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.
They put the drugs in his food. He knows this, but he still has to eat. The government of the United States may have given up on the research and manipulation of demons, but humans are still fair game.
It sounded at first like the buzzing of her alarm clock. Buffy slammed her hand against the spot about where it thought said clock had been three times before her sleep-addled brain realized that there was no clock, there hadn’t been a clock since before Sunnydale turned into a sinkhole, and that, in fact, not only was there no clock, there was no nightstand, no bed, just the sticky duct-taped back seat of a school bus that smelled decidedly ripe.
Things used to be simple. Black and white. Good and Evil. G-d and Country. Boys and Girls.
“Heads, you sleep in the motel room; tails, you sleep on the bus.”
“I believe this is what they call a Mexican standoff.” Xander glared at Spike. Spike glared right back.
“But, whatever. Yeah. You look nice. For you.”
Doyle grins at the almost compliment. “Think I should bill Angel?”