissing those unhappy thoughts as pointless paranoia worthy of "Old Connor", he walked into the small room that served as the group's television room. Marc had an annoying habit of taking the small coffee maker into the room with him when he worked or watched television, instead of leaving it at the greeting desk. Growling at him didn't work, and he couldn't get leverage with the others – neither Illyria nor Lorne drank coffee.

Marc sat on the small couch, watching the television with interest, a near-empty bowl of cereal balanced on his leg. Connor recognized a replay of the previous night's Presidential Address, a long-overdue government acknowledgement of the events in Los Angeles months ago, being taken apart by the talking heads on the morning news. He ignored it, concentrating on the object of his quest, sitting on the coffee table.

The pot managed to dribble out little more than a quarter of a cup. Connor sighed in the disgust.

"Sorry. Didn't expect you up for another hour or two," Marc shrugged, not taking his eyes off the television.

Connor said nothing, recognizing this as one of the many petty arguments with his friend that wouldn't accomplish anything, writing off his crankiness to caffeine withdrawal. He reached down and just barely restrained his own strength as he pulled the cord from the wall. Wrecking the coffee maker, or whipping himself in the face with the plug, wouldn't do anything but embarrass himself.

As he stood, lifting the coffee maker, he noticed that Marc really was fixated on the news broadcast. "You okay?"

Marc's eyes flickered up to him, and he shrugged. "Fine. Just trying to figure out how this is going to all play out."

The show was playing a different clip from the president's address. "- Our emphasis is, and always has been, the safety and security of the American people. To this effect, I will reveal to you now, that this government has been aware of these happenings for many decades, and has even commissioned studies-"

In his mind, Connor ran through the rest of what he could remember of the speech from the previous night. Like most presidential speeches, the Commander in Chief had said a lot without saying much at all; but the statement that the government had known of the underworld all along was itself a massive admission, sending shock waves that reached well beyond the United States. The President had, of course, pawned off the decision for secrecy onto previous administrations. And grabbed the opportunity to accuse some of the anti-American forces around the world of being led by demons – and for once, Connor suspected he was probably right.

He tried to think of anything else that might be worrisome, and came up blank. "It's mostly just an acknowledgement, isn't it? Plus some open research commissions, and some extra funding for law enforcement specific to demons, isn't it? Nothing specific."

Marc scowled. "That's the problem. Nothing specific. No mention that a lot of these demons have always been here, and the world hasn't ended. That a lot of these people go to work, pay their taxes, and just want to be left alone. Law enforcement specific to demons' can mean a lot of things."

Connor avoided mentioning that the world very nearly had ended, several times, because Marc wouldn't remember it (thanks to Wolfram and Hart), and because Connor had had a hand in causing one of the incidents. His friend was tense, almost upset, which was very different from the cheerful, carefree demeanour he usually had. He put the coffee maker back down on the table, and sank down to the edge of the couch. "The demons who don't cause problems haven't changed, no... but the ones who do, they're freer to move around, sorta. Like the magic shop."

"They're not freer... they never cared in the first place. People just didn't notice them, or didn't want to notice them. But people are certainly going to notice government enforcement squads. And they're going to wonder what makes these people worthy of special law enforcement, and draw conclusions."

Government enforcement squads'. The unspoken translation hung in the air: death squads. The Slayers writ large, with massive backing. The Watchers' Council was often bigoted, arrogant and deadly, but until recently it'd only had one Slayer. Often obedient, but sometimes she could be reasoned with... the one girl in all the world' usually knew better than to pick fights she didn't need.

But there was no reasoning with public opinion.

"It won't turn out that way," Connor assured him, "Landon wasn't on a witch hunt." His friend looked up, and Connor noticed that his eyes had turned a slate grey... signs that the small pills he normally used were starting to wear off. The young man was almost completely human – more so than even Connor could claim – but enough of his tainted blood remained to put him in danger from a nervous human populace.

"He was, actually," Marc replied dryly. "Remember that we went to him with some unprovable claims, and he didn't hide the fact that his investigation' was really a fishing expedition, looking for something to go after Wolfram and Hart for later. Do you really think the cops would waste their time on weak-ass stuff like that before the Riots? They're paranoid. We gave them a hint at some bigger demons and they went for it."

He sighed. "Demon. It doesn't help that the word is associated with evil. The Greeks knew that daemons could be good or bad, like people... humans."

An uncomfortable silence covered the room. Connor couldn't say anything reassuring that wouldn't sound weak and stupid... or hypocritical. Marc was far too smart to be given platitudes. Worse, he could see it from both sides. He could remember when he was fully indoctrinated by Holtz. If it wasn't human, it deserved to die. And Stephen' hadn't been nearly so human as he thought... simply self-deluded and self-righteous.

Not for the first time, Connor wished Wesley had never smashed that stupid box.

Marc looked at him again, wearing a different kind of frown. "Where's Illyria, anyway?"

This, at least, was easier ground. "She was heading out for a run when me and Lorne came in last night. She's probably still out. She'll be okay."

His friend paused before answering. "I'm not sure I'm worried for her."

--------

Landon sighed, leaning back in his desk chair, slightly regretting his return to normal duty. Paperwork was stacked high on his desk from his brief absence, and he'd already had to deal with one crisis with his team at two am that morning – a drunk deadbeat father taking his wife and daughters hostage, threatening to kill them. No freaks involved, for once. Although he sometimes wished there had been, seeing how low humanity could sink.

The after-action report sat in front of him, waiting to be handed in. The mother carried out on a stretcher, fighting for her life at UCLA Medical; father carried out in a body bag. Children okay, although they weren't going to sleep well for a long time, he suspected. He'd already sent MacAvoy home, to sleep or puke or get drunk. He'd assured the young man it'd been a righteous shooting, and it had been, but that never made taking a life easier... not even the life of some lowlife bastard who was going to kill his own wife and kids.

He couldn't believe he'd been looking forward to getting back to this.

"Boring you?" Henderson asked, raising a copper-coloured eyebrow. She was leaning against his desk, her uniform shirt hanging open to reveal the tank top underneath, which Landon was doing his damned best to ignore. She'd had her own adventures while he'd been away from the unit, of course, and was filling him in on the goings-on.

"'Course not. So this guy managed to track the kid?"

"The kid and the weirdo. He was really helpful, really professional. Wasn't too happy about having to sniff his way through the sewers, mind you, but I don't blame him. Backed off when we found the guy's trailer, stayed out of the way. I get the feeling he's volunteered for this stuff before."

"And the boy?"

"He's fine, back with his mother. The freak had painted him up with some weird symbols, but hadn't actually done any damage yet... not physical, anyway. Him and his mom are getting a checkup with the departmental psych. I don't think either one of them are going to be campaigning for demon rights', though."

He hesitated before asking the real question. "Did you really have to kill him?"

Asked any other way, it was the kind of question that could end a friendship. But she knew that tone of voice; knew what had happened the night before. Knew that the leader of a squad of heavily-armed police officers wasn't just charged with defending his teams' lives when the shit hit the fan, but sometimes their souls as well. She'd gotten a taste of that while he'd been off on assignment.

"Yeah," she responded, absolutely sure. "The knife was in the air... we didn't have time to talk."

Landon nodded without hesitation. For all of her red-headed temper, Jackie was the most level-headed person he knew. If she said there was no choice, there was no choice. But that made for three kids in a forty-eight hour period that had seen someone blown away in front of them by cops. Sure, only one of them had been human, but he didn't like the permanent association they'd have in those childrens' minds.

And then the policeman came, and he killed the bad guys, and everyone lived happily ever after...

After a moment, he shook his head. At Henderson's quizzical look, he sighed again. "The world's upside down. A kid, kidnapped by a demon, for some kind of magic ritual. Not the kind of delusional shit from some deluded nutbar living in his mom's basement, but the real thing. Is that the kind of normal we have now? Could we have even held him if we'd taken him alive?" His hand unconsciously found the report sitting on his desk, ready to be presented, as he thought about Illyria. There was no way someone like her could be caged. And he'd been getting her help evaluating a possible threat that, while not frightened, she'd grudgingly admitted had been far more powerful than her.

Henderson seemed to know what kind of thoughts he'd been thinking. "Hey, it balances out. The bad guys do what they always do... be bad. But now some of the good guys aren't scared of helping openly. That tracker guy was a great asset, even left his contact information in case we needed his help again. You'd like him... all mellow and stuff. I think Lopez has a new best friend, they were talking music and guitars for hours."

He smirked. "You just want to work with him again. All that animal magnetism."

That managed to get a blush from her. "Please. I was raised by beatniks, I'm tired of beads and talismans. And the werewolf thing... well, actually, that's kinda hot. But the last thing I need is for my cycle to sync up with his. PMS and lycanthropy make for bad domestic disputes."

Landon guffawed despite himself. Henderson grinned, pleased at making him laugh.

He checked the small clock on his desk and sighed. He picked up the report he'd been fingering. "Time for my meeting with the Chief and the Homeland Security guy."

Henderson understood. "Enjoy."

He snorted as he stood, expressing his opinion on that. "Give Stern's place another call. If you don't get a response, have one of the beat cops run by his place." She nodded.

Stern. Another problem. He hadn't taken kindly to being shown-up by a civilian during the kidnapping, an almost-freak civilian at that. The guy was a jerk at the best of times, skirting the edge of disciplinary action a number of times since the Riots... but recently Landon was becoming forced to upgrade him to bigoted asshole'. But asshole or not, he was a SWAT member, and the department got nervous when their officers didn't show up for their shifts, nor respond to telephone calls. A revenge attack at home was every cop's nightmare, and happened far too often for anyone's liking.

He tried to put that thought out of his head as he navigated his way out of the cubical farm' toward the meeting room near the Chief's office, adjusting his uniform, the corridors between the cubicals just barely wide enough to accommodate his shoulders. The room had large windows, and the privacy curtains hadn't been closed; they rarely were unless an officer was being disciplined, and as a result closing them tended to cause more rumours than leaving them open. He could see the Chief sitting down beside a tall man in a suit, nodding as they both reviewed a file on the table in front of them. Landon cursed softly under his breath; he'd hoped to be in the room before either the Chief or the Homeland Security spook had a chance to rehearse what they were going to ask him.

Despite that, he knocked politely on the open door, allowing them to acknowledge him before entering.

"Ah, Sergeant Landon", the Chief said as both men stood. "This is Agent DeMoine from Homeland Security... Agent DeMoine, Sergeant Landon, in charge of my SWAT."

DeMoine, to his credit, didn't smile like a wannabe politician, or frown like a secret agent. He gave a businesslike nod that was a little bit more than perfunctory. He wasn't handsome or ugly enough to draw attention, and likewise his grey suit wasn't so impeccably tailored as to mark him as someone important. The only hint of arrogance and position of power was in the handshake. As usual, Landon hulked over the other man, shaking hands over the meeting table – but he suspected he would have been the one expected to stretch across even if he hadn't had the longer reach.

"We were just going over your report, Sergeant," the Chief commented, gesturing at the chair he expected Landon to take. They all sat down simultaneously. "It looks like you had a bit of an adventure."

"It was a bit more than expected, yes sir," he admitted honestly.

"Your report was detailed and well-written, Sergeant," DeMoine commented, flipping through some of the last pages of his copy. He stacked the papers and slid them slightly to the side, beside the briefcase he had sitting on the table beside him. He lifted the case's lid, plucking out a small stack of folders. He did not offer the folders to Landon, instead flipping one open in front of him.

He pulled a pen from a pocket, and looked up at the sergeant. "As you probably already know if you heard the President's speech last night, we've known about these demons for quite some time. So some of the parts of your report aren't news... we know about the squatters in the sewers, for example, and the bars where these creatures like to meet. That's not to say your efforts were wasted, however."

He used the pen to tap the sheet of papers he'd pushed to the side. "The vigilante service of the Slayer' girl is valuable, for example. We'd last heard of a similarly-titled young lady in Ohio... your report confirms our suspicions that they'd abandoned their one girl' policy, though we don't know why. Likewise, your accounting of the kinds of deals that go on inside these demon bars will help me convince my superiors to allocate more manpower toward monitoring them."

Landon nodded. "It looks like Wolfram and Hart have a lot of tentacles into those places. The Lorne guy had some useful third-hand information, and actually told me to look up a former detective for the 4th Precinct, a Kate Lockley. I dug up her record, and she was put out on mental for saying stuff that nobody believed at the time, a lot of it about Wolfram and Hart, but now-"

DeMoine held up a hand to interrupt. "We've actually already spoken to Miss Lockley. The Wolfram and Hart matter is in hand, although I'm sure you'll appreciate we have to move carefully when dealing with a multinational firm like them. Lockley has agreed to help us on a consulting basis."

The Chief added, "And you might be interested in knowing that the 4th is actively trying to rehire her. She's refused so far, but you might end up working with her in the future."

DeMoine's lips pressed into a line at the diversion, but he didn't react otherwise, simply bringing the discussion back on track. "What I'd like to ask you centres on some of the other details of your fact-finding. To go forward, we'll need to know more about some the people who brought this all to your attention. You did your own background check on Reilly, but some of the others we only have basic information on."

Landon nodded, slightly confused, but it was a reasonable request – one couldn't launch a full investigation at the word of a known lunatic or troublemaker. The agent slid the open folder ahead slightly, close enough that Landon was able to catch the handwritten label on the side: Winifred Burkle/Illyria.

DeMoine folded his hands and leaned his elbows on the table, still holding his pen. "Let's start with the woman calling herself Illyria."

Thus they started... and showed little sign of stopping, or even changing topics to demons in general or Wolfram and Hart in passing. The questions came unhurriedly, the agent taking care to get as many details as possible... he was very good at his job. And as time went on, Landon became convinced that she was the real subject of the meeting.

How strong would you say she is? Did she show any indications of the wounds she suffered during the Or'saa incident? Are you sure she would have killed the squatter? Has she shown any signs of gathering more than the demon and two young men to her cause? With each pointed question, his heart sank a bit. For the first time, he realized he was just a piece of a larger game, being played by far more powerful people, with their own agendas.

He'd known he'd been sent out on a fishing expedition. What he hadn't realized was that he wasn't the fisherman... he was the bait.