Fic Update: Soul Searching Chapter 13
Mar. 1st, 2007 05:20 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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gen_storytellerTitle: Chapter 13: And there be souls must be saved, and there be souls must not be saved.
Rating: PG13
Summary: In which Angel's worst nightmare becomes a reality.
Chapter 13: And there be souls must be saved, and there be souls must not be saved.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
The ebony aircraft cast a hostile shadow on the street below, a massive mechanical dragonfly venting invisible venomous fumes into the already polluted atmosphere. Malevolent wings gouged the air relentlessly, twin scimitar blades slicing in syncopated rhythm while a single multi-facetted glass eye searched the ground for its prey; the smoky tints of its exterior revealing nothing of the occupants of the craft.
Spike shoved Angel’s hands away from the steering wheel. “Hey! Back off, backseat driver.”
“I said. ‘Everybody out’.”
Spike squinted under the visor at the sun. “What the hell for - to get flambéd out there?”
“No. So we don’t lead them back to the hotel,” Angel said through gritted teeth.
“Didn’t you listen to a word Shortarsed Wimpy was sayin’? They already know we’re based there.”
The helicopter hovered lower over the middle of the road ahead of them.
Angel gestured at it. “You got a better idea, Einstein? You think they’re gonna ask us to come peaceably with our hands up? They’re human. We’re dead.” He adjusted the wing mirror and scanned the pavement. “Unless we take to the sewers.”
“This baby can outrun them,” argued Spike checking the road behind. “Quick U-turn and we disappear.”
“Until we reach the next junction. Where we stop.”
“And they spot us from the sky again. Focus, Spike. Bright red, non-disappearable car. Eye-in-the-Sky. Psychopathic crew.” said Buffy, waving a hand at the helicopter landing in the road ahead.
"Right. Focus." Spike checked the slow moving traffic in the rear view mirror. "What d'you have in mind then?"
"We're parked on it," said Angel. He turned to Buffy, reached into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out a metal bar. "I need you to buy us a few seconds of non-frying time." "Use this to open the drain and get inside. Think you can fool them into thinking we're making a run for it?" he asked Spike.
Spike grinned and spun the car through 360 degrees, burning rubber onto the paving slabs. The helicopter took off again; its Cyclops eye watching for any movement that would indicate the direction the Jaguar was going to take.
Buffy leapt from the rear seat clutching the briefcase and prised open the manhole cover set in the pavement close to the car's rear wheels. "Now!" she yelled dropping down into the sewer.
Spike reversed the car until a front wheel touched the rim of the open drain. He flung open the driver's door and, hitching his duster over his head, followed Buffy into the underground passageway. Angel climbed over the gearshift, nudged it into drive, hit the accelerator pedal as he rolled out, and slid headfirst down the inspection shaft. The Jaguar moved slowly forward for a second, its near-side wheel spinning ineffectually inside the open manhole before coming to a halt with a mighty groaning of metal on metal as the rim jammed tight. The car collapsed sideways, its alarm shrieking in outrage at the severe list to port that threatened further injury to the suspension.
In the darkness below, Spike winced at the sound of the damage. "That was no way to treat a lady," he complained. "Cars are just like women. You have to treat 'em right or you'll never get the performance you want out of 'em."
"Shut up about the car, Spike," Angel growled. "We're not far from the entrance to the hotel basement. It's this way. " He strode ahead of Spike. "Tell me what went on back there. Was that Hamilton we heard?"
"Yeah." Spike cast a final glance up the drain shaft and walked slowly after Angel.
Buffy picked up the briefcase and followed them both. "Who's Hamilton?" she asked.
Angel ignored her question. "But he's dead. We saw his body in the rubble."
"We also watched as said rubble got the makeover to end all makeovers." Spike rubbed the tips of his slightly singed hair. "Hamilton's changed his name. It's Wolfgang Hartram now. He's the builder and decorator responsible for the renovations. You should see that place now it's finished. All brand spanking shiny and new."
“Like the shiny new car you thought would make such a good getaway car?” asked Buffy. " A state of the art Jaguar worth…” She paused. “A lot. And red - not what I'd call a good idea."
“No. Your idea of the perfect getaway car was a Winnebago. And look where that got us. Stuck out in the middle of the desert surrounded by rejects from Python's Holy Grail who were trying to kill us all. Spike shook his head. "Bad choice. I knew I should have nicked the Porsche."
“You remember all that now? And you don't remember…? Never mind. What is it with men and fast cars?”
Spike whirled round to face her. “Yeah, I remember. That. And the fact that you always were a bossy, whiney little thing. And you're still at it.”
"When you two have finished your little spat," Angel called as he placed his hands on the iron rungs of a ladder set into the wall, "it's this way."
-------------------------------------------------------
Angel stared at the golden particles glistening under the dormant power of the locator spell, the ghostly outline of a pentangle glowing faintly in the middle of the circle of sand.
"This can't be good," he said scanning the deserted reception area.
"Is it worse than reckoning taking out the Black Thorn was a good idea?" asked Spike.
Angel glowered at him.
"You heard Hartram, Angel. You signed away the Shanshu, gave them a blank cheque as far as Connor was concerned and all we got in return was to take out the middlemen. Now we're facing the Senior Partners up front and personal. And not just them."
"Let me guess," interrupted Buffy. "They brought a backing group?"
"Worse," replied Spike. "The Terrible Triplets got themselves wired into Hamilton's former premises and fitted with long life batteries in the form of your friend and mine, The Hellmouth Ringmaster."
"The First."
Angel stared glumly at the sandy outline. "You think the locator spell backfired?"
"Oh Yea of little faith." Willow emerged from the elevator struggling under the weight of her backpack. "It went just fine. Apart from the bit where the pentangle started showing me bits of your Pylean adventure. I think it got its dimensional time lines crossed." She grinned over at Buffy, her smile fading rapidly as she noted the tension pulsating in waves from both Slayer and Vampire glaring at one another beneath the curve of the main staircase.
"So you found Connor?" Angel licked his lips nervously. "Is he…"
Willow dropped the backpack to the floor and opened the front pocket. "He's alive," she said reassuringly. "He's not far from here and there are no demons with him. Yet." She pulled a sheet of paper out of her bag and called to Buffy. "You didn't bag Drusilla?"
"She got away," said Angel taking the address from her. "And is probably on her way there right now." He pulled his mobile phone from a pocket and speed-dialled Connor's number. "Connor's cell phone," he explained, hitting the loudspeaker button. The phone was answered on the fourth ring.
"Connor?"
"Connor can't come to the phone right now." Drusilla's unmistakable London accent reverberated through the lobby. "He's all tied up at the moment," she giggled. " His Daddy is too busy to take care of him. Always too busy taking care of everybody else. And he doesn't have a real Mummy, poor boy, nor even a pretend one made of wizard's fairytales. It's going to be such fun being a Mummy again. Can't talk now. I have so much to do, Ta Ta."
Spike clenched his jaw at the sound of Drusilla’s voice and dropped his eyes from Buffy’s, bringing their staring contest to an end. She touched his elbow lightly. “Spike. It’ll be all right,” she murmured gently.
“No,” he replied. “It won’t.”
Angel crossed the lobby to the reception desk and dialled the number Lorne had noted on his message pad after Mr Reilly's call.
"Mrs Reilly. It's Angel. I've found him." Angel paused frowning. "Angel. Of Wolfram and Hart. Your husband called earlier about your missing son, Connor." Angel listened to the speaker on the other end of the line for a few more seconds. "My mistake. Sorry to have troubled you," he said quietly before dropping the receiver back into its cradle.
"What's up?" Spike shook Buffy’s hand off his arm and crossed the room. He picked the number off the floor where Angel had dropped it. "Wrong number?"
"Wrong everything. They've never heard of me. More important, they've never heard of Connor." He looked into Spike's eyes. "They have no son. The wizard's fairytale memories are gone."
"Another side effect of taking out the Black Thorn?"
Angel shook his head. "No," he said slowly. "The Reillys still had their memories of Connor until a few hours ago. This is deliberate. Part of the plan."
"I was part of the plan." Spike shot a glance at Willow. "But Drusilla put a stop to that by getting their time lines crossed. Question is not what have they got in mind for the boy, it's what're you gonna do to stop 'em?"
"Stop Drusilla, you mean." Buffy joined the two vampires and sank into a chair beside them and handed the briefcase to Angel.
"I should have killed Dru a long time ago." Angel's weary voice echoed Spike's earlier thoughts. He stared unseeingly at the briefcase.
"But you didn't. No use cryin' over spilt blood, mate. Open the box and see what we got. Bound to be useful."
"Saddle up, amigos. The posse's heading this way," Lorne called from the doorway of Angel's office. He hurried over to the entrance doors and opened them. The sound of approaching helicopters mingled with the noise of traffic on Wilshere Boulevard. "You hear that? They're closing in." Lorne closed the doors and locked them. "Whistler gave us the address of the Hole in the Wall before he left for Cleveland with the others."
"He didn't need much persuading," Wesley added from the staircase. "Buffy did a fine job on him before she charged off to rescue you both from Illyria."
"We needed rescuing from the Queen of the Blues? First I heard of it. And why're we de-camping? What about your walls?" Spike asked Wesley.
Illyria appeared from behind Wesley and held up a small camera. "We no longer need them. We have this machine that allows us to travel back in time and freeze it whenever we wish."
"Courtesy of the Qwa'ha Xahn's evil plan to return Illyria from the other time line," added Wesley. "Knox made a video of Fred's work on the walls in her room."
"Other what?" asked Spike.
"Long story," said Lorne returning to the check in desk. "Part of the lost memories, you should be getting back any time now."
"I'm not holding my breath," replied Spike. "Seems there's been too much messin' with folks' memories goin' on of late."
"That's just a side show to the main action that was the Watcher Willow and Illyria combo playing at this morning's matinee performance." Lorne hauled a battered Gladstone bag out from under the counter. "That was an experience not to be missed."
"Like watching paint dry?" Spike drummed his fingers on the hard shell of the briefcase and nudged Angel's shoulder. "C'mon, Broody Pants. What're you waitin' for? Open the bleedin' case. Sirk didn't bring beer to his breakfast meeting."
Wesley placed the two small suitcases he'd carried downstairs on the central seating island. "Rutherford Sirk was there?"
"Buffy'll fill you in. While we go find the lad," said Spike, impatient for more action. "Seems Connor is the Shanshu the Prophecies were wittering on about and he’s definitely in need of a bit of ‘White Knight to the rescue’ action. But not before His Moodiness opens the…"
Angel clicked the metal clasps and raised the lid.
"Books!” Spike's disappointment was palpable. "More work for you Watcher types. Right. Let's be off."
Wesley picked one of the tomes from the case. "I know these." He fingered the cover, tracing the curl of a ram's horn etched in the leather. He opened the book, then placed it face down on the reception desk and reached into the briefcase for the second of three.
Spike peered at the Ram's head cover and turned the first page. "Didn't take you long to get through it then?" He flipped through the blank pages that made up the volume.
"This doesn't make any sense." Wesley's face creased in concentration. "Three books. The Wolf. The Ram. The Hart. A triptych. Each linked to the others. They're meant to be read as one continuous text."
"Except that's the one thing they're decidedly lacking." Spike sighed. "S'ppose I was wrong about them bein' important then?"
"And all the beasts shall be as one and shall rise anew when the darkness sweeps over the realms of the earth." Willow gazed at the cover illustrations. "I know why the books are empty."
"Of course." Wesley beamed at her and turned to Spike. "These are not important…"
Spike shrugged. "Can't win 'em all."
"They're crucial," Wesley finished. "Spike. I think you just gave us our first real break and probably a way to finding a weapon with which to defeat Wolfgang Hartram."
"After we get Connor." Angel's tone was firm. "Buffy, Spike, Illyria, get whatever you need from the weapon chest in my room. Wes, you go with Lorne and Willow to Whistler's safe house and work on whatever it is you need to find that weapon."
Previously on Soul Searching
Rating: PG13
Summary: In which Angel's worst nightmare becomes a reality.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
The ebony aircraft cast a hostile shadow on the street below, a massive mechanical dragonfly venting invisible venomous fumes into the already polluted atmosphere. Malevolent wings gouged the air relentlessly, twin scimitar blades slicing in syncopated rhythm while a single multi-facetted glass eye searched the ground for its prey; the smoky tints of its exterior revealing nothing of the occupants of the craft.
Spike shoved Angel’s hands away from the steering wheel. “Hey! Back off, backseat driver.”
“I said. ‘Everybody out’.”
Spike squinted under the visor at the sun. “What the hell for - to get flambéd out there?”
“No. So we don’t lead them back to the hotel,” Angel said through gritted teeth.
“Didn’t you listen to a word Shortarsed Wimpy was sayin’? They already know we’re based there.”
The helicopter hovered lower over the middle of the road ahead of them.
Angel gestured at it. “You got a better idea, Einstein? You think they’re gonna ask us to come peaceably with our hands up? They’re human. We’re dead.” He adjusted the wing mirror and scanned the pavement. “Unless we take to the sewers.”
“This baby can outrun them,” argued Spike checking the road behind. “Quick U-turn and we disappear.”
“Until we reach the next junction. Where we stop.”
“And they spot us from the sky again. Focus, Spike. Bright red, non-disappearable car. Eye-in-the-Sky. Psychopathic crew.” said Buffy, waving a hand at the helicopter landing in the road ahead.
"Right. Focus." Spike checked the slow moving traffic in the rear view mirror. "What d'you have in mind then?"
"We're parked on it," said Angel. He turned to Buffy, reached into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out a metal bar. "I need you to buy us a few seconds of non-frying time." "Use this to open the drain and get inside. Think you can fool them into thinking we're making a run for it?" he asked Spike.
Spike grinned and spun the car through 360 degrees, burning rubber onto the paving slabs. The helicopter took off again; its Cyclops eye watching for any movement that would indicate the direction the Jaguar was going to take.
Buffy leapt from the rear seat clutching the briefcase and prised open the manhole cover set in the pavement close to the car's rear wheels. "Now!" she yelled dropping down into the sewer.
Spike reversed the car until a front wheel touched the rim of the open drain. He flung open the driver's door and, hitching his duster over his head, followed Buffy into the underground passageway. Angel climbed over the gearshift, nudged it into drive, hit the accelerator pedal as he rolled out, and slid headfirst down the inspection shaft. The Jaguar moved slowly forward for a second, its near-side wheel spinning ineffectually inside the open manhole before coming to a halt with a mighty groaning of metal on metal as the rim jammed tight. The car collapsed sideways, its alarm shrieking in outrage at the severe list to port that threatened further injury to the suspension.
In the darkness below, Spike winced at the sound of the damage. "That was no way to treat a lady," he complained. "Cars are just like women. You have to treat 'em right or you'll never get the performance you want out of 'em."
"Shut up about the car, Spike," Angel growled. "We're not far from the entrance to the hotel basement. It's this way. " He strode ahead of Spike. "Tell me what went on back there. Was that Hamilton we heard?"
"Yeah." Spike cast a final glance up the drain shaft and walked slowly after Angel.
Buffy picked up the briefcase and followed them both. "Who's Hamilton?" she asked.
Angel ignored her question. "But he's dead. We saw his body in the rubble."
"We also watched as said rubble got the makeover to end all makeovers." Spike rubbed the tips of his slightly singed hair. "Hamilton's changed his name. It's Wolfgang Hartram now. He's the builder and decorator responsible for the renovations. You should see that place now it's finished. All brand spanking shiny and new."
“Like the shiny new car you thought would make such a good getaway car?” asked Buffy. " A state of the art Jaguar worth…” She paused. “A lot. And red - not what I'd call a good idea."
“No. Your idea of the perfect getaway car was a Winnebago. And look where that got us. Stuck out in the middle of the desert surrounded by rejects from Python's Holy Grail who were trying to kill us all. Spike shook his head. "Bad choice. I knew I should have nicked the Porsche."
“You remember all that now? And you don't remember…? Never mind. What is it with men and fast cars?”
Spike whirled round to face her. “Yeah, I remember. That. And the fact that you always were a bossy, whiney little thing. And you're still at it.”
"When you two have finished your little spat," Angel called as he placed his hands on the iron rungs of a ladder set into the wall, "it's this way."
-------------------------------------------------------
Angel stared at the golden particles glistening under the dormant power of the locator spell, the ghostly outline of a pentangle glowing faintly in the middle of the circle of sand.
"This can't be good," he said scanning the deserted reception area.
"Is it worse than reckoning taking out the Black Thorn was a good idea?" asked Spike.
Angel glowered at him.
"You heard Hartram, Angel. You signed away the Shanshu, gave them a blank cheque as far as Connor was concerned and all we got in return was to take out the middlemen. Now we're facing the Senior Partners up front and personal. And not just them."
"Let me guess," interrupted Buffy. "They brought a backing group?"
"Worse," replied Spike. "The Terrible Triplets got themselves wired into Hamilton's former premises and fitted with long life batteries in the form of your friend and mine, The Hellmouth Ringmaster."
"The First."
Angel stared glumly at the sandy outline. "You think the locator spell backfired?"
"Oh Yea of little faith." Willow emerged from the elevator struggling under the weight of her backpack. "It went just fine. Apart from the bit where the pentangle started showing me bits of your Pylean adventure. I think it got its dimensional time lines crossed." She grinned over at Buffy, her smile fading rapidly as she noted the tension pulsating in waves from both Slayer and Vampire glaring at one another beneath the curve of the main staircase.
"So you found Connor?" Angel licked his lips nervously. "Is he…"
Willow dropped the backpack to the floor and opened the front pocket. "He's alive," she said reassuringly. "He's not far from here and there are no demons with him. Yet." She pulled a sheet of paper out of her bag and called to Buffy. "You didn't bag Drusilla?"
"She got away," said Angel taking the address from her. "And is probably on her way there right now." He pulled his mobile phone from a pocket and speed-dialled Connor's number. "Connor's cell phone," he explained, hitting the loudspeaker button. The phone was answered on the fourth ring.
"Connor?"
"Connor can't come to the phone right now." Drusilla's unmistakable London accent reverberated through the lobby. "He's all tied up at the moment," she giggled. " His Daddy is too busy to take care of him. Always too busy taking care of everybody else. And he doesn't have a real Mummy, poor boy, nor even a pretend one made of wizard's fairytales. It's going to be such fun being a Mummy again. Can't talk now. I have so much to do, Ta Ta."
Spike clenched his jaw at the sound of Drusilla’s voice and dropped his eyes from Buffy’s, bringing their staring contest to an end. She touched his elbow lightly. “Spike. It’ll be all right,” she murmured gently.
“No,” he replied. “It won’t.”
Angel crossed the lobby to the reception desk and dialled the number Lorne had noted on his message pad after Mr Reilly's call.
"Mrs Reilly. It's Angel. I've found him." Angel paused frowning. "Angel. Of Wolfram and Hart. Your husband called earlier about your missing son, Connor." Angel listened to the speaker on the other end of the line for a few more seconds. "My mistake. Sorry to have troubled you," he said quietly before dropping the receiver back into its cradle.
"What's up?" Spike shook Buffy’s hand off his arm and crossed the room. He picked the number off the floor where Angel had dropped it. "Wrong number?"
"Wrong everything. They've never heard of me. More important, they've never heard of Connor." He looked into Spike's eyes. "They have no son. The wizard's fairytale memories are gone."
"Another side effect of taking out the Black Thorn?"
Angel shook his head. "No," he said slowly. "The Reillys still had their memories of Connor until a few hours ago. This is deliberate. Part of the plan."
"I was part of the plan." Spike shot a glance at Willow. "But Drusilla put a stop to that by getting their time lines crossed. Question is not what have they got in mind for the boy, it's what're you gonna do to stop 'em?"
"Stop Drusilla, you mean." Buffy joined the two vampires and sank into a chair beside them and handed the briefcase to Angel.
"I should have killed Dru a long time ago." Angel's weary voice echoed Spike's earlier thoughts. He stared unseeingly at the briefcase.
"But you didn't. No use cryin' over spilt blood, mate. Open the box and see what we got. Bound to be useful."
"Saddle up, amigos. The posse's heading this way," Lorne called from the doorway of Angel's office. He hurried over to the entrance doors and opened them. The sound of approaching helicopters mingled with the noise of traffic on Wilshere Boulevard. "You hear that? They're closing in." Lorne closed the doors and locked them. "Whistler gave us the address of the Hole in the Wall before he left for Cleveland with the others."
"He didn't need much persuading," Wesley added from the staircase. "Buffy did a fine job on him before she charged off to rescue you both from Illyria."
"We needed rescuing from the Queen of the Blues? First I heard of it. And why're we de-camping? What about your walls?" Spike asked Wesley.
Illyria appeared from behind Wesley and held up a small camera. "We no longer need them. We have this machine that allows us to travel back in time and freeze it whenever we wish."
"Courtesy of the Qwa'ha Xahn's evil plan to return Illyria from the other time line," added Wesley. "Knox made a video of Fred's work on the walls in her room."
"Other what?" asked Spike.
"Long story," said Lorne returning to the check in desk. "Part of the lost memories, you should be getting back any time now."
"I'm not holding my breath," replied Spike. "Seems there's been too much messin' with folks' memories goin' on of late."
"That's just a side show to the main action that was the Watcher Willow and Illyria combo playing at this morning's matinee performance." Lorne hauled a battered Gladstone bag out from under the counter. "That was an experience not to be missed."
"Like watching paint dry?" Spike drummed his fingers on the hard shell of the briefcase and nudged Angel's shoulder. "C'mon, Broody Pants. What're you waitin' for? Open the bleedin' case. Sirk didn't bring beer to his breakfast meeting."
Wesley placed the two small suitcases he'd carried downstairs on the central seating island. "Rutherford Sirk was there?"
"Buffy'll fill you in. While we go find the lad," said Spike, impatient for more action. "Seems Connor is the Shanshu the Prophecies were wittering on about and he’s definitely in need of a bit of ‘White Knight to the rescue’ action. But not before His Moodiness opens the…"
Angel clicked the metal clasps and raised the lid.
"Books!” Spike's disappointment was palpable. "More work for you Watcher types. Right. Let's be off."
Wesley picked one of the tomes from the case. "I know these." He fingered the cover, tracing the curl of a ram's horn etched in the leather. He opened the book, then placed it face down on the reception desk and reached into the briefcase for the second of three.
Spike peered at the Ram's head cover and turned the first page. "Didn't take you long to get through it then?" He flipped through the blank pages that made up the volume.
"This doesn't make any sense." Wesley's face creased in concentration. "Three books. The Wolf. The Ram. The Hart. A triptych. Each linked to the others. They're meant to be read as one continuous text."
"Except that's the one thing they're decidedly lacking." Spike sighed. "S'ppose I was wrong about them bein' important then?"
"And all the beasts shall be as one and shall rise anew when the darkness sweeps over the realms of the earth." Willow gazed at the cover illustrations. "I know why the books are empty."
"Of course." Wesley beamed at her and turned to Spike. "These are not important…"
Spike shrugged. "Can't win 'em all."
"They're crucial," Wesley finished. "Spike. I think you just gave us our first real break and probably a way to finding a weapon with which to defeat Wolfgang Hartram."
"After we get Connor." Angel's tone was firm. "Buffy, Spike, Illyria, get whatever you need from the weapon chest in my room. Wes, you go with Lorne and Willow to Whistler's safe house and work on whatever it is you need to find that weapon."
Previously on Soul Searching
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no subject
Date: 2007-03-01 05:43 pm (UTC)"I should have killed Dru a long time ago." Angel's weary voice echoed Spike's earlier thoughts. He stared unseeingly at the briefcase.
"But you didn't. No use cryin' over spilt blood, mate.
Yes, somebody should have instead of just leaving her in limbo "shakes fist at Joss".
In the darkness below, Spike winced at the sound of the damage. "That was no way to treat a lady," he complained. "Cars are just like women. You have to treat 'em right or you'll never get the performance you want out of 'em."
Now that is a very Spike-like statement.
no subject
Date: 2007-03-01 11:41 pm (UTC)For all his complaints about not understanding women, Spike knew how to treat them well.
no subject
Date: 2007-03-02 01:21 am (UTC)*g* Great line. Also loved the Spike/Angel/Buffy interaction. Like I've commented before, you really write the flow of everyone so well, if you get what I mean.
Also, don't remember if I've mentioned this before, but I love Connor-as-Angel's-shanshu stuff. It just makes so much sense.
no subject
Date: 2007-03-02 12:06 pm (UTC)I do, and thank you again.
I love Connor-as-Angel's-shanshu stuff. It just makes so much sense.
I thought so. Connor is the miracle child. Approach it from IWRY or the episode where Angel won a life for Darla in the trials (can't remember which ep that was) - both would support the idea.
no subject
Date: 2007-03-02 05:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-02 12:07 pm (UTC)More is now posted, along with a warning outside the LJ cut.
And thank you so much for reading this and all your comments.