Welcome to the City of Angels: Chapter One - Prologueing
by Angels Touch
Title:  City of Angels

Genre:  Angst/Mystery/Drama/Romance (Mysterious Dramatic Romantic Angst)

Summary:  What would happen if two of Los Angeles’ heroes were to meet?

Author’s Note:  This is an Alias/Angel crossover blend.  I’m casting from the first seasons of each, meaning SD-6 is still operational, Sydney doesn’t know her mother’s alive, Vaughn is still waiting for her brown bag drops.  This also means that Angel still knows nothing of Wolfram & Hart, hasn’t met Fred or Gunn.  (I’m aiming for this to be happening shortly after Doyle passed away.)

I hope that all makes sense.

Chapter 1:  Prologue

……

Damn it. 

What pissed Sydney off was that she could easily slip into a crowd unnoticed in any other city on the planet.  But here in Los Angeles, her home, she stuck out like a sore thumb.  Attention was paid to her by guys she wouldn’t look twice at; just as one was doing now, following her out of the bar without even stopping to pay his tab. 

And Sydney, caught up as she was in her own little soap opera, ignored him, and kept marching on, hoping that he’d take the hint and leave her alone.

Except now she was staring up at a ten-foot wall and wondering just where in the hell she was; her blind walk taken without thought to where she was headed.  And now she was lost.

The man was standing at the mouth of that alley, garbage spilling out into the street around him.  She was trapped, wearing high heels that pinched and a dress that hindered her movements, the long flowing skirt twisting about her legs.

Damn Will for making her meet him at that bar.  Damn him for not showing up.  Damn Will in general.  He had asked her to meet him and Francie at this old hangout of his; he had big news, so he said.  She had waited half an hour, then an hour, finally leaving after sitting for two hours with her warm cocktail and no sight of the harried journalist.

A low growl from her captor made her spin, still trying to find a way out of this predicament that didn’t end with her assailant in the hospital.  She didn’t want to have to explain how an unarmed civilian was brutally beaten by an equally unarmed woman who supposedly worked for a bank.

She turned towards him, trying to appear as confident as she could.  “Hello.  Can I help you?”  She forced exasperation into her voice, making anger drip from every syllable.  She wasn’t going to be bullied around.  Not tonight; not after getting back from one flop of a mission and then receiving the silent treatment from her handler who hadn’t known about the back up security measures. 

“Actually, you can.”  The man sounded slightly drunk; something that could be used to her advantage.  He paced towards her, still bathed in shadow. 

“Oh, really.  How?”  He was getting on her nerves now.

“You could always stand still.”  He was just out of her reach – she would have to move if she wanted to initiate the fight.  His arms, though, were longer then hers; which she found out when his hands closed about her neck, slamming her backwards into the wall.  Stars blinked before her eyes and she fought to keep calm.

His grip was tight; too tight.  Either this guy was super buff, on major steroids, or…

She lost her train of thought as instinct kicked it; her need to breath fighting off the logical past of her brain that was analyzing the situation carefully.  

Bringing her elbows down on the upper forearm – just below the elbow – of her captor made his arms buckle, releasing his hold on her just long enough for her to plant a foot on his chest and send him flying backwards.

Sydney fell the foot or so to the ground – the guy was as least 9 inches taller then she was – and struggled to her feet, blinking away the flickering dots and spangles that resulted from lack of oxygen.

Whoever had attacked her, though, recovered faster than she did and he swung his arm out wildly.  Sydney barely had time to duck, flying backwards into the wall again as his other fist connected with her torso.  The sharp crack barely registered as she melted to the ground, the pain overwhelming. 

Her assailant pulled her to her feet, roughly ramming her head against the brick before pinning her between his body and the wall.  One arm was caught painfully behind her, twisted to a point that she knew it was either going to break or snap free of the joint, ripping something along the way.  His stench was unbearable:  a mix between urine and blood, the smell acidic and metallic all at once.

She poked a finger in the general direction of his eye, unable to throw a punch with his arms in the way.  He spun away as she connected, and she fell again; this time not so lucky as her arm gave an unappetizing pop and her leg gave out as she landed heavily on a pop can, twisting her ankle and causing her to fall to one knee.

She didn’t acknowledge the pain; she knew that to give in now would mean failure.  And what this guy wanted – whether it was sex, money, or her life – was not going to be given up without a fight.

He advanced on her again, recruiting a length of pipe from the ground as he marched towards her, anger evident.  “You bitch; you’ll die.  And you’ll die nice and slow.”

Sydney gathered the strength she had left, focusing on her breathing and the rhythmic slaps of boot heels on asphalt, concentrating.  When the toes of her attacker’s boots had just entered her field of view, she lashed out, bringing a knee into his groin and a fist into his stomach.

As he bent over in obvious agony, she brought her knee up again, this time to confer with his face, effectively smashing his nose and ruining her dress as his blood covered her skirt. 

But somehow, he recovered, a hand connecting with her temple in an unholy slap that sent her reeling against the steadiness behind her.  She barely deflected his next blow; a downward slash with the lead pipe that caused a crunching sound to reach her ears, her arm thrown up to protect her head. 

Instinctively, she huddled against the wall; one arm twisted out of joint, the bone evidently not matching up, the other broken across the forearm.  Her ankle was throbbing horribly, a wound above her eye bleeding terribly.

But he threw away the pipe, instead pulling her to her feet.  Her head lolled to one side, she unable to hold it up anymore as her strength fled.  And she embraced the blackness that overcame her, smiling slightly as she caught sight of an angel over her murderer’s shoulder.







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