Part One of Maybe Just One Chapter
YAHF, Obscure Costume/Crossover, Xander’s Dad, and Novel Death
BTVS is not mine, it is Joss Whedon’s; Highlander belongs to Panzer and others who are not me.
Tony Harris and his wife were out again. Xander didn’t know what was crazier: The fact that they seemed to grimace in pain whenever they came into each other’s presence, or the fact that they both claimed because of drinking too much, that a car accident had robbed them of their pre-1982 memories. Time and again, Tony and Jessica would shout at each other that if they weren’t good Catholics, they’d be done with each other. Xander couldn’t see the insanity of it all.
Xander had gotten a great deal on a parachute at that new place, Ethan’s, but try as he might his fatigues didn’t seem to be around.
‘They threw them away, I bet…’ he sighed as he sat down on a box in the basement. “Now what?”
Looking around, he found an old suitcase and after forcing it open, found a black raincoat, loafers, a dark business suit, a neatly pressed white shirt, a narrow black necktie, and a mother-of-pearl stickpin. Taking it upstairs to his room he called Willow and asked her to cross-reference business suit and parachute as a costume idea. She came back with the name of an airline hijacker from nearly thirty years before.
“Well at least I have my costume.”
The suit fit pretty well, and Xander mused that his father must have been a little thinner back in the day, but still no slouch; the older man must be in his mid-sixties, having started a family later in life. But he still looked like he was in his mid-forties.
The man looked around at his surreal surroundings in disbelief; his parachute was intact and he could have sworn as he’d crashed through the large firs of Oregon that his life was about to end for good this time. Now he was not in the dark wilds, but a town full of crazed trick-or-treaters.
“Xander!” a redheaded teenager called to him, loud enough to where as his hand grabbed his quite-heavy bag, he pulled out his .38. For the life of him, he couldn’t understand why he was without his usual accoutrements.
“Xander? What’s-with-the-gun?-Did-you-steal-your father’s?” she babbled at him in shock. The man in the form of her friend shook his head in amazement that he could understand her. Even given his rather short time of being Immortal he hadn’t picked up anything very helpful—thus his current confusing predicament of parachuting out of a plane.
“I believe you have me confused with someone else, miss—perhaps there’s a gas leak that’s making you and these kiddos act a bit loopy.”
“What—no!” she began, holding up a hand to stop him as she turned away. It passed through him, and he didn’t notice it as he moved toward a 70s Cadillac parked across the street. She heard a scream, as did the man, but he continued toward the car as she ran for where she knew Buffy last to be.
Willow raced down the street, screaming and yelling enough with a painful tone to where the ‘demons’ raced away grabbing their ears in pain. Buffy looked up from where she fallen into the street, and might have said something disparaging except the sudden approach and stop of a large automobile broke the moment. Buffy shrieked in horror.
“Demon!” she cried out, and fainted from the shock. Willow stood gaping like a fish at the scene as ‘Xander’ shaking his head got out of the car and stared at both.
“I looked in the rear-view mirror and didn’t see my usual mug…” the guy told her, wearing sunglasses even at night. “I’ll get her into the car. Who are you two anyway?”
“I’m Willow and she’s Buffy,” she started, and he looked pained at the names. “We’re your best friends.”
“A coupla gals are my best friends? I gotta get me some guy friends,” he mumbled to himself. “And figure out what’s goin’ on.”
Willow didn’t hear the last part of his musings, and rolled her eyes. “You need to get her somewhere safe.” She hated to suggest it, but Xander’s house was just down the road. “If nobody’s home, your house is at 2536 just four blocks up on the right. If your folks are there, go two blocks west, make a left and go two miles to get to the high school library. If Giles is there, he’ll know what to do.”
He nodded and drove off, Willow racing toward the library. It took her several minutes for her to realize something. “Xander was stealing a car!”
The man recognized the building as he pulled into the driveway; he’d purchased it for cash under an assumed name through his current girlfriend just the week before as far as his memories served. Sunnydale, California. An out of the way forgettable little burg on the South California coast where he could hide out until his hijacking faded from public view. And the surname on the mailbox was the one he had gone by.
The man left the car running, and stepped cautiously toward the door. He was about to use the key in his pocket when he felt the headache that meant one of his kind was inside. He heard a familiar female voice inside call out to someone just inside the door.
“Tony? What’s wrong,” the voice of Jess Lavelle with contempt rather than disgust, “bad hooch again?”
The man kicked open the door—obviously those inside had answers he needed. His eyes met those of the man Jess had been deriding. The headaches of both cleared.
“Boy…” the clearly drunk man said as he looked up in surprise and disgust. “You’ll pay for doing this to me.” Tony Harris reached out toward the invader, who in turn reacted by firing the .38 revolver in his hand. Tony Harris crumbled and his wife screamed. Jessica looked up in horror—her son had just killed her husband.
“What have you done?!” she shrieked and stared in disbelief at the one she’d thought was Xander. He turned to her. He knew the man with his face would be getting up very soon as Immortals didn’t stay dead except for the one instance.
“Sorry, Jess,” he sighed as he cold-cocked her with the revolver. “Now if I were me, and I am…”
The man chuckled at his witty statement as he headed into the basement and dug out a large container. He found a good-conditioned Spanish rapier he’d received from Senor Ocone, the man he’d saved from the scary bald Kurgan back in ’70 and had been able to apprentice for one year in the niceties of Immortality. It was a little dusty and kept in the basement in a trunk full of his stuff—belongings that had been new and not musty just last week. What the hell had happened?
Before he could begin to fathom possibilities, two large hands grabbed him from behind and twisted him around, sword pointed upward and pressed between them. Almost without thinking he brought up his sword hand, pushed out as the man’s grip lessened, causing his opponent pain. He swung hard with the sword. Tony’s—his—head was half-severed as it fell. Jessica stumbled at the top of the stairs. As she fell, still in shock and concussion, the sword finished Tony’s existence.
Twenty minutes later, and the man in a different change of clothes left the house, which was burning due to the effects of lightning in a small enclosed space with poorly-maintained electrical wiring. Overcoat discarded because of smoking, DB Cooper as he’d been popularly known a quarter-century before, sped away in his car, forgetting about the noblewoman in the backseat.
Sunday, November 2nd, 1997
“So, Good Sir,” the now jean-clad, dark-haired young woman intoned; it had been an interesting eight hours of driving—time enough in which to prove to her that she was nearly into the next millennium. Reading the papers and magazines from the mercantile house of plenteous goods beyond her dreams, revealed to her a completely different world in which money alone brought status, and the man with her who was pleasing to the eye seemed to have a great deal of it with him.
They’d feasted a place called The Sizzler, and had driven through the Valley of Death to reach a place she’d overheard two women with giggles refer to as Sin City, or Vegas. They’d assured their new British acquaintance that whatever happened in that place…stayed in that place. And in a world without real Nobility, perhaps a little of that might be … interesting.