Twenty One
2 May, 2001, Los Angeles
Logan groaned and crumpled the small page before him, tossing it into the small pile of similarly crumpled pages. No good, he thought. No one that depressed could ever do what was needed. What he needed them to do.
He pounded the table in frustration, making the Now Sphere jump. The small force cleared it of its theoretical universe. It now contained nothing but swirling red cloud. “This is hopeless,” he muttered to himself as a form approached him from behind. He didn’t recall having given his keys to either Angel or any of his clients—
Logan closed his eyes in silent meditation, trying to quiet the annoyance at having his privacy invaded by Whistler... again.
“What do you want, now?” The conjurer asked, trying to keep his voice low.
“We need to have a little talk.”
“About what?” Logan snapped, twisting around in his desk chair to face the demon. Naturally, Whistler still wore his jacket and fedora, and of course, Loki wore one of his now numerous white silk shirts.
Whistler remained calm. “I’d guess by the small forest that’s died for that little pile-” he indicated the crumpled papers “that you’re no closer to getting what you want from that thing-” he indicated the red sphere on the table.
Loki held up an unwavering finger. “Untrue,” he argued banishing the frustration momentarily, “I’m going about this the Thomas Edison way; I now know two thousand ways not to make a lightbulb.”
“And what if I were to tell Mr. Edison that incandescent bulbs exist only in his imagination, and that they were never meant to be,” Whistler slowly sat down on an easy chair in the corner of Logan’s apartment. “Do you think he’d believe me?”
Loki turned back to his desk muttering. “I wouldn’t if I were him.”
“Is it so hard to believe,” the demon asked with conviction “that someone like William the Bloody could have some part to play?”
“As opposed to someone like me?” Loki retorted, “who can’t have a part in this little play of yours?”
Whistler raised a surprised eyebrow. “Is that what this is about? You being a Specter?” Whistler shifted in the chair. “You know all that hooey about specters never getting any of the good parts in the Grand Scheme is just bullshit. Those same people said you were no fun at parties!” Loki was busily trying to ignore him. “It just happens that Specters never choose any of the leading roles. Why Bother I think is their motto.” He leveled a condemning finger. “Let’s face it, you’re not like other Specters. You, my friend, are plenty fun at parties.”
“Some conjurer I turned out to be, though,” Loki laughed humorlessly, “I can’t do a simple thing as kill a vampire.”
Whistler stood, shaking his head. “All you people,” he said, his voice now completely altered, “you walk and talk death and killing, like it’s as common as getting a shoe polish.” He ignored Loki’s odd look, clearly indicating he had never had a shoe polish. “Taking life, even unlife is a complex and messy affair. For you it’s as simple as in-and-out with a pointy stick, but for the guys upstairs...” he blew out a sigh. “The paperwork’s a mile high. Endings are always stressful, especially when they involve people as... unique as those surrounding the Slayer. Death in any form is no simple matter. Not nearly so simple as just letting stuff live. Inertia: Stuff has a tendency to keep doing what its doing. Death is the abrupt end to inertia. It’s the sudden jerk to end all motion. But not only does it end a life, or unlife if you prefer, but it ends a whole series of possibilities; possible futures that could have been.” Whistler paced before the listening conjurer now.
“All those futures that included your daughter growing up, going to college, having children... they were all cancelled the day she died. That kind of universal distortion is very unsettling. By the time what exists gets fed into that little toy-” Whistler thumbed the red Dagon Sphere, “-the universe that is, which is about to become the universe that was, was the only universe that could have been, because of all the arising and collapsing possibilities upstairs.” The demon crossed his arms and plunked back down into the easy chair. “Get it?”
Logan had been following quite closely until the image of his daughter had entered his mind. Hanna in college... His mind reeled. Hanna with children. These things he hadn’t considered in a long time. Months ago, he had pondered a what if Hanna had lived. Of course the answer plunged him immediately into a paradox. If his daughter had lived, if even the slightest change had occurred in that time, he wouldn’t be in his position now to have instituted the change, thus preventing the change itself. The images, however, as vivid as any crystal ball, swirled in the sunyata of his mind. Hanna in a black gown on graduation day. Hanna on her wedding day. Hanna holding her firstborn. Logan felt his throat tighten as he remembered Hanna as a newborn herself, cradled in his arms. Even then he had known of the evil that lay in wait in the world around her. Even then Spike had been his enemy.
“I have work to do,” Loki said coldly, turning back to his pad of paper and sphere.
Whistler slowly stood. There was a quiet sadness in his eyes that Loki could not see. The demon opened his mouth to say something, but there was no reason to waste good words. Finally he simply turned for the door. “See ya around, kid,” and he was gone.
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