Author: Rabid Squirrel

Title: "Murphy's Law"

Summary: Alternate version of season 7; the real story behind Buffy's resurrection, and the conspiracy that threatens to destroy her, along with the entire human race.

Disclaimer: In case there was ever any confusion, I'm not Joss Whedon, 20th Century Fox, or in any way associated with either.

Spoilers: BTVS through season 6, though my selective memory allows me to edit out, rewrite, or outright ignore certain unsavory aspects. Assume Angel more or less true to canon thru season 3.

Rating: R, for violence and strong language.

Feedback: If anyone's had the patience to stick with this story: 1) Thank you; and 2) please give me feedback.

Notes: I think it's painfully obvious by now that this story is taking longer to finish than the painting of the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Not that I'm comparing myself to Michelangelo; after all, I can neither paint nor sculpt. I'm just slow and uninspired.

Dedication: To 2007, and what it may bring . Happy New Year, everyone.

Words of Wisdom "Democracy is two wolves and a lamb voting on what to have for lunch.
Liberty is a well-armed lamb contesting the decision" – Benjamin Franklin

Chapter 24: "Seeing the Forest the Trees"

Sunnydale Business District

Near City Hall

In military parlance it's known as Situational Awareness, a measure of the degree of accuracy by which one's perception of their current environment reflects reality. It comprises the ability to identify, process, and comprehend the critical elements of information about what is happening to one with regards to the particular mission.

In layman's terms, it simply meant whether or not someone knew what the fuck was going on.

For Detective Martinez, it was a concept that would prove critical, and, in the final analysis, ultimately fatal. The lawman had been slow to react as the van's rear door swung open, not recognizing the danger for what it was. By the time his brain had processed what was happening, he'd accomplished little more than to fumble with his seatbelt, failing to release the catch, and in doing so, effectively sealing his fate.

Rupert Giles fared somewhat better.

Even as the initial burst of gunfire peppered Martinez's chest – ending the good Detective's career a full ten years shy of retirement – Giles, sans seatbelt, instinctively rolled forward, narrowly avoiding a similar fate as the gunman methodically shifted his fire to the passenger side of the car. The Englishman hit the floor just as the windshield gave up the ghost, the safety glass having done its job. As automatic fire shredded the austere interior of the Ford, Giles' hand cautiously snaked upward, groping for the shotgun secured to the passenger side dashboard, in the hopes that the late Detective hadn't been all that fastidious about actually securing it. As his hand closed around the stock of the Remington, the gunfire pouring into the car abated, the gunner shifting his attention – at least for the moment - from the police sedan to the SUV beyond.

Scrambling from the back of the van, the gunman jumped onto the hood of the bullet-riddled car, scanning the Explorer for any overt threats as his left hand slapped home a fresh clip, the muzzle of the MP5 never wavering far from its target. He knew with certainty that the cop in the lead car was dead, and the passenger, whom he'd seen go down, if not dead, was at least neutralized for the time being. The shooter's colleagues, even now exiting the van via the sliding side door, would ensure that the man joined his deceased buddy in due course. Secure in that knowledge, he leveled his weapon at the truck, the vehicle's high profile affording him an optimal line of sight, and a prime view of the targets within. As the truck's tires squealed into reverse, he depressed the trigger, unloading a lethal hail of bullets at nearly point-blank range.

Warehouse District

There was really no easy way to handle it. There were simply no protocols for something like this, no order of battle, not even a decent computer simulation. Up until now, everything had happened as a series of seemingly disjointed events, disparate actions woven into a common fabric only by the vague certainty of what was yet to come. But that was about to change. Things were about to become very clear. Time had run out, and the devil wanted his due.

All the while enemies plotted, allies converged, and people began to die, some for cause, others as casualties in the opening salvo of a new kind of war. Most knew little about what was happening, some knew more, and a few knew just about everything there was to know, even if they hadn't admitted as much to anyone else.

As fate would have it, the limited but growing ranks of the latter group happened to be on converging courses, three of them winding through the streets of Sunnydale in a dilapidated Chevy convertible, a fourth even now disembarking from a helicopter on the roof of a warehouse. There were more still to come, both human and not-so-human, destined to join the ranks of what was to become an army, an army neither in name nor number, but in deed and legend. These would soon find their way to the others, joining into a motley fellowship of crusaders whose heroic efforts, even if successful, would ever be known but to a few.

Sunnydale Business District

Near City Hall

In contrast to the now-deceased detective, Wesley Wyndham-Price was well versed in the concept of situational awareness, even if it wasn't necessarily his forte. To wit, no sooner had their assailant's first rounds found their mark than Wesley had slammed the truck into reverse, gunning the engine in a desperate attempt to escape the ruthless ambush. Despite his best intentions, however, Wesley found his efforts frustrated by the fact that another van – a virtual twin to the first - had somehow managed to pull up behind them unnoticed, effectively cutting off their escape. The realization set in just as the Ford smashed into their bumper, throwing Wesley and Willow violently into the backrests of their leather seats, in the process unwittingly undermining the witch's abortive attempt at a protection spell. Fortunately for the both of them, there was one factor that their assailants hadn't anticipated.

That was the bullet-resistant glass, installed at Angel's insistence only 2 months earlier.

The bullets rained into the Lexan-reinforced Safe-T-Glass, visibly damaging the windshield, but failing to penetrate. This came as quite a surprise to the shooter – more so than to the occupants, who were surprised nonetheless - though his disbelief was short-lived. For that matter, so was he.

The members of the Recon team had watched in horror as the ambush unfolded before their eyes, the muzzle flashes and gunfire unmistakable even from a distance. None had ever experienced urban combat before, and none had ever expected to on what they considered their own home turf. With equal parts outrage and determination, the driver of each HUMVEE instinctively floored the throttle, whispering a silent prayer as he did so that their efforts would not be in vain.

The vehicles raced toward the intersection, toward the ambush unfolding on the crossroad directly ahead. As they closed to within fifty yards, establishing a clear line of fire, the gunner on the lead vehicle opened up with the mounted machine gun, decisively engaging a target he deemed a hostile, nearly cutting him in half with a fusillade of .50 caliber rounds. With no time to celebrate, he shifted fire toward the leading van and the men exiting the vehicle, laying down a healthy volume of suppressing fire, surmising correctly that the gentlemen sporting balaclavas and carrying submachine guns were in fact the bad guys. He didn't succeed in actually killing the two men approaching the unmarked police sedan – he knew instinctively it was a cop car; the cheap rims were always a dead giveaway – but he managed to force them to take cover, buying Rupert Giles the time he needed.

With the two hostiles pinned down by fire – one in front of the car, crouching partially beneath the van, ineffectively returning fire at the engaging army vehicles; the other on the passenger side, crouched by the tire well only feet from Giles - and the attackers vehicles now taking fire from the other 2 HUMVEES, the former librarian made his move. He knew by the paucity of submachine-gun fire that the first assailant was very likely dead, or at least probably wished he were, given the volume of fire the unknown machine gunner was spitting out. Giles also knew that at least two additional men were probably still out there, well armed, and in close proximity. He suspected that someone had come to his rescue, likely a military someone judging by the sound of heavy machine gun fire and unmuffled engines. But it was two other sounds that got his attention, and helped to confirm his mental picture of the situation. A metallic click outside the passenger door confirmed his former suspicion. The clipped voice emanating from a PA system confirmed the second. Grasping the unsecured – and fortuitously loaded – shotgun in his left hand, he manually unlocked the door, hoping the gunfire would conceal the sound, and pulled gently on the handle, but did not yet open the door. Here we go, Ripper, he steeled himself. The cavalry may have come galloping over the hill, but the bloody Indians aren't following the script. Completely on edge, he nonetheless managed to still himself for just a few more seconds, leveraging his above-average hearing to compensate for his lack of visual confirmation. Between gunshots came the sound of a scuff, definitely nearby, seemingly just outside the door. Holding his breath, Giles shoved the door outward, connecting with the would-be assassin's skull, sending him sprawling to the curb. Without reservation, Giles swung the shotgun in the man's direction, the expression on his face confirming the inevitability of what was to come. He pulled the trigger, and that was that.

Still gripping the shotgun, Giles cautiously exited the car, peering back over his right shoulder. He felt a brief yet powerful sense of relief when he saw two people moving about within Wesley's Explorer, and the smoking ruins of the Dodge van beyond. He quickly put that aside, mindful that there was still another enemy about, one who would have no compunction about killing Giles, or anyone else for that matter. Crouching low to the ground, Giles made his way toward the front of the Crown Victoria, inching along the front quarter panel, the shotgun pointing the way. He was vaguely aware that the gunfire had stopped, but did not read too much into it, for fear of making a misstep so close to safety.

Reaching the edge of the bumper, he peered slowly around the corner, the shotgun leading the way, half expecting to come face-to-face with the business end of an assault rifle. He found only another ruined van, an expanding pool of blood, and the earthly remains of another dead gunman, killed moments before by a soldier with a few well-placed shots from an M-16.

This round was over. The next was about to begin.

Danyael's Loft

Nemamiah had arrived first, the bruised and battered body of a nearly dead Slayer in tow. Though she was no longer in any immediate danger of dying, the girl's physical condition had caused him some initial degree of alarm, given the extent of her injuries, and his own limited ability to heal such wounds of the flesh. Time, coupled with the Slayer's own innate regenerative powers, would have eventually healed her, though not in time to be of any immediate use to him.

Of more immediate concern was her mental health.

Nemo was, to put it simply, a big-picture kind of guy. That only made sense, given that he was considered by the church to be the guardian angel of just causes. Not that any of that was true, at least in the strictest sense. There were angels, and there were saints, but such specific designations as guardian angels and patron saints were merely human constructs, beliefs of the church promulgated as truth. In reality, outside of the highest choirs, angels generally didn't serve specific roles, though there were some notable exceptions. By and large, they were interchangeable functionaries, existing to do God's bidding, whatever that may be. It was a harmless belief, really; a source of comfort to people in need of such things, and nothing more. That wasn't to say that Nemo didn't fit the billing. He was all about the just cause, and seldom met one he didn't champion, which is what brought him to Sunnydale in the first place.

However, the inclusion of the Slayer Faith in the unfolding conflict had disturbed him. The girl's very essence was conflicted; her desire to atone for her wrongs in direct opposition to the pain and uncertainty that had lead her down the path of darkness in the first place. He knew that in her heart she wanted to do right, to redeem herself in the eyes of the world, but could not leg go of the doubt that prevented her from fully doing so. It always boiled down to the human element, and that was what worried him. Humans were too unpredictable; literal slaves to their emotions. Their actions tended towards reflexive response, but were all-too often irrational or illogical. They would risk their lives for next to nothing, yet refuse to lift a finger when it really mattered. Capable of incredible selflessness and generosity one minute, they exhibited the basest cruelty the next. It was a paradox he could never fully reconcile, try as he might.

Of even greater concern was the disposition of Buffy Summers. Assuming things had gone according to prophecy – which they always did, after a fashion – then the girl was no longer just a Slayer. Her Slayer essence, and the attendant powers and abilities conferred therein by the Guardians, now resided in the Key. The power Buffy Summers would come to know was something else entirely.

Buffy's death had been a necessity. The human body, even one imbued with the power of a Slayer, simply could not endure the transformation while simultaneously sustaining life. And so certain events had been allowed to pass, even though their human allies had not understood, and had predictably balked at allowing the murder of a young woman when they saw it within their power to intervene. Humans could be damn sentimental at times, he mused, even when the emotion worked against them. But then, they hadn't exactly been privy to the whole story. Buffy Summers – Slayer, sister, guidance counselor, and one-time Double Meat Palace employee of the week – may have slipped the earthly bonds of the mortal coil, but Elizabeth Anne Summers was just beginning her journey. The truth, he knew, would be hard to accept; the responsibilities inherent in that acceptance, even more so. But he had faith in the girl. They all did. After all, it had been ordained, and no one, especially one of the loyal, would question that.

It would take some getting used to, he admitted to himself. The nephalim were a rare breed. Their genesis had been an abomination perpetrated by the Proud; a legacy of the rebellion that had rocked the very gates of Heaven. In time, they had been hunted down, one-by-one, and their numbers annihilated. But out of that blasphemy had emerged a new weapon of the righteous. Even as the human race had risen to prominence, battling the demon-breed for control of the earthly realm, a new line of the angelic/human hybrid had emerged, one borne of the fruits of others not unlike him. It had started, not surprisingly, by decree. To counter the machinations of the Proud, the Throne had set in motion a new line, a lineage of Seraphs, born of human flesh, to counter the threat of the underworld. At the same time, the Guardians had forged from the ranks of humanity a new champion, a warrior whose sole purpose was to fight an unrelenting battle against the vestiges of the demonic throng. The two lines existed independently, each waging their own war, neither cognizant of the other.

That is, until now.

Gently lying Faith's unconscious form on the leather sofa, Nemamiah permitted himself a rare smile. There was a certain sense of equilibrium to it, a symmetry whose intrinsic beauty could not be denied. Separately, the Seraphic nephalim and the Slayer had been potent weapons for the forces of good. Combined, they would become a nearly unstoppable force, an enduring symbol of the indomitable human will to survive. He only hoped it was enough.