Midnight Empire (6/?)
Midnight Empire
Chapter 6: Distortion
Summary: When the Slayer and her gang come to New York City, they quickly discover what it's like to work the toughest demon beat on Earth, battling ancient prophecies, supernatural fiends, outrageously high rents and more. Unfortunately, nothing in the city is as it seems. The streets are paved with deadly secrets, and before long the Scoobies and their L.A. counterparts find themselves drawn into a thousand-year-old conspiracy that threatens to destroy the world. Sequel to Clocks of the Long Now.
Fandoms: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel
Season: Post-Chosen, Post-NFA
Chapters: ?
Word Count: ?
Rating: R
Warnings: Do not drink while operating heavy machinery, slippery when wet, beware of dog
Disclaimer: The characters from "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" and "Angel" are owned by Joss Whedon, David Greenwalt, Mutant Enemy, Fox studios and maybe various other entities that I am unaware of but totally respect and fear. This story is not meant to infringe upon anyone's rights, only to entertain.
(view previous chapters)
Chapter 6:
Distortion
In the morning, after he thought everyone else left, Andrew snagged the ancient turntable and speakers from Giles' room and then plugged it all in. He sat staring at the record on the spindle for about ten minutes. Andrew had very wispy, fuzzy childhood memories of records and record players, and enough general know-how to make them work. But: Would he dare to set the needle? Would he risk the potentially dire and special effects-y consequences? It was surely something to ponder, so ponder he did.
Generally speaking, glowing eyes and chanting weirdos were a telltale sign of evil afoot. Mind control, perhaps, or demonic possession, or robot from outer space. Personally, Andrew was hoping for door number two there. After all, demons were more or less his department, and, besides, the gang's resident mind control and/or robot expert was currently stuck on a boat in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean with re-undead vampire.
But whatever it was, Andrew didn't want to bug anyone else with it. Considering all the mega-bad prophecy stuff Giles mentioned, he assumed the all team's heavy hitters would be busy enough as it was.
So, Andrew was going to play it. He was going to roll the dice.
Or was he?
Sure he was.
Or perhaps not!
There was something Warren used to like to call a “causation dilemma” at play here. For example, what if playing the record was exactly what caused the effect? What if people listened to the dulcet tones of Bozjark, and instantly became his/her/their/its willing slaves? Or what if the physical albums themselves were phylacteries which, when played, loosed spirits from their vinyl prisons to pilfer the soft, fleshy bodies of their liberators?
Ooh, or what if-
“Hey, dweeb,” said Dawn, casually pressing the “PLAY” button as she barged into the room. In horrible slow motion, Andrew watched the player's little robotic arm drift towards the spinning disc of doom.
“Nooo!”
The summoner charged into action.
Only to trip over his own fiendishly misplaced foot and go careening headfirst into a wall.
The room spun as Andrew valiantly sprang back to his feet.
And then tripped again, foiled once more by gravity, and wound up whanging his head on a rocking chair. This time a woozy wave passed through him, and thus he didn't spring up so valiantly the second time. The blow caused the wad of gum in his mouth to rocket into his throat, reducing his voice to a cracked, half-strangled whisper.
“Whoa. Spaz much, Andrew?”
He reached out his hand. “Stohhop,” he managed to say. "Prhiss. Sthop."
Music began to play.
Well, sort of. Andrew was no music expert, but he had what one might call an evolving taste. At the very least, he figured he could tell the difference between music and random noise. The sounds that drifted out of Mr. Giles' old, velvety speakers quickly put this theory to the test.
Dawn clapped her hands to her ears. “Oh my God," she said. "This is horrible!”
Andrew finally swallowed his gum, wobbled to his feet and pressed the off button.
"Yeah," he said, gasping for air. "Yeah, well. It's, uh, super rare.”
“That's a relief.” Dawn picked up the album jacket and examined both sides. “What the heck? There's not even a name on this thing.”
“It's called Bozjark.”
“Sounds appropriately lame.” She pointed at the boring looking guy in the chair. “That him?”
“I'm not sure.” A thought crossed his mind. Then another. They were both about himself and telling lies, and the history therein. “Look, Dawn. I think it might be... well, evil.”
"Like, Justin Beiber evil, or evil-evil?"
"Like, glowing eyes, pod people, zombie apocalypse evil."
Dawn stared at the picture for a few seconds, one eyebrow cocked. “Fine," she said. "Let's work the case. But, not here.”
“Um, okay. Where?”
She smiled her dazzling smile. “I think I just met someone who can help us out.”
***
Buffy hit the street, grabbed a coffee at a joint called Sand Dollars, reloaded her Metrocard, and began to play the game.
In New York, playing the game meant hitting the circuit. The outer boroughs were largely dead zones, as far as the as the Order of the Ziggurat was concerned. Most of the club's big-time players were sitting pretty on a patch of Manhattan real estate. Still, Buffy wanted to start local, if only to get a feel for her new 'hood. So, she hopped a bus and headed to a place called Pete's Candy Store. According to Bernard Crowley's records, Pete was an expert on riddles and conspiracies, which Buffy figured might prove useful.
Plus, bonus: Candy!
Unfortunately, the “candy store” proved to be anything but. A glass storefront lined with colorful Christmas lights afforded her a view of a darkened saloon. She blew out a disappointed humph, and mused on the fact that around ninety-seven percent of demonic business seemed to be conducted in bars these days. It was just so predictable and blase.
The sign on the the door said the place didn't open until five o'clock, so Buffy skipped down to the next consultant on her checklist. This particular snitch was named The Bone Mangler, and while Buffy thought that was far more appropriate name for a demon than “Pete” or “Lorne” or “Melvin Peterson”, she also somehow doubted she was in for a friendly, fireside chitchat.
Mister Mangler was holed up in a creepy abode next to an overpass of the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. It was a lonesome-looking little lair, surrounded by empty lots on three sides, its stucco walls painted a gloomy shade of grayish blue. As a two story A-frame house, it also felt wildly out of place compared to the rest of the neighborhood, as though it was plucked it from a spooky haunted house movie and planted smack in the middle of Brooklyn. The lots around it were strewn with scraps of rusted metal and splintered (possibly mangled?) bits of bone, many of which looked suspiciously human. The building's boarded-up windows were painted with old splashes of blood that had long since dried to dark brown. The whole place reeked of grisly murder.
Standing on the demon's dilapidated porch, Buffy's thoughts wandered to the Scythe again, currently lost somewhere in the gears of the bureaucratic machine. Part of her wished like Hell she was holding it now, while another part pondered the difficulties therein: Stakes, aside, almost any weapon worth wielding would be tough to cart around in New York without attracting the attention of the boys in blue, let alone a big honking ancient axe-thingee. If she ever got it back, she knew she'd have to come up with some way of disguising it, unless she wanted to start calling herself “Buffy the Jailhouse Prisoner.” Not exactly the same ring to it.
She shook the thought from her head and took a deep breath. Pressed the door bell.
A ghostly metallic chime sounded. A few seconds later, she heard noises - scratches and thumps, groaning wood, the sounds of something huge and ancient dragging its bulk across the floorboards. As the monster making them drew near, an intense feeling of dread jabbed at the Slayer's gut, and the thought crossed her mind that she probably should have just waited around for Pete and his Non-Candy Candy Store.
The noise stopped a few feet shy of the door, and Buffy could feel the creature's eyes on her. It felt like a whole minute passed before it spoke, its voice like an army of spiders crawling through the rubble of a long-dead empire.
“Whooooooooo goessssssss theeeeeeeere?”
“Uh, Buffy Summers goes here,” she said. She waited a few seconds, but all she could here was the sound of the monster's gusting breath. “You know. The Slayer?”
A breathless moment past, followed by a bloody-freezing roar that sent Buffy's entire body snapping into attack mode.
“SLAAAAAYEEEEEEEER?!”
The door creaked open...
***
Faith jammed her knee into the freak's gut. Then, while he was still doubled over, she zapped him with a blistering uppercut that sent him flying. A card table crumbled to toothpicks where he landed.
“Okay,” she said, “let's try this one last time, Badfellas.”
The denizens of the Buon Umore Social Club peered back at her in terrified silence. Finally, the fat one in the thousand-dollar goombah suit piped up. “Look, we don't know nuttin', dollface. We're just businessmen here.”
Faith grabbed him by his tie and hauled him to his feet. The monster choked and gagged, the gill-like slits in his cheeks twitching. She grinned her toothiest grin at him. “Oh, business, huh? That's funny, cause I've got a business myself. I'm a broker." She grabbed scaly paw and began bending back one of the claws. "You ever have all your fingers and toes broken, one bone at a time?”
The creep crumpled to his knees and started squealing, but not the right kind. "On my mother's eyes, Slayer. I swear! We don't know nuttin' about...” Faith snatched a second finger. “Alright! Alright!”
“Talk.”
He shook his scaly head miserably. “Il Cancello - The Gate. Yeah, sure, I heard of it. Who ain't?”
“What's it do?”
“It's a gate,” he said. “A gate's a gate.” Faith twisted the fractured digit sharply. “It guards the World Rim! The border between realms. To keep out, you know... undesirables.”
“Undesirables,” she repeated thoughtfully. “Huh. And here's me wondering exactly what could possibly be more undesirable than you, fat boy.”
Her prey swallowed back his pain enough to glare at her, his serpent eyes broadcasting one hundred percent pure venom. “You'll find out soon enough, rompipalle.”
Faith thought this over for a second, then she kneed him in the nose. After watching him roll around on the ground for a little while, she left without another word. She had the feeling she could pound on these idiots all afternoon and not get much more than a mild workout. Either New York's wiseguys weren't so wise about this case, or they took that whole Omertà thing way more seriously than she figured.
Back on the street, on the way to her car, her phone rang again. She flipped it open, glimpsed the name “Rupert Giles”, then snapped it closed. She slammed the Cobra's door shut, stabbed the key into the ignition and then slapped her head against the steering wheel, where she breathed out a long and forlorn “Fuuuuuuuck". It felt like the Watcher was starting to drive her crazy, and Faith knew exactly how short a ride that usually was.
Shit, who didn't?
Twenty minutes later Faith was parking the Cobra outside the 125th street branch of the New York Public Library, and as soon as she completed the third point of the turn, she flipped the switch that her booted her brain back up and stared at Rupert's newest lair. On the outside, the place looked as gray and blah as ever. Once upon a time, Faith wouldn't have given a second thought to such a stuffy, boring facade. Now, she stared at it like she was casing a major bank heist, her heart racing at the thought of all the shiny loot inside.
She knew she'd probably find the old fart hunched at his desk, buried brain-deep in some book that was older than dirt and twice as dull: Rupert Giles, complete with the earring and the time-warp mullet 'do that just screamed and hollered "midlife crisis". And yet, he'd also be the only one in sight wearing a tie; back in Jolly Old, they apparently still hadn't gotten over the whole wear-a-tie-to-work deal.
He'd have those geeky glasses on too. The lights would glint off them, setting off those tired, tired baby blues of his like they were the priciest goddamned stones in the jewelry box. She'd say something and he'd look up - and, man, when he looked up, with those haunted eyes that had seen too-much-of-too-much, with all that regret and pain and miserable wisdom the sense to try to keep it all under wraps, to pretend the scars were laugh-lines, that looked worse than it was.
That it didn't hurt so bad, after all.
And then his lips would part, just the tiniest little bit, like he's on the verge of saying a very small and quiet word that would make the last month of their lives disappear, make it all better. But they wouldn't do that. They wouldn't say anything.
Those goddamned lips...
“Shit, shit, shit,” Faith sang, like it was the goddamn School Fight Song of her whole mis-educated life. Then she killed the motor.
Don't go there, she thought.
Life sucks hard enough.
***
Buffy kept tapping her foot, crossing and uncrossing her legs, checking her watch, dialing Willow's phone. Fidgeting.
“Everything okay in there?” she asked.
“Coming right up!”
A few seconds later, The Bone Mangler emerged from the kitchen, carrying a tray filled with cookies, pastries and all the clinking accoutrements required for tea. He gently set it down on the little table in his breakfast nook, one hand instinctively sprucing an elegantly folded napkin that sprouted from Buffy's cup like an origami flower. His goofy, vaguely distracted grin was identical to the one he'd worn when first he opened the door, the one that made him look like he was imagining kittens playing tug'o'war with a Christmas stocking. The festive sweater-vest he wore seemed designed to complete this image, covered as it was in needlepoint snowflakes and reindeer.
So far, the most disturbing part of the Mangler's house was how ridiculously un-disturbing it all was. From the street, it looked like Freddy Krueger's summer home, but inside the décor was the mutant lovechild of Martha Stewart Living and every grandmother's house ever. There were crocheted nicknacks, throw pillows emblazoned with chubby cherubs, fleur-de-lis wallpapers and the biggest honking collection of Hummels she'd ever seen. Her teacup even had a cozy, with a funny monkey on it. It was all so fucking terrifying.
“You should really try a coconut macaroon,” the Mangler suggested. “They're my latest, top-secret experiment.”
Too weirded-out to argue, she slipped the confection into her mouth and took a bite, her host nodding along in giddy, hopeful expectation while she chewed. For the second time since she arrived, Buffy wondered if she got the wrong address.
“Sho,” she said, “Bwone Mangawa. Thash an intereschtink nerm.”
He gave the air an adorable swat. “Oh, that, yeah. It's an old family name,” he said. “Actually, my full name is The Forty-Fourth Bone Mangler of Gorgonnus, Black Shepherd of Xerzux H'ganth, Heir to the Kingdom of Perpetual Screams. Try saying that three times fast, haha.”
The truth was, Buffy hated coconut with a volcanic passion, but The Bone Mangler had such a sensitive vibe about him. She feared the tiniest rejection might crush the guy's fuzzy, tender, teddy bear of a heart.
“Mmmmm,” she said, nodding along. “Ish reery goot.” He clapped his hands once and laughed his gentle laugh, and Buffy had an sudden, eerie flashback to another, seemingly kindhearted fellow who was elected Mayor of Sunnydale. She swallowed hard and cleared her throat. “You mind if we get started?”
For a heartbeat, the smile faded from The Mangler's face, then it returned a thousand watts brighter. “But of course! Fire away, mon capitan!” he said, snapping off a limp-wristed salute.
“Your file said something about being a master of disguise?”
“Oh, I don't know about master,” he replied bashfully.
“Yeah, well, I kind of had this costume-y run-in last night, with a guy named Nocturne. You ever heard of him?”
A dark look crossed The Mangler's face. He took a sip of his tea. “Oh yes,” he said, his freakishly chipper tone tamped down a notch. “Everyone in the Order is well acquainted with that one.”
“So what can you tell me about him?”
“Atrocious table manners, for one thing.” Buffy raised her eyebrow. “Threw a table at me once,” he explained.
“But, I don't get it. How does he even know about the Order? I thought you guys were the top secret sauce around these parts.”
The Mangler smoothed his sweater flat with a hand, reminding her weirdly of a cat licking its fur clean. “Yes, well, some of us have our theories about that,” the demon sniffed, “however laughable certain people seem to think those theories are.”
Buffy put down her tea. “Look - I'm not gonna throw a table at you, okay? But I kinda got places to be today. So, how's about we fast forward to the oh-so-stunning conclusion.”
The Mangler blew out a long and mildly irritable sigh. He still looked for all the world like a thirty-something insurance salesman on Christmas morning. But, for the first time since they'd met, the expression on his face betrayed a creature much older, and not quite so merry.
“Okay, first, things first,” he said, his eyes twinkling with a sinister glee. “What makes you so darn sure that Nocturne is a he?”
***
A commercial about cavemen selling debt consolidation services ended, and the six'o'clock news came back on. A bunch of fancy 3D graphics flew around the screen, then the anchors reappeared.
---
JANE: Now, a bizarre story of heroism with a twist. This video is currently making its way all over the web...
(Video of a blonde woman racing down a subway platform, leaping onto the tracks, and then reemerging just before the train hits her)
JANE: The images are sensational and have been racking up hits on YouTube and setting the Twittersphere on fire ever since it happened.
Apparently, a woman's pet dog fell onto the tracks at lower Manhattan's Prince Street station just as a Brooklyn-bound R train was approaching, and a mysterious hero some witnesses are calling “Super Chick” raced onto the track to rescue the animal.
(The shaky camera phone closes in on the - now not at all 'mysterious' - blonde, who is saying something to a crying woman in a white dress)
JOHN: Oh wow!
JANE: The Good - and extremely nimble - Samaritan didn't stick around long enough for the transit officals to arrive, so her identity remains unknown at this time, but witnesses were already making comparisons to the latest sightings of “Nocturne” around the city.
WITNESS #1: Yeah I saw it. It was nuts. A little dog, but she just dove in there anyway. It was crazy.
WITNESS #2: I'll tell you what. I think she is Nocturne. That's what I think.
WITNESS #3: Only in New York, baby.
(Video of the leap back onto the platform plays again, this time in slow-motion)
JANE: An NYPD spokesman says they have taken statements from the dog's owner and several others at the scene, but they don't plan on investigating further, since no crime was actually committed. Still, the dog-owner says she wants the hero to step forward, so she can give her a reward.
JOHN: Thanks, John. Interesting times we live in.
JANE: You bet.
---
Everyone in the living room was frozen stiff except for Buffy, who was busy furiously clicking and shaking the remote control. Giles hovered like a ghost behind the couch, quietly polishing his glasses.
---
JANE: In other news, police are on the lookout for a suspect in connection with the assault of two Queens men on a city bus yesterday afternoon. A security camera mounted on an eastbound M23 captured this footage of the assailant and his unsuspecting victims.
(Grainy, stop motion video of an eye-patched man taking down two guys in short order)
JANE: Transit Police say they are sorting through conflicting eyewitness accounts at the scene, but that the attack appeared to be unprovoked. They would not confirm the identities of the victims, who are still recovering from minor injuries at NYU medical center, but they are asking anyone who has any information about the assailant to step forward.
JOHN: The good, the bad and the ugly, eh Jane?
---
By now, Xander had snatched the remote from Buffy, and was clicking away. He flipped it over and over, spun the batteries, smacked it with the heel of his hand, all to no avail.
“How about a movie,” he finally said. “Does this thing do DVDs?”
He looked to Dawn, but the girl still had her face buried in her palm. Giles breathed out a long and sullen sigh and then retreated to his library, sadly shaking his head. Buffy seemed to be counting and recounting her toes. Meanwhile, Andrew, creaked away on a thrift-store rocking chair, looking blissfully stupid.
“Hey, you know what?” the Summoner said. “That subway girl kinda looks like Buffy. Heh.”
They all turned to glare at him.
“I mean, what are the odds, right?”
***
“Well, how was I supposed to know? I mean, the camera adds, like, forty pounds, or something.”
Dawn finally snapped. “Andrew? Just. Hush, okay?” She was already starting to regret this little plan of hers, especially the part where Captain Cool has to hang out with Geekzilla. Based on her initial tete-a-tete with him in the bar the other night, Stephen knew just about every song on just about every alum by just about every band who ever lived. He was sure to have the skinny on this Bozjark freak. But now, standing in the vestibule of his apartment building, staring at Andrew Wells' “Doctor Who Farted?” T-shirt, she was beginning to think it was a big mistake. Back in England, she vowed to build an iron wall between her work and her private life. Yet, here she was, on her third day in New York, and the wall was already coming a-tumbling down. So much for vows.
She rang the buzzer.
“Look,” she said, “just do me a favor and try to act normal, for once?”
“Yeah, okay.”
A few seconds passed, then Stephen's sexy voice came crackling through the speaker. “Who is it?”
“It's the police,” Andrew said. “Come out with your hands up!”
“Excuse me?”
Dawn punched him in the shoulder, mouthing a blue streak. Then she snapped into something she liked to call her Flirty-Lazy Voice. “Oh, hi, Stephen. Sorry about that. It's Cass.”
“And Andr... Ow! Dave.”
The buzzer went off and Dawn plucked open the security door. It was a five-story walk-up, and Stephen's place was on the top floor, so she had plenty of time to berate her teammate on the way up. By the time the reached Stephen's door, she was feeling the same little electric thrill she felt when they first locked eyes.
The door creaked open, without a single knock.
“Hey,” he said. He was wearing a buttoned-down gray shirt, except it was all unbuttoned and untucked and guh. He had that same soft, half-smile, too, the one that was hiding just the right number of secrets.
“Hey,” said Flirty-Lazy.
“Come on in.”
He led them into a somewhat pleasantly cluttered space. Everywhere Dawn looked there was a quirky arrangement of something or other. A stack of novels leaned Tower-of-Pisa-like against a novelty lamp shaped like the same. A collection of nesting dolls was painted with the faces of every Russian leader from Alexander Romanov to Vladimir Putin. A vintage tin serving tray offered up a meal of three white porcelain doves.
“Sorry about the crap everywhere,” Stephen said. “It's been kinda been busy at this new job, so I haven't had a lot of time to clean.” He tossed a pair of rumpled jeans and a nerf basketball off his couch and gestured for them to have a seat. “That the thing?” he asked, nodding at the record in Andrew's hand, who quickly handed it over. “Hmmm. Bozjark.”
“So you've heard of him?” said Dawn.
“Oh, yeah, sure. Everybody's heard of Bozjark.”
For some reason, the way he said it made Dawn feel a little embarrassed. “Oh sure, right. Except... assume for a minute we didn't.”
“Like, so what's his deal?” said Andrew. “Is he evil?”
Eyes... of... murder.
“I think what my friend Dave here is trying to ask is, what do people really know about him? What's he like, in real life?”
“Well, that's the thing,” Stephen said, gently sliding the record out of the jacket. “Nobody knows, because nobody's ever met him.”
“What do you mean, nobody? What about, like, concerts? Interviews?”
“Doesn't do 'em.”
“His record producers. Or, the people who run the studio.”
Stephen shook his head and smiled. “Look, Bozjark has put out about fifty of these things, and as far as anyone knows he records them alone in his basement. A couple of times a year, these cardboard boxes full of records just show up at stores, college radio stations. It's one of those eternal mystery things, you know? God, Bozjark and the Lochness Monster.”
Nobody said anything for a while. Then Andrew piped up. “What about that thing they say?”
“What thing?”
“You know... that thing when they ask you, 'Do you think they'll ever find him?' And then the... scary... you-know-what thing happens?”
Stephen just squinted and shook his head. “Sorry man. I guess I'm out of the loop on that one.”
Dawn wasn't sure whether to be relieved or not. She didn't think she could deal with her next Maybe Boyfriend going all glow-y eyed and demonic possession-y on their first date. That was more like fourth date territory. “It's okay. It's probably just some kind of inside joke or whatever.”
“You know,” said Stephen, “I do know this one guy, a deejay. I met him at this political thing I helped organize last year. He mostly spins house and dub but he's, like, this total, amazing brainiac when it comes to weird, atonal musicians and ultra cult-y, underground stuff. If anyone had the inside skinny on Bozjark, I'd bet it was him.”
“Oh, okay. Cool,” said Dawn. “So can we, like, call him up or text him or whatever?”
“Not tonight. He's spinning at Bootie.”
“Bootie?”
“It's in the city," he said. "We can hook up with him there. I mean, if you like to dance.”
Dawn looked at Andrew. She looked at the Leaning Lamp of Pisa. She looked at Nikolai Brezhnev's wooden little head.
She looked at Stephen's pink lips.
“I love to dance,” she said.
Chapter 7: The In Crowd