It was just beyond the car, maybe a hundred feet or so away, but it was loud enough that he jumped and curled his hands into fists, ready to move and fight, but the car barely swerved as a huge clot of dust and rocks hit it, rattling the glass. “Land mine,” the driver told him, smoothly putting the car back on the cracked asphalt that made up Rasiva’s main road. “Animals set them off sometimes.”

He glanced out warily, but didn’t see any sign indicating it was an attack. He was glad he hadn’t sprung his claws and ruined his cover. “I’ve heard of that.” Asrahar didn’t have a huge land mine problem, but they did have enough out there, leftovers from a brief but nasty battle some twenty years ago. Not everybody who buried the landmines bothered to create maps or handy ways to remember where they put them, and many couldn’t be found or recovered without being set off. Areas suspected of containing landmines were usually marked with a sign warning of such, but not all. Most were in the outlying areas, though; the closer you got to the heart of Rasiva, the less likely you were to find them. That was probably cold comfort to the mutilated and the dead.

The city eventually rose in the distance like a mirage, a clot of low slung buildings and reasonably modern office buildings (as of at least twenty years ago) with a faint air of dissolution and decay, an aura of wasted potential. It kind of reminded him of the one part of Sarajevo that was almost untouched by the war, but he wasn’t sure of his frame of reference for that. Had he ever been to Sarajevo? And which war?

There was quite a bit of traffic once they were in the city proper, and the newest car he saw was a model from three years ago. Still, if you had money, you weren’t going to flaunt it, not here; you were just asking to get robbed.

The sidewalks were even more crowded than the streets, and begging was an actual occupation here, although Muhammed frowned on it enough that most tried to be subtle about it - no one wanted to be rousted by the cops, and risk disappearing. And because of the general poverty and limit of medicines and hospital stays to those who could afford it, there were lots of orphans, and the kids had a tendency to loiter for various reasons. Some did menial jobs for money or food; some prostituted themselves for much better money (but shabbier treatment); and some hung out in packs. The packs could pick your pockets effortlessly, even while seemingly begging for change. It was Dickensian in a way, although older kids could also kill you, so you had to be especially careful about walking down some of the narrower streets, which turned into dead ends and blind alleys before you knew it. Well, he personally didn’t have to worry about it, but most people did.

The Hotel Eurasia was an eight story building, once white, now the color of smoker’s teeth. It might have once had stucco on it, but now it looked like some kind of fungus had bubbled the paint from underneath.

They had included cash in Asraharan currency, so he paid the driver and tipped him well (in case he ever needed him again - a good tip made for a compliant driver), then got out into the polluted air of Rasiva. It smelled like exhaust and raw sewage, which was a minor step up from the airport.

The hotel lobby was so aggressively air conditioned that stepping into it, he felt like he had been thrown headlong into a cold shower. The lobby had a fake marble floor, plastered walls in a light saffron color, and a large front desk that looked oak, but most likely wasn’t. The staff, all neat in appearance, wore dark navy uniforms that made them look vaguely like security guards.

He checked in easily, the reservations already made in his (fake) name, and took the aging but functional elevator to the seventh floor, where his room was. It too was air conditioned within an inch of his life, with saffron colored walls and a large screened window overlooking downtown Rasiva. He threw his knapsack on the bed, which was covered with the type of dreary floral patterned coverlet you could find in any American hotel, and looked over the city. It didn’t look any better from up here; in fact, it looked much worse. He could see the battle scars on many buildings, and the flat, barren wastelands beyond. Somewhere in the haze surrounding the fringe of the city like a cloak was the jagged mountain range that separated a chunk of its border from Afghanistan.

Somewhere out there, Black Fire was content in the knowledge that they were untouchable. Logan wondered where the best place was to prove that they weren’t.

5

Bren listened to the cars outside with their warring bass, and wondered if he should finally get up.

He glanced at the alarm clock on his nightstand, and saw that it was actually late in the afternoon and not the morning like he suspected. He should get up if only to go to the bathroom - his bladder was about to burst.

So he did that, and then wondered if he should take a shower, or go back to bed. He’d technically been in bed for two days, but damn, he was depressed. He didn’t think that Bob’s “death” would hit him so hard, but it had. Maybe he was coming back; it didn’t seem to matter to his mood.

His stomach grumbled noisily, and he figured he should eat something and get going. Maybe, if he was ambitious, he could go back to the office tonight. Everybody else probably already had, and thought he was a big asshole for cutting for so long. He turned on his stereo to drown out the irregular thumping from the street, although he had no idea how long Ladytron would hold its own against the very boombastic people on the main strip. Many of them had stereos far, far more expensive than their cars.

He dug in his fridge, realized he really needed to go shopping as soon as possible, but he had some egg white product (he liked it better than “real” eggs - he had no idea why, except he suspected he was a philistine) that wasn’t bad yet, as well as some passable “confetti salad”. He heated up a skillet, threw in a pat of butter taken from a restaurant (if not for cafes and fast food places, he’d never have any condiments), and poured in the egg mixture before adding the salad. It was a lazy man’s omelet, but he knew from experience that it was better than it had any right to be. His croissants had gone stale, but he knew after a few seconds in the microwave they’d be almost as good as new.

He sat down on the edge of his bed with a bottle of iced mocha, and wondered if he should bother to turn on the television. Bad shit could have happened; the world could have ended; a televangelist could have been elected to public office. Did he really want to know?

He had made the decision to check his voicemail when there was a knock on his door. Had someone from the office come to check on him? He quickly sniffed himself, but he didn’t smell that bad, which was a bit of a shocker. Maybe his nose was stuffed up.

He hastily pulled on some sweatpants and threw on a t-shirt before looking out the spy hole. He had expected Angel, or maybe Rags or even Helga, but he did not expect who he actually saw.

He hastily undid his deadbolt as he exclaimed, “Holy shit, Saddiq? What are you doing here?”

Standing just beyond his door in a ramrod posture Rogue once described as “parade rest”, was Saddiq. Since he was a solid six foot three, he had to look up a bit (okay, okay - so he was five eight, and not the six foot he claimed on every form ever given to him), but as always he felt the same mix of awe, attraction, and fear - he felt the same way about Sid that he did about Logan, but to a lesser degree. Since Logan was totally unattainable, that seemed to make his crush that much worse.

He didn’t know if Sid was unattainable, as his sexuality was as vague and nearly nonexistent as his expressed emotions. Sid was sleekly muscular, enviably lean but no less solid for it, his caramel colored skin absolutely flawless. As he’d gotten older, his high, model like cheekbones and large hazel eyes appeared to stand out more in his narrow, handsome face, and it seemed to give him an almost vulpine appearance. His wavy black hair was cut short, but not in a military way, which was good. He was wearing black Converse sneakers, black cargo pants, a white t-shirt that clung to his torso in a very attractive fashion, and in the most surprising development, an open black leather X-Men jacket. While he felt partly attracted to him, part of him reminded him that Sid was a friend, and that was more important than any kind of fleeting lust. His better nature won out as it always did, but his libido remained waiting to pounce.

“Should I go?” Sid asked, as formal yet guileless as always.

He smiled, trying not to laugh. Sid just hadn’t got a hang of dealing with people yet, and Bren wasn’t sure he ever would. “No, you big jerk, come on in.” He stepped back and held the door open for him, wanting to hug him but aware that Sid really didn’t like to be touched. If you got within close proximity of him, you seemed to set off Sid’s hyperactive defensive response.

Sid came in, glancing at him questioningly, as if not sure the jerk comment was affectionate. “Hey, wearing the big boy jacket. You in the X-Men now?”

He glanced at his coat, as if not sure what he was wearing. Since Sid was always so precise, and had little clothes, that couldn‘t be anything but a nervous gesture. (He didn’t show up at the mansion with anything except those on his back; in fact, he had no possessions at all. All he had were things bought for him or given to him.) “I’m a reserve member, or a trainee - it depends on whether you ask the Professor or Mr. Summers. If we’re really short handed or in big trouble, I guess I’m in.”

“It’s about time,” he said, shutting the door. He considered locking it, but with Sid here, why bother? He didn’t feel perfectly physically safe with many people, but the list was Logan, Sid, Angel, Bob, and Helga. No matter what hellish army burst through the door, he was sure each one of them could handle it without his help, and do it in a style bound to be brutal, awe inspiring, and scary as all fucking hell. (Although he might now have to revise Bob’s listing.) “So, you still codenamed Saracen?”

He dipped his head, a terse form of nod that seemed to be his favorite. “Yes. I never thought of anything better.”

“Good, I thought it was cool. Have a seat. Wanna drink?” He went out to his kitchenette to flip the eggs, as he could hear them sizzling loudly, but when he glanced back at the main room, Sid was still standing there, looking uncomfortable. Relaxing wasn’t natural to him; being casual remained a foreign concept, in spite of the Hold Steady show he and Rogue took him out to. They did make progress every now and then, but Sid had been robbed of any childhood, even worse than he - son of a crack addict an and absentee demon father - had been. Sid had also had no choices in his life and nothing even remotely approaching freedom until Bob “bought” him and his “brothers” from the royal family of Rajan. It should have been simply liberating, but things were never that simple, and sometimes Sid seemed just overwhelmed.

He glanced around, and finally saw the loveseat, which he perched on the edge of like a person awaiting a intensive grilling from angry police. “Thank you, but I don’t wish to impose further.”

That made him snort a laugh, and kick open his fridge, which always had a loose door anyways. “I’ve got soda, bottled coffee, bottled tea, beer, orange juice, water, and an energy drink that’s like cocaine in a can. Pick one.”

He looked stricken. “Must I?”

He picked out a can of soda, and tossed it to him. Sid caught it easily. “There, I picked for you. So what brings you to Cali?” It wasn’t a total surprise, as Sid had called him last week and asked if he could come visit him sometime. He’d said sure, but didn’t actually think he’d ever come. Obviously something was up.

He shrugged, and studied the can, as if making sure it contained no snakes or arsenic or explosive bull testicles. “I … I needed to get away for a bit, I think.”

Sid being this hesitant was just fucking weird. He turned the heat off on his eggs and stared at him. “What’s going on? Is something wrong?”

He grimaced and set the can aside, unopened. “No … maybe. I don’t know.” When he looked at him, it was with a strangely sorrowful desperation. “I’m supposed to be happy, right? I’m an X-Man and I’m free, I’m no longer an indentured servant to my mast … to the royal family. So why aren’t I happy, Brendan?”

Oh god - a philosophical discussion. It was too early - and he was too sober - for one of those. He wondered if Sid would be offended if he snuck into the bathroom and chugged a quick beer.

****

The new Los Angeles headquarters of Wolfram and Hart was close to where the city merged with the strip mall hell that was the San Fernando Valley. It was a tall tower of metal and glass, just like the last one, and also like the last one, it had secret entrance points that no one else knew about. Unless, of course, you knew the old ones.

Secret sewer tunnels led to the “sub-basement” of the building (which also didn’t technically exist), access points for creatures who didn’t have cars with necro tinted glass, or just couldn’t afford to be seen leaving here. It wasn’t like you could just walk in there, though; the hatch was only accessible if you had the right spell, or opened it from inside the building. So Angel waited, and was prepared to wait longer, but it was still daytime, and the day wasn’t overcast enough to keep vampires from hurting - he was hardly here a half hour before the hatch opened, and someone started coming down the ladder embedded in the sewer wall.

Before they could grab the hatch to close it, he sprung from the shadows and grabbed them by the ankles, yanking them violently down into the tunnel. It was a lanky, long haired vampire, who was stunned to be jumped by another. As he got up, Angel triggered the spring loaded stake hidden up his sleeve, and stabbed it in his chest. He dusted with the stupidest look on his face.

Angel went up the ladder, expecting trouble, and found none. He must have been alone, which was somewhat suspicious, but actually not; after all, Wolfram and Hart were arrogant enough to think this would never be a problem.

He headed unmolested through the beige and white corridor, and took the elevator up to the lobby, as he wanted to see the new big cheese, and knew to do that he’d have to get their attention first. That was the fun part.

He stepped out into the busy lobby, which had a lovely mosaic tile floor featuring the pictures of a wolf, a ram, and a heart on a bronze background that had a spiral appearance to it. There was a huge semi-circular lobby desk made of polished mahogany, manned by two different receptionist, with a security guard standing behind them against the wall, under the big brass letters spelling out “Wolfram & Hart”. There was no chance of mistaking this for a Bob’s Big Boy, was there?

As soon as he started walking past the desk, one of the receptionists said, “Sir? Sir! You can’t go back there without checking in!”

“They know me here,” he said dismissively, heading for the bank of elevators at the back.

The security guard, a large man who looked like he used to be a professional hockey player before they kicked him out for steroid abuse, suddenly stood in his way. “Where do ya think yer goin’?”

“Through you,” he replied, and sucker punched him in the gut before kicking him across the lobby. He probably broke a couple of his bones, but it was unavoidable.

The second the guy hit the wall, a half dozen security guards seemed to materialize out of nowhere, surrounding him. They had batons and tasers, and were looking at him like a piñata full of gold. “You have no idea who you’re messing with,” one of the big ones warned.

Angel couldn’t help but smirk, and let his vampire face emerge. “Funny. I was about to say the same thing to you.”

He spun into a side kick that took out the charging guard, and shot out a hard elbow that nailed a guard who tried to get him from behind. A taser crackled as another jabbed it towards him, but he grabbed the man’s wrist and snapped it, ripping the weapon away. He turned and blindly stabbed the taser into another guard as he kicked another in the face, sending him falling backwards.

Guards seemed to swarm out of nowhere, and now some of them were vampires too. Cute - fighting fire with fire, as well as trying to mob him. Too bad it wasn’t enough - didn’t they know he was mighty experienced in facing off with unruly mobs? Angelus used to consider it a palate cleanser.

One of the vamps tackled him, but he sprung the stake from his sleeve and dusted him before they hit the floor. The other vamps tried to pile on, but he used a sweep kick to take them down before jumping back up to his feet, and that’s when someone threw a net over him.

But he had been expecting that, and used a slight modification - borrowed from Logan, admittedly - to solve that problem. Hidden in his left sleeve, where normally there would be a stake, was a spring loaded knife, upside down so its super sharp blade was pointing up. He triggered it, and sliced through the net easily, staking a vampire that tried to grab the knife.

Someone grabbed him from behind, pinning his arms to the side, but he jumped up and kicked an incoming Human away, then used his vampire strength to flip over the head of the vamp that got a hold of him. He landed on his feet behind him, and as the vampire spun around, he staked him as easily as if the vamp was committing suicide. He slashed the knife through the air, and decapitated another vampire as he kicked another Human away, clearing himself a space on a lobby floor now covered with bodies and ashes. More demon guards had been brought in, big guys with chains, and he grinned savagely at them, running his tongue over his fangs. He’d never admit it to Giles, but this was kind of fun. “Who’s next?” he asked, glancing around as they flanked him and began to slowly close in as a circle.

Suddenly a man shouted, “Stop this at once!”

The guards hesitated, and slowly retreated back in a circle as a relatively handsome Asian man in an expensive suit came forward. He looked familiar, which was kind of surprising, since he was dead. “Angel, come with me. We’ve been expecting you.”

Angel returned to Human face, staring at the late Gavin Park with curiosity. He smelled a bit like a ghost, yet not totally unlike a zombie. But he didn’t look like a zombie. “Who’s we?”

“You’ll see.” He jerked his head back towards the largest elevator, which opened as if on cue. Gavin turned towards it, and Angel followed, while the demon guards looked on with obvious disappointment.

Alone in the elevator with Gavin, his smell became no clearer. “So you’re dead,” he said, by way of starting conversation. It wasn’t the best way to do it.

Gavin seemed to think he was commenting on him still being around, and shrugged. “I’m under contract.”

Still curious about what he was, he sprung the knife out of his sleeve and slashed at his midsection. The knife and his arm went clear through him, with a feeling like he’d just stuck his hand in box full of liquid nitrogen.

Gavin scowled at him. “Don’t do that.”

So he was some kind of ghost, but an odd one; there was some sort of solidity to him, although not much. Maybe that allowed him to touch and manipulate things to a certain degree. “Sucks to be you,” Angel said, snapping the knife back in its brace.

“Isn’t that something you say to a vampire?”

He shook his head. “See, if you had that sense of humor when you were alive, I may have liked you.” Gavin raised an eyebrow at that, and Angel had to admit, “Okay, no, I’d never have liked you.”

Gavin hardly seemed moved by the statement. The antipathy was mutual, and apparently strong enough to survive death. As if riding in an elevator with the quasi-ghost of a lawyer who hated him (and wasn’t he killed by zombies?) wasn’t surreal enough, there was a Muzak version of “Somebody To Love” coming from the speakers overhead, and this trip up - the elevator was going up, wasn’t it? - was taking forever.

Finally, Gavin broke the tense, odd silence. “What were you hoping to accomplish with that display down there?”

“I was a distraction. My friends are planting bombs outside. This place should be ready to come down right about now. Good thing you’re dead.”

He looked at him askance, and after a moment he snorted disdainfully. “I knew you were lying the moment you said you had friends.”

Finally the elevator came to a smooth stop, and the doors slid open on a large floor with red carpets. Gavin went ahead, and when he realized he wasn’t following, he paused and look back. He was just ever so slightly translucent at the edges. “Are you coming?”

It was probably a trap. Would they try and kill him now, or simply capture him? It was possible he’d be issued a vague warning and let go, all in service of whatever plan they had going right now. Not that it mattered; he was good for anything.

So far, the plan was working perfectly.

6

The best place to look for rumors and start them was a bar. Luckily, one of the few legal ones was in the hotel.

Asrahar was not, by definition, a Muslim nation, but drinking alcohol was so frowned upon that it was generally illegal and mostly done in secret. Types of “speakeasies” thrived, and they weren’t always easy to find, especially for the few Western tourists who bothered to come around here. They’d bring obvious, unwanted attention.

But the bar downstairs, safely in the confines of the Westernized hotel, had a small, clean bar with lots of legal booze, and a small, plump bartender wearing a red vest. He also sported an impressive comb-over that was nearly an architectural miracle. There weren’t many people in the bar drinking, and the couple sitting in a back booth looked like they were employees of the hotel enjoying a late liquid lunch.

The bartender was named Ahmed, and he talked to him a bit, admitting he was a journalist trying to find out how the recovery was going. Ahmed shrugged and seemed noncommittal, but once he got a bit more comfortable with him, he admitted it wasn’t going well.

On his third beer, after asking for good nightspots around here (there weren’t many safe ones for Westerners - what a shock), he inquired about this group he’d heard of called “Black Fire”. Ahmed’s posture stiffened, his brown eyes widened, and Logan caught a whiff of fear coming off him. He lied blatantly, claiming he’d never heard of such a thing, but Logan knew he had a hit here. Yes, he knew them, and yes, he was terrified. Was this a lead he could follow, or could he just let Ahmed spread the news that the Western journalist in the Eurasia was asking questions no one wanted to hear?

He then saw a blur of movement out of the corner of his eye, a streak of dark red moving towards the front of the bar, and someone from the kitchen shouted, “Catch that thief!”

Ahmed moved a lot faster than his bulk indicated, and got the thief by the ear before they could slip out the door, dragging them protesting back into the bar. It was nothing more than a kid, the grimy, cast off Western style clothes suggesting a street kid. “I’m gonna break your head open, gutter trash,” Ahmed promised, then looked up nervously at the Westerner. Logan watched him warily.

He didn’t want to get involved, but the problem was, Chandler might.  Decisions, decisions.