"So how do we tell the *good* monsters from the *bad* monsters?" Gunn’s second-in-command Jamal asked. Gunn and Lorne’s people had arrived at the designated rendezvous point—a closed railroad bridge—at almost exactly the same time, and there would have been a fight if Gunn hadn’t explained *very* quickly. As it was, the two groups were standing around eyeing each other suspiciously.
"Shirts and skins," Gunn answered.
"Don’t jerk me off, Gunn, this ain’t funny."
"I’m not," Gunn answered. "What I mean is, every one of the bad guys is gonna be wearing a gray Nazi uniform. Our boys are in their street clothes." He glanced over to where Lorne was chatting with Wesley, dressed in his studded leather armor. "Mostly."
"Now what the hell is this?" Jamal exclaimed as the roar-cough of an old, neglected, and now overtaxed engine approached.
Gunn turned to see what Jamal was looking at and couldn’t help but agree. A dilapidated, primer-red pickup truck, stacked high with wooden crates, was approaching. It pulled to a stop near the other vehicles, and Lindsey MacDonald climbed out. He was dressed in work boots, worn blue jeans, and a flannel shirt, and he had a crow bar in his good hand. He looked around the assembled people and demons, apparently looking for a familiar face, until he spotted Gunn, who he waved over with the crow bar.
Gunn went, wondering just what the hell was going on, with Jamal following close on his heels.
"There’s some gifts for you in the boxes," Lindsey said as they arrived. "There should be enough for all of your people, if the count you gave me was right." He held out the crowbar. "You’d better unpack them. I can’t do it with this," he explained, holding up his prosthetic hand.
Jamal snatched the crow bar from his hand. He was reluctant to take orders from a white man and a stranger, however polite, reasonable, and beneficial those orders might be. However, he was entirely unwilling to allow Gunn to do so. "What do you know about all this, redneck?" He challenged.
"Me?" Lindsey asked as he reached back into the cab. Gunn noticed that the faintest hint of a drawl had entered the lawyer’s voice. What kind of game was he playing? "I’m just along for the ride." He pulled a sledgehammer out of the cab and slung it over his shoulder. "City slicker."
*
"He came himself?" Cordelia asked, flabbergasted.
"Why are you so surprised?" Angel asked from the darkness under the bridge. "You knew he likes to fight his own battles."
"Dressed like *that*?" She demanded.
"Guess he didn’t want to ruin his suit," Angel said.
"So what do we do?" Buffy asked. "I’m glad he’s here and I’m glad he brought his arsenal with him, but we’re still too outnumbered for that to matter. Somebody better have a brilliant plan."
"Agincourt."
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