Disclaimer: the author does not claim ownership to the characters or plot development mentioned from "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" or "Angel". These properties expressly belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Greenwolf Corporation, 20th Century Fox Television, WB Network, etc. Any other characters contained in the original story are the author's.
Season Two Historical Note: The action in this story takes place between "Redefinition" and "Blood Money".
Author's Note: A study of the still-defining Angel, a vampire going
about his brand-new business.
MOTION BY THE PERSECUTOR
These days it had gotten to the point where the single worst thing about being a vampire wasn't so much being damned, but being singled out as Wolfram & Hart's favorite project.
Angel was working hard on getting his name stricken from the law firm's prospectus.
He stared forward -- not focusing on any one appliance in the residential hotel room's narrow kitchen, while guzzling his breakfast. It wasn't like he took the time to enjoy his meals anymore (and he tried not dwell on how much he *really* hadn't savored one since a certain shrouded incident). The blood didn't get nuked; a chair wasn't pulled from under the dining table for the morning-paper/leisurely-sip-and-perusal routine.
The viscous liquid was vacuumed down the vampire's throat. In face, he would scarf the second of three portions much quicker. "Power corpuscling," Cordelia would call it if she were still around.
Adding another mental hash mark to why Cordelia had been dismissed, Angel bit the top off the last pouch and squashed its contents into his beaker. At least he still decanted the stuff, although, he might just start forgoing that route tomorrow. This was the beaker that Cordelia had gifted him with after he'd moved in with her.
It shattered upon slammage in the trash.
The sewers were becoming increasingly empty, at least in the segments closest to the Hyperion Hotel. They seemed cleaner, too. As if the beings that frequented the tunnels for transportation or housing didn't want Angel offended, they kept the place spiffier. Graffiti was usually gone by the next day, purged along with the remains from any impromptu massacres.
His domain. And *every thing* knew it.
Angel wound his way through the shoddily-constructed tunnels running adjacent to the Red Line's Hollywood Boulevard routing. Funny, he thought (a basic 'thought' because there wasn't anything to *muse* about anymore), as a Warrior for the Powers That Be he had been mocked. Now, as a rogue -- Slayer? for lack of a better self-title -- he was feared and he was revered. His name -- *Angel* -- made other demons jettison their bodily fluids; his name -- *Angel* -- caused the weak to plead for mercy, the strong to consider themselves in good favor with their gods to be able to die under such honorable circumstances.
He'd become a better fighter, stronger, a real menace as Vampire Angel, UnderRoad Warrior.
Instinctively, he uncloaked the Sword of Piety, readied it at his side. One step, two, another... His ears pricked to a particular sound and he held still, *dead* still, except for an anticipatory smile twining the corners of his mouth.
The blade had yet to dull no matter how many times it cut through flesh, separated skeleton from cranium. Angel honed it anyway, mesmerized by the play of light along its silver shaft.
The cleaning chamois was wadded near the hilt while Angel reached into the polish canister with his forefinger and thumb to roll out a pea-size portion of cleaner. After leveling the blade, he dropped the nugget onto the surface, noted how its and the cloth's reflections disappeared within his grasp.
Wesley would have made a comment by this point about the irony -- the blasphemy -- regarding Angel's current undertaking and the use of an Oracle Chamber's sword. The English Guy would have, no doubt, quoted something from the Scroll of Aberjian declaring Angel's behavior treasonous -- or however the offense could be babbled on about when one was being accused of turning one's backside to Destiny.
The sword purred under the determined burnish of metal with hide.
Angel remembered almost-purring one summer, one stupid summer when he forgot what he was, forgotten he had enemies. He'd been graced with a visit to the brink of elation. In no danger, his soul had sung but held fast, unwilling to vacate the premises.
At the time, he'd been too busy enjoying the excursion to notice.
The first four idiots hadn't known what hit them. Their heads hadn't registered surprise until after splashing into the murky sewage. The fifth, however, was a fine fighter, skilled in enough variations of sword-play to fend off Angel for a good five minutes.
Gunn would have taunted him about not finishing the goon off in three.
Angel charged. Along with the broadsword, he dropped all pretense of training and just wailed on the defendant -- pounding and elbowing, kicking and pummeling. Anger-enflamed, Angel unleashed all his unearthly strength. Brute force decided the outcome of the uneven match -- despite the other being's height and weight advantages. But, he didn't have what Angel possessed; or, at least not enough of it.
Rage. Killer instinct.
Damned -- oh yeah, Angel thought as he toed the sword up into the air and caught it without a misstep in his fluid onward momentum.
Getting pretty damned amazing.
site: Angel's Journal