Gratitude: Part I- Act 1
Eighteen months earlier...
“Ma’am?” A hand shook her shoulder. Suddenly there was a brilliant light in her eyes. Was she dead? “Ma’am, can you hear me?” Can I hear you? Of course I can–
“-sir, here’s another one.”
“Ma’am, the ambulance is on its way,” repeated the gentle voice. The bright light shifted and partially illuminated the face that belonged to the voice. “Just hold on, everything’ll be alright.”
Meg nodded to the best of her ability, her surroundings solidifying and the pain along with it. She let out a low groan as she tried to sit up.
“Easy,” the policeman comforted, sliding a hand around her shoulders. He helped her sit up and Meg looked around, trying to figure out where she was. How she had gotten here. The answers to either of these questions didn’t seem forthcoming. “Watkins,” the comforting voice called out to someone in the darkness, “get these people some blankets.”
Half an hour later, Megan Brandon sat wrapped in a blanket in the back of one of many ambulances sipping a steaming cup of tea. Red and blue and white flashed all around as the warehouse swarmed with detectives and uniformed officers.
“What happened?” she was finally able to ask once the medics were finished with her.
The man who had found her stood with a notepad next to her and a group of several others. “That’s what we’re still trying to find out, ma’am,” he answered, never lifting his eyes from the page.
“Miss,” Meg corrected absently, taking another sip of her tea.
“Whatever you say ma’am,” the officer nodded. “I’ll need to ask you some more questions later, if that’s alright with you.” Meg didn’t answer. “Ma’am?”
“How long were we in there?” she asked quietly, her eyes flitting over the hundreds of people huddled in blankets in the parking lot outside the warehouse. The sun was setting and around the perimeter that the police had formed, flashbulbs and boom mics could be seen.
“We’re working to determine that as we speak,” the officer answered noncommittally. “Several of you have been reported missing, so I would say several days on the conservative end. You’re lucky you were found when you were. The emergency rooms are overflowing with injured.”
“Injured?” Meg asked lowering her tea to catch the officer’s glance. The officer didn’t seem inclined to elaborate so she changed the subject. “Who found us?”
The officer looked up from his pad, then glanced around the busy parking lot to the blond haired man in the tan jacket. “He’s over there. Said he heard screams coming from inside.”
Meg stared at the man from across the parking lot. There were several officers standing around him taking depositions and it was clear several television cameras were eager to get to him. Even from this distance, there was something about him. Something about all of this that she couldn’t put her finger on.
“What’s his name?” Meg asked as the officer turned to move away. The policeman turned back and looked down at his pad. He flipped a page and then shrugged, drifting away into the sea of blankets and uniforms.
October 1987, NYC
Logan Kilpatrick held his briefcase in his left hand, his suit in a dry-cleaner bag draped over his arm and his right hand out into traffic making irate little gestures trying to indicate he wanted to cross. His car was within sight, but the crosswalk was in the wrong direction and he was in a hurry. The briefcase was slowly tearing his arm off.
“Goddammit!” he shouted as he jumped back from the spray from the truck that sped past.
“Hey,” said a voice behind him. He ignored it and took a step into traffic, willing to risk body damage to as many taxis as was necessary to get across the road. He was going to be late. Again.
“Hey,” the voice repeated as the woman stepped closer, holding her umbrella over her head in the slight drizzle which promised more rain. “You’re the guy,” she said curiously, staring intently at his profile as he continued to ignore her.
“I’m a guy,” Logan agreed when he realized she was not going to leave. “The city’s full of us.”
“You’re the guy who rescued us from the warehouse,” she stepped closer and held the umbrella over them both. “I know because I recognize the jacket.”
Logan glanced down at his soaked khaki jacket. “The city’s full of them too.”
“It is you, isn’t it?”
Logan made no answer, but saw his break in traffic and dashed onto the wet street.
Niki was slouched over her drink in the deepest corner of the club. She missed the Nail Biter. Without Diego to run it, it had closed several months ago. It had been the last demon bar in New York with class. The Slayer didn’t need to look around to know her new hangout was no demon bar. She had been here, years ago, with Toe Tag City to play. She almost smiled at the memory. She had first tried Stuff in the car over here. She had lost her virginity to the lead guitarist in the alley after dusting a vampire. Then she’d been arrested... Such fond memories.
The Marionette didn’t have much going for it besides the occasionally good band. The liqueur was watered down and could have been mixed by a monkey. And, naturally, they had never heard of Stuff.
Niki took another sip. At least it was a break from all the boredom. For the past year, since most of the inner city’s demons and vampires had been wiped out in the battle against the Creep and his Nosphorus, there had been many nights without a vampire sighting. And often when she did come across a vampire, he or she was a veteran of the battle and carried the silver bracelet. Niki cursed the idea of the bracelets. Given as incentive for the vampires to fight on the side of the Slayer, now they were reminders of those she wasn’t allowed to slay. Now they were being flaunted. Not that she wanted to slay the allies who had made victory possible... she was just so damn bored.
Keller had left two months earlier, just when the sex was getting good. Said there wasn’t enough work in the city any more for his unit and they were being ordered to the West coast. Of course, she couldn’t come. The Council wouldn’t hear of it. They probably wanted to keep her close enough that they could keep an eye on her. Not close enough that there wasn't an ocean between them, Niki mused. She expected they still had fond memories of the Nosphorus...
Niki Valtaine tipped her glass to her lips but only a drop hit her tongue. The glass came back down on the table with a sigh.
“Can I get you something?” a voice asked.
Niki slouched further over and shook her head. “Not unless you want to carry me home.”
The figure nodded. “Good, cause I don’t work here anyway.”
Niki frowned and glanced up from her depressingly empty glass. The figure set a bowl of cashews down on the table and set his fedora next to it. “Whistler?” He said nothing but began eating the cashews.
Niki smiled and leaned back in her chair. “How was Asia?”
“A lot like New York City,” the demon answered between mouthfuls. “Except with more Asian people.” He munched a handful and then remembered. “Oh– and great food.”
“What brings you back here?” the Slayer prepared for the bad news. But the demon shrugged.
“The Jet Stream.” He munched. “And the hotdogs: Buddhists can’t barbecue to save their lives.”
“So... no bad guys? No demons you’re here to warn me about?” Niki felt the worried anticipation turning to disappointment. The boredom didn’t seem to want to let up.
“I didn’t say there weren’t any bad guys,” the demon defended. “They just don’t happen to be the reason I’m back.”
Niki clapped her hands together. “Great, who are they and where can I find them?”
Whistler sighed, finding the bottom of the nut bowl. “The Deceivers and I expect they’ll find you.”
Niki nodded. “Okay, and how do I kill them?”
The demon slowly took up his hat and set it on his head. His motions were slow and simple. Finally he locked eyes with her for the first time since he sat down. With a shrug he shook his head. “They’re the first and only of their kind: how is anyone supposed to know how they’re to be killed?”
Niki frowned. “Well, you’re a big help.”
Whistler shook his head. “I’m not really here.”
Niki blinked. “Uh, come again?” Then with a shock she awoke from the dream and found herself tangled in her sheets back in her room. With a groan she collapsed back into the pillow. She wished her slayer premonitions would quit depicting her like an alcoholic. A glance at the clock told her the time of night. Scrunching her eyes closed she managed to get back to sleep.
Logan tried to balance his briefcase, suit and bag of groceries while trying to open the door. He nearly jumped out of his skin when the porch light snapped on in the twilight. He calmed himself with a sigh and seized the doorknob with two fingers. He wasn’t sure why he had become so jumpy lately. He hadn’t seen any... of them in several months. That was the way he liked it.
As Logan wrestled with the physics of the common doorknob, he reflected on how normal his life had become again. With no more late nights at the “office” or “business trips” he was actually making headway toward his promotion at work. Soon he would be assigned to the bigger cases. Pass a few tests and he would be in criminal court before the end of this year.
Then he felt it. With a smile and the click of the bolt, the door opened. The warm air washed over him and the homely glow of the kitchen and wonderful things cooking therein greeted his senses. He turned to dump his work things in the living room and nearly ploughed into his daughter Hanna. He caught himself before swearing –as she would surely tell– and ducked to the side to let her pass. As his life was getting more normal, she was getting ever more moody and sullen. With all the time he had been away last year he smiled: thank God I didn’t miss her teenage years.
Turning around from the coffee table with only the groceries he came face to face with Rachel, his wife, who was standing before him, holding up a letter of some kind. She did not look pleased. Oh... Sh–
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