Los Angeles: The Hyperion Hotel (a few moments later):
"Secure what you can," Faith was saying, casting anxious glances behind her. "Bar all the doors. Lock all the windows. I don’t think they tracked us here, but it’s only a matter of time."
Slayers rushed to do as she ordered. She staggered over to the sofa that Spike had abandoned and gently lowered her burden onto it. "Easy, lover," she advised, aiming for a light hearted note and completely failing to hit it. "You save all your strength for the important things in life. Like breathing. Okay?"
The man nodded, leaning back into the plush and suppressing a wince. Broken ribs, the Scholar assessed warily. Maybe even some internal injuries …
"Okay." With her companion safely settled, Faith went into command mode. "You, you and you – get up on the roof, see if you can track what’s going on. You – " she pointed at a particularly disheveled looking Slayer, "get yourself into a shower and hose down those demon guts before they stink the place out. And Libby?" The girl turned back. "Well done. You did good."
"Faith." Angel moved across to greet her, looking round at the exhausted young women. "What happened out there?"
"Second wave." Faith grimaced angrily. "Caught us on the hop. Robin and I rounded up the wounded and brought them here. The rest of them are running interference. Hit and run kind of stuff." She managed a weary but encouraging smile. "We ain’t losing yet. Just – revisiting tactics."
"Bollocks," Spike growled angrily. "I know beating a retreat when I see it. It’s hell out there, isn’t it? Every Slayer for herself."
There was a pause while Faith glared at him – and then she let the anger go and nodded wearily instead. "Yeah. More or less. Andrew’s calling in reinforcements, but that’s going to take time. Too much time, I guess. These girls …" She glanced round the room with wry sympathy. "They’re doing their best but – they’re green. They just don’t have the training or the experience. We need some major backup and we just don’t have it."
Angel’s eyes flicked towards Illyria, who was considering the scene with unreadable attention. "We have her," he offered softly. Faith snorted.
"Yeah. But it’s not enough. She can kick butt, but she can’t rally the troops. We need major mojo out there, Angel. And with Wes gone …"
Angel stepped back, letting her see the Scholar, standing inside the office. The colours of the beacon painted the air around him, and her eyes went wide.
"Damn," she breathed. "If that ain’t a sight for sore eyes." She swung round to glare at Illyria. "You bitch," she said. "You freaking lied to me. You said he was dead."
Illyria tipped her head slightly, studying the irate Slayer with thoughtful attention. "I did not lie," she said. "He passed into the realm of death and .. then returned from it." She frowned, turning her head the other way while she considered what she’d just said. "This is not possible. But it is true."
"I didn’t die," Wesley sighed wearily. "I simply … regenerated. It happens." A frown briefly creased his features. "Apparently."
Faith stared at him for a moment or two, then broke into a broad grin. "Jesus," she laughed, shaking her head. "All that ball breaking, self mortifying heart ache … and my ex-Watcher turns out to be a freaking Time Lord after all. Just one thing," she added, suddenly wary. "If that’s the case - why you still wearing the same face? I thought …"
"So did I." The Scholar closed his hand over the beacon, imprisoning its light. There were too many questions hammering for attention inside his head. And the only person who might be able to answer them was light years away. "I’m not the one you need, Faith. I don’t have that kind of power. I never did." His smile was wry – and as brief as the frown which had preceded it. "Rather proved that today. I was no match for Vale, and there’s no way I’ll be able to turn that tide out there. Not alone, anyway."
"Damn," Faith said a second time. "S’okay, Wes. Half a time Lord’s still better than none, I guess. Good to see you’re still on the team."
He wasn’t so sure about that – but it was good to hear her say it all the same.
"What we need," the wounded man on the sofa was saying, "is Willow."
"Right," Spike agreed, perking up at the thought. "Red works a little of her hexing handiwork, shuts down the portals, and they stop getting reinforcements just as ours come charging over the hill. And you know what," he added, giving Angel a challenging glare. "I’d give us all better odds if those reinforcements were led by the Buffster – waving that pretty little scythe of hers."
"Yeah," Faith snorted. "And pigs are gonna learn to fly before the sun rises tomorrow. It ain’t gonna happen. We promised them a year. I promised it would stay five by five while they were gone. And now LA’s going to hell, and all that good stuff they did is likely go with it, and …" She flopped down beside the wounded man with a look of utter despair. He put out his hand and she caught it, clinging to him with anguished desperation. "You heard what G said. ‘Anywhere, any when …’ There’s no way to reach them. No way to find them. God." She pressed the heel of her hand into her eyes, ostensibly from weariness, but more likely wiping away tears. "We’re gonna win this. One way or the other. Count on it. But …without B, without G .. the rest of them … a lot of good kids are gonna get screwed." She looked up, shooting the dark haired vampire a bitter look. "Thanks a bunch, Angel. Next time, don’t plan the apocalypse without me."
She was right. Angel’s gung-ho grandstanding might have brought down the Black Thorn, but it had unleashed a wave of retribution that would demand a high price before the tide was turned and the balance restored. The Slayers were fighting a desperate battle. They needed their General and they needed her command team – and they were a long way away, seeking the respite they both needed and deserved.
No way to find them.
No way, that was, except …
The Scholar slowly opened his hand and looked down at the beacon’s shimmering display, his eyes going to the soft green spot of light that indicated the location of the last TARDIS remaining on Earth. It was the transport shuttle, the one that had brought him to this time and place, and which was meant to be available to any of the Council’s team while they were assigned to Watching Duty. To be called on only in extreme emergencies.
If this didn’t count as one, he didn’t know what did