Chapter Sixty: Operating Orders and Disordered Operations...

Monday, November 3, 1997: South Marion Drive Sunnydale Medical Complex, Sunnydale, Evening 5:00pm –

If Abbot and Costello were lethal killers, then Michaela Reeves' comment about her backups being a comedy duo would have had its apt points.

Janet Moseby was very tall – six foot two-and-a-half if she was an inch – very tanned, very fit, very toned, and very Nordic looking. Not surprisingly since she came from one of the heavily Norska parts of Minnesota, Reeves couldn't remember which part just offhand. Late twenties to early thirties. She had pale blonde hair, and the palest green eyes that Reeves had ever seen on a human being.

She was also one of the best shots that Michaela Reeves knew of, long or short range, handgun, shotgun, or rifle, bar none. Not even the supposedly late Lieutenant Barkley had been a better combat pistol shot. She was almost as fast as Barkley or Michaela, as well. And she was damned near as good at CQC and a better technical martial artist than Michaela was.

Gilbert Merrill was just the opposite.

He was about five foot eight by five foot nine, and built like a fireplug, with some of the broadest shoulders Michaela had ever personally seen. Mid to late thirties. He had black hair – mats of it all over his body as far as Michaela knew – pale blue eyes, a brow ridge, a permanent seven 'o clock shadow, a broad, mobile, and expressive mouth, and a homely enough face to make Ernest Borgnine look like a matinee idol. With his too long and muscular for that torso arms, and a bit too short for his body slightly bowed legs, Merrill looked like nothing more or less than the human personification of Monk from the old Robeson Doc Savage novels that Reeves had been hooked on as a kid.

If there was actually a stronger living normal human being, Michaela Reeves didn't want to meet him. Gil Merrill could bend quarters neatly in half between his thumbs and forefingers. He had the freakishly dense musculature of the male silver-back gorilla he so strongly resembled.

He was also, without a doubt, the Black Company's best sneak. Reeves would never understand how someone with that build and that mass could move as quietly as Merrill could, but not even Bravo team's Chelsey or Cheng could outdo him as a scout. Or as a quiet killer. Death in the night...

If the two of them had worked for the mob, they'd be hit men. Since they worked for the United States Military, they were assassins. Very, very good assassins, and in more than one sense of the word 'good'.

"Gil, Jan, heya," Michaela said, grinning broadly. She accepted the hands they both extended, rapped them on the back with the knuckles of her other one – ow and damn that helo crash – and nodded to the pair. "Groovy. I can sleep soundly now."

"Damn, Chief," Brockhurst said. "You sleep any more soundly than you were earlier, and we're going to have to monitor you for vital signs and brain activity."

"Captain," Michaela said, and nodded. "And wounded and exhausted with known friendlies guarding don't count." Jerking her head to the dynamic duo, she said, "Captain Janet Moseby and First Louie Gilbert Merrill. Two of the most dangerous people you never wanna meet in a dark alley."

"Or a brightly lit one, either," Merrill said, his eyes scanning Brockhurst curiously. "Air Farce, all the way. Who's the fellow fly boy, Mickey?"

"Brevet Lieutenant right now, Mickey," Moseby said, giving her a slight ironic half bow. "And yeah, we met Air Force here briefly upon our arrival, but it wasn't a full introduction."

Acknowledging the bow and the correction with a nod, Michaela said, "Ah. This is Lieutenant Colonel William Brockhurst, USAF, former AFSOC, out of Vandy." Michaela continued, "He's a shit hot combat pilot I adopted after I found out I wasn't gonna have to kill 'im to borrow his helo." She dropped her voice to a stage whisper, adding, "He doesn't know it yet, but I'm recruiting him from the Zoomies."

Brockhurst snorted. "Somehow, that tidbit hasn't escaped me, Captain Chief," he said, dryly.

"Damn. Did I think that out loud?"

"Damn, Mickey, you do have a way with making friends and influencing people," Moseby said, shaking her head. "Keep telling you, you should shift over to the Marauders. Way you like to destroy property and wax people, you'd fit right in."

"Heya, I'm not too proud to state when I'm not ready to run with the big dogs," Michaela said. "I'll just sit here on the porch and watch, thank yew."

"Ok, now I'm frightened," Brockhurst said. "If they're more dangerous than you are, Michaela, we may as well just pull the plug on SoCal now."

"Last one outta the state, turn off the lights, yeah," Merrill said, nodding energetically. "You wouldn't want to live on the difference, fly boy, but we are marginally more lethal."

"And modest, too," Moseby said.

"So, fellow fly boy?" Brockhurst said, curiously. "You were one of the few, the proud, the Chair Force as well, once?"

"Well, I could tell you that," Merrill said, smiling cheerfully, "But then I'd have to- oops. Sorry, I get my scripts mixed up sometimes. Well, I hesitate to admit it with the Lethal Leg and the Jar Head here, but sadly, I was once AFSOC. And a shit hot Hot Iron Jockey to boot."

"And then he saw the light and joined up with us Perverts in the Trenches," Moseby said.

"Sing it, sister," Michaela said.

"More like I was in danger of getting kicked out of AFSOC on a psyche eval for insisting that some sailor with bad dentures and yellow glowing eyes had been trying to suck my blood," Merrill said, "And they kept insisting I should fess up that it was something else he wanted to suck – and oh, by the way, where did you hide the body, Captain? And then our good Colonel made me an offer I couldn't comprehend, and one demotion and a transfer later, here I am, surrounded by Squids and Grunts. Woe is me."

Smiling at Merrill's rather apt description of his recruitment, Michaela said, "And this is Lieutenant Commander Deacon Briggs, our JAG weenie, and Chief Warrant Officer Katie Bell, our resident CID spook, or one of them."

Deacon Briggs was tall, very black, in about his late thirties, with black hair and dark eyes. He had a rangy fit kind of build, and was wearing his Navy Whites. Bell was small, Caucasian, around five five or so, wiry and very dark looking, both hair and eyes, and had that indefinable 'cop' look despite the Army Class A's she was wearing.

"Michaela, Lt. Colonel," Briggs said. "Brevet Captain ma'am, I'm given to understand that you've managed to kick over quite a hornet's nest out here."

"Do tell," Michaela said. "Matter of fact, we can take a seat over here, and you and Bell can tell me. I've been kind of on the sharp end and out of the loop here for around twenty four hours or so."

Michaela grabbed a Coke out of the vending machine by the elevators, and they all took seats around a low table in the little waiting lounge at the end of the hallway, down from Harris' room.

"First off," Briggs said. "Your papers confirming your most likely temporary combat commission and brevet promotion. Your insignia are inside the envelope. Congratulations and my deepest condolences, Captain Reeves."

"Thanks," Michaela said, her voice dry, accepting the envelope. She shook out the collar insignia and left the patches in for now. "I'll probably need em. What else you bring me, Unca Briggsy?"

"Orders, authorization, documentation, and more orders," Briggs said. "Here you go." He passed over a narrow sheaf of papers. "I'll summarize, in brief: Colonel Danvers sends her congratulations on a badly hosed up job well done, along with the traditional reward."

"Another fucking job!" Moseby, Merrill, and Michaela chorused, laughing.

Briggs and Bell grinned at her, nodding. "In short, yes. The Colonel also says that she is not unhappy with your performance to date, even though a large number of other people seem to be. You are ordered and authorized, to wit, to continue to take all necessary measures to safeguard your person of interest, and to attempt to get to the bottom of ascertaining just precisely what has occurred in this peculiar little town and to resolve it. Said measures not necessarily falling short of having your fly boy here drop a J-DAM on City Hall, if needed."

Brockhurst blinked, and Michaela said, "Day-um. Someone done pissed the Colonel off, huh?"

"She is mildly annoyed, yes. She does not appreciate her people getting killed because they were fed half-assed intel and then put in a situation where they deem it necessary to scrub an op at the near to last moment and go improvisational with results that are less than optimal and deleterious to the health of their command. Unfortunately, our esteemed mad doctor has very low friends in very high places, and she and her project are listed as hands off for the moment."

"Dammit. I was looking forward to strafing her into road kill," Michaela said.

"You may yet get your chance to slip your leash, but not at this time, Mickey," Briggs said. "Bell and I are going to be looking hard at the available options. However, while Doctor Director Walsh has very highly placed friends who like her little black ops project and have high hopes for it, all of whom are deemed critical to the political survival of our current Philanderer in Chief's administration... There are a number of equally highly placed people, including our very own Chief of Staff of the Army and the Chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee who don't particularly like having their pet dark project screwed with. Not to mention assorted opposition Congress-critters, a couple of sympathetic old spooks, and the General of the Army of the United States."

Brockhurst blinked again at that.

"Who don't necessarily outweigh the bright boys high up behind DARPA, the Secretary of Defense, and the head of the State Department, and Director of the CIA, not that they are in any way whatsoever involved with Herr Doctor Walsh and her project," Bell added.

"Ah. So we are caught in the middle of an administrative pissing match," Michaela said, nodding. She finished carefully reading over the sheaf of orders, and moved onto the next thing in the pile, and her eyes widened. She said, "Holy shit! A Letter of fucking Marque and fucking Reprisal?"

Brockhurst blinked. "I didn't know they even issued those any more."

"Me, either," Michaela said, shaking her head in amazement. She began reading the document over carefully, committing it to memory.

"It may have escaped your notice, especially way out at Vandenberg, Colonel," Bell said, "But on Halloween night here in Sunnydale Harbor and the local yacht basin, there was an actual naval engagement between two, count 'em, two fully rigged pirate vessels and elements of the Sunnydale Harbor patrol and the Sunnydale County Sheriff's department's beach patrol. A harbor patrol vessel and a Sheriff's patrol boat were sunken by cannon fire during an engagement, and the other harbor patrol vessel was damaged and had to withdraw. Additionally, the police and sheriff's department had a full-blown shooting engagement on shore with land elements of the pirate crew, and numerous acts of land piracy and brigandry."

Michaela nodded. "We watched a lot of news video footage on the plane ride out. A Santa Barbara news chopper caught most of the engagement on tape. And a local detective and his partner encountered and had a shooting engagement with one of the land crew, killing four, who were in the process of bringing a chain of, ah, female prizes back to their ship. Reportedly not the first such transport they had done that evening."

"And the Coasties didn't come in and put them down?" Brockhurst said, shaking his head.

"A coast guard heavy cutter was en route to do just that when both vessels sailed into a sudden fog bank," Briggs said, "Reportedly, and then vanished."

"Fog? What about radar?" Brockhurst said.

"They apparently vanished off the scopes as well, simultaneously."

"Amazing. PFM. Pure fucking magic," Michaela said, "And I mean that literally."

"Indeed. While it is deemed unlikely that a recurrence will be observed," Briggs said, "It was decided that it was best to cover all the bases. Use it well and wisely, Captain."

Michaela grinned, and set the letter aside, almost reverently. "I'm getting a photostat made of that when we're done, and having it matted and framed for my bragging wall," she said. "Assuming I ever get an office." She moved on to the next set of documents, and started laughing.

"We thought you might enjoy that, Mickey," Bell said.

"What?" Brockhurst said, his eyebrows going up. Michaela waved a hand at the papers, laughing too hard to answer him.

"Something that Director Doctor Walsh isn't going to like very much," Briggs said, grinning. "Writs specifying that Miss Cordelia Desiree Chase is subject to being produced for inspection, interview, and examination at a moment's notice to any lawful authority who wishes to converse with her, including us."

"And that she had best be in perfect health when that occurs, and not have been moved one single foot from Sunnydale MHMR or wherever she is currently being held for evaluation," Bell stated, "Sunnydale Mental Health and Mental Rehabilitation being our best guesstimate and best intel at the moment. Also stating that one Alexander Lavelle Harris is attached to an unspecified military unit, to wit, the Black Company, with the rank of Civilian Advisor, and has been for over a year, and therefore is hands off and off limits to the Doctor Director."

"Or else the Hammer of Thor comes down on Call-me-Maggie fucking Walsh," Michaela said, finally winding down. "Legally speaking."

"Which might not be of any comfort to Miss Chase, if things go badly beforehand," Brockhurst said, his expression grim. "Or Mr. Harris."

"True enough."

"We may not be able to shut down Dr. Walsh's little black project, nor may we be able to currently deal with her in the manner in which we would prefer," Briggs said, "But we can make it not easy for her."

"Cordelia Desiree Chase is also a civilian advisor affiliated with the Company, and has been for an equal amount of time, straight out of joining JROTC at Sunnydale High in late April '96," Briggs said, nodding, "Hence the fact that she had best be treated well while in custody. It may not make an impression on Walsh, but it will give pause to those behind and above her."

"Gonna need copies of those to give to my MP brigade," Michaela said. Setting them aside, she moved onto the last in the stack. Her eyes widened again, and she said, "Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. Is this for real?"

"It is," Briggs said, his face and his voice somber. "Step very carefully with that, Mickey. It is inflammable and highly explosive. And use it wisely."

"What?" Brockhurst said, trying to read the papers upside down. Michaela held them so he could see, and his eyes widened. "Oh, my God. They gave you a license to kill? Double Oh Reeves?"

"Jesus Christ, you weren't joking when you said up to and including 'dropping a J-DAM on city hall', huh?" Michaela said. "Gee, Colonel Zoomie, say hello to the new fucking Military Commandant of the City and County of Sunnydale. And any and all environs that fall within my remit and the necessities required in the performance of my duties."

"My God. I am speechless."

"Posse Comitatus does not allow elements of the United States Military to engage in LEO and peacekeeping activities on U.S. soil, except under very limited and specific circumstances as stated and implied by the Insurrection Act of 1807 and its intent," Briggs said. "And the Black Company is scrupulous about observing such legalities, except within very limited rules of engagement during the events of an actual hostile attack or incursion upon American soil by non-U.S. forces and such forces as described by the Act."

"And Sunnydale currently qualifies on all counts," Michaela said, nodding.

"For the duration of the declaration of civil emergency and breakdown of local ability to exercise legal and lawful civilian command and control," Briggs said, "Said duration to be determined by you, Michaela, unless and until you are overruled by higher authority."

"It was apparently determined that while Michaela's actions to date have been acceptable under the circumstances, rules of engagement, and heat of the emergency," Bell said, "That she was in danger of exceeding her latitude and authorization now that the heat had passed somewhat."

"So they increased her latitude and authorization," Brockhurst said, shaking his head with his eyes still wide.

"All the way to the fucking walls," Michaela said, her expression grim.

"And you were complaining that you weren't getting any support from command, Captain," Brockhurst said, smiling.

"Heh. It is a mixed blessing, Colonel Flyboy, sir," Michaela said, smiling back. "Effectively, I'm being told that as long as the right people are happy with my performance, handling, and resolution of the situation, I am fucking golden. But if they are not, then may all the misbegotten gods help me for no one else will."

"You are apparently golden with someone at the moment," Brockhurst said, "Also apparently, you have a really solid commander."

"It's why I wasn't too concerned about going off the rez in the heat last night, Colonel Light," Michaela said, her eyes narrowed. "My orders come from Major Buckley. His orders come directly from Colonel Danvers. Her orders come from an assistant star to the current Chief of Staff of the Army, Joint Chiefs of Staff, who gets his from the current General of the Army, United States of America, where they originate. One step below the very top of the chain."

"We habitually are tasked with engaging enemies who are not only outside of the normal rules of engagement," Briggs said, "But they are also outside of the normal community of nation states in every single sense of the phrase, Colonel. As such, the Black Company requires a certain degree of latitude and flexibility. Commensurate responsibility in the application of that latitude and flexibility is required, also."

"Understood," Lieutenant Colonel Brockhurst said. Looking at Michaela, he said, "So, had you deemed it necessary to shoot me and my pilot and gunner last night and take my helo?"

"I would have done so, not lost a moment's sleep over it, and probably have gotten a slap on the wrist afterward and a quiet attaboy," Michaela said, smiling. "'We are not playing any more', is more than just a nifty turn of phrase. It is a statement that we are going to get the fucking job done: no matter who or what gets in the way, no matter who dies in the process. Even if it happens to be us."

"On occasion, Colonel fellow Fly Boy," Merrill said, speaking for the very first time since Michaela and the JAG and CID officer had begun to converse, "Our job is critical to the existence of Continental North America. Sometimes, to the existence of the human species. It's not a business for the faint of heart or weak of stomach."

"We take this shit seriously, Colonel," Michaela said, nodding. "Our job is to protect civilians and the innocent from things that you can't imagine, and that other people don't want to admit or even know exist. It's why we're so adamantly against other branches and agencies going off the rez and playing games with our own citizens and bystanders."

"Yeah, we ain't real well liked in SOG and a few other places," Moseby said. "Which is cool, as we don't particularly like them that works for the CIA Special Activities Division, our ownselves."

"So, where do I sign up?" Brockhurst said.

"With me, assuming you're serious. I'll sponsor you," Michaela said. "You'll probably have to swallow taking a brevet to Major, for chain of command purposes. Because, I want you for Bravo Group, seeing as how even if and when Buckley is on his feet again, we are still gonna have to rebuild our team almost from the ground up."

"I was and am," Brockhurst said. "I think I've been looking for an outfit like this for my entire adult career."

"Good. Can always use a shit hot combat pilot with AFSOC experience," Michaela said. "We'll work out the details later. You will, however, have to get down in the mud behind rifle sights on occasion. We don't accept pussies in this command."

"I'll try to adapt to losing my air conditioned bunk," Brockhurst said, his voice arid. "Besides, you don't know how many times I've wanted to shoot an annoying prick of a commanding officer and just get a slap on the pee pee for it." Everyone laughed, and nodded.

"It's a tough job, but it do have its compensations," Moseby said.

Briggs and Bell waited out the exchange with slight smiles. "Be advised, Captain, that there is something very off, hinky, and fishy about this idyllic little hamlet. Hence the extraordinary latitude."

"Gee, somehow, that hasn't yet managed to slip by me, Briggsy," Michaela said, "Considering that there is a fucking Hell Maw under the freaking high school, and not one, but two, count 'em, two, Slayers on site."

All four of the newcomers blinked, and looked at each other, going suddenly expressionless.

"I see..." Briggs said, carefully and slowly. "That was not included in the briefing materials."

"Again, gee, I wonder why," Michaela said. "One might suspect that our Colonel was not aware and was not informed. Possibly, neither was higher command."

"An active Hellsgate? Or inactive?" Moseby said, scowling.

"Active as all shit, I'm given to understand," Michaela said. "Makes the Cleveland Hell Maw look like a steam vent."

"Holy fucking shit, Mickey," Moseby said. "How do you manage to land in these situations on such a regular basis?"

"I am truly blessed with suck, is all I can come up with," Michaela said, grinning mirthlessly. "Welcome to the fucking party, pals."

"Sigh. Sucks to be you. And us."

Michaela nodded, grinning mirthlessly at the taller woman. "Okay, Merrill, Mose. Q&A time for me. I've heard the title and the descriptive, but I am a wee bit unclear on the particulars here, and that is not only beginning to be a bit irritating, but a more than a bit debilitating to my efforts. Just what precisely is our less-than-esteemed Doctor Call-me-Maggie Walsh the 'Doctor Director' of, dammit?"

"Must admit to some curiosity of my own on that," Brockhurst said, nodding.

Merrill and Moseby exchanged glances, and shrugs before looking back at her. Michaela held up a hand, forestalling an immediate response. "Note: I know that she is the Director of something called the 'Defense Research Initiative', which tells me very little, and that she is engaged in research into something called 'The Future Soldier Initiatives'. However, that doesn't answer a lot of my questions with specifics." Michaela gave a frustrated huff, and practically growled, "At this point, I am a data analyst with limited data and an intelligence gatherer with no intelligence."

She fixed Merrill with a look that had 'get it out of your system' clearly written all over it and waited expectantly.

The hirsute man chuckled and nodded, saying, "We have noticed, but we've forborne from saying anything to that effect."

"Yeah," Moseby drawled, her eyes twinkling, "Mom always said it was impolite to poke fun at the mentally challenged."

Michaela snickered, and nodded. "And now that we are past the obligatory wisecracks portion of your performance... ?" She raised her eyebrows.

"We have that information for you, Mickey," Briggs put in, nodding, and continued with, "But I must warn you that you are not going to like it."

"I will state clearly and categorically for the record, Briggs, that I have liked very little if anything since Dixon ate a forty mike mike armor piercing HEI grenade in front of the Summers home," Michaela said, her eyes gone hard and flat. Briggs winced slightly and made an acknowledging gesture. Michaela inclined her head and said, "Hit me."

With occasional interjections and clarifications from Briggs and Bell, they did, Merrill and Moseby speaking in terse and unadorned language and phrasing. At some length.

When they were done, Michaela blinked, blinked again, and then repeated her performance from earlier in the day with a few new languages added in for seasoning and pungency. At length.

Brockhurst looked at her a bit askance and more than a bit admiringly. "I am impressed. I don't believe you repeated yourself once in all of that." He gestured toward Merrill and Moseby while looking at her, adding, "I understood most of that, but I am apparently missing relevant bits. Enlightenment to be forthcoming?"

"Hoo boy," Merrill said. "You are gonna be sorry you asked, Fly Boy."

Moseby nodded, and said, "Captain Mickey already is."

Michaela's lips flattened and skinned out away from her teeth in something that couldn't even be remotely mistaken for a smile. "Oh, my yes. Someone has been a very naughty group of boys and gurls." Sighing, she shook her head, closing her eyes briefly. When they opened and fixed on Brockhurst, they were bleak and devoid of warmth and expression. "Back in the early days of World War II, Colonel, Hitler was obsessed with the supernatural, and with mysticism in general. He began a large number of projects that were designed to harness those forces and incorporate them into the arsenal of the Third Reich... what was euphemistically known in certain elevated Nazi circles as the 'Forever Reich.'"

"Around late 1942," Merrill inserted seamlessly, "Several of those projects threatened to come to a head."

"And in their infinite lack of wisdom," Michaela stated, "The War Department of the United States and a number of Cabinet level people in the administration determined to ignore the best advice of our allies in Great Britain and formulate a response. That response became the 'Demon Research Initiative.'"

"Which was designed, among other things, to create Super Soldiers for use in combating the controlled supernaturals that the Reich was working on being able to put into the field," Moseby said, nodding.

"It got out of hand, badly," Michaela said. "A unit of the Crown's Hellguard Regiment and a full combat team of the Devil's Brigade died putting that mess to rest. A small American town ceased to exist in the process, population and all."

Brockhurst whistled softly, and arched his eyebrows. "The town located near the research facility that melted down?"

"Got it in one, Colonel Zoomie," Michaela said, nodding. "The American Mordgruppe, Department M, was tasked with shutting down the German project by any means necessary. They succeeded. The Black Company in its first iteration was born of that debacle in 1947 – it led directly to the foundation of the Company."

"And the United States Government made an informal, binding, and completely off the records agreement with the British Crown," Moseby said, nodding again, "To forswear any research attempts to control the supernatural for military purposes. Period, end of statement."

"Someone didn't get the memo," Michaela said, her lips peeling back again, "Or else ignored it. Someone gave Dr. Walsh a budget, authorization, and a license to experiment. The DRI – Defense Research Initiative – is a polite euphemism for the Demon Research Initiative. I'd bet money."

Brockhurst shook his head a bit ruefully, eying Michaela. "I really did fall into the Rabbit Hole when I asked you if you had lead in your boots, huh?"

"Oh, my stars and garters yes, Colonel," Merrill said, starting to laugh. "Done tripped and tumbled head first through the Looking Glass."

"You bet. You'da been better off letting me shoot you and steal your helo," Michaela said, grinning at him. "But it all adds up now. The Future Soldier Initiative project. Walsh's secret and not so cleverly hidden base atop an active fucking Hell's Maw. Her interest in acquiring the Terminator for dissection, and Creed. Her people's apparent surveillance of Buffy Summers little group of supernatural vigilantes. Her insistence on acquiring Chase and Harris for intelligence purposes."

Brockhurst nodded, his expression grim. "Given my understanding of things, Alexander Harris would be an invaluable information and data resource to mine. And Chase."

"Chase, less so," Michaela said, looking thoughtful, "But Harris, yes. And Chase is a handle and leverage on Harris." She grinned mirthlessly again, adding, "And now we know why the Joint Chiefs gave a mere brevet Captain the authority to declare Martial Law and a Writ for creating Letters of Marque and Reprisal. We are not playing any more."

"Yeppers, Mickey," Merrill said, nodding, "This shit done got serious. Woe is us."

"They want Doctor Director Walsh shut down," Michaela said, slowly. "And they want it done in a way that does not advertise that the United States has opened the Black Files again and violated the Hellsgate Protocols."

"And they picked you to do it," Brockhurst said.

"By virtue of me being the only semi-operational member of the Company left on the ground standing," Michael said, nodding. "Lucky me."

"I foresee terrible troubles," Bell intoned.

"Agreed," Michaela said, smiling a bit grimly. Cocking an eyebrow at Briggs, she fixed him with a jaundiced stare. "This do just explain a lot, don't it?"

"It surely does, Brevet Captain," Briggs said, nodding gravely. "Our esteemed Colonel sends you her regards and best wishes, and in and amongst your other duties, wishes for you to enjoy the opportunity to – in the very best traditions of the service – see the world, soak up the exotic local ambiance, and meet interesting people and peoples. And if you should so happen to come across an opportunity to do so, do please take the time to revisit Goliad with her blessings."

Michaela stiffened slightly in her seat, and her gaze sharpened upon the JAG officer. And then hardened after a moment and she nodded. "Message received and understood. I am assuming that there are formalities to be observed that accompany those well wishes?"

"There are indeed, Captain," Briggs said, smiling tightly. "To be signed, notarized, and returned forthwith. Accompaniment by a souvenir ashtray and t-shirt optional, I believe."

Brockhurst by this point was frowning and looking between the two of them with increasing puzzlement. "I am going to assume that there is much in the way of subtext that I'm missing here."

"There is indeed, Lieutenant Colonel, sir," Moseby said, nodding. Leaning forward slightly, she patted him on the knee. "Company business. Be advised and assured that the good Captain Commandant will apprise you of the particulars when and if it should become of grave and pertinent import."

"And in the meantime," Brockhurst said, smiling a bit ruefully, "Don't worry my pretty little head about it?"

Moseby's answering smile was full of teeth and devoid of mirth. "I wouldn't have phrased it quite that way, sir, but..."

Nodding, Brockhurst said, "Just be sure to shovel some manure down after you turn out the lights, if you would please."

Michaela favored him with a wry grin that was slightly warmer than Moseby's smile. "All due respect, yata yata, sir. Rest assured that given the way that things here seem to be progressing, the need part of the knowing will present itself soon enough, and no doubt to your everlasting regret."

"Does seem to be that kind of place and situation," Brockhurst said, nodding, "Does it not?"

"All right... Now that the formalities and the info-share are done with, Captain Commandant Michaela sir," Merrill interjected, "What now? Orders? And, don't mind my asking, exactly what the hell is going on in this town?"

"I'll answer what the hell is going on here last." Michaela thought for a minute, then nodded. "All right. One) I get copies of these orders and writs to my MP groupies. And I double the guard. Two) I call Light Colonel Brockhurst's commander and formally requisition him and his whirly bird to be attached to me for the duration. Three) I have Briggsy here make contact with the Mayor's office, the Base Commander at Fort Halleck, Dr. Director Walsh, Interim Chief Stein, County Commissioner, Chairman of the City Council, the City Manager, and the Sunnydale County Sheriff, and call a meeting for tomorrow at Oh-100 to pass on the wonderful news they are gonna love so much."

Merrill nodded. "We brought your Class As and Whites and your kit with us. The Colonel sent it along at the last minute."

"Oh, good. I was feeling near naked with nothing but a battle rifle, one sidearm, and a single knife," Michaela said. "Lost my ess-em-gee and heavy rifle when that fucker blew up my surveillance van, damned near with me in it. And my other handgun when I fell out of the downed Apache. Last fucking time I ever get all pussified about not being comfy in a surveillance van's accommodations and set my weapons kit where I can't grab and go."

"Well, in addition to a really big honking sixgun and an express rifle," Moseby said, eying Michaela's weapons in trust. "You been taking lessons from Lieutenant Barkie?"

"Naw. From my person of interest. Everything worthwhile I've learned recently in this life, I've learned from Cordelia Chase," Michaela said, checking her watch, "And Four) We have a meeting scheduled for oh-2000 with our civilian liaisons and local auxiliaries. You will be fully briefed on the local situation, previous and as it stands, at that meeting."

"Local auxiliaries?" Merrill said, raising his eyebrows.

"Oh yeah," Michaela said, grinning. "You guys are just a gonna love the Sunnydale Irregulars."

Monday, November 3, 1997: 3523 Paden Street, Levinson home, Sunnydale, Evening 4:35pm –

"So, lemme get this straight," Jonathan was saying. "You went as Dr. Soong, and you, Kimberly, went as Seven of Nine? From Voyager and Next Gen?"

"I did not 'go as'," Seven said, irritably. "I am Seven of Nine, formerly Tertiary Adjunct of Unimatrix Zero-One, currently – " Seven froze, and then nodded finally and reluctantly, "Yes. Your surmise seems to be in order. I am told that I did indeed dress as a character from Voyager, which apparently seems to be some mindless entertainment feature here on this planet."

Whoa. Jonathan freaking Levinson, short, slightly pudgy Jonathan, sporting the bluest eyes Warren had ever seen on a human being, just gave Seven a Kubrick Stare that froze the words in her throat briefly. Ok, formerly pudgy... there didn't seem to be much left of that now.

"All right. Well, except for the mindless... although Voyager does have some of the usual Star Trek drivel to it," Jonathan said.

"Hey!" Warren began, then reconsidered and shut up before he got one of those terrifying Kubrick Stares for himself. Yeesh. "Never mind, carry on. We can argue the entertainment merits of Star Trek later."

Nodding, Jonathan grinned at him, almost like old times, and said, "Ok, you're probably tired of hearing this by now, Seven, but prior to Halloween night, you were Kimberly Williams, eleventh grade math geek, and reasonably attractive genius. And now, you're obviously not."

And again, whoa. Jonathan calling a pretty girl 'reasonably attractive', and not stammering and getting tongue tied? On the other hand, he did go out with Cordelia Chase at least once...

As if he'd been reading Warren's mind, or maybe just his expressions, Jonno said, "There's been some changes here, Warren. As you've probably figured out by now. I'm no longer just Jonathan Levinson any more, any more than you're apparently just Warren Mears." He paused, inclined his head in her direction and fixed those freakish eyes on Seven, and added, "But not quite in the same way that you are no longer Kimberly Williams."

Seven nodded, and some of the frozen and offended cat went out of her expression. "I can accept that. Although I assure you, I have no memory of ever having been this Kimberly person."

"You're not the only one in this town," Jonathan said, "So don't feel alone in that. And, you don't look so much like Kim any more either. More like a... really close fraternal twin resemblance. You're taller, blonde instead of brown haired, and, uh, built more like a Playboy bunny than she was. And you have Seven's arrogance."

Seven inclined her head and smirked slightly. "I have noticed the effect that my appearance seems to have on human males, yes."

Warren felt himself color a brick red, and Jonathan smirked back at her. "Well, yeah. Especially teen age males, and geeks in particular. You don't have to worry about me, though. I have a girlfriend."

"Wait, uh, you and, uh, Tamara now?" Warren said, blinking.

Jonathan shrugged. "She decided to keep me for awhile, and take me for a test drive and kick the tires a bit. I'm, uh, kinda okay with that."

Well, yeah, and duh! What guy wouldn't be? "Okay, I can deal with that," Warren said. "And you were... ?"

"Corporal Audie Murphy, United States Army."

Just flat like that, no braggadocio or nothing. And, whoa. That explained the freaky eyes, and the total lack of fear and stammering and shifty gaze and head ducking, too. Warren gulped nervously and made a mental note: do not fuck with Jonathan Levinson ever again. Ever.

"Wow."

"Yeah. Okay... so, you both were at the Bronze when Blaisdell came in and shot up the place, and Xander Harris rescued Cordelia right from under his guns, right?" Jonathan said.

"Yes," Seven said, and Warren nodded vigorously.

"Yeah, but not as myself. We scrammed out the door as soon as it was apparent he wasn't paying attention to our side of the room," Warren said.

"Smart move," Jonathan said. "That got ugly. Real ugly. Okay, and now you, what... ?"

"Want in, Jonathan. Ground floor," Warren said, his voice and expression earnest. "I know that you know some of the library crowd, and we've figured out what they really do here. I want in as a good guy. We can be useful, man."

"Yes. Except that it was primarily Warren who deduced the particulars along with the gist of what occurred on Halloween," Seven said. Warren waved it off, feeling a bit embarrassed.

"Huh." Jonathan went all distant and thoughtful looking for a few minutes, and then said. "All right. I need to tell you a story. And then I need to call a few people. Tam, uh... Tor, and Heidi I think for starters. And then you guys are coming to a meeting with us tonight at Tam's home."

"Wait, Tor and Heidi? Hauer and Barrie?" Two of the most terrifying to geeks and nerds people in human existence Tor and Heidi? Yikes! Warren felt a massive disorientation as events suddenly felt like they were speeding up and flooding along with him far faster than he had any hope of controlling. "And, uh, meeting?"

Jonathan fixed those disconcerting eyes on Warren, and nodded. "Yeah. Don't know how much news you've been following the past couple of days, but there's been some changes in Sunnydale. And there's about to be some more, I think. Big ones."

"Uh, not much?" Warren said. "We've been mostly busy doing research."

"Well, let's just say that," Jonathan said, smiling oddly, "You guys picked interesting times to jump in with both feet. In the Chinese curse sense of the term."

Yipe. Warren gulped, swallowed hard, and nodded, smiling weakly.

Monday, November 3, 1997: 2315 E. Chestnut Street, Suite 210A, Sunnydale, Evening 5:45pm -

"So, whattya think?" Shelia said in an entirely too cheerful voice. "Cool, huh?"

"Huh," Joel Garrity looked around. He leaned forward, propping all six-foot-five of himself on the six-and a-half foot length of fire swept desert ironwood he'd cut the day before, out in Breaker's Wood.

It was a rather unprepossessing, beat-up looking, three-and-a-half room office suite on the third (and top) floor of an equally unprepossessing older office building off of Chestnut Street, a bit off the main drag in downtown Sunnydale. There'd been a kinda grungy, graffiti strewn staircase leading up from the lobby, and a rickety looking old style elevator that not even Shelia had wanted to try. The office suite was also graffiti marked, looked like it had, or had had some rats nesting in the kitchenette alcove, and had a broken widow at the front, overlooking the hallway.

But at least the electricity seemed to work... once they'd installed the light bulbs Shelia had brought along.

"Gonna need some work," the dark haired girl that Shelia had brought with her, or maybe vice versa, said. Amy nodded, looking around a bit dubiously.

"But at least the rent's perfect," Shelia said. "And Joel Dresden here's office is on a corner with a kind of a view, if you squint and use the term 'view' loosely."

Today, instead of her leather shorts and fishnets, Sheila wore a pair of black yoga pants, combat boots, and a gray sleeveless tee over a black long-sleeved t-shirt, with a long, black, swallowtail suit coat over that. With her hair spiked up and her pale complexion, she looked like an extra in a Crow remake.

"Uh huh," Amy said, nodding. "Mostly of paved lots and other decrepit office buildings."

"You don't like it," Shelia said, scowling. She seemed to deflate a bit.

"I didn't say that," Joel said. "I didn't say anything, actually."

"That you did not," Shelia said, nodding and suddenly brightening again. "So, whatcha think?"

"It has potential," Joel allowed. Diplomatically, he didn't say what he thought the potential was for. Fire hazard, maybe...

"It does, really!" Shelia said, nodding. Joel had to grin at that. Shelia's enthusiasm was almost infectious.

"It's an abandoned building," the new girl said, frowning.

Joel looked at her harder, and snapped his fingers. "Hey, aren't you Nancy Doyle, from our AP classes? How'd you get roped into this?"

"Heh. Ask Vampirella here," Nancy said. "And, yup. That'd be me."

No wonder Joel hadn't recognized her at first. Doyle's normally nearly black hair had lightened to a kind of dark brown with reddish highlights, and had grown since he'd seen her last – in class on Friday, as a matter of fact. She was currently wearing it in a long single braid down her back. And apparently she'd, uh, grown at least a cup size...

Shelia looked at him and Amy, and shrugged. "Ran into her Halloween night, after I left the Fish Tank, when she wasn't herself."

"Oh?" Amy blinked, and stared at the other girl. "So, what'd you go as?" she said.

"Heh. Lara Croft, from the Tomb Raider games," Nancy said, smirking. "Sheesh, boy, was that interesting."

"I'll bet," Joel said. "So, you keep anything?"

"Not so much as you'd notice, no," Nancy said, shaking her head. "But I did have to go out and buy new bras the next day. And I'm thinking about taking up archeology and anthropology in college."

Amy grinned, and said, "Bet your social life takes a dramatic upswing."

Nancy rolled her eyes as Shelia snickered. "Oh, joy. Just what I want: brain dead idiots trying to feel me up on dates and having to learn anti-octopus defense," Nancy said. She grinned then, adding, "But it should make getting a date for Homecoming a lot easier."

"I'll bet," Joel said, grinning. "So?"

Shrugging, Nancy said, "Shelia said you guys had something going and could use someone who could manage a computer and keep records. So, color me a personal assistant. But call me your 'buxom secretary' once, and I'll break your arm."

"Hah. No worries," Joel said, snickering.

"So... Dresden, huh?" Nancy eyed him a bit dubiously. "Can you really do magic?"

Nodding, Joel shifted the long stick he was carrying to his left hand, and pulled a candle from his duster's pocket. Tossing it to Nancy, he said, "Hold that out to the side, and out front a bit."

"All righty," Nancy said, raising her eyebrows. "But you best not set me on fire."

Joel grinned, snapped his fingers, and said, "Flikum Bicus."

The candle's wick burst into flames, and then the flare subsided and it just sat there and burned steadily.

"Cool," Nancy said.

Shelia and Amy nodded. "I'm impressed," Shelia said.

"I'm gonna have to finish my staff and other foci before I can do much more," Joel said. "But that one I have down pretty well, even already. Probably because Harry did."

"Ok, so, what's the catch?" Amy said. "And the rent, since you mentioned it?"

"Catch is the same as the rent: we get to use it in exchange for cleaning it, painting it, and fixing it up," Shelia said. "Oh – and keeping an eye on the place when we're here."

Joel nodded. He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, and said, "But, as Nancy said, it's an abandoned building. Isn't that gonna be a problem?"

"Less than it was for Dresden, maybe," Shelia said. "It's not actually abandoned: I know the owner, and he lets me have one of the basement apartments at a greatly reduced rent in exchange for me keeping other vamps and stuff out. And the bottom floor is leased out by an AARMA group that meets here a couple of times a week, plus weekends. It's just the other side across the courtyard that's completely empty."

"Nice," Amy said. "How'd you manage that?"

"Saved the owner kinda by accident from one of Spike's minions not long after I told him and Crazy Dru to go piss up a rope," Shelia said. "And I wasn't hungry, so we started talking after we got past the whole 'Gah! What da fuq wassat!' thing."

"Lucky for him, then," Joel said. "Uh, less than for Dresden?"

"Yeah," Shelia said. "A couple of the AARMA people live at the back of the AARMA studio and offices, so the place has a slight threshold, at least."

Joel nodded. "Means something to hang wards on, once I relearn how."

"ARMA?" Nancy said, raising her eyebrows.

"The American Association for Renaissance Martial Arts – AARMA," Shelia said. "Buncha loons who like reconstructing medieval fencing and beating on each other with blunted swords and rapiers. Pretty cool, actually."

"Huh. And they're the only tenants?" Amy said.

"Up 'til now, yeah, 'ceptin' for me," Shelia said. "Guy's been having a major problem leasing the place, or even selling it, since the owners of the New Age Bookstore that used to be downstairs on the other side got eaten by something."

"Ouch." Joel eyed the large canvas and leather case that Shelia had brought up with her. "So, what's in the bag?"

"Was wondering when one of you were gonna get around to asking that," Shelia said, smirking. She nudged it over with the toe of her boot, and then knelt down beside it and opened and unfolded it.

"Yikes!" Amy said, her eyes widening, and Joel whistled softly.

"Ok, so, where'd those come from?" Nancy asked, looking curiously at the contents.

"Heh. Acquired them from the gun shop that that Terminator thing shot up and looted on Halloween," Shelia said, smirking again.

"You've got a bunch of stolen guns?" Amy said, her eyes going even wider. She edged a bit farther back from the case, and added, "I'm not sure I even want to know you now."

"Naw. Not since Larry the Terminator killed both Wiley and his son, they're not, really," Shelia said. "Think of them less as 'stolen', and more as 'appropriated unclaimed property'. Considering that there's no heirs, or so reliable scuttlebutt has it, and they'll all go to the State of California for destruction, most likely, it's more of a rescue, really."

"Uh huh," Nancy said, crossing her arms over her chest. "Not sure that the cops or the ATF are gonna see it that way."

"Well, considering that the gun shop's log books and a number of forty forms, uh, vanished about the same time these did," Shelia said, "They'll have a hard time coming up with that. Minors in illegal possession of firearms is about the best they'll do."

"Sigh. Interesting way to start off a career as a Private Investigator's sidekick," Joel said, shaking his head.

"Partner, not sidekick," Shelia said. "And, hey – considering how often the real Dresden lugged around his guns in a state with a no issue policy, plus having a sawed off shotgun, you've got no room to talk."

"True, that," Nancy said, nodding. "But Dresden had friends on the police force."

"Details, shmetails," Shelia said. "Rumor has it that Interim Chief Stein has a brain and is pretty cool. Go forth and make you some friends, Joel-Harry."

Shrugging, Nancy knelt down after a moment and began looking over the various firearms. Passing over several, she picked up an HK USP Target and began to examine it carefully.

"Careful with that," Amy began –

Shooting her a pained look, Nancy sighed and said, "Believe me: after Halloween night, I more than know what I'm doing with these."

"If you say so," Amy said. "Wait – you've got a sawed off shotgun in there," she added.

"Naw. Minimum legal length, or Wiley's couldn't sell it," Shelia said. "And a Smith & Wesson Bodyguard .38, and a seven shot .357 for Harry there. No Dirty Harry Special, sorry – didn't see one, and didn't have time to spend a lot of time looking after I broke in. So there's an eight and three-eighths inch S&W .45 Colt instead."

"Gee, I guess I'll make do," Joel said, kneeling down by the open case to look the stuff over. "See you got you a few toys, also. Uh, John Wayne?" he added, referring to the large loop John Wayne Commemorative Winchester and the Steve McQueen style mare's leg in the case.

"Hey, always liked Wanted Dead or alive in reruns on Westerns Channel," Shelia said, smirking. Picking up the Winchester, she worked the lever, and said, "Besides, from what I've picked up, there's at least a little inherent magic in things that have a lot of associated belief to them, like Holy Water and crosses. And John Wayne is an American, hell, fucking world, icon. More people believe in him than in the fucking Pope. Truth, justice, and the American way and all that. Winchester too: Gun that Won the West and all." She pointed, adding, "And the big one there is a .50 Express, and that's for you."

"Truth, justice, and the American way? Thought that was Superman," Amy said.

Shelia grinned. "Him, too." The grin broadened and she added, "If'n I didn't think it'd make me burst into flames, I'd get a blue t-shirt with a big red S in a shield, and wear it to ward off other vamps."

"Belief equals magic, in a lot of ways," Joel said, nodding. "The more accumulated belief, the more magical."

"So, uh, Terminator Larry?" Nancy said, her eyebrows going up again. "And, not gonna ask why the firearms – I've read the Dresden Files up to the current one."

"Yup. Magic is cool, but some things react badly to gettin' shot in the head," Shelia said, "And they don't expect it. And... hell, I was in the freaking Fish Tank when Larry fucking Blaisdell came walking in naked and looking like Schwarzenegger and asked some biker for his clothes and ride. Just like in T2."

"Oh, really?" Joel said. "I heard all the rumors about him shooting up the Bronze trying to kill Cordelia. Including the ones about Xander Harris and Jonathan helping him."

Amy snorted. "Yeah, right. I've known both Xander and Jonathan since I was nine. They'll turn into spree killers about the same time Arnold Schwarzenegger runs for Governor."

"Notice you didn't say that about Larry," Nancy said, snickering.

"Heh. Larry Blaisdell's been a bully and a thug for as long as I've known him," Amy said. "Him, I believe. He'd be like Jack O'Toole if his parents didn't have money."

"But a real Terminator? Larry Blaisdell?" Nancy said, her expression still incredulous.

Shelia's features shifted into game face, and then melted back to human just as quickly and smoothly. "What, you can accept vampires and magic," she said, her voice and expression sardonic, "But you balk at killer robots from der futchah?"

"Cyborg, not robot, and... " Nancy shook her head.

"Hey, just skin and meat over a metal bot chassis and a robot brain," Shelia said, shrugging. "Robot. Android, maybe."

"Ok, point taken on both counts," Nancy said, rolling her eyes. She folded her arms across her chest. "But still, jeeze."

Shelia shrugged again. "I didn't write the fucking script, I'm just living in it."

"And why Cordelia Chase, for crying out loud?" Nancy said, shaking her head. "Is being a vapid designer whore suddenly a capital offense in the future?"

"Hey, again... " Shelia spread her hands, "Script writer, me not. Maybe she's destined to mate with Xander Harris and give birth to John Connor."

"Hah!" Amy said, grinning. "Now, that I can believe. You've always been able to cut the UST between those two with a butter knife. Hostility and all. Talk about your shades of 'Ten Things I Hate About You'."

"Heh. Yeah," Shelia said, nodding. "Shoulda seen her standing up to Kyle and Rhonda for him the summer between eighth and ninth, when Harris swiped Kyle's board. Tor made Kyle handle it alone, and Harris decked his stupid ass."

"I'll buy that for a dollar," Amy said, grinning and nodding. "Always been a case of 'we can rip each other's hearts out, but no outsiders need apply' between those two."

"So, anyone ever figure out what did happen on Halloween?" Joel asked, curiously.

Shelia shrugged, and said, "Overheard Trask shaking down Willy for info, and eavesdropped. Apparently, some mage cast a really huge chaos spell on a lot of costumes he sold, and killed himself doing it. Probably not intentionally, but hey, who knows?"

"Wait, that, uh, Ethan Rayne's Costume Emporium place?" Nancy said, blinking and looking stunned. "That's where I bought my costume and gear." Joel and Amy both nodded.

"Uh huh, I 'spect so," Shelia said. "I had to ransom back a bunch of my Goth stuff that my mom sold off after I disappeared, and that Ethan guy bought it from the thrift shop. Got there right after freaking sundown and just before he closed up, too – bet that's what happened to me that night."

"Trask? And, Willy?" Joel asked.

"Uh huh. Willy's Alibi Room. Demon bar up in the industrial section. One of four in town. And Trask," Shelia said, "Is a really mean and badass vamp, and the Mayor's special assistant-slash-troubleshooter."

All three of the others blinked at that one. Joel absently closed the cylinder on the S&W .45 Colt he'd been examining, and knelt there holding it while his mind raced around in circles. "Ok, that would explain a few things..."

"Yeah, doesn't it just?" Shelia said, smirking. "Of course, hardly anyone knows that Wilkins controls most of the supernatural here, just like Daddy Wilkins did, and his granddaddy before that. Almost everyone knows that Trask has a serious heavy hitter behind him, just not who it is. The few who do, don't talk about it for fucking love nor money."

"So, how'd you find out?" Nancy asked.

"Followed Trask and his goons around a few times," Shelia said. "They always end up at City Hall late at night, and the Mayor's office is always lit up. Snuck in once or twice and listened in."

Joel whistled. "If you were equipped that way, I'd say you had a pair."

Amy nodded. "Ok, so... demon bars?"

"Yeah," Shelia said. "Four of 'em, and one other place. Willy's and Red's, which are where most of the wanna be bad asses and the not-so-hostile stuff hangs out. Hostile enough, though: wouldn't recommend going to either one for a regular human. Squisher's Basement on the waterfront, which is where the real, serious bad asses and hard cases hang out. Squisher's is actually more or less safe for humans as long as you don't try to throw your nonexistent weight around. And Damien's, which is up scale for the wealthier types. Plus an assortment of odds and ends of hole in the walls and other supernatural establishments."

"Oh-kay... " Nancy said. "Well, this is turning out to be educational." Joel and Amy nodded, both looking a bit nonplussed.

"Hey, we've got a population of around thirty-nine hunnert, not counting the Old Carpinteria district," Shelia said. "Add in that, and not counting the transient population from UCS and Crestwood, and the beach hotels and airport district, and we still hit closer to forty-five thou. 'Kay? So... there's another quarter again of that that's all supernatural population, and all under the radar and off the census."

"Wow." Everyone else blinked at her, absorbing that little factoid.

"Uh huh," Shelia said. "Plus a goblin market up in Durgan's Wood past the military base, just a hop down the Ghost Roads and one over into the Never-After. The freaking Hellmouth makes this place a fucking vacation mecca for supernaturals of every description. They come to bask in the glow and soak up some mystical rays, dudes and dudettes."

"Wait, whoa, time out," Joel said, making the universal sigh for it. "Hellmouth?"

"Ah. Guess I forgot to mention that, huh?" Shelia grinned like a shark at their stunned expressions. "Yeah, there's a gateway to the Nether Realms under my old alma mater."

"Wait," Nancy said. "Our high school?"

"Yeah. Cooler than shit, huh?"

"Not exactly the term I'm gonna use for it," Amy said, scowling. "I'm gonna freaking strangle Willow and Xander for not bothering to fill me in."

"Maybe they didn't know," Shelia said, shrugging.

"Oh, please," Amy said, rolling her eyes. "Didn't know, my witchy butt. With that bit with my mom? And Buffy? They had to know."

"Ah. Right." Shelia shrugged again. "Well, assuming you can ever get to see Cordy and Xander again."

"Ah, yeah, right," Amy said, slumping a bit.

Cordelia and Xander's arrests and Cordelia's being sent to mental max security for 'psychiatric eval' and Xander being under serious police guard at Sunnydale Memorial had been all over the news today. As had the news about the murders of Xander's and Cordy's parents, and the shootings out by Willow's house. All channels, all networks. Even CNN and FYI.

And no one here, not even Shelia, believed the bits about the two of them shooting cops and killing people. Cordelia Chase and Xander Harris? Get fucking real, as Shelia would put it.

Joel shook his head in vague disbelief, a sense of unreality sweeping over him twice as intensely as that from Halloween night. "I can see we have a lot to learn. And a lot of information trading to do."

"Yeah," Shelia said, nodding. "But you can see where there might be a lot of work for a Wizard Investigator here, huh?"

"Yeah." Joel nodded. "I'm starting to." He looked around the old office with a new perspective. "Well, as you said, this place has potential. Guess I better hurry up and finish my staff and blasting rod."

He slid the Smith & Wesson forty-five into and through his belt under his duster, and bent to pick up the .38 and .357. "Got any ammo for these?"

.