A Few Key Sunnydale Alum

Her duffelbag is heavier than it should be, as she moves out through the AirTrain lobby and onto the street. She feels slower than before. Weaker.

She feels light enough to spread her arms and soar up into the sky.

The number's still in her cellphone's immediate memory; it's the last number she called.



"Hello?"

In the apartment, Beth sits huddled in an armchair that feels far too big for her, clasps her hands tightly in her lap and tries to stop shivering.

"I know them," she says, her voice hollow.

February 14th, 2007
Manhattan

Nobody on the street (not even the beat cop on the corner) seems to notice anything odd about the fact that very well-dressed people, singly or in pairs or larger groups, have been walking into the closed-for-repairs underground parking garage and not walking out. Nor do they notice anything odd about the people in question, even those whose faces don't appear remotely human.

As with one particular group, centered around a tall figure with a lionlike face.



Angel has drawn the line at wearing the House Varadeem livery, but each of them sports a badge of sorts with Vayan's sigil -- the same intricate pattern on the ring Angel's already wearing. It doesn't make them blend in with the Rrhayaowr, even the human-looking ones, but it makes certain matters clear to the others waiting in line. There's already delighted gossip making its way through the crowd, glances and whispers.

They've learned the club's name by this time, and it's making the oldest members of the team very uneasy. There's a muttered explanation while they wait, kept vague against the sharp ears of the rest of their party. Aequitas: the Latin word for justice. It's just a little too close for comfort to another place they knew once, with a name meaning mercy.

Probably just a coincidence.

The heavy doors at the far end of the lot are just opening, and two big burly demons taking up positions to either side. A ripple goes through the assembled beings, and the line starts to slide forward like (Andrew tries not to think it) like a snake.

Somewhere in Manhattan
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
7:20pm

It's been four days. Long enough lead time for the word to have gotten out some other way; and if that makes his information potentially less valuable, it also betters the odds that they won't trace the leak back to him, if they're feeling so inclined.

Fitz opens the prepaid one-use cellphone, and dials a certain unlisted number.

"Fitz," he says into the mouthpiece, after a moment. "I've got something you wanna know."