Plenty’s been said with fingers tracing patterns on bare flesh. In her head, everything is about patterns. Fred spends hours charting them, trying to sort out the important bits of data from the static. There’s too many dependencies, too much recursion, not enough paper, and not enough time.
The world’s inside out, upside down, sideways, backwards. Pick a direction, and it’s going there top speed on its way to hell. Recon says the enemy front is about a hundred or so demons strong and right on their doorstep, except that recon still calls them hostile HSTs, when recon’s not giving her a buck-up-little-cowgirl lecture or talking about his soon-to-be-firstborn.
It’s a cold day in Hell, and that’s nothing new.
His watch was a fifth of a second off.
Wesley frowned, staring at the smooth glass of the crystal. A fifth of a second could mean the difference between life or death, winning or losing. He’d have to take care of that.
Buffy swallowed a sigh and turned around. The guy was tall, a bit on the skinny side, with overly-pomaded dark hair, glasses, and a suit so stuffy it could only mean one thing: new Watcher.
“Do you guys all come factory-equipped with tweed? Tell the Council they can bite me. I’m through.”
If she ever gets out, the first thing she’s going to do is take a bath.
Dealing with the weight of the end of the world, times two.
He found her waiting tables in a nondescript town somewhere up the coast. He hadn’t been looking for her, or for anything, really. Aimless wanderings had taken him around the globe and back again in the years since the world had failed to end for the last time, and this was just another stop with which to mark time.
He’d expected more of a reaction.
Really, if Angel had needed a Plartanian steel-tinged sword that badly, he could have driven to Sunnydale himself. Or bought it from Ebay.