8

They pulled off for a drink in a bar on a back roads that looked appropriately disreputable, a small, dark bar called “O’Hurley’s” that featured chicken wire over the windows and a general smell of beer, vomit, and hopelessness. The interior was dark wood and sawdust, and the bartender had a head like an ugli fruit, all wrinkled and scarred, sunburn turning it a lobsterish shade of red.

Just like home.

He and Marc sat at one end of the bar, getting stared at relentlessly by some Canadian rednecks in a back booth, but they were too cowardly to approach them … so far. Logan figured that’d change in two or three beers time.

Because Logan remembered he had turned off his cell phone, he pulled it out of his pocket and found out a couple of messages had been forwarded to his “message box”, but Logan had no idea he had one, or what the hell it was. Before he turned his phone off, it buzzed (he couldn‘t call that noise a ring), and he was loath to answer it, but Marc raised an eyebrow at him. “Well, go on.”

He scowled at him, but did answer it, just because he didn’t want to seem like an idiot afraid of a phone call. But did he ever get good news via the phone? “Yeah?”

“Hey Logan,” Angel’s voice said, just slightly tinny with distance. “Hope I’m not interrupting something.”

“Just another sad attempt to get drunk. So what’s up? End of the world again?”

“Funny you should say that …” And then Angel proceeded to tell him all about the nascent Hellmouth, the possessed apartment building in Brentwood, a god of rage, and the fact that they all got their asses handed to them. Bob was off doing something that Helga called “fool ass stupid”, which with Bob could have meant anything.

“So you’re gearing up for a final assault?” Logan asked, not really surprised. Wherever Angel was, trouble seemed to be - god, did he ever sympathize.

“I think Helga called it a suicide squeeze, but yes, basically that’s it.”

“And you’d like me to come and die with the rest of you.”

“You got other plans?”

Logan felt the decision had already been made. Chance had weighed in as much as anything else and forced his hand. “You know me to walk away from a fight, no matter how hopeless?”

“That’s kind of why I called,” he admitted. “Faith with you?”

“No. Marc’s with me.”

“Think he’d be interested in joining the fight?”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah, okay. We’re gearing up at the Way Station.”

“See you as soon as possible,” Logan said, disconnecting the phone. As soon as he tucked it back in his coat pocket, he saw Marc staring at him over his beer.

“World ending again?”

“Apparently. Angel was wondering if he we could swing by L.A. and help turn the tide. Or die horribly, whichever. I figure I can call Jaromir, Tony’s spare pilot, to pick us up at the nearest airport - we should get to California in a couple hours. If you’re game, that is.”

He snorted derisively, putting his beer back on the bar. “Oh yeah, I wanna get my soul eaten by a hell god. Well, my theoretical soul, and a theoretical hell and god; philosophy major over here, y’know.”

“So was that a yes?”

“Hell yeah.” He paused and seemed to turn serious, and Logan just knew what he was going to ask. “That guy in Maine -”

“If the world ends, it ain’t gonna matter. We stop it, I can pay him a visit.”

Marcus studied him for what seemed like much too long a time, as if seeing straight through him. This was the out he was looking for, and Marc must have known that. But Marc clearly decided now wasn’t the time to discuss it. “You ever wonder if Bob’s pulling cosmic strings for you?”

Logan scoffed, grabbing his sweating mug of beer. “If he is, he’s not doing it enough.” He finished off his beer - warm and weak as it was - in five swallows, while Marcus gulped down the rest of his. Marc then slammed his mug down, bolting to his feet, and shouted, “Woo hoo! We’re gonna save the world or die trying, motherfuckers!”

Logan barely swallowed back the beer before he laughed, but it was a near thing - he choked a little, glad it didn’t go out his nose. The bartender was now glaring at them, along with the rednecks in the corner, but it was pretty much a sure thing they weren’t going to fuck with the crazy black guy and his sideburned friend now. Logan gave them a sarcastic little wave as he got up and headed for the door, following a strutting Marcus. “So this is basically the Alamo we’re heading into?” Marc asked, not even glancing back.

“Sounds like it.”

“Can we be the Mexicans?”

“We can be whatever you wanna be.”

Marc pumped his fist up and down. “Solid. I love Canada, bud.”

Logan shook his head, unable to stifle the grin. He really hoped Angel knew just what he asked for when he called on them for help. Then again, if he wasn’t desperate, he never would have called.

****

Bren reached blindly into the wicker bowl on the table, and was astonished to find all the beer nuts were gone. There was no way he could have eaten them all so fast - somebody must have helped.

But who? Kier didn’t eat beer nuts; he didn’t eat period. Naomi was sitting at such an angle to him that she’d have had to have reached across him to get to the peanuts, and Sid was sitting directly across from him, so if he had reached for them, there was no way he could have missed that. Bren knew was a nervous eater, but he must have been shoving beer nuts in his mouth by the handful to have finished the bowl so fast. Shit. Well, at least he wasn’t shotgunning his drink … but shotgunning Irish crème liqueur probably just ended in copious vomiting.

While Bob was doing … whatever (Helga was pretty evasive, and no one felt especially compelled to ask, maybe because they all felt they had more than enough to cope with at the moment), Giles was trying to call Mordred, but kept getting his machine. They all heard Angel talk to Logan, who was apparently happy to join the “party”, and was bringing Marcus along. Good news only in the sense that they could probably clear a path up the stairs of the building, just in time for them all to rip each other’s heads off at the seventh floor. (Bren hoped he lived long enough to witness a Logan/Angel fight, because that was bound to be epic.)

Sid wasn’t indulging in the fear or self-pity though - did he ever? Bren envied him his emotional removal from each and all situations. He looked like he was thinking hard about something, staring at an old, faded drink ring marring the table top where they all sat, fretting in silent communion.

As Giles hung up in frustration for what seemed the eighth time, Xander suddenly asked, “Why not call Willow? She’s not made of magic, but she has closed a Hellmouth before.”

Xander, Angel, and Giles were all sitting at the bar, but with several stools between them all. They had a longer shared history, but it was clear that there was tension there, that the three of them may have shared a history that the others didn’t, but there were things unresolved, issues that hadn’t quite faded with time. They were like a family who became estranged and yet didn’t want to admit to themselves or each other how much they had all grown apart.

After thinking about it for a moment, Giles handed Xander the phone, and he called Willow. Bren listened with some interest at the jukebox switching over rather than their phone call, because he was intrigued by the thing. It had done nothing but play oddly appropriate songs since they’d gotten here. How did it do that? At first he thought it goofed up with mopey Morrissey’s “Suedehead”, but then he realized the chorus was “Why do you come here when you know it makes things hard for me”. A tad mild, but appropriate. The next song took no chances with subtlety - Rammstein’s “Du Hast”. It was probably even scarier if you understood the words.

Sid tapped his fingers on the table idly, and said, “Perhaps we should call the institute, see if we can get some help from there.”

Naomi barked a brief, bitter laugh. “Are you kidding? I could barely effect those people; I had to bake their internal organs to make them stop, and it didn’t stop them for good. And I’m the heavy hitter around here.” She said that last part matter of factly, with no arrogance. It was generally true, and they all knew it.

Sid grimaced, but wasn’t discouraged. “I admit, a lot of mutants will be no help.”

“Xavier’s totally out,” Bren interjected. “If Bob accidentally turns telepath’s brains into mush, just think what would happen when we encounter a god who means to hurt ‘em.”

Sid nodded in agreement. “Really only one name comes to mind. I figure that Logan, Marcus, Scott, and myself can take care of everyone from the sixth floor down - that’ll leave the rest of you take on everyone that’s made it down to the seventh floor, until you turn on each other and kill yourselves.” He frowned. “Okay, that part of the plan needs work.”

Bren stared across the table at Sid in open disbelief. “Did you say Scott?”

“Yes. A solid blast from him could clear the stairs. Not for long, but long enough.”

“You know what a hard time he has with all this supernatural shit. And these are people, possessed or not. Besides, what if he overshoots? He could take out a wall.”

“Yes. But our opponent isn’t playing fair, so why should we?”

Now Bren could see how Logan had rubbed off on Sid. That was a logical statement, and yet one limned with a hard, personal edge. “I think he’d have a hard time, even if he agreed to it.”

“He’ll agree,” Sid said, holding his hand out across the table. “Because I asked him. May I have your phone?”

Bren grumbled, but dug out his phone. He knew Sid had become Scott’s “golden boy” since he’d gone, and he didn’t begrudge him that position - he’d never wanted it in the first place - but it was weird how little moments of jealousy would sting. He just wished he could call someone and be that sure of their response.

As Sid called and made his pitch to Scott, Bren wondered if Bob was doing any better than the rest of them. Because right now, all they were doing was selecting people they wouldn’t mind dying with.

*****

It felt like a hit, but it wasn’t actually a physical blow. Still, Bob went flying and landed hard in the shredded glass/ice, his palms digging into the assorted edges as the back of his head hit the ground hard. Yeah, that hurt.

Ravana loomed over him, his movement followed by a sound not unlike crunching snow. “You arrogant little whelp! How dare you come here and disturb my peace -”

“Your peace? Yeah, this place is like a bloody graveyard. Do you ever get anything but peace here? I remember you as a party guy.”

Ravana paused and glared down at him - well, seven of his heads did.

Ravana had ten heads, with seven of them lined up in a row across an insanely broad set of shoulders. He was approximately eight feet wide and ten feet tall, with thick bronze skin like armor plates, and arms and legs as thick as tree trunks. One of his heads was embedded firmly in the center of his broad chest, and the other two were on long, thin appendages that grew out of his back and generally craned over the other heads for a better look. Although the faces had a similar arrangement of features - two large eyes as featureless and black as insect carapaces, a dent that could have been considered a nose (if you were generous), and a lipless slash of a mouth that looked like an open wound - the faces actually did have slight variances, and no two looked precisely alike. Not only was it creepy, but when you considered the fact that he wore nothing but a loincloth and a slim leather belt from where hung his solid handled mace, his curved sword, and his whip made from the! skin of Rakshas that had angered him, he went from creepy to completely fucking scary in almost no time flat.

“What the hell does that mean?” he snapped crossly. At least he only spoke with one voice. “Party guy. Have you lost your tiny little mind, Kama?”

“Name’s Bob now,” he pointed out, getting up to his feet. He took a couple of step away from Ravana, but pretended like he was stumbling, so he looked wimpy as opposed to cowardly. The Rakshas were not in view, but they wouldn’t be - their lord could take care of himself.

“Why? That’s a horrible name.”

He scoffed. “Yeah, like Kama was all that good. Listen to me, Ravana, someone is claiming to be you and trying to invade my world. I thought you’d like to know about it.”

Ravana had been removing the whip from his belt, but he stopped, and seven of his head swiveled towards him. (The one in his chest had no choice but to look - the other two on their stalk like necks were searching the horizons for trouble.) “What?”

The thing about Ravana - the thing he had in common with nearly all gods, demon gods or not - was his enormous ego. If someone was claiming to be him, doing things in his name without his sanction, he’d be right pissed off. And judging by the fury on the majority of his faces, he was right. “I knew it wasn’t you. I mean, come on - vandalizing buildings, possessing people? Hardly your style.”

Oh yeah, now he was pissed. Not only was someone pretending to be him, they were using his name and being lame at the same time. He turned a darker shade of bronze as he became quietly furious. “Who is doing this?!”

“I don’t know. I only know it’s a god of rage. I figured you or your Rakshas would know.”

“Vermin!” Ravana bellowed, and suddenly the Rakshas were all there, as if they’d grown out of the ice. They were also all bowing, and when they straightened, their eyes were averted. “Who is doing this?”

Groveling and sniveling ever so slightly, the lead Raksha said, “My liege, we believe that Aesma Daeva is the only active god who fits the parameters. But we have not heard that he’s claiming to be you.”

“Aesma Daeva?” Bob repeated in disbelief. Oh holy fuck, that was bad news. “Why the hell would he be trying to punch into the earth dimension now?”

Even though Bob asked the question, the Raksha did answer him, mainly because he and Ravana weren’t currently fighting - until they were fighting or Ravana declared him an enemy, he was to be considered an ally of his king. “We don’t know. We’ve heard he’s bored, but he is always is.”

“He’s an asshole,” Ravana grumbled dismissively.

“He’s a mass murderer!” Bob exclaimed. “Remember what he did to the Amesha Spentas?”

Ravana waved one of his big, seven fingered hands like his words were simply gnats bothering his eternal peace. “They were a bunch of simpering pussies. They deserved what they got.”

Only Ravana - who was technically a mass murderer himself - could say that and mean it. Aesma Daeva - “Dave” for short - was the personification of fury and madness, with a little dabbling in lust on the side. He fed on rage, hate, insanity, and shed it in equal numbers, so he was by himself a vicious circle: he spawned what he fed off of, so he could never starve. As such, he was incredibly powerful, because he had an endless supply of “fuel”.

Still, to be doing this, he had to be “super-charging”, finding a wellspring unconnected to him, something that gave him enough power to punch through the veil between worlds. After all, Ahura Mazda had supposedly locked him away, isolated him in a pocket dimension that wasn’t that close to any beings he could harm or feed from. Clearly the incomplete portal in the sewer opened up somewhere in his universe, but far enough away from him and far too weakly to prevent its closure. But had something been left behind? A weak point, or perhaps a “scout” who was able to contact Dave, help him open up a firmer foothold in this world?

Bob was suddenly aware that Ravana’s heads were all glaring at him again, as he started uncoiling the whip from his belt. “Why would Aesma be so foolish as to claim to be me?”

“Good question,” Bob said, smearing the locator icon he’d drawn on the palm of his hand. “I’ll ask him.”

With the destination of Ravana’s reality obliterated, Bob felt reality reach out and snatch him back like elastic, bungee-ing him straight into another reality, although this one was closer, and much less difficult to get into: Degei’s world of cooling fog and writhing snakes, the scales of the ground shimmering before resolving into approximation of grass and trees, flowers and creeks.

If he was going to face Dave, he’d need help, and something to even up the odds. It wasn’t easy to petition Ahura, as he’d gone into self-imposed exile long ago, and there was no direct way of contacting him. But the good news was Dave scared a lot of gods, so getting help shouldn’t be too hard … assuming they weren’t total raving cowards.

Damn it, it was always something.

9

The good news was Willow thought she and her coven could help them out. But there was a catch - wasn’t there always?

The catch was her and her coven were overseas, and simply couldn’t get here. So for them to be truly effective on a real time basis, she needed a “proxy”, essentially someone who would act as her eyes and ears here. As a ritual it wasn’t terribly complicated, but it did mean that someone would have Willow “piggybacking” their consciousness, a combination backseat driver and stowaway.

Bren was relieved when Xander volunteered for it. “Look, I’m just a normal Human anyways,” he said, after Giles asked him if he was sure about it. ”All I am is cannon fodder. If I have a witch inside me, hey, I’m finally bringing something to the table. Also, Will and I have been friends for so long, I kinda feel like she’s piggybacking my conscience sometimes anyways.”

While Giles - with Willow’s coven still on the phone - did the ritual for Xander, Bren’s cell phone rang. He’d told Sid to tell Scott to give him a ring as soon as he reached Ashe Avenue, as there was no way that Scott would be able to find the Way Station on his own (he was a Human, after all, and the glamour around the building prevented them from seeing it). It was Scott - that X-Jet was pretty damn fast.

Bren went out to retrieve him from the corner, where he waited looking faintly perturbed. He wasn’t in his X-Men gear, just in jeans and a blue t-shirt (which was weird, because he was pretty sure he’d never seen him in just jeans and a t-shirt, except when he was working on one of his cars), his hair looking windblown and slightly unkempt. In fact, it looked like he hadn’t shaved today either, stubble stained his jaw line, and that was really weird.

Maybe Scott read the look on his face, because he said, “Do you know what time it is in New York?”

Oh yeah, the time difference. He shrugged meekly, then pasted on a smile and replied, “At least you’re an early riser, huh?”

Scott didn’t look amused. But then again, he generally didn’t.

Bren led him back to the Way Station, where he grimaced at the transition from the quiet of the seemingly dark, derelict building to the noisy, smelly confines of a perfectly functioning, populated bar. But Scott was lucky and he didn’t realize it; just a minute ago, Ministry was thundering from that weird jukebox. Now it was just playing Nick Cave’s “Red Right Hand”, which was quieter yet more creepy, and much easier on everyone’s ears.

At least he knew almost everyone in the bar - Helga, Naomi, Sid, Angel. He had to be introduced to Kier, though, and Xander and Giles, but for the latter pair they had to wait until they were done with the ritual. There was a little in the way of sparkling light, but that was pretty much it for the ritual, except Xander staggered back and had to lean against the wall to keep from falling over. After a moment, he shook his head and looked around, as if his surroundings were new to him. “Wow, it actually worked,” he said, but his voice was slightly different; it sounded a little higher, a little lighter. ”Whoa, look how tall I am.” Xander held up his arm then, flexed it, and seemed to admired it. “And look how muscle-y I am. I bet I could arm wrestle all of you into squeally submission.”

Suddenly, in his normal voice, he said, “Will, would you knock it off?”

“Crap in a hat,” Kier exclaimed. “Are they actually sharing a body?”

“In a way,” Xander said, but in his lighter Willow voice. “I’m astral projecting, but I’m also connected to the coven through Rhia, so I can tell them what kind of help we need.”

Scott just stared at him/her for a very long moment, and finally turned to Bren. “Just what the hell have I walked into?”

They had just about explained everything to Scott when Bob emerged from the back, his naked torso covered in bloody runes and tattoos, which also trailed down his arms and marred his face. “Okay, things are a bit more complicated than I thought,” he began, then looked at Xander. “Hi Willow. Nice of you to join us.”

She (he - damn, this was already confusing) waved shyly and smiled, but then suddenly frowned. “Hey - how did you know?”

But Bob had already moved on to other things. “It seems our god of rage is Aesma Daeva, which complicates thing infinitely. Oh, hey Scott.”

“Aesma Daeva?” Giles repeated, looking and sounding alarmed. “Isn’t he a war god? A god of madness?”

“Oh, fun,” Willow sighed.

“You are aware you’re bleeding, aren’t you?” Scott pointed out to Bob. Considering he’d flown across the country with precious little sleep, he was actually handling all of this quite well.

“What?” Bob said distractedly. “Oh, yeah.” It was like reality blinked - it was impossible to explain, and it was also impossible to believe it happened - and yet Bob was suddenly standing there unbloodied and un-tattooed, in clean leather pants and a novelty t-shirt reading Australians Do It Upside Down. “Right, Dave’s a bit of a dog’s dinner -”

“Dave?” Giles interrupted in disbelief.

“It’s what I call him. Anyhoo, we’re not gonna be able to do it alone, so I’m tryin’ to get some of my friends lined up, but gods are kinda of … moody.”

“And they’re generally dicks,” Helga offered.

Bob just nodded. “Always a bit of a problem. Still, we’re going to have to attack this on three separate fronts if we want to have any success. I’ll be taking on Dave at his home, distracting him, while one of the groups tries to shut the Hellmouth from this side. The other group will be shutting down the other portal, the one we’ve neglected, that’s allowing Dave to pull power from this side. It’s a fuel source, and as soon as it’s shut, it’ll weaken him. It should make it easier for the other teams to do their jobs.”

Angel sat up straight on his barstool, his brow furrowing in consternation. “What other portal?”

“Yeah, see, that little detail we missed. And we would, ‘cause it’s unlike any portal you’ve ever encountered. It’s feeding Dave’s need for madness, rage, all that stuff he needs as much as engenders. Naomi, I want you to take Giles, Bren, and Kier to shut it down; it’s my guess you should be able to handle it, ‘cause there’s not much in the way of mystical protections.”

“Me?” Naomi scoffed. “I haven’t been able to do much, have I?”

“You will in this situation. Trust me.”

But Naomi didn’t let it go that easily. “Why?”

Bob sighed, letting his head roll to his shoulder. “’Cause the portal is a person.”

“What?” Nearly everyone in the room asked it, although they hadn’t worked out the timing so it wasn’t quite in unison. Giles was the first to continue on. “What do you mean the portal is a person? Embodied in a person?”

“Not that again,” Xander/Willow sighed, rolling his eyes.

“No, the portal is a person. Well, not precisely a person; definitely a humanoid who can pass for one. I believe they were sent as a scout once the incomplete Hellmouth was opened in the sewer. As soon as they found a place that Dave - its master - would consider a buffet, it opened itself as a conduit. Think of them as a special kind of god servant; not an avatar, but … a personal valet, in a way. They were created by their master and are programmed to be totally loyal. The channeling is all very metaphysical, but no problem at all for a lot of gods, Dave included.”

“You know who this portal is,” Angel asked, although it didn’t actually sound like a question.

“No mate, but I know where they are. I’m hoping that Rupert can figure out a way to suss out our portal on site.”

It was rare that he had an intuition about anything, but Bren suddenly had an awful feeling, like his stomach was trying to slowly digest itself. Bob was evading the most obvious fact, and Bren just knew that if he pressed for the answer, he’d regret it. But still he had to do it. “Where is this place?” he asked, trying very hard not to tense as if preparing for a hit. It was hard, because Bren was expecting the answer to come down on him like an anvil.

Bob gave him a sympathetic look, like he knew what he was thinking, and he was so sorry he had to confirm his worst fears. “It’s a place out near Oakland called Rosewood.”

“Rosewood?” Helga repeated, her tail twitching anxiously. “Where have I heard that name before?”

“It’s a high security hospital for the criminally insane,” Bob reluctantly admitted.

Yeah, okay, his stomach was definitely eating itself now. Why couldn’t his intuition have been wrong?