White Screams

[Zampsa1975]

Yay for good update-y goodness... I truly hope that it is Willow, who is going to save Tara from the trouble she is getting herself into...

[whirlwindcharmer]

I really like the pacing of this story and how it is unfolding. Poor Tara, she's in a tough position, but despite her history with Willow she shouldn't treat her the way she has, or lead her on. Having discovered the crux of the matter (Tara needs money fast) and how previous events have lead to that situation and the important players revealed, the events in the warehouse make sense yay might I add. You have done a wonderful job weaving between the past and the present and I am impatient for more lol. I love this story please update soon

[JustSkipIt]

I'm caught up but I don't really get Tara's damage re: Willow. I mean they have some history (sounds like a one night stand type thing) but after 3 years Willow is still around and Tara's that much of a bitch? Now I'm worried that she is in on kidnapping Dawn. Wow. Confused still but intrigued.

[watty]

Zampsa1975 -- heh, i'm not sure Willow comes into it yet...yes I'm evil and I'm always trying to confuse.

whirlwindcharmer -- welcome and thank you. I'm really happy that despite of the confusing jumping around you see the direction the story is heading. You've summarised the problem perfectly: Tara needs money fast. There's not many ways she can go, poor thing. Thanks again.

Debra -- you always manage to pinpoint perfectly what I try to allude to (one night stand type thing). The problem with Tara isn't that she doesn't want Willow, it's just that between her brother's kidnapping / killing and her mother's illness, coupled with her own lack of any future, she's not letting herself be...well, just Tara. Thanks for stopping by.

[br]

[watty]

Title: White Screams
Author: watson (hiddenwatson [at] yahoo [dot] com)
Distribution: Please let me know first
Rating: R
Disclaimer: BtVS characters, concepts and dialog belong to Mutant Enemy, Fox, The WB, UPN and others.
Summary: Contemporary AU. Who are we? Who can we trust when we can't even trust ourselves?
Notes 1: written for nanowrimo 2008 -- since it was written quickly with little time for extensive research, I have taken liberties with some of the factual and scientific stuff. I could have completed the research in the editing process, but I thought it might be fun to show some of the rawness of the writing under time pressure. Plus, well, I'm lazy.
Notes 2: this story is influenced by the psychological thriller Unknown. The chronology is not completely linear, I hope it doesn't become too confusing.


Part 9 -- Like attracted like

One month ago

All Tara wanted to do was to fall into a hole, curl up and cry for a century.

She re-arranged her classes, swapping with other instructors so she only had morning classes. After the last one ended at noon she quickly showered and changed. In the privacy of her car she proceeded to call in every favor and marker she had ever held. Explaining about her mother's illness was painful, but as it was no secret, she could build on a story for her pleas.

It was humbling, to have to ask for money. She made promises, she cried, she was calmly reasonable.

Four hours later she was exhausted emotionally, her throat hoarse from talking and crying. And all she wanted to do was to disappear from the world.

Her friends were sympathetic, but she could feel most of them were hesitant to help financially. It strained the boundaries of friendship when one party brings in such source of potential conflict and discourse. She wondered, even after politely accepting stuttering, embarrassed rejections, how many of those friends she could retain after this.

She knew that. But she had no choice. Her single focus was to ensure her mother had every chance known to humankind, no matter the cost. The loss of her mother was the highest cost of all, that she could ill afford to handle.

She was never going to be able to raise enough cash. They were never going to be rich, living paycheck to paycheck, struggling to make ends meet. Furthermore they never recovered financially from Donny's kidnapping. Although the government uncharacteristically fronted the ransom, the funeral expenses were theirs to pay. Her mother's illness, well, no need to talk about it, it was obvious how draining it was in all respects.

It was no stretch to believe that their friends were in the same boat, especially with the current economic situation. Everyone she knew was in debt, their jobs in danger. The arrival of new bills chilled her to her bones. It was the way of their lives. Like attracted like. They were never going to befriend people who had that amount of cash hoarded away for a rainy day, or to lend to a needy friend. There was no sense in Tara dwelling on the unfairness of this. It was a free society; there were rich people, financially independent people. And then there were the middle class and poor like her. Those classes were never going to meet, their worlds and expectations so vastly different and sometimes in conflict.

At the back of her mind she knew, as she knew from the moment she heard about the financial need from Dr Lee, what she needed to do. Or rather, who she needed to approach. She had avoided it because she was genuinely disgusted and in a small way fearful of her life and her sanity. What was the price she would have to pay this time? Would she come away with her integrity, her body, her soul intact?

She thought of her mother, laying helplessly in a hospital bed with cancer cells raging through her. She recalled the agony, the screams of pain as she lay writhing as the chemo drugs attacked her body. She captured in her mind's eye the scene from this morning, of her mother laughing with Willow.

There was no other choice. No matter the cost.

She picked up her cell phone and called a number she had vowed never to dial again.

*****

"He's in a conference call with the fund managers, you'll just have to wait," the secretary -- no, executive personal assistant, informed Tara curtly. Tara expected the barely disguised brush off aimed at conveying to her just how important she was in the scheme of things. It was modus operandi, after all.

She sat straighter on the hard plastic chair in the waiting area, trying to find a comfortable position. Who knew how long she would be made to wait. Unwilling to touch the outdated magazines scattered around the area -- too much dust, too many people having handled them -- she turned her attention to the décor of the office. It had been renovated, the decoration seemed to be no more than six months old. Outrageous, gaudy and in-the-face were the main themes. There was nothing subtle about it. Everything was oversized, over loud and over ego'ed. From the glass fronted reception counter to the phallic symbol that was the company logo to the portraits and pictures of the incumbent Chief Executive Officer, it was one big Mahler symphony in praise of said Chief Executive Officer. There was no question who was in complete charge there.

Tara worked at Big Industries for almost a year, first as a secretary and then she was promoted into the executive suite. She was not told the reason, only that she was expected to "act your pretty self and do everything the big boss says." When it became clear that "everything the big boss says" was mostly made up of non work related tasks, she was this close to walking out. Only the over-riding need for a job trumped her personal standards. She got to be very, very good at her job, as her ethics became increasingly gray. Until one day when she turned around and realized it was all black. The incident that caused her to finally leave was one of the darkest episodes of her life, including her brother's death and her mother's illness. She later heard from ex-colleagues and friends inside that she was the only one who had ever had the guts to resign from the coveted executive suite. Women, and it was always women who worked in the exec suite, were only fired, transferred out or mysteriously disappeared. They were not supposed to leave on their own accord.

She wondered if that reckless action would be of her benefit or detriment now.

She was idling between thinking of her mother, thinking of nothing at all, and thinking of Willow when she heard her name called. Immediately she snapped her head up towards the receptionist.

"You have three minutes," the woman said, leading the way to the inner sanctum of the executive suite. Tara had forgotten the layout, intentionally banishing every recollection of Big Industries from her mind when she left. She grimaced as all those memories came flooding back.

"Well well well, look who has come crawling back. Want your job back, doll? You know you have to fall on your knees and beg for it," the oily distasteful man in a big leather chair sneered.

"Whatever you want, Warren," Tara said, not flinching from his eye contact. Warren Meers was a bottom dwelling scumbag and a bully with no imagination, she had seen through him early on. His rise to the top of the pile at Big Industries was not an illustrious one. It was an open secret that he had unsavory connections and he had gotten rid of his father using those connections. That he was willing to stoop so low against his own father was why Tara could not muster any respect for him. She wondered if that was why, unlike all others in the company, she was never afraid of him. For some odd reason being near him made her brave, she was willing to meet him eye to eye. She also wondered if he recognized that she could see through him, and for some perverted reason, kept her around as a challenge. Theirs was not a pleasant relationship, but there was some mutual...something there.

He made a show of lighting up a fat cigar. Tara inwardly snickered. Yet another show of "I big, you small" that he delighted in. It was wasted on her. She knew the extent of his power, and that she was at risk of pushing him over the thin edge that he inhabited. She would have to be careful.

"Whatever I want?" Warren repeated. "You know I have very deep tastes." It was a statement, not a question.

"You're talking to me, Warren. I know exactly what your tastes are. Or have they changed?" Tara countered.

Warren smiled a satisfied smile. "Oh, I've missed you, my little enabler. No one ever came close to your ability to understand me since you left. Which, by the way, I haven't forgiven you for," he said, then turned serious. "My tastes evolve all the time. You'll find that they have gotten more, shall I say, demanding as I grow in power and stature."

"I'm sure," she muttered. She guessed that in some deep recess of her soul, she was capable of being very dark herself. Like attracted like. She knew she couldn't go there, but a tiny devil whispered to her that if she did, he was the one to bring her there.

"Enough about me," he grinned dirtily. "I am capable of not talking about myself for a few seconds. What do you want, and why are you here?" he demanded.

She knew only the harsh truth would suffice. "I need money. My mother is dying." It pained her to say that out loud. "There is a procedure that offers her a chance, I need cash to make it happen," she said. Deflated, after she said it out.

He looked at her expectantly for a second, then burst out in maniacal laughter. "Your mother is sick. Okay, that's sick," he said. "No."

She looked at him with defeat in her eyes. "No? just like that? No conditions? No angle to get me into your bed?" she said truthfully.

"You'll get no money or help from me. And yes, I want you so bad, I've always did. But willingly. Not because of some humanity saving martyr sacrifice deed you always feel you need to do," he snorted.

This is not the moment for him to turn all lecturing on me.

"Please. I don't have anyone to go to," she begged. He was her last chance. She didn't want him to know that, but there was nothing after this. She knew what she had to give up. She knew as soon as her last call was made, and no inroads were made, and she decided to call him. There was nothing left to give up. At all cost for her mother. She considered more begging. She considered showing him how much she was willing to do now to get what she wanted. On some level, he would know that, and would certainly derive his usual perverse satisfaction knowing that she came to him, willingly. But his words stung. That was the problem with unlimited egos, he knew it was not consensual. She said no more.

He was already punching his phone to get his assistant to kick her out of the building.

*****
[br]

[Zampsa1975]

Yay for good update-y goodness... I'm kinda glad that Tara didn't "get" the job at Warren's...

[watty]

Title: White Screams
Author: watson (hiddenwatson [at] yahoo [dot] com)
Distribution: Please let me know first
Rating: R
Disclaimer: BtVS characters, concepts and dialog belong to Mutant Enemy, Fox, The WB, UPN and others.
Summary: Contemporary AU. Who are we? Who can we trust when we can't even trust ourselves?
Notes 1: written for nanowrimo 2008 -- since it was written quickly with little time for extensive research, I have taken liberties with some of the factual and scientific stuff. I could have completed the research in the editing process, but I thought it might be fun to show some of the rawness of the writing under time pressure. Plus, well, I'm lazy.
Notes 2: this story is influenced by the psychological thriller Unknown. The chronology is not completely linear, I hope it doesn't become too confusing.


Part 10 -- At All Cost

One month ago

Tara ducked her head behind the steering column as Warren's car left the underground parking garage with a screech. She didn't know why she persisted, sitting in her car watching the office building after she left. The personal assistant and, outside in the corridor, the security guard following her out were a sure sign that she was not welcome to return.

She walked the streets of the business district with a dagger in her heart and lead in her foot. She refused to give thought to the possibility that her mother would be gone in months, leaving her alone in the world. She had never known her father, he walked out on her mother before Tara was born. Donny, who was three years older, had no memory of him either. Her mother kept one or two pictures of him, hidden where she thought her children would never find them. But Tara and Donny had figured it out when Donny was ten and Tara was seven. Even at that age the young kids knew to keep a secret and returned the pictures to their hiding place after staring at them for what seemed forever. Over the years they came back to look at them occasionally. Tara for one could feel no connection or emotion towards the thin, gaunt man with pursed lips turned downwards and a sour expression that seemed to be his norm. She was glad that Donny had not inherited the dourness.

She walked around aimlessly, not knowing where she was going or what she was doing. She bumped into business people, tourists, families, lovers, always shuffling on with a muffled apology. It was a hot, hot day and soon she was drenched with perspiration. When it started dripping down from her head through her face she did not even have the presence of mind to wipe it off. Soon tears joined until at one last, desperate moment, she found herself back at the Big Industries building looking like a mad woman with disheveled hair, an avalanche of sweat and fists clenched in frustration.

She found her car and parked it across from the underground parking garage entrance, waiting.

Waiting was an endless game. She knew a little of it when she was Warren's do-everything girl, his enabler. She had been in countless same positions before, camped out in a waiting vehicle outside hotels, houses and clubs while he was conducting whatever...business...he was conducting inside. She refused to participate, which irked him. But since she turned out to be very good at building connections, organizing his social diary and keeping his activities quiet he found other distractions and hangers-on to take with him.

As she watched the Red Ferrari accelerate down the street, she hastily started her ancient Honda. It only occurred to her as she pulled out that there was no way in hell she could follow that 6-speed, 5.7 liter V12 monster as it roared and devoured the tarmac. She was never in the same class, she had to remind herself. Luckily it was downtown traffic, and not even 6-speed 5.7 liter V12 monsters driven by an egomaniac could get other vehicles to get out of the way. Tara kept her eye on the distinctive red chassis, grateful for once for Warren's extravagance, and eventually caught up. She kept several car lengths behind, not sure if he remembered what car she drove. She suspect not, since it would be beneath him to even notice, but she did not want to take the chance.

The drive took them to the part of town where houses were not big enough. Houses had to be mansions, or castles, or towers. Carriage drives and high security fencing were the norm. Tara grew self conscious passing each house, afraid to be discovered or stopped on suspicion.

At the end of a cul-de-sac Warren pulled into the largest mansion in the area. Tara slowed down and stopped, hiding behind a row of other cars and some trees in the road. It was the same house he stayed in when she worked for him. While surprised that he had not moved, she realized that he was already in the biggest, most expensive, most fitting house in the area. There was nothing to move into, short of building his own palace. Perhaps he was doing just that.

An hour went by with no activity. She began to have second thoughts about what she was doing. Observing him drive from the office back to his home was pointless. She would only arouse suspicion. What did she expect to do? Accost him at a traffic light and plead her case again? Stupid.

She wished she had brought some food, she was beginning to get hungry. The cream cheese bagel with Willow at the hospital was a long time ago. She stopped. Willow. She had not told Willow about any of her predicament, although the redhead had sussed onto some of it. It felt wrong to have told Warren first rather than Willow. Every instinct in her warned her against confiding in Willow, because that signaled that they were closer than she was prepared to handle, that there was a possibility of increasing intimacy.

That was not the train of thought she wanted to get into. Thinking about Willow always made her confused. Unwittingly, she remembered every touch, every conversation, every fight. It stirred her but it shouted warning bells so loud she could not ignore them. As per usual when thoughts of Willow took over everything, she forced herself to look at her current surroundings and what she was doing. It didn't reassure her. She was still sitting outside Warren's house with no plan. She might as well be swallowed up by the earth that same moment.

As she slumped her shoulders and began to think about leaving -- she was due at the hospital -- the front gate opened and a late model SUV exited. She didn't see too clearly who was driving but it was a woman, with another shorter, smaller passenger. Not Warren. Debating briefly whether to follow, she decided that since she was about to leave the area, she could follow this car to see what and who it was. If they were heading the same way, it would just be her driving away.

A few minutes later her curiosity was satisfied as the SUV pulled into a park that had a number of softball fields. The car stopped and Tara slapped her head. She should have remembered. Something so basic had slipped her mind. She had banished all thoughts and information on Warren Meers to the great archive of her mind.

Katrina Silber married Warren when she was seventeen, and for whatever reasons the marriage had lasted. Surely Katrina knew of Warren's exploits, and Tara could not fathom the reasons why the woman stayed with him. Money, perhaps. He had something he held over her, also likely. The product of the marriage was a daughter, Janice. As Tara watched the girl in softball uniform join her friends on the field, she thought to herself how quickly the girl had grown since she saw her last. It was unlikely the girl would remember her. A quick mental calculation put her at thirteen. And Tara immediately thought of Dawn and how teenagers changed when they reached that age.

She stuck around in a secluded spot watching the softball game. Janice was good, a good team player who contributed both in terms of running and fielding. She must take after her mother; in Tara's mind there were no redeeming quality about her father that was worth passing to the next generation. She turned her attention to the woman married to a monster. Katrina was older now, and the botox treatment and plastic surgery she had undergone subtly but obviously visible. It was debatable whether she initiated the treatment or whether her husband mandated it. She was a gracious host, and with her minor socialite background she was the perfect trophy wife to hang on the arms of a wannabe industrialist. The fact that the marriage had lasted this long -- over ten years -- Warren could also use it as a propaganda for his success.

After two innings she had had enough. She felt like a stalker, but one without purpose. She still had not worked out the conundrums in her head, and they became an interlocking mass of swirling, raging noises each clamoring for her attention. But when she tried to focus on one it quickly slid away. She was getting a massive headache.

She spent the rest of the day with her mother, who was exhausted from the morning's exertions and a series of tests in the afternoon. Tara spent most of her visit sitting vigil beside the older woman's bed, listening with heavy heart to her mother's labored breathing and intermittent moans of pain. She tried to find Dr Lee but he was at another hospital. There was nothing she could talk to him about anyway. He had not signed off on Mrs Maclay's release so she was set to be there another night.

*****

Four days later Tara exhaled violently as she pushed her mother's wheelchair up the sloping garden pathway leading to their front door. She had had very little sleep or respite from the gnawing demons invading her thoughts constantly. She was visibly pale and, it seemed impossible, had lost even more weight. Even the nurses at the hospital commented on it. It was in their nature to be caring, so Tara accepted their good-natured and well meaning nags with good grace.

Willow had visited once more, and they sat outside in the hospital garden for a little while. There was still so much tension between them. Several times it was on the tip of Tara's tongue to tell Willow about her plight. Each time she clamped down. Her mood was sour, and when Willow tried to inquire about it, she had gone off on Willow. This time they parted angry and when Tara stormed back inside Willow made no attempt to follow. Willow didn't visit again, nor call to ask when Mrs Maclay was due to be released.

"Tara honey, you don't need to do this, I can walk up by myself if you let me lean on you and we do it slowly," Mrs Maclay said. She was very weak, but she had not missed her daughter's increasing physical and mental deterioration. Not for the first time she was furious at how life had ended up for her and her children. Her daughter was literally buckling under the strain, but she refused to talk to anyone about it. It was disheartening.

"It's only a short way, I don't want you to get out of this wheelchair," Tara insisted.

By the time they traversed the short few feet, Tara was in short breaths. She tried hard not to let her mother notice, breathing in long breaths to try to slow down the hammering of her heart and the ache in her lungs. Her hands shook when she opened the front door and she almost dropped the key. Eventually she managed to get her mother, the unwieldy wheelchair and her mother's large overnight bag in through the door. She leaned on it as she closed it, eager for a small amount of support.

She had rearranged the living room so it became her mother's new bedroom. The rented hospital bed cost a great deal, but was absolutely necessary to help her mother get in and out. She arranged basic personal items in the cabinet next to the bed, and had brought in some cut flowers from the yard that morning. All to make the temporary room look less like one designed for an invalid.

"Oh, you got me flowers," Mrs Maclay exclaimed. "You're so sweet." she reached out and touched Tara's cheeks, noting that they were both wet with tears. "Sweetheart, don't cry," she pleaded.

"How can I not," Tara sobbed. "There's so little time!" she shouted in frustration. She had finally asked Dr Lee to tell her mother about his prognosis. It was unfair to her to hide the length of time she was expected to survive. Perhaps it would be the jolt needed and she would fight. Tara didn't know. All she knew was that she could not lie to her mother, and that included keeping truths from her. They also talked about the controversial treatment by the team in Switzerland. With cost being prohibitive, and time running out as Mrs Maclay's health steadily declining, it was obvious that this was not an available choice for them. They held onto each other and cried through the night when finally it became clear to them. This was the beginning of the end.

*****

Things settled to an illusion of normalcy. Tara took a second job at a call center to make ends meet. Her mother thankfully was still covered under the pittance of medical insurance at her company, though she had entered long term disability and her pay had been cut.

Tara didn't give up her job teaching dance at the studio. She needed the escape, the connection with her students and most of all, she needed the music.

It was at the studio that she had the brainwave of her life.

As if by coincidence, she was exiting the premises after the end of her classes when she spied, of all people, Katrina Meers bringing Janice in. Her curiosity piqued, she followed them back inside and busied herself with chores behind the counter to eavesdrop on what they were doing. Who would have thought that Janice was a big fan of Dawn's and wanted to start dance lessons, to be the same as her idol. As it happened Dawn was arriving at the studio and the scene of meeting, greeting and two teenagers screaming excitedly as they began a friendship was the stuff of legends.

Over the next few days Tara watched as Dawn and Janice grew inseparable, doing everything together, pouring over magazines, ooh-ing and aah-ing over boy pop stars. Tara deliberately kept a low profile, making an excuse when Dawn insisted on her meeting her new friend. Watching them, she had images of her and Donny close together as children, not leaving each other's side unnecessarily.

Oh why is life so unfair? Why did he have to get inexplicably kidnapped? No one has ever been able to give us a good reason. Those kidnappers, how do they pick their targets? It's not like he was rich -- oh fuck.

She reeled as the thought came to her mind, a dark, dark thought. She felt blackness wash over her, and shruggled to cast it off.

At all cost, she remembered promising herself.

Tara the good, dutiful teacher receded into the background. Time for Tara the Enabler to take over.

She studied the two girls with renewed interest, for a different purpose now. It was a no brainer to pick Janice. She smirked evilly at the thought of ransoming Warren. Anything to hurt him was good, in her new universe.

It was surprisingly easy to get back into the swing of things. Old contacts had mostly faded, but there were a few loyalists who were willing to help. She dug up old friends, ones she couldn't call for help in cash when needed, these were people who walked more comfortably in the dark, who operated in the underbelly of society. People she never thought she would seek out again. She was careful, never telling the whole plan to anyone. It took surprisingly little time to assemble a small team of two -- a driver and a weapons person. She did most of the planning and reconnoitre herself, observing Janice's routine through school, dance lessons and softball matches. She gained access temporarily to an abandoned warehouse at the edge of town for a hideout. It was all or nothing. She wasn't afraid of getting caught, she couldn't afford that fear.

And so only one week after Warren rejected Tara's plea for help, she made plans to kidnap his teenage daughter.

*****

It was her final day of observation before going ahead with the deed. She sat in her car at her customary position outside the Meers mansion. Janice was at school, and would be home in less than 20 minutes. One thing Tara had to praise Katrina about, was how organized she scheduled her daughter's day. It was a godsend for Tara, already not having sufficient time.

It was Wednesday, so it was softball. Janice would return home, change and Katrina would drive them over to the softball fields. Tara observed that sometimes the teenager would be munching on a snack as they left, so there wasn't much time between returning home and having to head out.

The softball fields were situated at an artificial green park -- everything in Las Vegas that was green or had vegetation was artificially planted -- that was in a secluded area. The drive to the park passed through some of the most sparsely occupied parts of the city. At a blind curve away from the sight of nearby houses, Tara had planned to place a distraction and stop Katrina's car. She and her accomplices would overpower them and hustle the teenager in a nondescript van. It would take just a few seconds.

She was sure the girl would be frightened and possibly scream. Reluctantly she included in her planning a mild anesthetic to sedate the girl. Being in and out of hospital made it easy to lift the syringe and drug from the supplies room. Her mother had grown worse, and was back in hospital. Tara's heart tightened at the thought that she might never come home again. It made her resolve to go ahead with the kidnapping even stronger.

A tap on her window made her jump. Her heart sank when she saw Warren. Shit. Shit shit shit.

She was about to start her car and drive away when he yanked the passenger door open and next she knew he was inside her car. She tried to glance at his suit to see if he was armed, she didn't see the tell tale bulge but he could be wearing the holster elsewhere. Or had a switchblade in his pocket. Or some other heinous implement on him.

She didn't say anything. Let him talk first.

And he did.

"What the fuck do you think you are doing?" he demanded. "You think I'm stupid? You've been sitting out here for days. I thought I told you to fuck off."

She continued to stay silent. She couldn't admit to anything. She didn't know how much he knew, or if he guessed what she was up to. Her safest course of action was not to say anything.

"Oh, the silent treatment. Let's see how righteous and silent you are when I call the police," he threatened.

"It's a free street, I can sit in my car anywhere I want," she muttered.

He stopped in the act of taking out his cell phone. "She speaks! Hallelujah!" he said mockingly. "Now tell me what you are doing here before I break every pretty bone in your pretty body."

She could tell he meant it. Still, they were in an enclosed car, she had the ignition key. He could do very little if she drove away. "Look, I was just wanting to speak to you. Beg you to change your mind," she concocted a reason for her stalking his house.

He snorted. "You'd be camped out outside my office if you really were looking for that. Watching my wife and daughter? That's not your reason. What is it?" he yelled.

Tara sighed, her brain working furiously. Would the plan still be feasible now that he was aware of her presence? Or should she up the timetable to today, so as not to lose time?

"Please get out of my car, Warren. I'll go away and never come back. You'll never have to see me again," she said.

He suddenly reached out and gripped Tara's arm tightly. So tightly that she cried out in pain. She didn't have time to squirm out of his way. "I'm not asking you twice. What's going on?" he squeezed. "Tell me!" he screamed in outrage.

She was crying with the pain now, but she knew she couldn't let him know anything.

He laughed loudly. "Okay, if you won't tell me. Let me spell it out for you. You've been ogling and following my daughter. And here I thought I was the pervert, at least I stayed away from under-aged girls."

Tara was outraged at the accusation. "That's not true!" she protested.

Warren laughed again. "Of course it's not true. you may be a disgusting dyke, but you're too goody two shoes. No, the real reason you're pinning your eyes on my daughter is you're trying to do the same to her as what I did to your brother," he sniggered.

The truth suddenly dawned on Tara. "What? you were behind..." she could no longer continue. The world as she knew it had definitely fallen apart.

"Yeah. Young guy like Donny should really stay away from older women. Especially married older women. And especially if she's married to powerful, jealous men," Warren mused.

What he was suggesting was totally preposterous in Tara's books. "I don't believe you. You're saying that Donny and, and your wife?" Despite her impending insanity, she had the wherewithal to ask the obvious question. "It's ridiculous."

"SILENCE! I will not hear of it again. He got what he deserved. As for her, I made sure she never look at another man again," he shouted.

Tara was growing more and more frightened by the second. May be she should take her chances, start the car and drive off. May be it would surprise him enough for her to push him out.

Warren continued his mock musing. "You know something else, Tara? You should never trust short people and geeks," he said. Tara started having a sinking feeling again. "And here you were, thinking that Jonathan and Andrew are working for you," he laughed evilly. Jonathan and Andrew were the two people she hired for her plan. Now it became painfully obvious why they were so willing to work with her. They accepted her terms readily, almost too readily. At the time she thought it was because they were out of work. How wrong she was.

Some master criminal. She was reminded painfully that she was the enabler, not the planner. So transparent.

What would he do now? That he was sitting in her car, all reasonable like, was frightening. The Warren Meers she knew would probably have put a bullet in her head already for just thinking of harming his daughter. Wisely she decided not to speculate further or to open her mouth more. She knew begging for her life would fall on his deaf ears, she only hoped that he made it quick. Her heart cried out for her mother, who would most likely not survive another tragedy like this. As for Willow...she tried hard not to think of Willow, of not seeing her, hearing her, touching her. They had not reconnected after their fight, she knew Willow was waiting for her to make the next move. She had thought that if she did nothing, eventually Willow would fade out of her life. That thought, even more so than the thought of Warren hurting her, was even more hurtful.

Warren continued, "since you've done so much of the work already, it seems to be a waste to abandon the plan, no?" he said, as if marveling at his cleverness.

"You want me to continue with--" she asked stupidly. "What for?"

"Oh no, I have another target," he said smugly. "And before you get on your high horse and say no, let me remind you that I have evidence that you planned to kidnap my daughter. Hmm, I wonder what the sentence is for conspiracy to perform a felony."

"You have nothing," she tried blustering.

In response, he took out a small digital voice recorder and replayed part of a conversation she had with Jonathan and Andrew. It was incriminatory but still circumstantial, perhaps in the hands of the right lawyer she could argue her case.

His next words scuppered her hope. "Don't forget I have every single judge in the city in my pocket. These judge types, you can't believe how many vices they have. If not gambling it's whores, makes my life so easy," he said.

"So if it's not not daughter--" she asked.

"It's someone you have access to. I want Dawn Summers."

*****
[br]

[whirlwindcharmer]

jeez I know Tara is desperate and not thinking straight (no pun intended), but kidnapping was never the answer, and now she's gotten herself into an even bigger mess, stupid Warren i hope he gets what he deserves. My first thought is Dawn is a cop's sister - bad idea, abort lol and Tara can't help her mother from jail. Can't wait for the next update.

[Zampsa1975]

Yay for good update-y goodness... Tara sure is in a very big and ugly mess...

[Alcy]

Grr, I’ve missed two chapters. Sorry Watty!

Part 8
This chapter was great for the reason that we finally find out just what the deal is with Tara and Willow. Definitely not all hugs and puppies here folks! And we have an answer why:

Ever since the day that she had to follow Willow to the morgue to identify her brother, her resentment against life's injustice had amalgamated and become personified into a smart, earnest redhead.

Willow is someone tangible to blame…even if that blame is entirely misplaced. Despite the obvious feelings that she comes to have for Willow, there’s a mental block inside her that will never allow her to let her guard down long enough for her to see what could be. Three years is a long time, I can’t believe how patient Willow has been!

"Coffee is not food. Except if it's mocha, then the chocolate just about makes it sustenance," Willow said with a straight face.

Willow, of course, is just as cute and adorable as ever. We, the readers, know just how good Willow would be for Tara. It’s easy to get angry at this character and just will her to give Willow a chance dammit!

"Something has happened. Something did happen," Willow countered.

But there’s a wee hint of smoochies in the past? Flashback to that scene please?
If only Tara would tell Willow what was going on, she’s have someone else to lean on.

Part 9
It would indeed be humbling for someone as strong and independent as Tara to ask for money. She’s tried everything but it’s a lot of cash and who has that kind of money?
What she does next is a true sign of just how desperate she is. That she would turn to the person who disgusts her the most, prepared to do anything he wants.

She guessed that in some deep recess of her soul, she was capable of being very dark herself.

Ah, here we have a small acknowledgement of the depths to which she is willing to go. A portent of where she will end up going and what she does to get there.
But Warren is just Evil with a capital ‘E.’ I’m glad he refuses her, even if he does it only because he knows she doesn’t want him. Having her plead for him to help her was heartbreaking. He’s a scumbag and she shouldn’t be reduced to that level in front of him. Gripping stuff!

And on to the latest chapter:

Part 10
Tara is barely existing at this point. Following her scumbag ex-employer around town for no good reason, not eating…just running herself further and further into the ground. And the portent hinted at in the earlier chapter comes to pass:

And so only one week after Warren rejected Tara's plea for help, she made plans to kidnap his teenage daughter.

Wow, scary stuff! Normal, healthy, sane Tara would have never contemplated drawing an innocent child into her desperation. Warren interrupts her before she can go to that depth with the mother of all revelations!

No, the real reason you're pinning your eyes on my daughter is you're trying to do the same to her as what I did to your brother," he sniggered.

And Tara’s not out of the kidnapping business. She’s in a big pile of steaming shit and we wonder what she can possibly do to get herself out of it.

I’m hooked, can’t wait to find out what happens next!

[watty]

Title: White Screams
Author: watson (hiddenwatson [at] yahoo [dot] com)
Distribution: Please let me know first
Rating: R
Disclaimer: BtVS characters, concepts and dialog belong to Mutant Enemy, Fox, The WB, UPN and others.
Summary: Contemporary AU. Who are we? Who can we trust when we can't even trust ourselves?
Notes 1: written for nanowrimo 2008 -- since it was written quickly with little time for extensive research, I have taken liberties with some of the factual and scientific stuff. I could have completed the research in the editing process, but I thought it might be fun to show some of the rawness of the writing under time pressure. Plus, well, I'm lazy.
Notes 2: this story is influenced by the psychological thriller Unknown. The chronology is not completely linear, I hope it doesn't become too confusing.


Part 11 -- The Kidnapping

Noon today

"It's all your fault."

"What the hell do you mean, it's all my fault? Whose idea was it in the first place?"

"She was right there!"

"You couldn't have clubbed her over the head or something?"

"Are you kidding? You whack someone on the head, they might die!"

"Then why did you have to take her with us? What the hell are we gonna do with her? It's not a buy one get one free deal at Radioshack! Look what happened to them!"

"Me? We are so gonna get killed. What do we tell Tara?"

"Nothing."

"We can't tell her nothing. She's got eyes. She'll see."

"Well you should have thought about it before you bundled her in here with the girl."

"Fuck."

"Yeah, fuck."

*****

Tara yanked opened the driver door of the van and climbed in. She barely took one look at her two accomplices before she pushed the ignition key of the van. "Keep your masks on," she directed. She was on an adrenalin high, and didn't trust herself to speak too much. She was in the car that blocked the road so that Dawn's vehicle had to swerve into the secluded lay-by. And then when she tried to move her car, so as not to block other traffic, the old rental would not start. She swore it was whoever it was up there sending her a karma message. Brushing that thought aside, she finally got the car started and moved off. By then Jonathan and Andrew had done what they were supposed to do, and she had no part in it. She had to trust that the two of them did it right. The road was narrow and full of bends, so she could only afford a brief glance at the back of the van. It was dark and her view was partially obscured by the boys, but the inert bundle she saw covered with a rough gray blanket meant that they had Dawn.

The drive to the abandoned warehouse she had identified earlier took an hour, and it was all in silence. Jonathan and Andrew glared at each other as if waging a silent war of words. Tara saw nothing of that, focusing her energy on driving, keeping to the speed limit and with half an eye out for trouble. She would not put it past Warren to double cross them in some way and have them arrested so that he could be a community hero.

She knew that there was no way that she could have refused Warren. She was guilty of plotting to kidnap his daughter, and although the anecdotal recorded conversation between her and the boys was probably not sufficient to bring a conviction, she was sure that Warren could pay off one of the vast number of judges and law enforcement personnel to make it stick. At least make her life miserable by drawing out the process. She went along with his scheme, not altogether unwillingly. As a gesture of supreme goodwill, as he phrased it, he even agreed to cover her mother's medical expenses. So much for doing anything, at any cost. Tara didn't want to dwell on whether she would ever regret her actions, at this point she had no ethics left.

That she did regret, was that Dawn was the victim in this. Her personal friendship with the girl made her doubly determined that no harm would come to the innocent teen. If it came out that she was involved, she knew no one would forgive her. Not Buffy, not Mrs Summers, not her own mother, and definitely not Willow. Buffy and Willow would likely go through all channels and make sure she was punished to the maximum extent under the law. She didn't care. She was at a point where her opinion of herself had dropped to rock bottom that she even believed that she deserved to be punished and ostracized by her friends forever. Still, ensuring her mother's health was above everything. She made Warren promise that if the operation went according to plan, and even if Tara got into trouble, that he would continue helping her mother through her illness. In turn, Tara gave her word that she would never implicate him. He knew her well enough to trust her word; but she made him swear on his daughter's life that he would keep his. There was a surreal sense of thieves' honor in that. She hoped he understood. He probably watched enough mobster movies to have a rough idea.

She slowed the van as she approached the abandoned warehouse, coming to a complete stop a few yards from the entrance. If anyone was following her, they would have to either stop also, in which case she would spot them immediately; or they would have to drive on and pass her van. They would not be able to stop somewhere further along the road and turn back. One of the reasons she picked this building was that it was situated along a straight road with nothing at the sides. There were no other buildings in the immediate vicinity -- only derelict plots and another warehouse that had partially burned to the ground. It was far enough out of town, almost at the desert, that traffic was plenty scarce. There was no cover for any following vehicle or person.

Satisfied that there were no threats in the area, she pulled out into the road again and drove up to the side entrance of the abandoned warehouse. The main doors were still in place, but the hinges had gotten stuck and the metal doors too heavy to move. Tara thought they might crumble to pieces if anyone managed to move them. The side door was unlocked when she found the place, she had since installed a bolt and an electronic numerical lock for security. She unlocked the door by punching in a series of passcodes then turned her attention to the van and its occupants. Frowning that her accomplices had not exited when she did, she muttered a curse and wrestled with the side door of the van.

It opened just as she was pulling at it. Andrew and Jonathan were obviously arguing, she had never known two grown men bicker so much -- well, except if they were a couple -- and frankly she was tired of it. The tone of their argument was less frivolous than usual, even sounding urgent.

"What's going on?" she demanded.

They clammed up as if by unspoken agreement. More curious and angry now, she noticed that they were trying to shield their bodies so that she couldn't see into the van interior. Something was wrong. With a hard stare, she pushed at the nearer of the two, Jonathan she believed, and climbed in. Pulling at the large gray blanket that had covered what she presumed to be an unconscious Dawn, her jaw dropped as she took in who was actually laying prone on the hard floor of the vehicle.

"Uh," Andrew made a gurgling noise.

"What the freck?" she demanded.

"She, she was with the girl. Wouldn't give up, was fighting us like a maniac," Andrew started to explain.

"Yeah, so this idiot decides to give them both a shot and bring her with the girl," Jonathan said in disgust.

Willow. The two clowns brought Willow, together with Dawn. The two were tied up and unconscious. There was an ugly gash in Willow's forehead. Tara's heart cried out. She wanted to scream out. Or hit someone.

What was the term for assaulting and kidnapping a police officer?

And one she had feelings for?

"You couldn't have just left her in their car?" she asked.

"It happened so quickly, we weren't thinking," Andrew tried to explain.

"No, you weren't thinking. I had nothing to do with it," Jonathan pouted.

Tara made a decision. It complicated matters, and she had to somehow keep the information from Warren. "Christ, we don't have time to drive her back and dump her in her car. And she'll die of heatstroke or exposure if we leave her in the van or out there in the desert. Bring them both inside," she instructed. "Take the girl first, both of you."

When the boys were busy transporting Dawn, she patted Willow down for weapons. She couldn't do it in front of the boys, because it would signal that she knew Willow was a cop. She didn't find a gun, but she took Willow's ID and wallet so that she could not be identified. She pocketed the ID and wallet and jumped out of the van to wait for the boys' return.

In short order they had their prisoners in the storage room she had designated as the holding area. The warehouse was originally a chemical storage facility, she thought, as they had to move several heavy tanks to accommodate Willow, the additional prisoner. Throughout, neither Willow nor Dawn stirred, and Tara was relieved. She checked on their breathing and pulse after they had them tied up in chairs, they were a bit short but seemed to not to have been harmed.

"Alright, you two stand guard. I'm going to the office to call Warren, tell him we're in place," she said.

Jonathan nodded to Willow. "What about her? Are we telling him about her?" he asked.

"He'll annihilate us," Andrew interjected, obviously frightened. He obviously hadn't thought anything through when he pushed Willow together with Dawn into the van. Tara sighed. He probably saw all the blood pouring from her head and all rational thought escaped him. Andrew was afraid of many things in life, she wondered how he was ever going to grow up.

Tara considered her options. "You know he will be very pissed at us for the addition to our party," she said. At the boys' exasperated nods she continued, "We don't tell him yet. He has so many other things to worry about now. We'll cross that bridge when we get there, he'll know what to do." One thing she realized, was the extent of the two boys' hero worship of Warren. It was very transparent. In Jonathan's case it was admiration of Warren's power, wealth and ability to manipulate anyone and everyone. In Andrew's case it was simple lust. If she said they could trust him, they wouldn't question her. This also placed her in their good books, to give the illusion of her respect of their leader. No use rattling the troops just yet.

"Yes, yes," they agreed without hesitation.

"Make sure you have your masks on at all times," she reminded them.

Once in the office she opened the bottom drawer of an old metal filing cabinet and placed Willow's ID and wallet in a dusty old leather folder. This she hid underneath a random stack of papers, carefully arranged to be messy and untouched for years. She patted her pockets, making sure they were empty. It provided a good cover in case they were caught. It would take the police some time to identify them if they had nothing on their person. The van's keys were still in the ignition.

Now she really had to think about what to do with Willow. If Warren found out, and he would as soon as he returned to the warehouse, he wouldn't hesitate to get rid of her. He could ill afford any stray loose ends. The only saving grace was that Tara was sure he knew Willow was a cop. If he knew so much about Tara's life, and she was now sure he had her followed, he would know about Willow. If only she could persuade him that harming a police officer would not even give him immunity regardless of how many crooked people he had in his pocket. May be he would agree to just leave her there in the warehouse. And then Tara would tip the authorities anonymously.

What a day.

*****

Willow fought against the fog that was in her brain. She tried to open her eyes but they seemed to be superglued tightly shut, no amount of willpower could budge them. She heard a moan from behind her and then realized it came from her. The sound from the back of her throat was like the rumble of a broken down train in the night.

Her head hurt. Oh boy, did it hurt. Vaguely she remembered the gash forming when she hit her head on something. What? she struggled to remember. She remembered the blood dripping into her eyes, but by then she was unable to wipe it with her hands. Why? she remembered the screech of tires as she maneuvered the car pass the obstacle. When? Everything was so unclear, and mixed with so much pain.

"--trust him. He'll take care of us."

She heard voices. From nearby. To her left and slightly ahead. Male, in his twenties. Her cop's instincts and training came through again, and she wanted to smile but her facial muscles hurt too much for even a millimeter of movement.

"I wish I were more like him," a second voice rang out. Also male, in his twenties. More whiny than the first one. From approximately the same location. They were probably having the conversation next to each other. From the way the voices sounded, the lack of ambient or external noises, and lack of general disorientation and movement, she concluded that she was indoors. She was not good enough yet to tell the size of the room or other factors.

"Someone has a crush," the first voice said mockingly, a little sing song accompanying the good-natured ribbing.

Then some mumbling that Willow could not catch.

By then her arms were screaming out in pain. Through careful exploration and slow movements, she quickly concluded that she was tied, her arms twisted awkwardly, hence the pain. The rope around her wrists wound haphazardly so that each movement tightened it further. She tried moving other parts of her body. Her feet were bound too, though there was some leeway for which she was grateful.

She was finally able to open her eyes. But she could see nothing. Blindfolded. Some light filtered through the cloth, but just barely. She closed her eyes again, there was no point to keeping them open. Closing them brought a very slight relief to the headache she was experiencing. The pain from coming from both inside her head and outside. Inside was a throbbing that was like the techno beat of a nightclub, taking turns hammering the top of her head, then the side, then the back. She could also feel a different type of pain above her right eye. The type that went with an injury. The cut felt deep, and she was sure she had been bleeding. Hopefully the scab had formed and the bleeding stopped by now.

Bits of what happened came trickling back. She was driving Dawn. A car was parked horizontally across the road, the driver slumped over the steering wheel. She pulled into the small area next to the road to avoid the obstacle and to offer help to the driver. She told Dawn to stay put. When she opened her car door she was overpowered by an unknown assailant in a ski mask. Another assailant was roughly pulling Dawn out of her car. Dawn was screaming. She struggled against her assailant, managing to jam her elbow against his side. She heard him grunt in surprise, then he shoved her against the car. She was too close to avoid the collision, last thing she remembered was hitting her head against the sharp corner of the car door, Dawn's shrill screams filling her ears.

Dawn!

Where was the girl? Was she also tied and blindfolded where Willow was? What happened? Was the other car a distraction? Some cop she was, to be overpowered by just one person. She should hold her own well against just one person, male or female.

There was no sense in thinking of things outside her control. She strained her ears, trying to check if the two men were still in the room. All she could hear was her own panting and the drumbeat of her heart. She figured out that she was in a sitting position, with her arms tied across the back of the chair and her feet bound to the legs. It felt like a movable chair, rather than a heavy armchair. There was potential there. She experimented with arm and shoulder movement. If she ignored the pounding pain in her head, she could move her shoulders quite a bit. With that good news, she bent her neck and worked the blindfold partially off with her shoulder. Not enough to see through, but if she lifted her head there was a small gap at the bottom she could see her surroundings. As she suspected she was indoors and looking in the direction of the two men, she could just make out two indistinct shapes. Difficult to see more due to her restricted movement and the placement of the blindfold.

Taking a chance, she hopped a little, trying to make as little noise as possible. It proved too difficult without drawing attention to herself. She turned her focus on the ties around her hands. Though the rope was biting hard into her wrists, the knots were actually not impossibly tight. She patiently and very slowly worked them off, grateful for anti-terrorism training that her captain made the entire squad attend. Having slender and flexible wrists helped somewhat too.

It took her hours, or so it felt like. It was probably close to half an hour, even 20 minutes. Her guards weren't doing such a good job, she could hear them arguing, or talking about the latest video games, or doing nothing at all. They never came near her to check on her. A blessing in disguise, she concluded. She bit her lips hard in reaction to the pain as she wrestled her hand out of the last tangled bond. Once her hand was free, her fingers slipped through with ease. Carefully moving to avoid sudden movement, she loosened the rope on her other hand. She kept them in place, behind the back of the chair and rubbed her chafed hands in relief. After a few seconds of rest, and feeling the blood flow through her hands again, she slowly brought one hand up to her face, keeping it close to her body and moving an inch or so at a time. She didn't remove the blindfold altogether, as it would be suspicious. She levered it up so that she could see her surroundings clearly, but from a distance hopefully it still looked like she had the blindfold on.

Moving her head infinitesimally, she took in each aspect of the room. No windows. A large store room of some kind, the type found at the back of a store, or in a warehouse in an industrial complex. No sign of recent use, the furniture was old, some even broken. There were a bank of heavy cylinders against one of the walls, and warning posters suggest that it was a chemical facility at some point. It was obvious to her now that it was no longer in active use. She gasped softly as she saw Dawn, trussed up and blindfolded as she was in a chair a few feet from her. Too far away to reach, or to call to her. Besides, the girl was still unconscious. A pin prick at her neck suggested to her that they were drugged.

Carefully she turned her attention to her two captors, in the middle of looking through what looked like a comic book. What inept idiots. As she suspected from their voices, young, in their twenties. May be even mid- to late twenties, around her age. One taller, the other extraordinarily short. With their ski masks on, she couldn't tell anything further. It was the shorter one who had the dominant personality though, the taller one deferring to him on several occasions.

Willow brought her hands back to the tied position behind her chair and plotted her next step. She had to assume that the two captors were armed, even though she could see no weapons around them. They were a good ten, twelve feet away, ruling out any surprise attack. Besides, her feet were still tied to the chair, making any surprise impossible. She would have to bide her time, try to loosen her feet at some point. She figured there were other accomplices elsewhere; those two were bottom of the pile of whatever criminal outfit responsible for holding Dawn and her, Willow could not imagine either being the leader or planner in such activities.

Her chance came sooner than she thought. The short one stood up and stretched himself.

"I gotta take a leak," he declared.

"Oh, now you've done it, cuz I need to too," the taller one said. "Let's go."

"Are you sure you're not a girl inside your boxers? I'll go, then you go after me," the short one said.

"What's wrong with going together?" the taller one argued.

Willow stilled, closing her eyes as the short one nodded in her direction. "Because one of us needs to stay here and guard them, you dipshit. We're not here on vacation, there's stuff to be done," he said.

"But I gotta go. And look a them, they're both out like sleeping beauties. Didn't she say they should be out for a couple of hours at least?" the taller one insisted.

"No. Okay, you go first, then I go," the short one said in frustration.

"No. either both of us go, or we both don't go," the tall one insisted.

Willow wanted to shout out to them just go already, it was getting petty.

With a dramatic sigh the short one took off. "Do whatever you want, dude," he declared.

With one last look at her, the taller captor ran after his companion.

Willow wasted no time in loosening up the ties on her feet. She yanked off her blindfold and gathered the rope in her hand. As she ran the few steps towards the door she was already eyeing the room for possible weapons.

There was a gas cylinder at the side of the door, larger than the usual fire extinguisher. She didn't care if it was empty or full, even empty the container had enough weight for her purposes. She hefted it in her hands, grinning at the satisfying weight. She knew the men would return quickly, and took up a position immediately next to the entrance.

She started counting. It was her usual method in a stake out, to keep her mind focused. Her head was still spinning but counting gave her focus. She was barely at twenty when she heard footsteps approaching. Two sets, good. They were coming back.

As soon as the door opened she shoved the metal cylinder hard at the first person who entered. He gave a surprised grunt and fell back against his associate. Willow instinctively threw the cylinder in his direction, blindly hitting her target again. She was sure she hit him hard enough to hurt a great deal, hopefully it knocked him out too.

Any second now, his associate would be at her. Before he could scramble over the prone body, Willow loosened the rope she had wrapped around her hand and whipped at him. Her luck ran out as he grabbed a hold of the rope and pulled back at her. She fell against him, kicking and lashing out. They struggled, fighting evenly. Willow did not even have time to figure out which of the two captors it was, all she wanted was to get an upper hand in the fight. Although small, she was agile and well trained. He grabbed her hair; she pulled off his ski mask to reveal a pudgy Caucasian male, mid-twenties with dark hair and brown eyes. These details embedded in her brain automatically, and didn't detract from the fight at hand. They threw punches and blocks for a few rounds before she managed a particularly vicious kick that fell him. As he rolled away, she followed up with another kick in his kidney. He grunted in pain but managed to push her away, making her lose her footing. She staggered backwards and managed not to fall over completely. When she righted herself they were both standing, panting at each other.

Willow froze, fear creeping up her spine. He had a gun in his hand.

"What's going on?" The door banged open and an authoritative voice demanded. "Jonathan, shit! You have a gun."

Willow froze again. This captor didn't have a ski mask on, and she could see clearly who it was.

Tara.

Tara stared at Willow, then gasped in realization as she gazed down at the ski mask she held in her hand.

Before anyone could say anything, Jonathan shouted something incomprehensible and aimed his gun at Willow.

Through years of training and instinct, Willow dived. The bullet grazed her arm and she cried out. It didn't stop her, she thundered towards Jonathan and tackled him with a full body blow.

She grappled with him, grabbing his gun arm and forcing the gun away from her body. A barrage of shots rang out, she jerked her body in subconscious response to being shot, but felt no pain.

Vaguely she registered that the ping of the bullets hitting the large cylindrical canisters along the wall, and the hiss of gas escaping.

Then a sweet smell and everything went black.

*****
[br]

[Zampsa1975]

Yay for great update-y goodness... Tara sure is in a deep shit.... I hope Willow is okay...

[watty]

Title: White Screams
Author: watson (hiddenwatson [at] yahoo [dot] com)
Distribution: Please let me know first
Rating: R
Disclaimer: BtVS characters, concepts and dialog belong to Mutant Enemy, Fox, The WB, UPN and others.
Summary: Contemporary AU. Who are we? Who can we trust when we can't even trust ourselves?
Notes 1: written for nanowrimo 2008 -- since it was written quickly with little time for extensive research, I have taken liberties with some of the factual and scientific stuff. I could have completed the research in the editing process, but I thought it might be fun to show some of the rawness of the writing under time pressure. Plus, well, I'm lazy.
Notes 2: this story is influenced by the psychological thriller Unknown. The chronology is not completely linear, I hope it doesn't become too confusing.


Part 12 -- One of us is the victim; the other a kidnapper
Notes: I suppose you can say that was 11 chapters of prologue

Present day, abandoned warehouse, now

I watched her wake up. The sound that first alerted me that there were other people in the building brought me back, to wherever here was, to a plain storage room. I was surprised, and intensely frightened at the scene that greeted me when I tiptoed inside.

There were signs of a struggle. Chairs and crates were overturned. Several metal cylinders were lying haphazardly on the floor. Storage cabinets were out of place.

I stopped short and studied the human occupants with increasing dread. I did not recognize any of them. That discovery was no longer surprising, but still disturbing. In the few minutes since I woke up, I'd come to the conclusion that I had been infected with amnesia, or been transported into some weird bizzaro alternate universe where I had absolutely no memory whatsoever of anything. I frivolously thought that perhaps it was a game of some sort, a realistic enactment of some adventure or other. Or it was a reality tv program. Then my headache returned and I concluded that no corporation would take the medical risk of causing innocent people to lose their memories for the sake of a game or a tv program.

There were four people, all in various form of unconsciousness and even injury. Immediately inside the door was a man in a ski mask, wearing a Pink Floyd Dark Side of the Moon t-shirt, torn jeans and scruffy Adidas sneakers. He was trapped underneath a gas cylinder a bit larger than a large fire extinguisher. It looked like someone threw it at him, may be they were having a fight. I wasn't sure.

In the middle of the room was a dark-haired man, quite short and young looking. He was wearing a polo shirt, khaki pants and similar Adidas sneakers as the other person. I gasped as I saw blood oozing out from a wound in his shoulder. I was too scared to go near him. I stared at him for the longest time, watching his chest rise up and down. At least he was alive and breathing. I knew that to be a good citizen I should be helping him with his injury. I wasn't sure if I knew how. I watched in fascination as the blood circle grew slowly, but I couldn't bring myself to go near him.

Tied up in a plain wooden chair was a young girl, may be thirteen or fourteen. Her long brown hair was in disarray, and she was slumped forwards, straining against the rope that was wound tightly across her torso and in a tangle around her arms. Her feet were also bound tightly to the chair. Unlike with the injured man, my instincts were to help the young girl. I took one step forward, and stopped myself. Did I want to help her because there was a flicker of recognition, or was it general wanting to help a helpless child? Upon visual inspection, she didn't look hurt. I decided to leave her be for a moment.

Looking at the fourth person in the room gave me a completely different reaction to the other three. I felt a tug of recognition just beyond my consciousness as I drank in her features. A red-headed young woman, in her early to mid-twenties. Wearing a yellow t-shirt, green casual pants and orange sneakers. A part of me grinned at the total lack of color coordination, yet the combination seemed to fit well on her. She was lying face down on the floor with her head twisted to one side. I couldn't see any visible injury aside from a gash on her forehead. The bleeding had stopped so I wasn't faced with the dilemma of whether to help her.

While I was watching, she groaned faintly. I recalled my own reaction when I woke up and wondered if she was feeling the same. The gash on her forehead would give her a mother of a headache, if other things did not. I retreated back toward the bathroom, hiding in the shadows of the lockers just outside. It gave me a view of both the storage area, the bathroom and the woman.

I watched her wake up. The first thing she did was to bring her hand to her head, and she moaned again in obvious pain. I watched as she struggled to get to her feet, holding back my natural reaction to reach out when she fell a couple of times before finally able to stand up. She swayed, and then her eyes widened as she retched. I watched her look around the storage area and then ran out toward me. She pushed open the bathroom door with a loud bang and I heard her throw up. This was so familiar, exactly what I did when I woke up. Was she going through the same reactions as I did? Would she splash water on her face, wash out her mouth and then look at the mirror? What would she see? Would she recognize her own reflection?

A muffled scream a few minutes later was the answer. Wearily I pushed myself away from my hiding place, my feet automatically bringing me to the bathroom. I placed my hand on the door, hesitated for one second, then pushed it open quietly.

She was staring in disbelief at her reflection in the mirror. Her face had gone a deathly white, in stark contrast to the redness of her eyes.

"You don't know who you are. You don't know where you are and what you are doing here. All you feel is panic and the uncontrollable urge to go crazy. Screaming helps," I said quietly. "A little."

She jumped at my voice and looked panicked like a wild, untamed animal. Whirling around and backing up against the sinks, she held out a finger in warning. "Don't come any closer. I'm warning you," she said, her voice unsteady.

"Don't worry, we are in the same boat. I can't remember who I am either. I woke up, and I was sick, and then I'm lost," I said, trying to sound unthreatening.

"Who are you?" she mumbled.

I sighed. "Did you hear what I just said? I can't remember my name. That's why you're freaked out, am I right? You looked into the mirror," I nodded at the cracked dirty mirror on the bathroom door, "And you had no idea who is staring back at you."

"You say it happened to you too?" she asked. At my nod of agreement she made a sickening face and turned back to her reflection. "This is unreal. Are you sure you don't know what's going on?" she asked again.

I laughed. "Are you always this annoying? Oh wait, don't answer that," I paused, then tried to reassure her but my words came out bitter. "Yes, I'm sure. I have the blackout spells and the giant headache to show for it."

"Have you looked around? Tried to figure out where we are?" she suggested, all business.

"Not really, only the big room where you woke up. I'm sure the others will be coming to soon," I said.

"The others?" she exclaimed.

In answer I beckoned to her to follow me. She was as surprised as I was when she saw the other three people unconscious in the large storage area. I watched as her eyes roamed over the man in the ski mask, the dark haired man with the injury -- his bleeding seemed to have abated, to my relief -- and the young girl tied up in the chair. I watched as she tried to make sense of a situation that was a complete blank, and I watched as she visibly suppressed another urge to throw up.

We retreated to the office, neither of us in any state to do any more exploration.

I sat at the desk while she paced. She was the type to pace while she thought, I was certain. I thought it was odd how well I seemed to know her and her personality. Our automatic familiarity, together with the unmistakable affinity I felt toward her, it all suggested that we knew each other outside.

"What are your theories? Do you have any?" she stopped her pacing and asked me directly.

I thought about it. "I think there's been a kidnapping. The young girl in the chair, she's probably the victim. Or one of the victims. you saw the other chair with the loose ropes?" She nodded. I was impressed at her powers of observation. "So there was another victim, probably. And probably it's you, me, or the short guy with the polo shirt," I postulated.

"Not the other guy?" she asked.

"I suppose he could be too. But he's the one in the ski mask and, well, in most books and films about good guys and bad guys, the good guys don't normally wear ski masks," I said sheepishly.

"Yeah, that's probably true. Then again, a part of me is warning me not to take anything at face value," she said.

"The other guy, in the polo shirt. you think he's the victim or the kidnapper?" I asked.

"No clue. They have the same shoes on, but that could be a coincidence," she said. "Ah, hell. There's no such thing as a coincidence."

"That leaves you and me," I said plainly. A thought, a very bad thought, was crystallizing in my mind. I tried to push it away but it grew and grew until I could no longer ignore it.

"One of us is the victim; the other a kidnapper," she said, exactly the thoughts in my mind.

We looked at each other, cold realization snapping in place.

Someone screamed.

*****
[br]

[Zampsa1975]

Yay for great update-y goodness... So both have amnesia... I kinda hope that they find Willow's badge and start to sort out the mess...

[LittleBit]

This is a really good story!!! Please keep the updates coming!

[watty]

Title: White Screams
Author: watson (hiddenwatson [at] yahoo [dot] com)
Distribution: Please let me know first
Rating: R
Disclaimer: BtVS characters, concepts and dialog belong to Mutant Enemy, Fox, The WB, UPN and others.
Summary: Contemporary AU. Who are we? Who can we trust when we can't even trust ourselves?
Notes 1: written for nanowrimo 2008 -- since it was written quickly with little time for extensive research, I have taken liberties with some of the factual and scientific stuff. I could have completed the research in the editing process, but I thought it might be fun to show some of the rawness of the writing under time pressure. Plus, well, I'm lazy.
Notes 2: this story is influenced by the psychological thriller Unknown. The chronology is not completely linear, I hope it doesn't become too confusing.


Part 13 -- Who is the bad guy? Who is the good guy?

Present day, abandoned warehouse, now

"Was that--?"

"Yeah, from the room."

We rushed as one out of the office, toward the sound of incessant screaming.

We found the young girl sobbing uncontrollably, screaming at the top of her lungs.

My new comrade reached her first, and wrapped her arms around the frightened girl.

"Help me!" the girl continued screaming as she struggled against her bonds.

The redhead started untying the ropes from the girl, I went over to help. Our fingers were swollen and trembling. It was bordering on impossible to loosen the knots. We worked together in silence, the older woman turning to comfort the girl once in a while.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." We stopped at the sound of another voice. Turning, I saw that it was the dark haired young man in the polo shirt. He was struggling to stand up, his left arm hanging loosely by his body, as a result of his shoulder wound. In his right hand he held a gun.

The redhead and I both gasped at the sight of the gun, dropping the rope in the process.

The young girl screamed again.

The young man yelled back at her, a gutteral scream of nonsense, dangerously waving the gun.

"Hey! Stop pointing that gun at us," the redhead shouted.

The young man screamed even more, and I joined in the shouting. Soon the yelling reached astronomical levels. Everyone was out of control, I did not care about the gun, all I wanted was to scream at the young man, at the other people, and at the insanity I found myself in.

And then we just stopped and stared wearily at each other.

"Help me," the young girl implored in a small voice.

The redhead ignored the young man and his gun, and proceeded to work on the young girl's knots again.

"I said, don't do that!" the young man shouted.

"Why?" the redhead yelled. "She's obviously scared and frightened and tied up. And not going anywhere. I'm going to untie her. Now shoot me if you want, but you have to be sure that's really what you want," she said evenly, as she deliberately turned away from him. That was the bravest thing I have ever seen, I was sure of it.

"Who the fuck are you? What's going on? Who the fuck am I?" It belatedly hit him, that he didn't know who we were. I watched the now familiar realization hit him, like how it hit me and the redhead, that he didn't know who he was. He stumbled backwards, and dropped his right hand. He still held onto his gun, but it was harmless for the time being.

We all turned as the last member of the 'cast' groaned loudly. There was a clatter as he rolled the cylindrical object off him, and a muffled grunt as he tried to sit up. The scene that he saw must have been some sight -- a young man in a blood splattered polo shirt, a disheveled woman, another woman in the act of untying a young girl from a chair.

The dark haired young man pointed his gun at the guy in the ski mask. I didn't blame him for that, if I had a gun I would have done the same. Then I remembered, and when I put my hand at the back of my jeans I felt the hard metal biting against my skin. I swallowed hard. This was a secret I had to keep from the group as long as possible.

"Whoa," the guy in the ski mask said. "Are we being punk'd?"

"No, asshole," short gun guy shouted. "No one knows what's happening. We all lost our memories."

"What?" ski mask guy sure was slow. He clutched his face in pain, and yanked off his face mask. I was surprised. He looked so young and fresh-faced in an all American nerd sort of way. Except for a large angry welt on his cheek, probably from being hit with the portable cylinder. If he wasn't in a ski mask, I wouldn't have thought he was capable of anything unsavory.

"Don't move," short gun guy ordered. "Okay everybody, I'm the one with the gun so you all have to do what I say. First someone figure out what's going on."

The redhead sighed. "Look, there are four of us," she said as she undid the last of the young girl's ties. "You can't control all of us at the same time, not if we all rushed you." She looked at me, "why don't you tell us what you think happened."

I recounted my own experience, and my theory that this was a kidnapping that had gone wrong. With four pairs of eyes staring at me, I was embarrassed, wanting to hide or not be stared at. I kept looking at the redhead for reassurance, it was like I have always done with her. I was convinced, that the redhead and I have some sort of history.

"So you're saying some of us were kidnapping the others?" short gun guy said slowly after I finished.

"Yes, that's what I believe is happening," I replied.

"So, who is who?" blonde guy asked.

"Well, you're obviously the bad guy. And girlie is too weak to be a kidnapper," short gun guy said.

"Now wait a minute, why am I the bad guy?" blonde guy pouted.

"Duh. You're the one in the ski mask," short gun guy said smugly.

"You're the one with the gun!" blonde guy accused. "Who's to say the kidnappers didn't put ski masks on their victims so they can't see?" He asked, looking around the room for affirmation.

Apart from the fact that you can see out of a ski mask. But who was to know? The fact was, none of us knew who was who, and who was what. I hadn't told them about the phone call and I wasn't sure if I wanted to. That the person on the phone recognized my voice and started giving me instructions suggested something that I didn't want to believe. Like the gun tucked uncomfortably into my back, I held those aces as reserves.

We circled around each other in confusion and uncertainty. Every question and suggestion was met by an objection from someone and ended with another shouting match. The young girl spent all the time crying in the redhead's arms. Short gun guy was persuaded to put the gun away. He refused to give it up to someone else, but agreed to tuck it into his pants instead of brandishing it about.

At one point we were all so angry at each other that we each retreated to a corner of the room. There was silence for a few moments as we were each consumed with our own thoughts.

The silence was broken when the phone rang again.

*****
[br]

[watty]

Title: White Screams
Author: watson (hiddenwatson [at] yahoo [dot] com)
Distribution: Please let me know first
Rating: R
Disclaimer: BtVS characters, concepts and dialog belong to Mutant Enemy, Fox, The WB, UPN and others.
Summary: Contemporary AU. Who are we? Who can we trust when we can't even trust ourselves?
Notes 1: written for nanowrimo 2008 -- since it was written quickly with little time for extensive research, I have taken liberties with some of the factual and scientific stuff. I could have completed the research in the editing process, but I thought it might be fun to show some of the rawness of the writing under time pressure. Plus, well, I'm lazy.
Notes 2: this story is influenced by the psychological thriller Unknown. The chronology is not completely linear, I hope it doesn't become too confusing.


Part 14 -- The Ransom

Present day, Las Vegas, meanwhile

Joyce Summers looked around nervously as she stepped off the taxi. The instructions did not specify how she was to get to the bus station, and it was generally agreed that it would not seem out of place if she took a cab. Even in the intense Las Vegas heat, she had put on a light cotton jacket, she couldn't feel the heat. All she had felt since this morning when the call came in was utter chill and numbness.

The caller was male, she was sure. Even with the electronically scrambled voice she could tell. She hated that voice already, the way it was distorted made it sound not only robotic, but calculated and unfeeling. She shuddered at the words, words she would never forget even if she was struck down by amnesia.

We have your daughter. She is unharmed now. If you want her to come back to you alive and with all her parts intact, do as we say. Three million dollars. One million in small denominations, no larger than tens. The second million in twenties. The last million in hundreds. Don't tell us you can't afford it, the girl just signed for three Disney movies. She's going to be so rich. You will agree that we are being extremely reasonable, one million per movie is a tiny sum to pay. Just think about it as community service. Such a small price, considering what you would get if she were lost to this world forever. Bundle up the bills in three black garbage bags, then the whole lot in two black garbage bags, double bagged. Everything in a green and beige duffel bag. Get the duffel bag from the luggage section at any Target. It must be that particular color and size. Tie a red ribbon on the handle. You have three hours. Everything good comes in threes. We know you can't help but get the police involved. If they interfere in anyway or try to intercept the money or have anyone followed or set anyone up for arrest, your daughter will come back to you, gradually, in pieces. We are being very generous and understanding here, don't make us regret it.

The instructions were so precise, and precisely timed to be just under the limit for tracing the line. The police speculated that there would be a bait and switch. Joyce recalled the police captain listening to the voicemail. Captain Giles was a dashing, smart looking by-the-book police officer in his fifties. He was also Buffy's superior. Of all the professions, her elder daughter had to be a police officer when her younger daughter was kidnapped. Joyce was too weary to reflect on that irony.

Buffy's reaction was no surprise. When Joyce called her about the news, the silence was frightening. The fury that exploded was, like Buffy, concise and precisely focused. A single, body blowing, intense, fist on the wall. So intense that the paint and plaster broke under the pressure. That, and two of Buffy's fingers. She refused to have them attended to, until Captain Giles gave her a direct order. Captain Giles also tried to order Buffy to stay away from the case, but Joyce knew her elder daughter would never accept that order. Her argument that she would be involved, whether Captain Giles liked it or not, and hence it was more beneficial to have her on the team rather than a rogue member, was grudgingly accepted by Captain Giles. Nevertheless, since Willow was also missing, Captain Giles insisted on assigning another senior, well respected officer, to partner with Buffy.

All who listened to the voicemail agreed that it was odd that the kidnappers did not forbid Joyce to call the police, only to warn against interference or subsequent investigation. It was standard for kidnapper speak, as anyone who had watched any amount of television or gangster films would know, that the calling of the police was forbidden. It was also standard practice for the victim's families to ignore that piece of instructions. Or at least engage the police or security discreetly.

Captain Giles postulated that the kidnappers had some knowledge of either police operations or the psychology of victims and their families. Joyce was actually even encouraged to report to the police, and the kidnappers were in a way thumbing their noses at the police, that they would not catch the culprits. Buffy called them supreme arrogant bastards and as soon as Joyce got over her daughter's language, she had to agree. She thought about getting Dawn's management team involved, but she barely knew those Hollywood types and she was afraid of publicity leaks. They might want to spin it in a way that was harmful to Dawn. The police were vehement in their veto of getting anyone else but the immediate family involved.

Those were Joyce's thoughts as she entered the bustling bus station. She had not had much opportunity to use the bus, and was unfamiliar with the layout. How she wished she had visited the bus station before, she wouldn't be so disorientated. She felt like every eye was on her, clutching the awkward and heavy duffel bag. Normally it was designed for dragging but she didn't want to do that. This was the largest size available without wheels, and she was bemoaning the lack of wheels. Who would have thought three million dollars was so heavy?

She stopped to take her breath, panting out of exhaustion both physical and emotional.

"Mom, are you alright?" Buffy worried voice rang out behind her.

"Oh," she jumped. Then realized Buffy was not behind her. It was the transmitter they had placed behind her ears, hidden by her hair. Such high tech gadgets. "I'm fine. The bag is heavy, that's all," she replied in a whisper.

"You don't have to turn your head, just speak naturally. otherwise you look like you have uneven shoulders and a problem with your neck," Buffy directed.

"Oh," Joyce said again. "Oh well, here I go again." She picked up the heavy duffel bag and proceeded through the waiting area of the bus station. She walked past families having an impromptu picnic, couples teary eyed as they said good-bye, homeless sleeping on the hard benches, young people on their way to riches, hopefuls coming into town to find their destiny. None of the denizens of that Las Vegas bus station would know that the impeccably dressed middle aged mom with wavy blonde hair and tired eyes would be taking three million dollars to ransom her teenage daughter while her oldest daughter the cop monitored her progress in a control van outside. "I can go without all this excitement thank you very much," she muttered. She followed with a silent prayer that Dawn was alright and would be reunited with the rest of her family soon.

A few years ago Buffy had told her of the story of Tara's brother's kidnapping and how it went wrong. Joyce broke out in cold sweat thinking about it. That Buffy, Willow and Tara seemed to have become somewhat acquainted was quite surprising, given how they met. Well, Joyce thought, Buffy didn't really fraternize with Tara, their paths seemed to cross once in a while that was all. It was Willow who was closer to Tara, and even so whenever Joyce was in their presence they seemed to be each off in their own little worlds, with their own thoughts. She wondered why, that they could sit next to each other for a lengthy period of time, not talking, not interacting, not appearing to even acknowledge each other's presence. Yet it was so obvious that they were linked somehow.

It was Dawn, sweet Dawnie, who was the one particularly taken with Tara. Ever since Dawn discovered dancing, which was as soon as she learned how to walk, she had danced, and flitted about everywhere. The studio was a good place for her, the instructors and staff were friendly and the principal, Mrs Lanoir, Juillard and Royal Ballet trained, a great teacher and influence on Dawn.

The thought of Dawn brought fresh tears into Joyce's eyes. Please god, please don't let anything happen to my baby daughter. I want to see her dance and bow and happy and smiling again. I'll do anything, just bring her back, she prayed again.

After what seemed like a long trek she reached the left luggage locker area. As per instructions she scanned to the far end for a locker with a partially scratched off Grateful Dead concert sticker. She placed the duffel on the floor, stretching her shoulder muscles in relief, but keeping it between her feet for security. At first the locker would not budge and she was overcome with panic. They had been assured that this was the locker and it would be empty and available. The 'vacant' dial was showing so it must have been true. With shaking hands she tried again, and finally the door opened.

The locker was large but it was a tight fit for the duffel bag, Joyce had to use all her meager strength to push it inside in order for the door to close properly. She dug around her pocket for a quarter to deposit as usage fee. There was one moment when she thought she had forgotten to bring change, and especially to ensure she had quarters, digging deep beyond the keys and tissues she found a quarter. It slid into the slot with a final sounding click.

And her job was done. It was up to Buffy and Captain Giles now.

*****

"Will you stop fidgeting and sit still," Captain Rupert Giles admonished his best detective.

Detective Buffy Summers stopped her body from rocking with conscious physical force. She had no idea she was doing that, she knew it was due to nerves. And anger. And helplessness. Some cop she was, allowing her own kid sister to be kidnapped. Last she heard, Willow was taking Dawn to lunch after coming off a 36 hour shift. Her partner must have been with Dawn when the kidnappers ambushed. There was no word from Willow, an experienced cop, which gripped Buffy with so much anxiety that she had no words. Buffy knew Willow would protect Dawn as much as she was able to, and more; she trusted her partner and if she had to choose who would be Dawn's protector she would not hesitate to pick Willow. She wasn't sure if Willow had her off duty weapon with her, it wasn't mandatory although most detectives did. She knew that sometimes Willow didn't, especially if she was going straight home, or going out to an establishment where there might be security checks. It wasn't the hassle of proving they were police officers, it was the discomfort that the proprietors of those places displayed when they became aware that someone was carrying a weapon inside. Even though the weapon carrier was with the police. Buffy understood. Police officers were not all angels, the stress of the job and the ugliness they saw pushed a lot of officers over the edge. In a town such as Las Vegas where there were far too many temptations, it was so easy for officers to get into trouble way over their heads.

Still, if Willow had been carrying her off duty weapon, she was probably in a worse position. The kidnappers would certainly be heavily armed and would search Willow and Dawn. The consequences of the criminals discovering that they had kidnapped a cop would be dire. Willow's life would be at risk.

What was additionally troubling was the ransom demand made no mention of Willow, only Dawn. Buffy's heart sank at the thought, because the only possibility was that they had gotten rid of Willow somehow along the way, and she was injured, or dead, in some back roads in the desert.

"What do you think happened to Willow," she asked Giles.

Giles' expression was grim. "I don't even want to give thought to the worst case scenario. I have Wesley Wyndam Pryce and Charles Gunn working on it, they are canvassing the area we found her car, and searching through the nearby areas. She hasn't used her cell phone since this morning, but that can mean a number of things," he said. "The minute you feel it's too much, you need to tell me. I can't have you go all kitty bonkers on me, Summers."

"No sir. I want to be here. I need to be involved," Buffy said grimly. "I want to be there when we take them down."

"If there is to be a rescue operation, you cannot be in the team. You owe it to your mother and your sister not to go in," he emphasized.

"But sir--" she protested.

"No. There is no discussion on this, Detective," he said with finality.

Buffy bit her tongue. She was super emotional, but was rational enough, and had been a cop long enough, to recognize the chain of command. If she were not to jeopardize her career, she had to obey her captain. "I understand, Sir."

"Let's focus on the task at hand," he ordered.

They watched on the monitor as Joyce struggled to open the locker, push the duffel inside and their hearts went out to her to see her use her whole body to push the door shut. She was obviously under a lot of strain, even more so than them.

Joyce exited the bus station. She was advised not to acknowledge any of the undercover police officers Giles had planted all over the station and its surrounds. Not to look at the surveillance vehicles. And definitely not to check with the control van Giles and Buffy, together with other communications officers, were sitting cramped inside. She was to take another taxi and go home directly. Buffy would call her and keep her updated on the situation. They could not afford to have her give away the locations of the police presence at the bus station. Joyce had protested, wanting to at least go to the station house to be appraised of the situation first hand, but Giles patiently explained that they were working on the assumption that she would be followed, and heading to the police station was a very bad idea.

"Nothing happening," Officer Winifred Burkle reported. Officer Burkle, Fred as she was known to all her colleagues, was a communications expert. She had gone into the bus station earlier under disguise and set up various surveillance audio and visual equipment.

It was a waiting game.

Several times, individuals came close to the 'hot' locker and the officers came on full alert. But it were all false alarms. After September Eleven the majority of bus, train and transportation stations had discontinued offering left luggage lockers for security reasons. Las Vegas bus station was one of the last remaining. There were proposals in the town council to get rid of them, but the proposals were delayed due to political wranglings on other matters.

"Alert. Hispanic male approaching," one of the undercover officers inside the station reported.

"Switching to full visual on locker area," Officer Burkle responded.

A Hispanic male in workshirt and carrying a broom and pail of water was cleaning the floor. He slowly worked his way into the locker corner and toward the locker in question. Every single police officer in situ knew that posing as an ordinary worker and cleaner was one of the most effective disguises. They watched intently as the man came closer and closer to the locker.

When he stopped just along that particular bank and leaned his mop against the wall, Giles was already on the speaker getting his entire team ready. When the man placed his hand on the locker door adjacent and patted his pocket, Giles shouted an order and within seconds the man was surrounded by armed police officers and pushed against the wall with his arms pinned against his back.

Giles and Buffy flew out of the surveillance van and were at the scene within ten seconds.

The man was yelling. "What's going on, I ain't done nothin' wrong!"

"What were you reaching for? Search him," Giles ordered.

The officers retrieved a bunch of singles, a half eaten stick of chewing gum, a pack of cigarettes and a bic lighter. Nothing else.

"Look, I was just about to sneak a smoke. No one can see me here and once I clean the smell of bleach covers up the smoke," the man tried to explain.

They had the wrong man. He loudly protested that he had no idea what they were talking about when interrogated about the locker contents. He didn't care about the 'stoopid lockers' as he described it. A check with transportation department human resources department confirmed that he had been an employee for two years and no disciplinary records.

Frustrated, Giles sent his team back to cover. He was just about to return to the surveillance van when something caught his eye. Buffy watched interestingly as he shook and rocked the locker. She was even more surprised when he called for a locksmith to force it open. She wanted to warn him that they were causing too much ruckus and whoever the kidnappers had watching the locker would have been scared off by their activities.

"I think we've been duped," Giles said. "The money is already in the kidnapers' hands."

"How can it be? We didn't see anyone come near it, except for the cleaner," Buffy disagreed.

"Watch," Giles said.

The locksmith arrived presently and was ordered to open the locked locker as quickly as possible with carte blanche to destroy the lock, it only took him a few seconds.

Giles yanked open the locker to find the money was gone, having disappeared through a false bottom.

Disbelief painted across their faces. The link to the kidnappers was gone.

"Captain Giles! I see the duffel, some guy has it, I'm trying to follow him," the excited shout from one of the undercover officers suddenly came through.

Buffy sprinted though the throngs and outside the station. The other officer pointed out in the direction of the car park. Buffy was able to catch a glimpse of the duffel bag and its handler. She could make out a Causasian man wearing a Red Sox baseball cap and white t-shirt. She reported to Giles while running in full speed, but lost sight the man climbed into a truck. She turned abruptly and headed toward the nearest police vehicle parked just outside the parking area.

She must not lose him. Time for a chase.

*****

[br]

[Zampsa1975]

Yay for great update-y goodness... I truly hope that Willow & Tara manage somehow to rescue Dawn without too much interference from the goon squad... I hope that when Dawn is rescued Tara get's a reduced sentence or doesn't have to go to jail for testifying against Warren...

[LittleBit]

I'm really enjoying the story - very action packed!

[ringwaldoeuvre]

Watty:

This is great. I've been checking the board after a long hiatus and was so glad to see a new story from you. You have such a great skill for engaging the reader. There are many plots that are very compelling, past, present, and future. I'm looking forward to the revelations, whenever you decide to grace us with them. I was hooked from the first chapter and read through last night.

I'm a little bit uninspired to do a TWoP-esque recap, due to the uninspired content of TWoP ever since the Bravo purchase. I still check Tomato Nation for unadulterated Sars. If you want me to lighten things around your (rather) grim-yet-engrossing story, I suppose to could wax nostalgic and bring it, snark-style.

Also, you can totally tell that the bad guy is totally evil because he is wearing a Red Sox cap. I'm not sayin', but I'm just sayin'.

[shiraz]

Hi Watty,

Thanks for this amazing story. Your writing is strong and vivid and much appreciated by this reader! I just started reading this and I wanted to provide some feedback. Everyone who visits the board should be reading this.

I'm only at the part where Tara's identified Donny's body. I like Buffy's style as a detective - strong, forthright, intelligent. And Willow having a background in psych just seems to suit her. I can't wait to read the rest and I promise you - more feedback!

Shiraz

[beanie]

Hey watty,

So I haven't posted anything in maybe a couple of years but I thought I should at least share a couple of words of appreciation and admiration for one of my favorite contributors. I'll be honest and admit that I've read all of your stories on your website. Although all of your works have twists, I particularly enjoy the one that is unraveling in this story.

The humorous verbal exchange between the "kidnappers" got me giggling. However, the underlying emotions of stress and panic are clearly palpable in the scene. Of course the ever-present tension between Willow and Tara is always appreciated. The concept of the clean slate has really allowed you and us to explore the core emotions of each character. I found myself sympathizing with the ever-annoying male duo. Through it all, you've also developed a great storyline with the Summers family with Joyce's firm resolve and Buffy's protective attitude toward everyone in her family. But what is really impressive is the way in which you've juggled the different time periods, perspectives, and storylines. It's been so seamless.

But what am I saying? You know all this. It's your work. I guess in my ramblings, I'm saying, "Woohoo, great update!" Thanks for writing.

Cheers!

[watty]

Zampasa1975 -- thanks! Nice speculation. I hope what you wish for may come true too.

LittleBit-- thanks! I think the double feature helps.

ringwaldoeuvre-- hey there! Long time. I'm so happy to hear from old friends, and don't worry about recapping...twop isn't the same since the founders left. Although Miss Alli was doing TAR recaps on her website for charity, good times. Anyway, boy am I glad that the convoluted timeline isn't confusing. It's pretty filled with doom and gloom though isn't it? It isn't like Lamplight, the angst will be drawn out till the end, I'm afraid.

LOL re: Red Sox. Now that I'm in Cubs territory (yep, been in Chicago for almost a year) I can truly appreciate the "team" concept.

shiraz-- Thanks. Appreciate your leaving valued, and very ego-building, feedback. Hope you are enjoying the rest of the story.

beanie-- oh my, so many old friends! Hope you are well. There's a lot going on in this story, and the interpersonal relationships are familiar yet new. I think that the Trio always provides great supporting comic relief, even if they are evil. Thanks for reading.


[br]

[watty]

Title: White Screams
Author: watson (hiddenwatson [at] yahoo [dot] com)
Distribution: Please let me know first
Rating: R
Disclaimer: BtVS characters, concepts and dialog belong to Mutant Enemy, Fox, The WB, UPN and others.
Summary: Contemporary AU. Who are we? Who can we trust when we can't even trust ourselves?
Notes 1: written for nanowrimo 2008 -- since it was written quickly with little time for extensive research, I have taken liberties with some of the factual and scientific stuff. I could have completed the research in the editing process, but I thought it might be fun to show some of the rawness of the writing under time pressure. Plus, well, I'm lazy.
Notes 2: this story is influenced by the psychological thriller Unknown. The chronology is not completely linear, I hope it doesn't become too confusing.


Part 15 -- A Promise and a Connection

Present day, abandoned warehouse, now

We stared at one another as the phone in the office rang and rang. Then as one, we raced toward the sound, jostling with each other in the confined space.

Since I had the advantage of prior visits, I was the first one to reach the phone. I picked it up without hesitation.

"Hello," I said breathlessly, holding the phone away from my ear so the others could hear a little of the other caller. The redhead busied herself in trying to figure out if the outdated office phone had a speaker function.

"Don't tell me--" it was the same caller as before.

"Sorry, yes," I replied. The others looked at me in new light, their surprise at my ability to converse with the caller apparent.

"I have the goods," he added succinctly. It was becoming obvious that the caller was the mastermind, or at least leader, in the kidnapping. He was the one calling the shots and making the decisions. It was also clear that he was being careful in using coded words. The 'goods' he referred to was probably the ransom money, or other item important to the crime.

"Was there any trouble?" I asked innocently. This elicited a glare from the short gun guy, a 'are you crazy trying to engage him' type of glare.

There was hearty laughter from the other end of the line. "Trouble? The cops don't know trouble if it stared up their asses," he snickered. "I'm on my way, get everything ready," he directed.

"Okay," I replied, remembering to keep my end of the conversation light. I was fairly convinced that he recognized my voice, which gave me chills I did not want to think about. Then again, there was sufficient crackling and outside noise for sounds to be indistinguishable.

"Don't let me down," he said. It sounded more like a threat than instruction.

The minute the line went dead there was pandemonium.

The long and short of it was, I was obviously one of the bad guys since the caller didn't question my answering the phone. The same fear in my head, even though I did not voice it. I emphasized my own observation, that the line was bad and he could just be expecting a female voice, not necessarily mine. This meant that either the redhead or I was a member of the criminal gang. The young girl too, though by mutual unspoken consent, it was generally agreed that she was too young to be anything but the intended victim. Or one of the victims. That, and she was the one tied up at the beginning of these adventures strongly suggested it.

I confessed that he had called before when I had just woken up and was incoherent. What I remembered of the conversation was that he would be back by four. It was now just past noon. The reaction to the confession was just as vehement and accusatory.

"Don't try to deny it, you even look guilty," the blonde guy accused me.

"Exactly how do I look guilty?" I retorted. "For all we know, we are all the bad guys."

"What? No!" the young girl cried. I could see how that thought completely freaked her out. The possibility that she was trapped here, wherever 'here' was, with four adults who may or may not mean her harm, and had in fact tied her up to a chair, was likely to be out of her realm of reality. I would be a blubbering mess if I were her. Instinctively, because she was the first person to offer comfort, the young girl moved closer to the redhead, who put her arm around the girl's shoulder. Oddly, I was glad that the young girl did not flinch.

It seemed that the group was at an impassé. We none of us had any idea who we were. We each could be criminals, victims or even innocent bystanders. Aside from first impressions, it was impossible to ascertain who was trustworthy and who was not. We had no prior experience or interaction for reference. In short, we were in a vacuum that was sucking our emotions and logic from us.

The redhead, who had seemed most practical and level-headed up to now, as if she had related experience, was the first to suggest an alternate course of action than what we had followed. "I think it's pointless for us to be sitting around trying to second guess each other. Personally, I know that I can't trust any of you, and I say this with sincerity rather than in a personal attack sort of way. I think we should work together, at least to get us all out of here. That's the best suggestion, if you asked me."

Short gun guy snorted. "Nobody asked you, Red."

"Hey, don't be rude," I interrupted. "I agree with Red. We have to get ourselves out of here. The guy on the phone is coming back. I don't know about you guys, I'm scared of him just by listening to him speak. Right now, I don't care if I'm the bad guy or any of you are the bad guys. We have to start again, assume nothing, assume we are all on the same side in this."

"Who says I want to be on your side. You don't get to decide," short gun guy continued his protests.

"There are no sides here anymore. We've lost our memories. We have no choice but to work together. And we each have an equal vote," the redhead said. I shot her a brief thin smile to thank her for her support. My heart beat faster when she returned with a smile of her own.

"That seems fair," the blonde guy agreed.

I could tell that short gun guy wanted to argue further, but it appeared that it was four against one, so he reluctantly shrugged. He didn't seem happy about it at all. I suppose he could impose his opinion on the group; after all he was the one with the gun.

That was agreed. We split up to explore the building and to find any way out. The young girl we left in the office where it was relatively safe. She didn't argue, too tired and too scared to do anything other than what the adults told her. By unspoken consent, the remaining four paired up. The two boys in a team and I went with the redhead. I felt comfortable with her, there was not the conflict with short gun guy, or the indifference with the blonde guy.

We worked our way around the external walls of the building. It was soon clear that it was a warehouse, and that it had been abandoned some time before. Any equipment or tool that might have been useful for escape were long gone or rusted to uselessness. The remaining items, mostly furniture, large cylinders and crates, were heavy enough to possibly form a barricade. I filed that thought as we moved on. There were no windows, at least not at eye level. We found what used to be the main door, it was wedged or stuck or rusted shut. No amount of bashing or pushing would budge it even a millimeter. A side door was secured by electronic lock, which looked newly installed. It went without saying that no one knew the code. It was frustrating.

As the hour dragged by frustration level rocketed. At different points one of us would breakdown and ended up crying or screaming. The redhead and I left the boys to their own devices and staked out a secluded area behind the lockers. The space was narrow, though somehow comforting. We squashed together, shoulders and thighs touching, oddly seeking out the personal contact. For a while we just sat there, idle, with no thoughts.

"I feel like I know you. You know, outside," she said suddenly, her hand making a sweep to indicate the external unknown place that was not this nightmare.

"Yeah, I get that feeling too," I said softly. I looked straight ahead, not trusting what I would do, or revealing too much.

We sat in silence, trying to articulate our next thoughts.

"Do you think that we're --?" she asked, again out of the blue. It was as if her thoughts went too fast for her, and she had to catch up and say the words.

"You mean?" I asked.

"Yeah, I mean," she confirmed.

While it may sound incomprehensible to others, it made perfect sense to me. And here we were in this alternate reality, to all intents and purposes having only met an hour ago. She made sense. I knew what she meant. Without thinking.

"I think so," I whispered.

I turned to look at her. Really look at her. I caught the softness in her eyes and I wanted her to see the hopeful desire in mine. I felt like we had done this many times before, I felt like I had held her gaze a million times, and I would not tire of it. I wanted more. We were already side by side, I shifted in the small confined space so we were even closer, our faces barely inches apart. Her lips oh so close. Somewhere in this or another universe, we had kissed before.

She placed her palm tenderly on my cheek. Everything grew still. "I feel like--" her voice was barely above a whisper, low and husky.

"I know," I leaned into her touch, wanting to close my eyes to savor the sensation yet not wanting to break eye contact.

"Do you think it's safe?" she asked. "God, you feel so good."

"Safe for whom? Safe how?" I said.

"I am having feelings. Feelings that are I'm unfamiliar with, yet know very well. This is the wrong place or time," she sighed.

"I know." That was all I could say. I didn't want her to take her hands away from me. I didn't want her to move away. I didn't want to have to face the nightmare scenario we found ourselves in. It was a respite, an escape, the brightest thing that had happened to me that day. Somehow, I knew she was always my brightest spot.

"Should we be doing this?" she asked tentatively.

I brought my hand up to hers, sandwiching her hand against my cheek. "I'm almost certain not. Like you said, it's not the right place or time. But I don't want to stop," I said.

"But we should wait," she said.

"Yes. We should wait," I echoed. "It doesn't mean we can't store this, these feelings, this closeness, for when the time and place are right," I offered, more to reassure myself.

She slipped her hand from my grip and stroked my face gently. She pulled me close for a small, feathery kiss on my forehead. "There'll be another time." It was a statement and a question.

"Yes," I said with conviction. "Come on, let's go back to finding a way out."

We were hand in hand as we continued the search.

A promise had been made, a connection forged.

Things felt better.

*****
[br]

[watty]

Title: White Screams
Author: watson (hiddenwatson [at] yahoo [dot] com)
Distribution: Please let me know first
Rating: R
Disclaimer: BtVS characters, concepts and dialog belong to Mutant Enemy, Fox, The WB, UPN and others.
Summary: Contemporary AU. Who are we? Who can we trust when we can't even trust ourselves?
Notes 1: written for nanowrimo 2008 -- since it was written quickly with little time for extensive research, I have taken liberties with some of the factual and scientific stuff. I could have completed the research in the editing process, but I thought it might be fun to show some of the rawness of the writing under time pressure. Plus, well, I'm lazy.
Notes 2: this story is influenced by the psychological thriller Unknown. The chronology is not completely linear, I hope it doesn't become too confusing.


Part 16 -- I can hardly trust myself

Present day, abandoned warehouse, now

We ended up in the bathroom, where I have since dubbed our 'meeting place'. I was leaning against the wall, watching her. She had her back against the sink, facing me. We were three feet apart, the closest we could bear without heart palpitations.

"This whole place looks deserted, but it's been well selected and subtly redone to add in security reinforcement. Nothing fancy that can't be put in quickly, but thorough. Like the placement of the windows, all above reach even with the stacks. The access point to the outside world, the side door, is electronically controlled. It's like a well designed fort bunker disguised as wreckage," she observed.

"Or a high security prison disguised as wreckage," I said.

"That too," she agreed.

"You sound like you know what you're talking about. Security reinforcements, the way you handled the door alarm," I mused.

She shrugged. "Yeah, I guess I do now I think of it. I could be a master criminal," she laughed bitterly. "Or an electrician. Then again, I could be one of those sad old maid who stays home all day and read mysteries."

"You don't look like a sad old maid," I said. The heart pounding need to touch her, to kiss her, resurfaced. I clutched the slippery, dirty bathroom wall to prevent me from launching myself at her.

She said nothing. Her eyes turned a darker shade of green and she pivoted round to look at me in the mirror. Perhaps the artificial distance would dampen the burgeoning desire that was sparkling between us.

She took a deep breath, and the spell was temporarily broken.

"I don't feel like I'm a bad guy, you know," she started, changing direction suddenly again. I was getting used to the way her attention jumped quickly to other matters. "It just seems to me that if you have bad intentions or are prone to not obeying the rules of society, you have to have a certain personality type. I feel like I'm the sort of person who follows rules to the letter."

"Always the good student, eh?" I teased.

"Yeah. Like not stepping outside campus until I get to senior year. I have some vague inklings of my friends having to physically carry me off the pavement the first time I left school grounds during school hours," she laughed. "And I was protesting all the way. It's such a trivial memory, but that's comforting right now."

I processed those thoughts. She was right, which meant... "So that probably means I'm the bad guy in this situation," I said grimly.

She turned sharply around and grew agitated. "I can't believe it's true! Do you feel like you can be someone who does something like that?" she asked sharply.

I looked away, then down at the floor. "I-- I-- I'm not sure," I stammered. I had absolutely no idea.

"Try this. Imagine forcibly grabbing that young girl sitting right now in the office. Imagine covering her face with a chloroformed cloth, tying her hands, pushing her hard into the trunk of a car. Imagine hitting her when she cries or screams or makes any noise that may cause her to be discovered. How does it make you feel?" she asked pointedly.

I smiled thinly, "You sure know a lot about how to kidnap someone," I said.

"I'm pretty sure that's books or TV talking," she rejoined. "Don't change the subject. How do you feel deep down inside? Can you be violent and uncaring?"

"It makes me a little sick. But if I were desperate, or pushed, yes I could be capable of being violent, may be," I shuddered. "But mostly, I feel sick to the stomach about it."

"Exactly! If you were part of the gang that took her, you won't feel any regrets. Definitely you won't be throwing up about it," she said triumphantly.

"Doesn't mean anything. We lost our memories, remember? May be we lost part of our personality too," I said.

"I'm pretty sure my instincts are intact, and they tell me you're a good person," she said.

I sighed. I wasn't so sure. "I have a bad feeling I won't come out of this in a good way. Think about what is in the big room. There was another person tied up, so another victim or potential victim. If that is you, what does it put me? I'm probably in cahoots with the boys," I made a face. "Though I can't even imagine being in the same planet with them, let alone plotting some evil scheme."

"I think you're making too many assumptions. May be, may be you're the good guy too. There is a perfectly good explanation, but we can't figure it out. I feel, no, I know, we are together. So if I'm on the side of the good, then you are there with me," she said firmly.

"I want to," I whispered.

We were going there again. The attraction that was undeniable. She even said it, we were together in some way.

Again, she was the one to snap out of the spell. "So, what are we going to do with the boys?" she asked.

I brought my focus back to important practical things. "What do you mean?"

She looked at me intently. "Since we made the conclusion that we are the good guys and they are the bad guys. We have to stick together. Try to get the gun from the short pouty one. He waves it around far too readily. If he's not careful, if we're not careful, someone is going to get hurt," she said.

It wasn't hard at all to make the decision. I had to trust someone in this screwed up situation, and my redhead, as I had begun to think of her, I trusted her.

I turned around and lifted my shirt to reveal the gun tucked inside the waist band, snugly against my back.

She made a surprised sound. I turned around and tried to explain. "When that guy on the phone called first time, he told me about it. I had no idea what to do, it was right where he said it was. But it seemed to be a good idea to keep it. You know, just in case," I said.

"Is it loaded?" she asked.

"Oh," I said sheepishly. "I didn't even look."

"All the more reason to believe you're not a felon," she grinned.

I closed the bathroom door, wedging it shut with bits of concrete and tiles that were lying on the floor. Gingerly I took out the gun, remembering to point it away from the body. It felt alien in my hands, like handling guns wasn't an everyday occurrence in my life. On the other hand, an unknown voice inside my head recited the details of the weapon in my hand. Somehow I knew that it was a semi automatic, a compact .45 caliber Glock pistol, one of the most popular types of semi automatic weapon in the United States. It was standard issue for the Federal Bureau of Investigations, the Drug Enforcement Agency, the criminal investigation division of the Environmental Protection Agency as well as numerous police forces including the New York Police Department. Either I knew about guns, was a gun bluff, or I was a dork who read Wikipedia in my spare time.

Catching the enthusiastic and interested look in my redhead's face, I handed the weapon, handle first, to her.

"Here, you look," I said.

Thinking back, it was an act of supreme trust, to give up an ace, a trump card, a gun to a stranger. While in a dangerous and potentially violent situation. Trusting her when I could hardly trust myself was unusual to say the least. It just went to show how much I wanted to trust her, that she would not turn around and use the weapon on me. At the time, it never occurred to me that she would have any ulterior motive other than to relieve me of my discomfort, and to answer our joint question on the usability of the gun. Worst case scenario was, she was only saying that she had no memories. Perhaps it was all an elaborate trap for me, down to the details of proving an innocent victim, two shady characters, and a good cop type of person to gain my trust.

My brain was definitely addled from whatever was happening to me. I was fantasizing, making up scenarios that were weirder and weirder.

No, she didn't point the gun at me. She didn't threaten me, or turned around to hurt me. She, unlike me, handled the gun like a pro. Like it was a part of her, an extension of her arm. It made me wonder. perhaps she was the gun buff. Or someone in the security forces. Or she was one of the bad guys and was used to guns. I put these thoughts away as I watched her disable the safety, slide the chamber and with one swift efficient action, dislodged the cartridge from the gun. She looked down the barrel to check that the was no round already inside and then turned her attention to the cartridge.

"A Glock like this usually holds 15 rounds, let's see how many we have to play with," she explained while she peered at the cartridge and poked at the top column. "Full. 15 rounds. Remember that," she looked at me to get my acknowledgment. "Oh wow, I know all this. Amazing. Must be a special skill," she remarked.

She expertly slid the cartridge back, cocked a round into the chamber and set the safety. I could see her debate silently with herself who would carry the gun going forward. A part of me wanted her to hold onto it. I wanted no part to such deadly force, and she appeared to be more an expert. If the need arose, how would I use the gun? I was convinced I knew how to operate it, how to squeeze the trigger and not jerk it. How to aim. How to compensate for the backfire. I wasn't sure of my ability as a marksman and how good my aim was. Even I knew there was nothing worse than a gun in the hands of an amateur who didn't know how to aim or shoot. Especially in this situation where we had limited ammunition. On the other hand, I was sure she would be the better shot. From her confident matter she would probably hesitate less if we were faced with the need to shoot someone.

Then again, I found the gun. Possession was, what, nine-tenths of the law. In this situation every little advantage would help. I didn't know I would ever need to use it, but I had it, and I should be the one with the protection in case something happened. I was on the verge of telling her to give it back to me, not caring if she refused or tried to argue or finagle her way into keeping it for herself.

She assuaged my fear by returning it to me, handle first, in the same way I handed it to her. "You should keep it. You're the one who is supposed to have it, according to the guy on the phone," she explained.

"You only have my word that he said that," I tried to think of ways to disparage her action.

She shrugged. "There are so many what-ifs and unknowns right now, it's hard to tell. I trust you. I have no other choice, and even if I did, I would still trust you," she said.

I smiled sweetly at her, and we stared at each other for a long time again. The urge returned, very fiercely. I would have moved forward a fraction, and she would have reached for me. It was so easy.

A loud banging on the bathroom door was our saving grace this time.

There had better be the right time and place for a kiss soon.

*****

"Hey! Are you in there?"

It was the young teenager yelling through the thick bathroom door.

I quickly put the gun back in the waist band of my jeans and smoothed out my shirt as my redhead opened the door for the young girl. I didn't think about it then, but I was adjusting my clothing when she came in. With both of us flushed with the onset of attraction, it could have been misconstrued that we were making out.

Oh I wish. I really did.

"Are you okay?" my redhead asked the young girl. I did a quick assessment. Her eyes were still puffy from crying, her mouth set in fear. But she was otherwise unharmed, and not at that moment worried about her own physical well being.

"What? No, it's not me. It's those two boys. Can't you hear them?" she almost shouted.

We glanced at each other quickly, a little guilty and a little regretful.

"No, we were, um, talking," I said.

"Talking about what? Tying me up again? Plotting something awful?" she was screaming now.

"Hey, calm down," my redhead said. "We were talking about getting out of here, that's the most important thing going on right now. What's this about those two boys?" she directed the conversation away from us and what we could possibly be doing behind the closed door of the bathroom.

"Oh, they're banging around. May be they found something. It's very loud and I don't know what they are doing," the young girl said.

"Okay, let's go and see," I said.

"Yeah," my redhead agreed.

I marched out of the bathroom, leading the way of my redhead. I looked back to see the young girl rooted at the spot. "What's the matter, sweetie?"

Tears came to her eyes and she sniffed to stem the flow of tears. "I'm scared," she whispered.

My redhead extended her hand, which the young girl took after a moment's hesitation. "Stick with us. I know you're scared, I'm plenty scared too. But if we girls stick together, we can do this," she reassured.

"Don't leave me," the young girl sobbed.

"No we won't. You can trust us, you know that don't you?" my redhead said.

The young girl sniffed and nodded. "I do. I feel like I know you, both of you. But I don't know why or how. At least you are better that those two," she said.

We found the two boys shifting all manners of crates, boxes and large objects in the main area of the warehouse. At regular intervals they would look up, do some measurements and gesture with their arms.

"What did you find?" I asked as we went up to them.

If they were startled they didn't show it.

"That window up there looks like it's kinda loose," the blonde one said helpfully. "I threw some bits of wood at it trying to break it. It's probably bullet proof glass," he said with admiration (not sure for what) and awe. "The wood bounced off, but the frame rattled like it was coming loose," he explained.

"Ah, and so you're trying to climb thirty feet up to it?" my redhead said.

"Yeah," the short guy said. "Then may be we can push it open and we can crawl out."

I looked at the hotch potch of items they had gathered and were building a makeshift ladder. The concoction looked like the haphazard climbing apparatus that were used by circus acrobats to illustrate their climbing and balancing skills. Skills I was sure none of us possessed.

"So we are being all Cirque de Soleil. Who is going up?" I asked.

The boys looked at each other. "I am," the short guy said. "I'm shorter so it's easier to balance on these crates. He looked at the young girl. "May be she should do it, she's much lighter," he said.

The young girl looked like she was going to be sick or burst out in tears again. This time I could envision that she wouldn't stop.

"No," my redhead and I said together. "It's too dangerous for her," I said. "What if she falls?" I pointed at the hard concrete floor. "She'll be on the losing end if she collides with the concrete floor," I said.

"But we'll all of us be there catching her if she falls," short gun guy protested.

"We're not firemen, and we have neither a trampoline nor those blankets the fire department uses to catch people jumping out of burning buildings," my redhead explained. "The risk of her getting injured, or worse, if she falls is too great. You go."

"And it's okay if I go up? What happens if I fall, you stand over there with your hands crossed and not helping?" short gun guy said. "Besides, my left arm hurts."

"I'm saying you're an adult and you'll be more careful than a young child. She doesn't have the strength to push the window," my redhead clarified. "Look, I'll climb up if it's an issue."

"No, no. I'm not chicken," short gun guy backtracked. "I'll do it."

We watched, holding the unsteady structure as he scrambled up toward the window. There wasn't a lot of leverage and he was perched precariously at the top. He pushed hard, but nothing happened. The window continued to be stuck and lodged shut. It was a disappointment.

"What does it look like, can you move it?" blonde guy chipped in.

Short guy grunted. He was pushing hard until he was red in the face. "Nope, but the hinge looks rusted. May be I can work on that bit. Hold onto the base, I don't want to fall."

"We got you," blonde guy said.

But the action was not successful. The window remained closed, mocking us.

"I'm gonna try to shoot it," he announced, taking out his gun.

"No!" we all shouted.

Luckily he only took one shot. It ricocheted off the frame and then off somewhere. He was so surprised by the impact that he promptly fell off, hitting blonde guy and me. We lay there in a heap.

"Are you crazy?" blonde guy shouted. "Did you not remember the part where Luke, Han and Princess Leia were stuck in the garbage chute? Shooting at bulletproof objects will only cause the bullets to bounce off. Into you! You're lucky you weren't shot."

"First of all, it was a blaster not a gun. Second of all, a window is not the same as metallic walls of a garbage incinerator. Third of all, you're talking complete crap," short guy argued.

Blonde guy was about to shoot something back when I intervened. "Oh you two, just shut up. Bicker bicker bicker, that's all you do," I said. "Now, aside from this window, did you find anything else? I can tell you now that we," I nodded at my redhead, "we found nothing. This place is like Fort Knox in reverse."

"How the hell are we supposed to get out of here," someone cried.

No one could answer that.

*****
[br]

[Zampsa1975]

Yay for great double update-y goodness... I hope they find a way out of there before Warren and his goons arrive to make situation much much worse... Good that Willow got a gun, I hope they find her ID badge and gun before Warren arrives...

[watty]

Title: White Screams
Author: watson (hiddenwatson [at] yahoo [dot] com)
Distribution: Please let me know first
Rating: R
Disclaimer: BtVS characters, concepts and dialog belong to Mutant Enemy, Fox, The WB, UPN and others.
Summary: Contemporary AU. Who are we? Who can we trust when we can't even trust ourselves?
Notes 1: written for nanowrimo 2008 -- since it was written quickly with little time for extensive research, I have taken liberties with some of the factual and scientific stuff. I could have completed the research in the editing process, but I thought it might be fun to show some of the rawness of the writing under time pressure. Plus, well, I'm lazy.
Notes 2: this story is influenced by the psychological thriller Unknown. The chronology is not completely linear, I hope it doesn't become too confusing.


Part 17 -- Following the Suspect

Present day, outside, meanwhile

"Can't you drive faster?" Buffy Summers shouted, trying not to give in to the temptation of pushing the uniformed officer out of the driving seat and taking the wheels herself. The patrol car was a standard issue beat up Ford, it shouldn't have substantial trouble following another beat up Ford, this time an ancient, dirty truck. Buffy concluded it was the driver of the police vehicle, whom she gathered was officer Xander Harris from the canine unit. When asked where his dog was, seeing that he was from the dog unit, he replied tersely that his previous partner had to be put down because of cancer and he was in the system, processing for a replacement dog. He seemed very attached to Spike, as apparently the departed dog was called. Buffy didn't care much for animals or policemen who weren't completely devoted to fighting crime at its grassroots. Canine units were essential, especially for drug heists or to search for missing persons, but the police officers who worked in that unit, those who Buffy had dealt with, were a little odd. They seemed to spend so much time with their dogs that they had no patience or understanding of how to interact with humans. Or perhaps it was down to one particular experience in Buffy's books.

"I'm going as fast as I can," Officer Harris responded. He had been placed at the perimeter of the downtown bus station, as a backup. He wasn't particularly happy about the assignment, he knew it was a high profile case involving the family members of one of the detectives, and that the police department was out in force as a show of strength. But being confined to the sidelines for the sole purposes of making up the numbers rankled him. He was an experienced officer, a specialist in the canine unit, and there he was -- no more than filler material.

He was nevertheless alert and ready for any problems, as was his training. No matter how intelligent dogs were, they weren't humans and there was no leeway when it came to using emotions. You had to be the one giving instructions, always. With a human partner there were down time, jokes, arguments, the whole spectrum. With a dog it was so much simpler. Each partner did their part, there was no second guessing. No falling down on duties if you were having an off day, or your wife left you, or the weather was lousy. Yes, Xander Harris much preferred working with dogs than humans.

He was therefore surprised and had very little time to react when the detective jumped into his undercover vehicle and screamed at him to follow the truck. He recognized her as Buffy Summers, petite, blonde, All American, athletic but also very tough and single minded. She was also the detective whose family was the case. Xander wondered, but didn't think too much about, why she was allowed to be part of the operation. Surely she was not able to be objective. He shrugged it off, it wasn't his place to question the chain of command.

"Are you sure?" Detective Summers said. "You have to floor these vehicles."

"I am," Xander replied. "Flooring it. I won't lose him, there's too much traffic out ahead. Ah, traffic lights," he said to himself. Quickly he took out the radio, found dispatch and reported his location. He then proceeded to request red lights at each intersection that the truck was heading toward. The police had surveillance cameras that were already tracking the truck, it would be possible to time the lights so they turned red just as the truck approached the intersection.

Buffy listened, impressed with the officer's quick thinking. She rubbed her hands over her eyes, suddenly feeling the tiredness creep up on her. She wished Willow were there, she needed her friend and partner's solid presence. Her thoughts drifted from Willow to Dawn, and she gritted her teeth in frustration and anxiety. Her mother would be freaking out, or worse, by now.

"Sorry, Harris," she apologized. "It's just, it's getting to me. That was smart thinking, getting the red lights to hold him up."

"How are you doing?" he asked sincerely. "I hope you don't mind being forward, Detective, but the stakeout? That's your sister who was kidnapped right?"

Buffy sighed and nodded. "Yeah, she was just getting a ride home. We didn't know what hit us."

"Any theories about why her?" he followed up.

"Well, you know she's starting to get into acting and stuff," Buffy explained. At his lost look and shake of his head she continued, "She dances. Very well. So somehow she's gotten herself a Disney deal. I may end up having a really famous celebrity sister one day." If she comes back alive, the small voice in her mind said. She pushed that thought away. Far far away.

"It's going to be fine. We're catching up to the truck, look," Xander nodded his head at the truck they were following, now only a few car lengths ahead and tucked behind a tour bus and a billboard van. It would have trouble getting out to wherever he was going. "Who are we following? The perp?"

"Yes, I think so. That's the guy who has the ransom money. It's really important, Harris, don't lose him. You'll have to account to me if you do," Buffy said with such cold calculating calm that Xander could only imagine her fury if anyone crossed her.

"I'll keep at his tail, Detective," he replied.

Buffy took out her cell phone and started reporting to her captain. She gave their position and that she was in a police vehicle tailing the suspect. The license plate on the truck was fake, as they suspected. There was nothing else to go on.

Giles dispatched another unit to cover them, but advised that they might be on their own before the other units reached them. In the effort to lock down the bus station, the authorities had blocked themselves. Other units not immediately involved in the kidnapping were at the scene of a huge fire at the Excalibur. There were reports of civilian casualties and it was shaping up to be a nightmarish day.

"We're on our own for a while," Buffy advised Xander. "More important that we don't lose him now."

Xander kept their vehicle way behind the truck, following it out of town. Even as traffic thinned, he kept his distance. Far enough not to be suspicious, but close enough to not lose sight of him in case he made a sudden move. Buffy regretted yelling at Xander to drive quicker when she first got into the vehicle. When she tried to apologize, he waved her off, saying it wasn't needed. Buffy was beginning to appreciate the quiet unassuming young man who usually worked with trained police dogs. He had an inner calm and discipline about him that was helping Buffy deal with the insane situation.

They jumped when Buffy's cell phone rang. She glanced at the caller display and at once grimaced and looked tender.

"Hi Mom," she greeted her mother.

"What's happening? Have you caught the guy yet? Do you know where Dawn is?" Her mother's anxious voice rang out, even Xander could hear her via the handset.

"Mom, we're still in the middle of the operation," Buffy explained. "I'll give you an update when I can." She considered telling her mother not to call again, because she was interfering with a police operation, but thought better of it. Instead she switched her phone to silent vibrate mode. It wouldn't do, if they had to trail the suspect on foot or if they were trying to be stealthy, for their position to be revealed by the ring of a cell phone. Joyce knew that, but Buffy didn't fault her mother for forgetting. Her mother was a little, no, a lot out of her mind with all this.

The truck continued northeast toward the interstate highway. After about 20 minutes the truck turned into a rest area that was very crowded with tourists. Buffy and Xander debated whether the suspect had stopped because they had been spotted, or whether he stopped for all the reasons people usually stopped at a rest area. Fearful that he would disappear, Buffy finally agreed to let Xander follow the suspect inside. There was too much of a risk for Buffy to be seen. Not knowing how the kidnappers targeted Dawn or why, she had to assume that they had been followed and she would be recognized instantly.

"I see him, boss," Xander reported when he called her cell phone.

Buffy smiled privately at his deference. There was no need, since she wasn't his boss, they weren't even in the same division. But he was just following the tradition of many uniforms, treating detectives with respect. There were very few uniforms who didn't covet the gold shield, and from her brief experience with Officer Xander Harris, Buffy wanted to help him reach his goal, if that was his goal.

"Where is he?" she asked.

"In the Panda Express, with this ginormous plate of fried oily goodness," Xander said. "I feel my arteries clogging up just watching him eat that stuff," he added.

"Good. Can he see you?" she asked.

"Not unless he cranes his head and can look past a group of loud toddlers," Xander answered.

"Okay. Can you describe him," she directed.

"Uh, white male, mid- to late twenties. Medium build, dark hair, baseball cap so I can't see his features. Wearing a navy blue track jacket and black pants. Jittery sort, he's not exactly deliberately looking around for people following him, but he fidgets all the time, and jerks his head all over the place like he's expecting someone to jump him. Sits with his back to the wall, very defensive and like I said, jittery," Xander recited.

"You're doing really well. Go get a tray or something, look like you're eating," she said.

Xander laughed. "I won't be seen dead eating the food here. Wait, that doesn't make sense. I think I'll die an unnatural death if I ate here. Don't worry, I got myself some egg rolls and a coffee. I'm blending in, boss," he said. How he wished he still had Spike. He would have gobbled down the egg rolls like there was no tomorrow, he missed that dog.

They spent the next 15 minutes waiting for the suspect to finish his dinner. To Xander's amazement, the guy devoured the whole plate of three entrées with fried noodles and gulped down a large soda. His own egg rolls were hardly touched though he had finished his coffee as well as the refill he got from the counter. Buffy sat outside trying to keep cool in the stifling desert heat. Xander had pulled into the most convenient parking space, but when it got too unbearable for Buffy, she had to move the vehicle to a shaded parking space. She was careful, however, to ensure they could pull out easily, and the parking space was between the suspect's truck and the exit.

Her thoughts meandered to Dawn again. They had a large age difference between them, not long after Dawn was born their parents were divorced, so Buffy helped her mother take care of Dawn when Dawn was young. They fought a lot, like all siblings, but they were close and had a good relationship. Dawn looked up to Buffy, Buffy knew that. And how proud she was when Dawn started winning dance competitions and was spotted by a talent agency. Buffy wasn't jealous of Dawn's achievements and potential fame. She was her little sister, and would always be her little sister. No one, not even evil, conniving, idiotic kidnappers would take her little sister away from her.

Her increasingly furious thoughts that were racing dangerously toward emancipation of the suspects when she caught them were interrupted by the opening of the car door.

"Rock and roll, boss," Xander said as he dumped himself in the passenger seat of the car, Buffy having remained in the driving seat after moving the vehicle. "He talked for a few minutes on his cell phone and he's hightailing it out of here, look," he pointed at the departing truck.

Buffy started the police vehicle and was soon in hot pursuit.

He wouldn't get away from her, she would not allow it.

*****

[br]

[watty]

Title: White Screams
Author: watson (hiddenwatson [at] yahoo [dot] com)
Distribution: Please let me know first
Rating: R
Disclaimer: BtVS characters, concepts and dialog belong to Mutant Enemy, Fox, The WB, UPN and others.
Summary: Contemporary AU. Who are we? Who can we trust when we can't even trust ourselves?
Notes 1: written for nanowrimo 2008 -- since it was written quickly with little time for extensive research, I have taken liberties with some of the factual and scientific stuff. I could have completed the research in the editing process, but I thought it might be fun to show some of the rawness of the writing under time pressure. Plus, well, I'm lazy.
Notes 2: this story is influenced by the psychological thriller Unknown. The chronology is not completely linear, I hope it doesn't become too confusing.


Part 18 -- Slowly Coming

Present day, abandoned warehouse, now

We retreated to the bathroom again. After the unnecessary and stupid discharge of the gun, a huge shouting match enshewed. The blonde boy yelled at the short guy using all manner of Star Wars analogy, which under other circumstances would be hilarious in a warped sort of way. Short guy started insulting the other boy using other nerdy insults, some of which whizzed above my head. When one of them accused the other of being something called a federationless nerf herder comfort droid, they started punching each other. They were not graceful fighters, there were indiscriminate kicking, body checking and even hair pulling. The redhead and I tried to pull them apart, with limited success. When we started shouting at the boys for their stupidity, the level of noise was at an incredible level. We were all taking this opportunity to vent and let our frustrations at the situation blow up. Sometimes you need to let off steam, otherwise it stays blocked inside too much and does more harm than good.

The whole farce ended up with the young girl screaming at the top of her lungs, "get out, get out, GET OUT!!!" at all of us. She collapsed in an ugly, sorry heap, sobbing wildly. When my redhead knelt down to try to take her in her arms, she pushed her away violently. Then she jumped up and ran into the office, slamming the door so hard it rattled on its hinges. We glanced at each other and decided to leave her be to let off steam.

We didn't care where the boys ended up. It would be our lucky day if they started fighting each other and ended up knocking each other out. That would solve our problem.

Instead, my redhead took my hand and dragged me into the bathroom. The horrid filthy place was fast becoming our hideout, where no one would disturb us. She locked the door this time, having found that the latch still worked. For good measure, she violently tore the garbage bin from the wall and wedged it against the door. Anyone who managed to unhook the latch would have to push very hard to open the door. And with the bin wedged tight, they would only be able to open a crack before it couldn't open any further.

I watched as she paced furiously, nervous energy washing off her in waves. Up and down the narrow space between two rows of sinks. Her footsteps echoing around the bare space. She looked pissed, angry, wild, and very very attractive in an untamed way. I watched, riveted, at her pacing her anger off.

"Stupid. Everything is so stupid," she repeated.

I didn't try to interfere. Nor did I try to be small and invisible so she wouldn't notice me. I just stood there, knowing that she was aware of my presence, but not rushing her, not crowding her.

Eventually her footsteps slowed and her excess nervous energy mostly dissipated. She finally stopped and looked me in the eyes. "Sorry, I was a little out of it. That shot startled me, I had a vision of it heading straight toward me. Or worse, right at you. I need you so bad. Need you around," she said.

For a minute the air crackled. I felt an eerie calm, but I was anything but calm inside or outside. I was trembling, I could feel my teeth chattering and a cold shiver resonate through my shoulders and my chest. "What need?" I managed to croak out.

She closed the distance between us, leaning against me so our breasts were barely touching. Another half step and her hand hooked around the back of my neck, her other hand spread where my heart beat wildly. For her. Solidly, she rubbed that hand up at my collarbone while her other had slipped underneath the collar of my shirt.

"Just need. I have no reference point in my world right now, you are the only thing I'm sure of," she said.

"Me too," I said, my senses and thoughts so addled by her proximity and overwhelmed with my own need that I wasn't making much sense.

She sighed, tilted her head and our lips met.

The kiss was hard. Hard as our mutual need for each other, to share, to connect. Tongues and teeth met. I pulled her hips closer and pushed her thigh between my legs, it helped relieve the need a little.

But not enough.

"Oh god, I can't have enough of you," she groaned.

I laughed. A little out of control until the laughter turned to tears. "I think, I think only you can help," I sobbed.

"Don't cry. Baby, don't cry," she said. And kissed me again.

It was the wrong place, a ridiculously decrepit bathroom. It was the wrong time, we had lost our memories and were faced with unknown danger. Guns were in the proximity. A threat was returning in a few hours.

Yet it couldn't have been more right, more spontaneous, more deep, this our need to kiss, to touch, to reach inside each other.

The situation was desperate but there was nothing desperate or rushed about what we were sharing. Although we had acknowledged that there was a connection, that we were together in some way perhaps as a couple or not yet a couple, this was something new. I felt that we had yet to become intimate in our relationship outside. Kissing her was intense, yet it felt new enough to suggest that we hadn't shared many till then.

I pushed her backward until we hit a solid object. My hands slipped down to her waist, roughly grabbing at her shirt. She hooked one arm around the back of my head and jammed our lips together, easily bruising them. The coppery taste of blood on my tongue only made me crave more.

I tore her shirt out of her pants and bunched the material up to expose her breasts. I was not gentle, she cried out when I bit down on one of her nipples, then the other. But when I tried to move to another spot, she pushed me back, holding my head in place. I was choking under the intensity of our passion, I could not stop if I wished. Instinct took over, the need to obliterate everything, to push out the torment and the dread of our situation. That if I heard and felt and joined her, trembling and coming, it could bring an end to our despair.

She was crying. Her tears had not abated, and now it was a heady mixture of agony and pleasure. I pulled away from her breasts and found her lips, silencing the sobs.

"Tell me what you need," I growled.

Her reply was an incoherent jumble of yes and no and you and now. I laughed. I understood. I kissed her again, a little gentler, then harder, then claiming her mouth with my tongue and teeth. I was sure I was never this confident, this bold. I felt as if I had been held prisoner by my circumstances all my life, that there had always been something, someone, some situation, that demanded a specific role from me. I felt as if I'd never had a chance or met a person that I could be just myself.

Until this moment.

She was kissing me back. No doubt about it, she wasn't a pliable object of desire in my hands, our need was shared. She tried to nudge her hand between us, to reverse our position, but I had the advantage that I had her pinned against the wall. I was not done with her, I squeezed her tighter backwards.

"Don't fight me, let me," I said.

She hesitated, then relaxed, giving in.

With a triumphant grunt, I moved my hands, fast and hard, down the length of her torso. She had her arms around my neck now, like a compliant dance partner. I had no trouble with her pants, with one easy movement, I forced it off together with her panties. The material fell and bunched in a tangle at our ankles. Even before I pushed my knee out, she'd opened her legs to let me in automatically. I cupped my palm against her sex, and had to force myself not to immediately indulge in her heat, her wetness, her scent. My breath was taken away.

"Tell me what you need," I demanded.

"Whatever you need," was her reply.

I curled my fingers hard into her, pressing until my wrist strained. And then I pushed in another centimeter. The heel of my palm ground against her stiff and swollen clit, smoothly gliding with the wetness. I grunted throatily with the effort, she held back whimpers and screams.

It didn't take long. I felt her walls contract and clench my fingers. I tried to withdraw, but she squeezed me some more, and I was reluctant to break contact. My hand was flooded now, and I knew I myself was in the same state. I jammed my own sex against my hand, feeling the urgency through the pressure and the seams of my jeans. It was already enough.

She was shaking, teetering at the edge of her orgasm. "Come on," she charged.

I held her up and she bore down and I thrust against her wildly and we came together. It was messy and wet and at one point I didn't know which way was up or where I began and she ended.

It was enough.

*****

She collapsed against me, totally spent. Her arms circled tightly around my shoulders, her head resting against my cheek.

"You're so good," she breathed into my neck.

"You too," I smiled, wrapping one arm around her waist to hold her up. I was still impossibly throbbing and hard, I steadied my breathing, she had no energy to do anything but lean against me then.

"It felt, I feel like the first time," she whispered in wonder.

"Sweetie, it is. We didn't get this far last time, remember?" I said.

We gasped, and sprung apart as if an electric shock passed through us. I was right, we hadn't gone all the way, that time at my place, during one of my weaker moments. I had been avoiding her, avoiding giving her the wrong message, avoiding leading her on for three years. Since my brother died. I held her responsible.

My mother was dying. There was a risky, expensive procedure that gave her a slim chance. I would stop at nothing.

Warren.

Dawn.

It was all slowly coming back to me.

*****
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[Morrigan]

I am very interested to see how you get them out of this one.

I love your writing style...well paced, spare without being stark. I am definately looking forward to the next installment!

[Zampsa1975]

Yay for another good double update-y goodness... Good that Tara's memories are slowly comming back... I hope she remember's where she put Willow's badge and gun and tells Willow everything about Dawn's kidnapping and Warren's part in it...