Disclaimer: Mutant Enemy holds the rights to Angel and Buffy the Vampire Slayer. This is an unauthorized work.

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In one night, the world changed.

It was safe to say that Angel was not aware of the repercussions of his plan that night. Nor, really, would he be expected to. It is difficult for anyone, even a champion, to plan beyond their own death. And death was what he sought, in a way. A noble death, a final gesture of defiance, one that would shake the forces of evil to their core – and shake them it did. And the world along with them.

Illyria understood his motivations well. Once, she would have considered the very suggestion of fighting alongside the lower creatures an insult punishable by death. How far she had fallen... but not so far. These beings had proven themselves to her. One more than the rest... but he was not there. And she was left behind, with alien sensations twisting her gut, emotions she reviled taking up permanent residence in her head.

That battle, the battle, had offered her a brief respite. Rage was not unfamiliar to her, and she found she had far more than her usual stores of it to spend that night. It burned so hot the relentless rain nearly seemed to boil before it touched her. It was bottomless, gushing, filling and warming her, uniting the myriad threads of her consciousness into a white-hot spear that drove her forward to kill, and kill, and kill. As the hordes of the Wolf, Ram, and Hart bore down upon them in the alley, she had deliberately placed herself away from the others, ahead of them, letting the wave of demons break upon her like the sea around a tor. It was too dangerous to be too near; most of her aspects were focused on dealing death, and the few remaining were inappropriately fixated on him, despite her attempts to wrest them toward more practical considerations. Like whose ribcage had her fist just crushed; what head had that been, as her booted heel sent it arcing away from the shoulders.

She had not seen exactly when the others went down. When she had time to analyze her memories after the fight, she had been pleased to see that they had all acquitted themselves admirably. The blond half-breed, Spike, had torn into his foes with a fury that had nearly matched her own. Angel, as he had vowed, had engaged the dragon, demonstrating the cunning she knew he possessed as he tricked the huge creature into crushing and burning its own allies. And Gunn – one aspect of her mind was annoyingly stuck considering him as well – fought as he could, destroying the demons which sought to flank the others, even as his life leaked and was washed away by the rain.

But the results of the battle were a foregone conclusion. They had known that. Gunn had fallen first, the new and old wounds finally proving too much. Angel was next; though he felled the dragon, the fires of its death had consumed him in a glorious end which Illyria had been proud to witness. Spike lasted a good deal longer, but eventually the weight of numbers bore him down. She did not see the death blow... he was there, and then he was not. The rainfall swept away his ashes, continuing what the torrent of foes had begun. And she was alone.

It wouldn't be longer for her, either. She was no longer the entity she once was. No more did she possess nearly limitless stores of energy to draw upon... bound to merely enhanced human flesh, fury could only drive her so far. Her blows began to weaken, even as the cuts and impacts she took began to have more telling effect. She would fall.

The thought did not bother her as much as it once would have. In essence, she had been living on borrowed... stolen... time as it was. Her old life, the glories of her former kingdom, were gone. Now the new kingdom, the one she had attached herself to as a servitor of all things, was gone as well. He was gone. She did not know what awaited her beyond final death, but she no longer feared it.

Just as she had accepted her fate – truly a momentous step for her – the fates, being the pernicious entities she knew them to be, altered the path. A human vehicle, black and white, arriving on the other side of the fence from where the battle raged. Two uniformed humans, undoubtedly investigating the disturbance. The battle-maddened host of the Wolf, Ram, and Hart fell upon these new prey quickly, shredding the fence and then doing the same to the unfortunate humans.

But not before a cry for help was signaled.

If Illyria had fallen then, it would not have mattered. The horde would have scattered, leaving behind three dead humans, scores of evaporating demon carcasses, and whatever would be left of her once she ended. Humanity would have been none the wiser.

But she was Illyria! No matter her kingdom was gone, no matter she was bound, broken, trapped in a feeble mortal shell. Her life was no gift, it could only be taken... and the cost would be very, very high. She fought on, destroying demon after demon, just as she believed Angel would have wished, just as he would have wished. Once her worshipers had made sacrifices to her; now she made blood sacrifice to him, her guide, seeking to please him on whatever plane his mortal soul had gone.

Next to arrive were more humans, airborne, in the noisy flying construct known as a helicopter, shining a bright light down into the alley. They lasted longer, likely relaying the tableau to disbelieving superiors. The distraction eased the pressure on Illyria, however, which she appreciated. Soon, though, the machine dropped from the sky, skewered on a huge javelin flung by the the giant one-eyed centaur in the rear of the demon army. He was too large to enter the alley, but he did well cutting off an avenue of retreat, not that she sought one.

It was then that one tired, unfocused aspect of her mind began to realize what she was seeing, what the brilliant or foolish, perhaps unexpected, result of Angel's plan was. She would have laughed, if the action was not still alien to her. They had only known that the senior partners would be enraged by their assassinations that night, that their reaction would be swift and violent, and surely fatal. They had succeeded beyond their wildest imaginations, and the reaction certainly had been sudden... and unthinking. The Wolf, Ram, and Hart had sent their minions out into the street to extract revenge, heedless of who might see, underestimating their ability to endure.

She had always considered them fools. Her opinion had not changed.

It was very nearly the end when the next batch of humans arrived. She had been knocked down, against the alley wall, her own life fluids dripping from numerous wounds. The world seemed to spin, making her far too slow pushing to her feet. A foot caught her midsection as she tried, sending her smashing back against the wall, breath denied her. Yes, it was her time. She believed she had made a good accounting for herself.

The newly arrived humans leaped quickly out of their vehicle, a large, strong-looking conveyance, brandishing much larger versions of the weapons he had once employed, ineffectually, against her. They moved with purpose and efficiency, eyes wide with fear, but resolute; skirting the smashed remains of the previous vehicle and its occupants. Again, the demons threw themselves toward them, claws ready to rend; but these humans were not caught trapped and unaware.

Shots rang out in rapid succession, drowning out the snarls of the monsters and the frantic shouts of the humans. Illyria gained new appreciation for human ingenuity – sneakiness – as armour-piercing rounds tore through tough demon flesh and chitin, smashing bone, and parting limbs. In their fear, the humans fired indiscriminately into the crowd... not that there were any innocents to hit. Bullets tore the air above Illyria as she lay barely-conscious on the pavement.

Effective though they were, there were simply too many of the monsters to shoot down, and it took too many bullets to do so. The hell-spawn advanced on the humans like lava, unyielding, using their brethren in front as living shields. They had forgotten about her, leaving her propped against the wall like a broken doll, no longer a worthy threat. It was a grievous insult, but she had no more ire left.

The screams of the humans had just begun when her ears heard the sound of more vehicles coming to a sudden stop, the shouts of more men, and then more and more gunfire. Above, another helicopter whipped the air, close enough that it chilled her soaked vessel, but she was too tired to even shiver. Evidently the centaur commander had no more javelins, or perhaps the humans had actually managed to cut him down or otherwise engaged him. Or perhaps he had just wisely retreated. She was in no position to care.

She could see little through the rain, the blinding light, and the bodies of the demons scurrying past. She could barely lift her head, and when she did, the rainwater fell on her face and into her eyes, obscuring her vision. It ran into her mouth as she gasped for air, bitter with the poisons thrown into the atmosphere by the humans. The pain of her injuries; the taste of the rain; the noise of guns and screams; the smell of blood and offal; the distorted, flashing light – she decided that this alley easily competed with some of the hell dimensions she had visited, so long ago.

Humans were weak, and frequently stupid – but in numbers they were formidable, Illyria noted from her position slumped against the alley wall. With reinforcements present and more arriving, the uniformed men and women lost some of their fear and found some of their own fury. The weapons fire blended together into a nonstop cacophony. The demons were being pushed back... the bark of guns slowly came closer, and she could hear shouted orders and imprecations. A heavy body fell across her legs, a demon of unrecognizable type, missing large chunks of flesh and holed through.

Thought was a struggle in the chaos – nearly all the threads of her intellect exhausted to the point of non-function, the few left easily distracted by environment and injury. But it began to dawn on the demoness that, barring all expectation, the battle was being won. Wolfram and Hart was being beaten back. The host of Hell, battered back by a battalion of mortals and their weapons. Again, there was the foreign sensation of amusement.

She might actually survive this... an unexpected development. She couldn't decide whether she was pleased or disappointed. She certainly had little to live for. Would one of the humans shoot her? In her weakened state, it might be enough.

The humans were advancing past her; stepping carefully through the shredded fence and advancing past the bodies of the fallen horde, some piled nearly as high as a man's shoulders. Down the alley, the snarls and shouts of the demons receded slowly.

She shouldn't be here. It was only a matter of time before she was noticed, and she did not know how the humans would react. There was the notion that they would just kill her, yes, but she wouldn't rely on luck like that. More likely they would imprison and study her, something Lorne had warned her of. She had been contemptuous of the idea at the time, but that was before Angel and his followers had weakened her, to save her and themselves. Now the possibility was real, and she took the caution more seriously – not that she would willingly admit it to the green clown.

Superhero. And this is my power: to not let them take me. Not me.

Now where had that come from? She queried the aspect that had thrown that piece of memory flotsam to the surface. Too late; it was gone, dormant, lost to exhaustion.

She would not let them take her.

She managed to lift an arm, turn her head, looking for an escape route. The idea of hiding amongst the bodies of the fallen was both humiliating and futile, the demon across her legs already beginning to rot at an extreme pace, as most did. Would her vessel do the same, when she was gone? She looked around her, squinting, blinking away water and blood.

There! Just to her left, a window into the basement of the building she lay against. It was secured with a heavy metal lattice, to keep out unwanted visitors. Movement was a terrible effort; she probably did not have the strength to tear through the bars. She would try, though... there was little other choice.

She began gathering her energy for the effort. Her breathing slowed, along with her heartbeat. She pulled in her otherworldly senses, even as she began shutting down aspects of her mind, constricting her consciousness until she was nearly as narrow-focused and limited as a human.

"Ay! Here! Civilian down!"

The shouted words startled Illyria. She had run out of time.

"Ay, lady? You okay?" The masculine, strangely-accented voice queried from just in front of her. A hand reached out and grasped her chin, turning her head to face a soggy, dark-haired human with sienna skin. His weapon was grasped in his right hand, stock tucked under his arm, pointed downward but ready to aim and fire with a moment's reaction. His torso was hidden under a strange, bulky form of armour. His left hand was holding her chin, moving her head so that he could see her face. Had she the energy to spare, she would have torn that arm from its socket as punishment for his impudence.

The light beam from the helicopter swept over them, revealing the odd colour of her hair and skin. Dark, nearly-black eyes met cold, inhuman blue.

"Madre de Dios!" The man reeled backwards, pushing away from her. The weapon began to swing upward.

Illyria kicked her legs, sending the body of the dead demon flying into the human. The corpse was too rotted to have sufficient mass to knock him down, but it disrupted his aim and his balance. Her cheeks stung and ears rang as two holes appeared in the brick near her head. Not ducking so much as tipping over, she sprawled to her left, curling her body, bracing her back against the iron bars which blocked her escape. Her hands and feet found purchase on the rough, wet asphalt.

Whom does a fallen god pray to? It was a foolish notion, most particularly for her. Regardless, afterward, she would realize she had made a silent plea in those tight milliseconds as she set herself. She knew not to what deity. An Old One, resurrected in a stolen mortal body, leader of an extinct race, who had no particular desire to continue, had prayed for success. There were too many things wrong with that.

She thrust backwards with all her remaining might even as the human recovered his footing. The iron groaned, and the concrete crumbled. She almost seemed to sink into the building, but it was not enough. The bars were warping considerably, but she was not inside, and she was spent. She hissed with frustration. The man was taking aim.

Snap!

With jarring suddenness, the concrete behind her crumbled. The warped metal lattice did not break, but instead the wall it was set in shattered around it. She fell backwards into the hole, surprised, into absolute darkness. The drop was considerable, onto cement of some sort, knocking the breath from her. She fell from noise into noise; a low, steady rumble filled the room, which smelled of dust and rotting organics and burning oil. The air was very warm and heavy.

She did not know where she found the strength to do so, but she crawled. Forward, blindly, she crawled in the darkness, away from the window and the battle, until she bumped into a stack of soft, heavy bags. The air was particularly rank near them. Sacrificing all dignity and pride, she burrowed between them and the wall, until she estimated her entire body was out of immediate view.

Darkness took her.