Though Separate Paths prologue 1a

TITLE:  Deep Dark Prologue 1a
AUTHOR:  Claudia MelGregory
DISCLAIMER:  All characters owned by Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. I own nothing.
PAIRINGS: Willow/OC/Tara eventually. Buffy/Faith. Dawn/Xander
SPOILERS:  Everything is fair game.
DISTRIBUTION:  E-mail me please.
AUTHOR'S NOTES:  Angst. Hurt/Comfort/Horror - scenes from 2003 Watchers Council destruction and from Sunny Dale high school taken from original Whedon script.
WARNING: Violence. Same Sex relationship. Het Relationships Dark fiction. And a lot of other things people might find Squicky ... I’ve always colored outside the lines. Mention of Child abuse
THANK YOU: To my wonderful and patient Beta Readers. lily_rose21 and antianira22
RATING:  NC 17 Not suitable for reader under 18. You have been warned.


Deep Dark Though Separate Paths Prologue 1a


1987 WATCHERS COUNCIL-LONDON

"How the bloody hell, did this happen?"

The Watcher's Council was in an uproar. More precisely... The newly appointed head of the Watchers Council was in an uproar.

"Well sir ... it-it uh appears we may have been inaccurate ..."

"Xavier." The tone of the head watcher's voice could have turned water into ice. "Are you trying to say we were wrong?"

How the man could barely raise his voice, and yet have the magnitude of his anger carry on throughout the walls of the solid building was a mystery to those ducking into their own offices for cover, while avoiding the two men, storming down the halls. It was still not enough of a mystery to stick around and investigate.

"The Watcher's Council has never been wrong ... And I'm not about to believe...

"Mr. Tray-vers ... unless the two girls were called at once ..."

"Preposterous!" Quentin Travers scoffed. "There has never been a documented account of more than one slayer in existence at one time." His eyes narrowed cruelly. He swung his gaze towards his companion. "And I can assure you that were such a thing, to occur, Xavier ... then you may as well burn a hole through your apocalypse fund."

"Gotcha mate." Xavier swallowed nervously, around a manic grin. "One Slayer at a time." The gesture made his sharp adam's apple more pronounced. "Earth keeps revolving." He nodded. "Apocalypse avoidance for all."

"Quite." Quentin resisted the rather childish gesture of an eye roll.

He led the way into the office then shut the door with a decisive click rather than a resounding slam. All the same, Xavier practically jumped out of his skin. Quentin turned on his desk lamp and then walked towards the heavy drapes at his window, yanked on the chord, drawing them open to let in sunlight.

Having returned to his desk, he opened a folder, removed a folded paper from it and then opened it up to reveal a chart which he then laid out on top of the otherwise bare desk. Opening a desk drawer, he removed the photo of the child, that should have been the next slayer called.

She was young, would have been one of the youngest, at the age of ten, a joyous smile formed of perfect teeth, and the cinnamon eyes were happy and warm, in spite of the dress that appeared to be two sizes too big, and about ten years out dated.

The dress was clean. Pressed, indicating that loving hands, had tended it well. The girl's hair was perfectly coiffured by the mother.

The photo intrigued Travers. He'd always sensed there was something special about the young girl. Could he have been that off the mark? He gave a mental shake of his head.

No.

He'd studied the signs and the text as diligently as his predecessors had, if not more so. If there was an error, than it did not lie within the Watchers' walls.

He tossed the photo on the chart.

"Now," Quentin pinned Xavier with a stare. "Time of death, for the last Slayer as near approximate as possible."

"Twelve PM in Brisbane.” Xavier was quick to answer.

"And her successors, activation?"

"One-fifteen AM ... there's a thirteen hour time difference between the countries."

Yes, Quentin thought, and a fifteen minute window unaccounted for.

"Every sign. Every indication pointed to this ... girl!" Frustrated, he slammed his hand down on the picture of a young girl of color. How could she not be the one?

"Quentin," Xavier addressed the man less formally in the privacy of the office. "I honestly don't know what to tell you." He shook his head, nervously. "The new girl is Acacia Nagler. I don't know what happened. We've never been wrong before ... but this girl ..." He gestured to the picture. "She's not the one."

Quentin's steely gaze fell on the photo again. She'd been watched, studied, followed. The girl's sharply developing instincts and growing agility, acute senses, all had pointed to one conclusion ... and now ... the line had passed into another.

No. They hadn't been wrong. His jaw muscles jumped.

Someone had toyed with destiny. And yet how could that be possible and to what evil did it portend?

He stared at the picture ... still feeling the strong tug towards the young girl, captured in stillness. She had a chance now at a normal life. The possibility of marriage, children even grandchildren. Perhaps even dying peacefully in her sleep, surrounded by loving members of the family she'd build for herself. Rather than alone in some back alley with her heart or throat ripped out, while her Watcher patiently waited to record the events of another battle, sequestered away in some fancy room until realizing with the passing of hours and days that his Slayer was no more.

Quentin grimaced.

He felt his frustrations lift ... oh ... there was something at work here.

If destiny could be toyed with, then perhaps he could learn a lesson or two and try his hand at it. But first ... the question was why? What was coming? There was something. He was sure of it—the skipping of fate was no meager matter.

"Very well. The new Slayer. Fourteen isn't she?"

"Yes. Her Watcher is flying there now as we speak."

"Good." He picked up the photo. "Bring this girl to me."

“Quentin?” Xavier frowned uncertain he’d heard correctly. “Why bother? She’s not even a potential anymore.”

“Don’t question my orders, Xavier. Simply follow them. I want this girl here.” He tapped his desk listlessly with his finger. "We shall have to deal with the mother. Tell her ..."

Xavier winced. "She's dead."

"Dead?" Quentin stiffened, alert, curious, suspicious. "How?"

"Just yesterday. Stabbed apparently while on her way home from evening prayer. Shame that. She's all the kin the girl had."

"Yes. A shame." Quentin smiled. "And convenient."

He sat down folded his chart and the picture and neatly stuffed it back into the folder and put it away in the desk drawer.

"Have the girl brought in. For study." We were not wrong. "And Xavier, have Lydia bring me a copy of the Martercine codex."

*******************


SEPTEMBER 1989

Mulari squeezed the trigger.

She fought to keep her eyes open. And though having gotten use to the recoil, she still flinched from the horrendous blast.

She almost sobbed upon realizing she'd missed the shot. She knew what came next.

She saw it coming.

The tip of the cane moved swiftly into peripheral vision, rapped down into the soft flesh of her right shoulder.

She didn't flinch or cry out but her lower lip trembled. She kept her watering gaze focused straight ahead. Didn't turn around.

“Action!”

The sharp command caused her body to tense. She blinked away the tears. Took a deep breath. Her heart pounded and her small fingers shook as she cradled the neck of the rifle in her right hand and placed the index finger of her left to the trigger once again.

The weapon wasn't so heavy, but her arms had grown tired from having remained locked in position for so long. Her left finger had blistered and was sore from flexing and bending at the trigger.

She lowered her left eye to the scope and trembled. A stranger smiled at her. Didn't know her. Hadn't done anything to her.

Don't make me do this anymore. I don't wanna do this anymore. Mama. Mama, I need you.

The cane came down again, harder. She did cry out. But held the weapon as she'd been taught.

“We ain't here for daydreaming.”

“I can't.”

“You will.”

She flinched expecting the cane again. Instead of the cane what she felt next, the well understood threat, was much worse.

“No.” Her body tensed against the want to shrivel away. Ice formed in her chest. Nausea accompanied a violent stomach cramp. “Please.”

A mewl escaped her lips, as she remembered the last time. The last time the bad little girl had been reminded why it was better to be good. To do as she was told.

'Be the best. Just shoot and hit the target. Shoot and hit the target and there will be no reminders.'

“Should I remind you...” a solid body, clothes damp and stinking of the morning's accumulation of sweat and body odor pressed against her back, knocking her Yankees ball cap askew. She cringed and held her breath when rough hands gripped her shoulders and squeezed. “...of what happens to bad little girls who shirk their lessons?”

The familiar hardness, the tool of correction for bad little girls, pressed into the small of her back through his jeans. Mulari whimpered. She didn't want to be reminded.

“I'll be good.” Her flesh seemed to crawl from the suffocating presence and his touch. Her insides felt as though they were withering. She swallowed the vomit which had risen to the back of her throat and valiantly fought the reflexive gag.

“I'll be good, what?” The hands on her shoulders squeezed until they were pinching muscle and nerve. She conquered the scream but not the hot tears spilling down her cheeks and stinging her eyes.

“I'll be good, Uncle Howie.”

“I know you will.” His voice had softened. She didn't jerk from the kiss on her cheeks. “My little girl's gonna be a superstar. Show them British blokes how to run the show, eh?”

“Yes, Uncle Howie,” she whispered.

“Break a leg, kid. You've got the stage. Show Uncle Howie how it's done.”

She breathed more steadily once he moved away from her. She turned her attention to the target, a man in a jogging suit, carrying a bag of groceries.

Cardboard. This wasn't like the endless hours of video games, she'd graduated from. He looked real. Kind. He was smiling and seemed no different then the average man form her hometown. He didn't look like a bad man at all. But someone, she and her Mama would have smiled and waved at. Maybe, Mama would have stopped and talked to him about the weather and how his wife and kids were doing.

Her fingers trembled.

Mama's dead. She left. Tweaked out on you when you needed her. The target won't save you. No one's gonna save you. Just shoot.

“Films rolling, kid.” The words spoken in warning tone, steeled her resolve.

No one was gonna save her. Thinking anybody would was weak shit.

She didn't have nobody, except Uncle Howie, (who wasn't really her uncle) and the men who'd found her, the ones from England that Uncle Howie called the British blokes.

They thought she was important, important enough that they had crossed an ocean for her. Took her out of that stink hole Guardian Care with its bars on the windows and from the guardians that had like to hit for no other reason then they could. Could hit and touch however and whenever they wanted.

Uncle Howie only hurt her when she was bad. When she didn't show appreciation for what the English blokes did for her. Uncle Howie was teaching her how to be strong. How to fight. How to survive.

She had a purpose. Duty. Responsibility. The mission was important.

She heard Mr Travers' voice in her head..

'There are bad people out there, Ms Singer, bad people who do terrible things, and it is up to those like you and me to put them down. To protect the world and innocent people from their like.'

She raised her head and stared at the target.

'If all bad people looked evil, they wouldn't get away with the things they do. They smile, go to church, pay their taxes, but when no one's wacthing, they kill and make war.'

Mulari felt stillness come over her. She sited the center of the target's head through the scope.

“Action,”she whispered and then squeezed the trigger. She turned to the next target and the next, tagging them each in the same manner until she ran out of targets.

Her queue was the sound of applause. She relaxed, cleared her weapon, stripped it down and then stowed it in the case on the table beside her.

“Standing O, Kid.”

Uncle Howie kept clapping. And then slapped her lightly on the back before picking her up and swinging her around. Mulari laughed, the tension draining from her in light of his improved mood. She liked him best when he was happy with her.

“You're gonna be the best.” He set Mulari back on her feet and straightened out her ball cap while grinning broadly. “Now how about a treat, for the birthday girl.”

Her eyes bugged at the suggestion. Her heart raced but she feared getting her hopes up. She hadn't thought anyone would remember what day it was.

“Look at you.” He rested his hands on her shoulders and looked her in the eyes. “You've grown like a weed. And filled out like one of them Hollywood beauties.” She didn't jerk when he lightly squeezed the bruises left by his cane.

She had grown tall enough to fit under his chin. His hot breath on her face made her stomach churn.

“Gotta keep an eye on you, or the boys are gonna go crazy.” His gray eyes were dark and intense and she suppressed her natural urge to shrink from them. “Why I bet you could pass for sixteen, already.” He traced her left cheek with the back of his knuckles.

Mulari swallowed but relaxed when he pulled away, to rub at the back of his neck with his right hand. He lowered his hand and wiped it on his jeans.

His dark hair was always damp and sweaty at the back of his neck and she hated when he demanded hugs, because her arms always came away feeling dirty.

“Twelve years old today. That's a special occasion.” He chuckled. “Later, I got something special for you, all the way from England. The British blokes sent it.”

“Really?” She couldn't contain her excitement. They remembered. They all remembered.

“Really, Kid. You earned it.” Uncle Howie winked. He straightened. “So how's about we skip the smelly gym for today, eh. No sparring. No more exercise. The rest of the day is just for you. Your favorite food and you get to pick any movie you want to see.”

Mulari scrunched up her face and then smiled again. “Cheese burger, steak fries, a Dr. Pepper and Lethal Weapon Two?”

Uncle Howie laughed. “No surprises there, eh.” He squeezed her shoulders again. “Alright, you got it.”

She returned his broad smiled. But her smile faltered when he pulled her into a tight hug. The kind of hug she knew was wrong, because she could feel all of him pressing against her. And it meant that later they would do other things she knew were wrong. But Uncle Howie was in a good mood. And it was her birthday so she knew it wouldn't be like the reminders she got when she was bad.

He would try not to hurt her.

****************

OCTOBER 2002

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Xavier huffed out in frustration. “The girl isn't ready, Quentin. Corrupt political heads, and military leaders are one thing, but you're talking about a powerful...”

“I've never been more sure.” Quentin sat ramrod straight in his leather office chair, hand folded together across his desk.

“This is insane.” Xavier paced back and forth in front of Quentin's desk. “She's been shielded from side of our operations.” Xavier paused, “And at your insistence.”

“I've changed my mind. It's time for Ms. Singer's wake up call.” Quentin's jaw clenched.

“We're not talking about the kind of assignment made to get her feet wet.” Xavier snapped. “This is full immersion. She's not ...”

“I've made up mind, Xavier. I...”

“For god sakes, why?” Xavier stopped before the desk and slammed his hand down on surface top. Quentin neither flinched nor blinked. “What's going on with you, Quent?” Xavier leveled his superior with a blatant stare. “You've been making rash decisions, moving people around ... rescinding orders every since ...” Xavier paled and then stared hard at his superior. “...Every since what went down in Sunnydale this last May. When Buffy Summer's pet witch went around the bin and almost ended the world.” His voice trailed to a near whisper at the end. “She's here in England now, right?”

“Yes.” Travers' right eye gave a twitch. “Undergoing intense rehabilitation with the Coven in Devon.”

“What do you, know?” Xavier asked and nearly cursed himself for doing so as he finally took in the haggard appearance of his superior, the drawn features and dark circles under the eyes, the disheveled hair. The signs of a man who hadn't slept in a while. Might be better not knowing, what had Travers in a snit, he realized a little too late.

“Something is coming.” Quentin frowned. “Though I can't be certain of what. The Martercine codex is written in frustrating riddles.” He raked a hand through his hair. “Yet I feel certain, our rogue slayerettes in Sunnydale are at the heart of it, particularly Ms. Rosenberg.”

The color bleached from Xavier's face. His mouth opened and closed several times before the power of speech returned. “You can't seriously be thinking of doing what I...”

“And what is it you think?” Quentin's narrowed his eyes, his tone chilled the air between them.

Xavier ground his teeth together and then blurted out, “You're insane if you intend to test the girl out on this Shaman. And then send her after Rosen...”

“You're wrong.” Quentin shook his head, sudden;y looking more weary then he had moments earlier. He turned his attention to the gray sheets of rain beyond the window. “The last thing I want is Mulari Singer anywhere near the vicinity of Rosenberg. In fact, the farther away Ms Singer is from Sunnydale, the better.”

For now.

Xavier nodded. “You think whatever is coming has something to do with why the girl was skipped.” Quentin gave no reply. He didn't need to. “Then why not just send her on an extended vacation, 'til we get this mess sorted? By god, Quentin, she's earned it.”

“Because it's time Ms Singer learned a few more things about this world. Because the Shaman needs to be dealt with and I feel certain, that Mulari is capable of doing it. In fact...”

“You're talking about pitting a sniper's rifle against powerful dark magicks.”

“Is there any better way?”

“There has to be. You're sending her in cold ...”

“We are not her mothers!” Steel entered Quentin's voice. “She's been doing this since she was fifteen, training since she was ten...”

“Not for this. You're going to get her killed. She's too valuable...”

“I will determine what is and isn't valuable to the Council.” Quentin rose abruptly. “There will be no more debate, Xavier. Get a hold of the girl's handler. They'll be in the Middle East. Tell Uncle Howie as soon as Ms. Singer has completed the assignment there, I want her positioned in Africa. Give him the coordinates for the drop off, the time line and the details of situation there.” Quentin smiled to himself. “That should keep her busy for awhile.” And out of the way. It's my time to to steer fate.

*******************

NOVEMBER 2002

51    INT.    WATCHER'S COUNCIL HEADQUARTERS, LONDON - DAY
The headquarters is buzzing with activity. People are all busy on the phone, reviewing reports, and talking to each other. One man is reporting to Quentin Travers.

WATCHER AIDE #1
They took our files and wiped out our records. We've lost contact with operations in Munich, Switzerland and Rome. We've got casualty confirmations coming in from as far away as Melbourne.

WATCHER AIDE #2
Sir, we are crippled.

QUENTIN TRAVERS
(walks) It's all right, Lydia. We are still masters of our fate, still captains of our souls.

WATCHER AIDE #2
(walks away) Yes, sir.

QUENTIN TRAVERS
(addressing the room) Ladies and gentlemen, our fears have been confirmed. The First Evil has declared an all-out war on this institution. Their first volleys proved most effective. I, for one, think it's time we struck back. (paces) Give me confirmations on all remaining operatives. Visuals and tacticals. Highest alert. (stands still) Get them here as soon as possible. Begin preparations for mobilization. Once we're accounted for, I want to be ready to move.

WATCHER AIDE #3
Sir?

QUENTIN TRAVERS
We'll be paying a visit to the hell mouth. My friends, these are the times that define us. Proverbs 24:6. O, by wise council, you shall make your war.

The Watcher's Council Headquarters blows up in a huge explosion, taking out the whole building.