this industry is venomous with cold-blooded sentiment
I didn't look up at the clock until the sun was about to set. I was so immersed in studying the files that someone left on my doorstep, I didn't realize how much time had gone by. I hadn't gone to class, I hadn't eaten anything, I hadn't done that research that the Council wanted like, last week.
But it was okay, because this was major.
Slowly, I flipped the folder closed and sat back in my chair, staring straight ahead. I couldn't keep this news to myself. I had to talk to someone, because if Wolfram and Hart were actually going to go through with these plans... well, the world was going to be in a whole new kind of trouble. And lots of it.
I could call the Council, or Buffy. But I didn't really want to get them involved. Especially Buffy. I totally knew she was going to ship me back to Rome, or maybe the moon, until she figured everything out and determined it safe for everyone else. Even through I'm totally not like, twelve anymore. She's got kind of a complex.
And the Council would just hum and groan and clean its collective glasses a lot, and a fat lot of good that would be. They're great with demon languages and translations and all, but when something major threatens the world we live in, they don't quite come through the right way.
Oh.
Duh!
Practically knocking my chair over, I run to the living room and dig last Sunday's paper out of the recycling. Something had caught my eye, but I didn't act on it yet. Now just might be the time. I flip through the paper, scanning the pages until I spot a simple, modest sort of ad in the corner.
Champions, Inc.
Tara told me about it before, but I totally forgot. Angel's firm-business-thinger. Here was someone who's always good for a problem of the Apocalypse kind.
One quick shower and a change of clothes later, I caught the subway to the neighborhood where his office was. It was not too far from the University District - a quiet, cute sort of street, a little brownstone, dusty, non-pretentious. Is this Angel's sort of place. It was just then I realized I didn't really know anything about Angel. Just stuff I heard from other people. And everyone who ever talked about him was kind of, well, biased.
Well, better late than never, or something.
The folder tucked under my arm, I went up the stairs and into the little office. Cute. A little dusty. Modest and minimalist - or maybe he hadn't moved in completely yet. I dunno.
"Hello? Um, Angel?"
But it was okay, because this was major.
Slowly, I flipped the folder closed and sat back in my chair, staring straight ahead. I couldn't keep this news to myself. I had to talk to someone, because if Wolfram and Hart were actually going to go through with these plans... well, the world was going to be in a whole new kind of trouble. And lots of it.
I could call the Council, or Buffy. But I didn't really want to get them involved. Especially Buffy. I totally knew she was going to ship me back to Rome, or maybe the moon, until she figured everything out and determined it safe for everyone else. Even through I'm totally not like, twelve anymore. She's got kind of a complex.
And the Council would just hum and groan and clean its collective glasses a lot, and a fat lot of good that would be. They're great with demon languages and translations and all, but when something major threatens the world we live in, they don't quite come through the right way.
Oh.
Duh!
Practically knocking my chair over, I run to the living room and dig last Sunday's paper out of the recycling. Something had caught my eye, but I didn't act on it yet. Now just might be the time. I flip through the paper, scanning the pages until I spot a simple, modest sort of ad in the corner.
Champions, Inc.
Tara told me about it before, but I totally forgot. Angel's firm-business-thinger. Here was someone who's always good for a problem of the Apocalypse kind.
One quick shower and a change of clothes later, I caught the subway to the neighborhood where his office was. It was not too far from the University District - a quiet, cute sort of street, a little brownstone, dusty, non-pretentious. Is this Angel's sort of place. It was just then I realized I didn't really know anything about Angel. Just stuff I heard from other people. And everyone who ever talked about him was kind of, well, biased.
Well, better late than never, or something.
The folder tucked under my arm, I went up the stairs and into the little office. Cute. A little dusty. Modest and minimalist - or maybe he hadn't moved in completely yet. I dunno.
"Hello? Um, Angel?"