CH 27: Peace Hunter
CH 26 Costume:
Mr. Mistoffelees from T S Elliot's Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats
This was brilliant. This was easy. And, most importantly, this was cheap!
That movie he'd seen with the girls was great for ideas. He'd seen trucks and cars all over town sporting symbols since it had come out.
Including a large truck that had pulled in to refuel a few days ago before pulling right back out of town.
He'd raided the closet in the basement, finding the cowboy hat and boots. Both of which surprisingly fit him and polished up to a nice clean white.
Add a red shirt, some decently fitted blue jeans (who knew he actually had a pair!?), and a belt and he was almost done.
Slipping to the garage he managed to find an old circular container that had long since gone empty. He knew his folks wouldn't miss it. Hell, they didn't miss him!
It didn't take much to cut the container in half and bang it a bit to make it conform to his forearms. Add some paint and some ties to keep them on and he was done.
And it didn't cost a thing.
Grinning he finished off his outfit and headed out the door.
"Hi Xander! Ya know, for non-spandex, you look good."
"And I could say the same of you, Lady Buffy."
He couldn't help but grin, a little smugly, as Willow came down in the ever-classic ghost-sheet.
Buffy sighed and rolled her eyes. When no one was looking, she slipped Xander a twenty.
She hated loosing bets.
"What in Primus?"
Bright blue eyes canned the mayhem around him. His form was still solid, ages of combat keeping it up when less experienced might have lost it at the shock.
He turned towards the human voice.
This time he nearly did lose his form when she passed right through him. And it was evident he was not at fault.
Only advanced audio processing let him keep up with the human's rapid speech.
He didn't know how much he could do without giving away secrets he couldn't afford to have known, but he'd try. These humans refused to give up.
The least he could do was aid as much as he could in this form.
It would only put them in greater danger if they knew the truth.
~*~*~*~A Few Years Later~*~*~*~
Quentin Travers was not a tolerant man. The Slayer had defied Council Rule, fought, not alone, but with children, ignored edicts, dared to quit the Council!
It wasn't enough that she'd broken the rules so dramatically, but even after getting one of her friends killed she still hadn't learned her lesson!
It was entirely unacceptable.
It was time to bring the Slayer to heel.
He conversed with the wet works teams following in two other vans. They were going to take out the older Slayer and bring the other back for proper training.
More than one person startled when the communications suddenly filled with interference before a garbled voice came over the joint speaker.
"Are you one, Quentin Travers, head of the Council of Watchers, charged with the education and support of the Slayer?"
"What if I am?" This was curious. Never had any Watcher been contacted this way but the witches in Council employ guaranteed that humans couldn't hack their communications and demons would never bother.
It had to be a Higher Being.
"I have a boon to grant the true supporters of the Slayer."
Travers grinned. This would make things so much easier.
"I am Quentin Travers, Head of the Watchers' Council, supporter of the true Slayer."
There was a pause that almost made him think the Bring had gone on.
Then it returned, clearer and sounding both aged and young.
The Watchers traded looks in confusion.
Until the road in front of them vanished in an explosion of light and sound.
The vans screeched to a stop, one barely managing to stay on the road rather than falling in the massive crater that now decorated the center of the road.
Travers didn't have time to do anything other than yelp when his van was suddenly yanked off the road, the roof peeled away like it was tin foil. The Watchers looked up, stunned and afraid of the figure that towered over them, holding the van like a child's toy, bright blue eyes glowing down at them from far overhead.
Then the figure spoke.
"Let's discuss how the word 'support' does not mesh with overindulged aged men sending young girls to their deaths for the sake of personal control and gain, shall we?"
"She has caused the death of one of her friends directly! We have to bring her under control!"
"Death? I didn't die. I just… went out of town for a while. And you have just signed your own warrant."
The old man could only gape as he realized that Fate had finally withdrawn her favor.
Quentin Travers, head of the Watchers' Council, was never seen again.