It Ain't The Size Of The Dog In The Fight (5)
Alexander Lavelle Harris. Seventeen years old, dark hair, hazel eyes, 1.803 meters tall in a lanky body more akin to a scarecrow than anything else. An academic record at Sunnydale High reveals a grade average clinging to a C by its fingertips. A scan of police records finds almost weekly visits by the police to his home over domestic disturbance calls, and several citations for public drunkeness and minor assault charges by his relatives.
This is me?
"I'm a dork, aren't I?" I ask Willow.
"What? No!" Willow ghosts-literally--through a lamp-post. "You're just reaching your potential a little...late."
"I've applied a thorough modeling system to the data." I utter an electronic sigh. "I score an 87.745 on a weighted scale of dorkiness."
"Are you sure you're accounted for all--"
"Hey, cram the nerd talk!" Cordelia shouts. "Maybe Xander here can keep an eye out for demons instead going depresso over his usual loserdom."
"There will be no repeat of my earlier failure," I inform Miss Chase. "My computer cores have been adjusted to maintain a constant perimeter watch for the Enemy."
We continue on towards the high school, where Willow has informed me a local expert on magic works.
"As well, my sensor suite has detected adipose tissue," I add, "within your gluteal lobes that deviates 1.3 percent from ideal--"
"Huh?" Cordelia's jaw drops. "Are you saying MY ASS IS FAT?"
"If it helps, there is a margin for error of .00000000000000001 percent. Plus or minus."
Cordelia shrieks in outrage.
Heh. Score!
******
"Really, I do apologize," I say to the vampire curled up on the library floor. "I should have been told you were an ally. I sensed Enemy in the vicinity, and since you were in close proximity to Mr. Giles, I had to engage you in a manner that would minimize harm to a nearby human."
"Not a problem," replies Deadb--er, Angel, in a somewhat high-pitched voice. He clutches his groin. "Understandable. Will--gah--someone get some ice? Argh! Please?"
"Got some from the caf." Cordelia Chase slinks towards the vampire with a soul. Which just makes him so special, doesn't it? "Lemme see if I can help with any...swelling."
"That's not--" Angel backs away. "Buffy--"
"That would be 'milady' to you." Lady Anne tilts up her nose. "And I resent the implication I would engage in such a vile practice as necrophilia."
"But our love--oooooo that feels good." Angel's eyes roll back as Cordelia applies the ice pack.
"As well, you have the air of the wastrel about you." Lady Anne shudders. "And, my God, you might even be....Irish. I'd be disowned if I had some tawdry tryst with a drunken papist."
"Don't listen to Princess Snippety over there," Cordelia says. "Just let Nurse Cordelia make it all better."
"Putting aside the issues of Angel's ravaged genitals," says Rupert Giles, polishing his glasses with a shirt cuff, "I've determined a common element to the costumes affected by the spell. Willow, all of you patronised this new store 'Ethan's'?"
"Yup." Willow stands in the middle of a table. "Why I ended up becoming Kitty Pryde. Everyone except Cordelia bought there."
"Like I'd buy anywhere except Partytown." Cordelia traces a rip in her catsuit. "If I ever find out who Jo Jo the Dog Faced Boy is, he's not getting a date, ever. You have any idea of the damage deposit on these things?"
"The tragedy speaks to all of us." Mr. Giles's eyes narrow. "I shall question the owner personally."
"I shall accompany you--" I say.
"No." His voice betrays a timbre I usually associate with Concordiat generals ordering me into battle. "You would be best employed guarding Buffy and the others."
"I am afraid I must depart, actually," I say. "This area is a sufficiently secure location, and I am sure a vampire's rapid healing will allow Angel to recover enough to protect them."
"No!" Willow floats over to me. "If the spell breaks while you're fighting demons, you'd be turned back into Xander! Which we all want because you'd be taller and able to hug and eat Twinkies dipped in chocolate milk-- You could die!"
"Miss Rosenberg, I must." I swivel on my treads. "I am a Unit of the Line. As long as there are humans to protect and Enemy to engage, I must go fulfill my duty. If I did not, I would not be a BOLO."
"Huh." Willow grins, the expression lending true beauty to her features. "That's just Xander being Xander."
*****
There is a sluggishness within my computer cores while I advance into the hall. Whether or not Alexander L. Harris survives the night, Unit XNR will not. Will I fade from memory, a blank time in my human self's memory? Will he recall my exploits as his through a veil of rationalization? My sole consolation is that--though I may fade away like all old soldiers--I shall cease existence performing my duty. In the end, it is not honor or glory or fame that is the highest testament to BOLO valour. It is the death alone, in the darkness of a battlefield, wrecked and shattered, the last flickering in its circuits witnessing the simple act of our kind obeying its directives.
Fight.
Defend.
Protect.
A hand stays me.
Lady Anne kneels beside me. Her eyes are bright with tears. Does she fear her own end? Her own dissolution? Her-- She lifts up her skirts. Shocked, I avert my sensors from the sight of a...um...toned...limber...leg. From one stockinged knee, she unties a narrow band of ribbon and lace. A garter. My Hellbore elevates high when she ties it around the barrel.
The garter. The favour a lady bestows upon her knight. Her chosen champion.
The theme to "Star Wars" erupts from my speakers.
I charge out into the darkness, my lady waving a kerchief in salute.
FOR THE HONOR OF THE REGIMENT!
This is me?
"I'm a dork, aren't I?" I ask Willow.
"What? No!" Willow ghosts-literally--through a lamp-post. "You're just reaching your potential a little...late."
"I've applied a thorough modeling system to the data." I utter an electronic sigh. "I score an 87.745 on a weighted scale of dorkiness."
"Are you sure you're accounted for all--"
"Hey, cram the nerd talk!" Cordelia shouts. "Maybe Xander here can keep an eye out for demons instead going depresso over his usual loserdom."
"There will be no repeat of my earlier failure," I inform Miss Chase. "My computer cores have been adjusted to maintain a constant perimeter watch for the Enemy."
We continue on towards the high school, where Willow has informed me a local expert on magic works.
"As well, my sensor suite has detected adipose tissue," I add, "within your gluteal lobes that deviates 1.3 percent from ideal--"
"Huh?" Cordelia's jaw drops. "Are you saying MY ASS IS FAT?"
"If it helps, there is a margin for error of .00000000000000001 percent. Plus or minus."
Cordelia shrieks in outrage.
Heh. Score!
******
"Really, I do apologize," I say to the vampire curled up on the library floor. "I should have been told you were an ally. I sensed Enemy in the vicinity, and since you were in close proximity to Mr. Giles, I had to engage you in a manner that would minimize harm to a nearby human."
"Not a problem," replies Deadb--er, Angel, in a somewhat high-pitched voice. He clutches his groin. "Understandable. Will--gah--someone get some ice? Argh! Please?"
"Got some from the caf." Cordelia Chase slinks towards the vampire with a soul. Which just makes him so special, doesn't it? "Lemme see if I can help with any...swelling."
"That's not--" Angel backs away. "Buffy--"
"That would be 'milady' to you." Lady Anne tilts up her nose. "And I resent the implication I would engage in such a vile practice as necrophilia."
"But our love--oooooo that feels good." Angel's eyes roll back as Cordelia applies the ice pack.
"As well, you have the air of the wastrel about you." Lady Anne shudders. "And, my God, you might even be....Irish. I'd be disowned if I had some tawdry tryst with a drunken papist."
"Don't listen to Princess Snippety over there," Cordelia says. "Just let Nurse Cordelia make it all better."
"Putting aside the issues of Angel's ravaged genitals," says Rupert Giles, polishing his glasses with a shirt cuff, "I've determined a common element to the costumes affected by the spell. Willow, all of you patronised this new store 'Ethan's'?"
"Yup." Willow stands in the middle of a table. "Why I ended up becoming Kitty Pryde. Everyone except Cordelia bought there."
"Like I'd buy anywhere except Partytown." Cordelia traces a rip in her catsuit. "If I ever find out who Jo Jo the Dog Faced Boy is, he's not getting a date, ever. You have any idea of the damage deposit on these things?"
"The tragedy speaks to all of us." Mr. Giles's eyes narrow. "I shall question the owner personally."
"I shall accompany you--" I say.
"No." His voice betrays a timbre I usually associate with Concordiat generals ordering me into battle. "You would be best employed guarding Buffy and the others."
"I am afraid I must depart, actually," I say. "This area is a sufficiently secure location, and I am sure a vampire's rapid healing will allow Angel to recover enough to protect them."
"No!" Willow floats over to me. "If the spell breaks while you're fighting demons, you'd be turned back into Xander! Which we all want because you'd be taller and able to hug and eat Twinkies dipped in chocolate milk-- You could die!"
"Miss Rosenberg, I must." I swivel on my treads. "I am a Unit of the Line. As long as there are humans to protect and Enemy to engage, I must go fulfill my duty. If I did not, I would not be a BOLO."
"Huh." Willow grins, the expression lending true beauty to her features. "That's just Xander being Xander."
*****
There is a sluggishness within my computer cores while I advance into the hall. Whether or not Alexander L. Harris survives the night, Unit XNR will not. Will I fade from memory, a blank time in my human self's memory? Will he recall my exploits as his through a veil of rationalization? My sole consolation is that--though I may fade away like all old soldiers--I shall cease existence performing my duty. In the end, it is not honor or glory or fame that is the highest testament to BOLO valour. It is the death alone, in the darkness of a battlefield, wrecked and shattered, the last flickering in its circuits witnessing the simple act of our kind obeying its directives.
Fight.
Defend.
Protect.
A hand stays me.
Lady Anne kneels beside me. Her eyes are bright with tears. Does she fear her own end? Her own dissolution? Her-- She lifts up her skirts. Shocked, I avert my sensors from the sight of a...um...toned...limber...leg. From one stockinged knee, she unties a narrow band of ribbon and lace. A garter. My Hellbore elevates high when she ties it around the barrel.
The garter. The favour a lady bestows upon her knight. Her chosen champion.
The theme to "Star Wars" erupts from my speakers.
I charge out into the darkness, my lady waving a kerchief in salute.
FOR THE HONOR OF THE REGIMENT!