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jmatonakThe fight continues...
Chapter Eight: Ruins of the Hyperion
Ambrose grinned to himself. He had mixed feelings about moonlighting as a collection agent, but so far it was working out beautifully. When the (surviving) representatives of Wolfram and Hart quietly let it be known that the power Angel had taken from their man Hamilton was open to anyone who could collect it, most of the professional community had opted not to bother. Word was the Senior Partners had stuck Angel in some extradimensional crawlspace somewhere. If they had him already, bringing in outside help seemed fishy indeed.
Fishy. But profitable. A soul, Ambrose knew, was a valuable commodity, and Angel's more so than many. Properly extracted and processed, it would be worth a fortune to the right buyers. He'd take it, and whatever stolen power was bound to come along with it, and simply leave. Let Angel and his little friends feast on each other like rats, here in their little box.
That image made Ambrose smile. He settled back to await the end, and take in the sights and sounds of Angel on his knees, screaming.
Angel would never understand how this experience could be so nauseating and so blissful at the same time. The old, familiar terms of his curse specified that he would lose his soul in a moment of perfect happiness, and he'd always thought of that happiness as the cause of the loss. And yet, even now, when it felt as though his soul was being dragged out by rusty hooks, there was an undercurrent of rising joy. It made him sick, but not unhappy. While his soul was coming out, he was incapable of unhappiness.
The parade of images was almost familiar, and of course there was a woman's face at the forefront- but not the one he expected. Angel felt a rush of memories, not of Buffy, but of Cordelia. Her smell, her laugh... how could anyone call a woman with that kind of cutting wit an airhead? And one memory above all: a passionate kiss...
I came back to put my guy on the right path...
Angel felt a sort of click. The pain and the crazy artificial joy receded. He stood. He grabbed the stupid magical cord or whatever it was that was coming out of his chest and hauled down on it. His hands glowed blue-white, and Ambrose slammed into the ground. Angel walked over to him, deliberately. He said, in a conversational tone, "Looks like it's not coming out this time, you son of a bitch."
All the other skirmishes had continued, of course. When anyone had tried to go help Angel, they were intercepted by a surviving toothy demon. But now, everyone watched as Angel pounded away at something in front of Ambrose, and his hands threw up great bright flares like splashes of water.
Ambrose was beginning to panic. Everything had been going so well, and now this... this vampire was shredding wards that had taken years to craft. With his fists. He was knocking down Ambrose's best protective charms with his hands. It was past time to leave.
Angel could smell fear pouring off the man in the suit. It smelled great.
A dim, dark thing jumped from Ambrose's eyes into the ground at Angel's feet and detonated like a land mine. Where it had been, and in several other places, bright columns of what looked like sunlight suddenly sprouted like trees. When Angel tried to push through "his" sun-column and grab Ambrose, it was like trying to walk through stone. By the time he'd worked his way around, Ambrose was gone.
More columns broke through the ground. For the first few, there was a cracking sound as they appeared, but as they continued to proliferate they were just there, cutting off every way someone tried to run.
No one saw Illyria put her hand in a column as easily as she might an ordinary sunbeam, and no one saw her smile the first smile that had ever reached her eyes.
In silence and brilliant golden light, the world ended.
to be continued
As always, I welcome comments.
Chapter Eight: Ruins of the Hyperion
Ambrose grinned to himself. He had mixed feelings about moonlighting as a collection agent, but so far it was working out beautifully. When the (surviving) representatives of Wolfram and Hart quietly let it be known that the power Angel had taken from their man Hamilton was open to anyone who could collect it, most of the professional community had opted not to bother. Word was the Senior Partners had stuck Angel in some extradimensional crawlspace somewhere. If they had him already, bringing in outside help seemed fishy indeed.
Fishy. But profitable. A soul, Ambrose knew, was a valuable commodity, and Angel's more so than many. Properly extracted and processed, it would be worth a fortune to the right buyers. He'd take it, and whatever stolen power was bound to come along with it, and simply leave. Let Angel and his little friends feast on each other like rats, here in their little box.
That image made Ambrose smile. He settled back to await the end, and take in the sights and sounds of Angel on his knees, screaming.
Angel would never understand how this experience could be so nauseating and so blissful at the same time. The old, familiar terms of his curse specified that he would lose his soul in a moment of perfect happiness, and he'd always thought of that happiness as the cause of the loss. And yet, even now, when it felt as though his soul was being dragged out by rusty hooks, there was an undercurrent of rising joy. It made him sick, but not unhappy. While his soul was coming out, he was incapable of unhappiness.
The parade of images was almost familiar, and of course there was a woman's face at the forefront- but not the one he expected. Angel felt a rush of memories, not of Buffy, but of Cordelia. Her smell, her laugh... how could anyone call a woman with that kind of cutting wit an airhead? And one memory above all: a passionate kiss...
I came back to put my guy on the right path...
Angel felt a sort of click. The pain and the crazy artificial joy receded. He stood. He grabbed the stupid magical cord or whatever it was that was coming out of his chest and hauled down on it. His hands glowed blue-white, and Ambrose slammed into the ground. Angel walked over to him, deliberately. He said, in a conversational tone, "Looks like it's not coming out this time, you son of a bitch."
All the other skirmishes had continued, of course. When anyone had tried to go help Angel, they were intercepted by a surviving toothy demon. But now, everyone watched as Angel pounded away at something in front of Ambrose, and his hands threw up great bright flares like splashes of water.
Ambrose was beginning to panic. Everything had been going so well, and now this... this vampire was shredding wards that had taken years to craft. With his fists. He was knocking down Ambrose's best protective charms with his hands. It was past time to leave.
Angel could smell fear pouring off the man in the suit. It smelled great.
A dim, dark thing jumped from Ambrose's eyes into the ground at Angel's feet and detonated like a land mine. Where it had been, and in several other places, bright columns of what looked like sunlight suddenly sprouted like trees. When Angel tried to push through "his" sun-column and grab Ambrose, it was like trying to walk through stone. By the time he'd worked his way around, Ambrose was gone.
More columns broke through the ground. For the first few, there was a cracking sound as they appeared, but as they continued to proliferate they were just there, cutting off every way someone tried to run.
No one saw Illyria put her hand in a column as easily as she might an ordinary sunbeam, and no one saw her smile the first smile that had ever reached her eyes.
In silence and brilliant golden light, the world ended.
to be continued
As always, I welcome comments.
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no subject
Date: 2007-04-06 03:56 am (UTC)I think that want to be a comma.
Interesting that Angel feels joy, despite the rusty hooks. Off to the next part!
no subject
Date: 2007-04-06 04:08 am (UTC)I may have to revise the wording in some other places, but I want to finish before I get bogged down in fixing minutia.
no subject
Date: 2007-04-06 04:09 am (UTC)