Revelations, Part 1
CHAPTER ELEVEN: Revelations, Part One
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Yes, I know, “about time”. Between the dread entity known as Real Life and the (lack of a) job market, been pretty busy days around here.
DISCLAIMER THE FIRST: If I owned these, I would be Whedon. Since I am not Whedon, I do not own them. I’m just borrowing them for my sandbox and will put everyone back when I’m done. Except the Gretn’narz demons. They’re mine, but I will share.
DISCLAIMER THE SECOND: Any other properties I include in this work of fanfiction belong to various and sundry other entities, who are also not me; but no copyright infringement is intended, and it’s all for entertainment purposes, folks. * * * * * * *
“No, Buffy, look at him, he’s unconscious!” Tara hissed, holding Buffy firmly by the upper arm. She knew the Slayer could shrug her off easily if she wanted, but also suspected her friend wouldn’t, knowing she could hurt the taller blonde.
Buffy took a deep breath, and nodded, once, stepping back and crossing her arms over her chest. The short sword she still held stuck out rather comically from her tiny fist.
Dawn, in the meantime, had ventured closer to the insensible erstwhile leader of the Trio.
“Buff?” she said quietly, reaching down by Warren’s feet. They were tied together with duct tape, she noticed, snorting softly. Between his scuffed, stained dark-colored hiking shoes, there was a manila clasp envelope, and underneath that, a largish white paper bag from the local chain drugstore.
“Hmm? Yeah, Dawn, what do you have there – hey, c’mon, step away, you don’t know where he’s been,” Buffy exclaimed, hauling her sister to a safer distance from the unconscious nerdling.
“An envelope, and a bag from the Rexall,” replied Dawn, in some confusion. “The envelope looks like it’s addressed to you, Buffy.” She handed the items to Buffy, and sat on the coffee table, facing the gift-wrapped Warren.
The Slayer looked over at Tara, who smirked back at her. “Might wanna put the sword down before you try opening that, Buffy,” grinned the Wiccan.
“Oh! Yeah, I guess so!” Setting the sword down where she could scoop it up again quickly if necessary, Buffy pinched the clasp, opening the envelope and taking a sheet of finely crafted heavy paper from it. Dense black ink formed beautifully calligraphed letters:“Dear Slayer, or should I say, Miss Summers,
We sincerely hope you will accept the offering we have sent to you as a token of our good faith and earnest wishes for a cordial, temporary détente between the Demonic population of our fair city of Sunnydale, and yourself and your associates.
We understand that any wrongdoing on the part of the Demonic population is normally within your purview, but we ask for a two-day cessation of hostilities while we deal with the chaos and dissent that the young human with whom we dealt last evening has caused among us.
We solemnly pledge, by all we hold unholy, that no humans or pacifistic/neutral demons will be harmed in any way by the undersigned, their minions, childer, associates, or partners in crime, during the following forty-eight hours, said time to commence upon your receipt of this missive.
Ha’kn’te’larz of Clan M’M’G’o’o’hhh’d’k, Gretn’narz Nation
Re’k’natr’garz of Clan M’M’G’o’o’hhh’d’k, Gretn’narz Nation
William (“The Bloody”) Ragsdale of Clan Aurelius...
It went on in the same fashion for nearly the remaining length of the page; but Buffy knew enough to realize that this was completely and entirely unprecedented in the demonic world, much less Sunnydale!
“Tare, am I reading this right? This is basically a declaration of ‘we won’t eat anyone if you won’t hunt us -- for two full days’?” She passed the paper over, and Tara skimmed it, her eyes growing wider with every line.
Standing up quickly, Tara passed the page back to Buffy, then flitted across the living room and up the stairs, returning shortly with a bleary-eyed, tousle-headed Willow.
“Morning, guys, what’s u-u-u-uuup?” yawned the redhead, rubbing lightly at her eyes.
Then she spotted the still-out Warren. “Hey, that’s – what is he
?” cried Willow, backing up sharply. She brought her right hand up and it began to glow faintly blue.
Buffy sighed. “Still tryin’ to figure that one out, Wills,” she handed the paper to Willow, who began to read it, with little exclamations of ‘great googly moogly!’ and ‘holy Mother Goddess!’ popping out every so often. The blue light coalescing around her right hand winked out after the third exclamation.
“Do you realize what this means? The demonic population has taken the next two days off! What do we do? And,” the redhead continued, “especially, what do we do about that
?” pointing at Warren.
For the first time, the group of young women actually looked closely at Mears’ battered form.
“He has bandages on,” mused Dawn. “It looks like he’s been beaten pretty badly.”
Buffy growled, sounding not as much like a teacup Chihuahua as one might think. More like a timber wolf. “Lucky for him he’s already hurt, or I’d be the one doing the hurting,” she huffed. Opening the Rexall bag, she found gauze, tape, Mercurochrome antiseptic, Neosporin, and a host of other medical supplies, some of which had obviously been opened and used on their uninvited guest.
Dawn took the bag back from her, and unpacked everything onto the coffee table beside her.
“Hey, there’s a postscript here, Buffy, did you see it?” Willow said suddenly.
Turning the paper, she showed the Slayer the very bottom portion of the declaration. PS – We have taken the liberty of treating Mr Mears’ injuries, but he may still require a doctor’s attention, or at least that of someone more versed in human physiology than myself or my brother. Also, you may have noticed he has no buttons on his shirt – I must admit that my brother, Re’k’natr’garz and I, er, ate them.
Silently mouthing the words ‘ate his buttons’, Buffy gave Willow a skeptical look. “Seriously?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.
“Apparently,” replied the redhead agreeably, re-reading the bottom of the page. “Oh, looky, our little friend seems to be waking up,” Willow commented, noticing the faint twitching of Warren’s limbs.
From the overstuffed chair where she’d taken perch, Tara slowly stood up once more and walked to Willow’s side. “What do you say we give him a few moments to really become aware of his surroundings?”
For such a kind and soft-spoken young woman, it truly was impressive how much Tara resembled a stalking lioness at that moment. * * * * * * *
A scent of lavender...faint rustling...the low hum of conversation.
Warren Mears became aware of these things quite slowly. He blinked encrusted eyelids feebly, trying not to draw attention to himself. It didn’t quite work the way he’d hoped.
The instant his eyes opened fully, he felt cold steel at the base of his throat, and heard a voice he’d never expected to hear again.
“Don’t move; don’t even take a deep breath,” it commanded. Oh, hell.
The Slayer. His Nemesis, sworn foe...and all-around pain in his gluteus maximus
“Okay, Sparky,” the Slayer’s nauseatingly-perky voice continued, “you
get to try and think of reasons why I shouldn’t Slay you, and I
get to think of counter-arguments.”
The sharp pointy object was suddenly withdrawn, and Warren abruptly felt himself being lifted by his shirtfront, and unceremoniously dropped into a more-or-less upright position on a surprisingly comfortable surface.
Glaring as best he could with a black eye, he cradled his left arm awkwardly with his right. Mostly awkward because his hands were cuffed together, but the sling that the Gretn’narz demons had attached didn’t fit properly now he was upright. His feet felt oddly heavy, and he looked down at them to see they were strapped together with thick duct tape. “What the hell?!” he howled. “Who did this? You – did you do – where am I? What’s going on?”
Calmly seating herself in the overstuffed chair across from Warren, Buffy gently laid her short sword across her bare knees and gave him a smile that wouldn’t have been out of place on a saber-toothed tiger. “I’ll answer your questions, and in order, if ya want,” she drawled. “First, not ‘the hell’; it’s ‘The Hellmouth’. Second, you’ve managed to piss off every major demon species in town, so they decided to teach you a lesson, as I’m sure you’ll remember if you’ll just SHUT UP for a moment!” Her voice had risen sharply on the words “shut up”, but returned to her former casual demeanor quickly. “Third, you’re in my home, which is probably the only safe place for you right now.” At that, Buffy looked as though she’d eaten something incredibly foul. “As far as what’s going on, well, you tell me. What is your damage?” She stood and began pacing back and forth in front of her chair, pointing the sword in his direction at each turn.
Warren gulped nervously. Buffy was a petite, slim, almost skinny girl, wearing a pair of grey sleep shorts with sheep and clouds on them and a grey baby-doll t-shirt; her feet were bare. Still, she moved like a predator...and that sword looked awfully
sharp. Wisely, he kept his mouth shut and let her go on.
“You killed poor Katrina and tried to pin it on me, tried to gaslight me, tried to kill me and my friends and tried to take over Sunnydale. Why? Why any of this?” She stopped pacing and pinned him with a formidable glare. “What did we – any of us – ever do to you?”
Looking over at the two women sat together on the loveseat, and the tall young girl standing behind them, and seeing only glares looking back at him, Warren squirmed uncomfortably before opening his mouth to speak. He stopped, closed it, opened it again, and finally mumbled, “It seemed like a good idea at the time?”
He looked up to see a quintet of angry faces, all looking like they’d like to hand him his own backside on a platter. Wait, five?
Unseen by her daughters, Joyce Summers had made her way downstairs and now stood in the archway between the living room and the stairs, neatly dressed in a pair of tan slacks and a deep red boat neck t-shirt.
“Good morning, girls,” she said calmly. “Buffy, who is this and why is he duct taped together?”
“Morning, Mom, this is Warren Mears, the jerkface who tried to kill me yesterday,” she replied, quietly enough but with an undercurrent of venom.
“I see,” Joyce murmured, “I must say, you’re being much more restrained than I would have been, Buffy; I’m proud of you, dear,” she grinned.
The smile fell off her face abruptly as she returned her attention to Warren, who was – again, wisely – keeping his pie-hole shut.
“You, young man,” she began, ice coating every word. “You
are the one who invaded my property, hurt my daughters, and have been making a general nuisance of yourself these past few months, correct?” Joyce glared at the boy with a degree of meanness that neither Buffy nor Dawn had ever seen from her.
If looks could kill, he’d certainly have a few holes in him at the very least.
Gulping loudly, Warren could feel the color draining out of his face with dizzying speed. He tried to reply, but only a croaking sound emerged. He cleared his throat loudly, then tried again. “Uh, er, y-y-y-yes, m-m-ma’am,” he whimpered. Bead sweat popped out on his forehead and he swallowed hard again.
The four young women exchanged amused glances. “She’s good
,” Dawn whispered to Buffy, grinning maliciously at Warren’s discomfort.
“She is,” agreed Buffy.
Tara and Willow nodded, both wearing smirks that they were doing nothing to hide.
“Buffy, I think you need to call Giles,” said Joyce over her shoulder. “He’ll want to have a...conversation
...with young Mr Mears, I think.”
Then Warren did something he’d never done in his life.
He fainted.* * * * * * *