The shadowy figure walked slowly, her mind distracted by the choice between two opening lines; only the best impression from the onset would ensure her success. She'd narrowed the options during her trip from Sunnydale, where she'd indulged in memories and the latest news and gossip.

Pausing at an intersection, the young woman tossed her mane of dark brown hair over her shoulder and made a decision. With large, doe-like eyes, she surveyed the neighbourhood until, finally, she spotted her target. She zipped up her jacket against a sudden breeze and, full red lips set in a determined pout, continued on her way.

This could be -- emphasis on the 'could', on the possibility -- her last task. If she played her cards right, this time next month she would be 'retired', a free agent, owing no one anything. But she wanted desperately to go out with a bang, one final grand venture to ensure that everyone would remember her and speak of her with awe.

When the opportunity had been presented to her, she'd accepted. Yes, it would be difficult, but with foresight, a little research and some planning she could overcome any obstacle. She'd proven that time and time again. So, she had pondered, investigated and formulated a plan. If all went according to said plan, someone would be cooperative (she didn't care which someone) and things would work out for the best.

At last she stood before the Hyperion Hotel. Once a shining beacon of capitalism, of the nascent glory days of Hollywood, it was now in a semi-derelict state, partially from a recent earthquake but -- according to her research -- mostly due to fluctuating plagues of demons.

Squaring her shoulders, she took a deep breath, wiped her hands down the front of her leather pants, smoothed the invisible wrinkles, and yanked open the doors. Once over the threshold, she took in the red pentagram on the floor, the large, spidery cracks in the wall that still needed plastering, the three people emerging from the basement and the overwhelming, acrid stench that wafted up with them. She scrunched her face as she held her breath and tried not to vomit. No. The smell was on them, on their clothes. The group (she mentally ticked off each person as they stepped into the room, coming up three short in her expectations) were too preoccupied to notice her, so she decided to wait to announce her presence: no need to rush into anything. After this, time was hers, to spend as her heart desired.

"All I'm saying, Angel, is that we're going into these things really badly prepared, all willy-nilly. We just don't have the information we need," Fred said as she walked across the lobby to the reception desk, frantically wiping cloudy, greenish-yellow goo off her hands with a tissue. Frustrated in her attempts, she threw the paper on the counter and looked at the other two.

"What's wrong?" she asked as she followed their wide-eyed stares across the lobby to see a woman, in her early twenties, dressed in a leather outfit that left little to the imagination. Fred felt the knife of jealousy twist a second time as the woman unzipped her jacket, slowly and deliberately, to reveal a large onyx pendant nestled comfortably on a tight white T-shirt with a lot more bust than Fred's reed thin stature could support. Gunn's mouth snapped shut when he saw Fred watching his reaction.

"Sorry," Angel finally said. "You look like someone I know. It's uncanny," he explained with a hesitant smile. "Can we help you?"

"I've come to see Angel," she said and returned the greeting. "And Wesley Wyndham-Price."

Angel's smile immediately fell to be replaced with a thin, tight grimace of anger. "I'm Angel."

Fred and Gunn exchanged nervous glances, which were not lost upon their guest, although her gaze did not leave Angel's face.

"And Mr. Wyndham-Price? Will he be here shortly?" she asked innocently.

"No," Angel snapped. He snatched a tissue from the box behind the counter and tried to wipe his hands. "He won't. Not if he knows what's best. Whatever you--"

The woman walked purposely down the steps. "You know, what we need to discuss will wait until you all get that goo off. It looks like it's drying. And I have got to tell you, it's really quite putrid."

Gun sniffed dramatically. "She's got a point."

Angel shot him a glare. "Fine. In the meantime, do you have a name?"

"It can wait." The woman crinkled her nose. "Please."

"Go on, Angel," Fred urged. "Take a shower and burn those clothes downstairs. I'll make us all some coffee while you're at it."

"I'll be back soon, and then we can talk," Angel said before he began up the stairs. Suddenly, he turned and added, "I realise this is the first time you've seen one, Gunn, but why is it I had to go into the belly of the dragon?"

Gunn snickered, then he, too made his excuses and left. Alone with the strange, uncommunicative woman, Fred grinned nervously while she explored the lobby. Still not speaking, she turned, gave Fred a dispassionate once-over, then sat down on a sofa near the front doors. Knowing any conversation would be one-sided, Fred went around the counter and began to make the coffee.

"That was risky," Gunn whispered when he re-joined her. "Bringing him up again. Just leave it alone."

"Well, I don't have to any more," Fred said, and jerked her head toward the lobby while she poured water into the coffee maker. "She did it for me."

"Yeah," he replied and stole a glance at the woman. "What do you think she wants?"

Fred shrugged. "No idea, but I know what I want." She looked into Gunn's resigned eyes; he'd memorised, by now, what she was going to say. "I wish Wesley would bite the bullet and decide to show up and --" She shook her head and sighed. "I don't know, I wish there was some way for Angel to articulate how he feels, to get it all out into the open and then they could work out a truce or something."

"Don't you mean 'and then beat the living daylights out of Wes'?"

With a knowing and grateful smile, the woman fingered her pendant and muttered something under her breath.

***

Wesley paced his darkened living room, ruminating over the information he'd been given during the midnight phone call. By the light of the full moon, he replayed the cryptic warning -- intended for people with whom he no longer had a working relationship.

Or a reason to care, he reminded himself.

Mentally he drew up lists of pros and cons, charted possibilities and probabilities, and couldn't reach a satisfactory decision with any of them. He knew he was persona non grata and as such wasn't welcome anywhere near the hotel or its inhabitants. Fred had said that Angel would kill him if he ever saw him there; Angel had almost made good on the threat before she'd even warned him.

The anger that rose with those particular memories asphyxiated Wesley.

Every single time.

"Who was on the phone?"

He owed them nothing...

"Someone from Sunnydale. No one you'd know."

They'd survive without a warning ...

He continued to stare out at the park across the street. Unconsciously, his hand went to the collar of his shirt.

Lilah read his rigid, unyielding body language, saw the dream-like movement of his hand. "Are you coming back to bed?" she asked.

He turned. Brows a deep, angry furrow, he stared at a spot just beyond her. Lilah frowned at his preoccupied response. Not that she wasn't used to the sullen, broody silences, but this one didn't seem to be directed at her.

"No," he suddenly blurted out, shattering the silence that had enveloped them. "I'm going out."

"Out?" Lilah thought for a second. Sunnydale? "You're going to see Angel. Why? What did they tell you?"

"It doesn't concern you." Pushing her aside, Wesley grabbed his jacket and keys. "Don't be here when I get back."

The slam of the door reverberated in the hallway and rang in his ears. Wesley strode out to his car and angrily twisted the keys in the ignition. He mused over his reasons for going to the hotel, but couldn't recall reaching a definite conclusion that that was in fact what he wanted to do. An unyielding impulse to go to the Hyperion was the driving force.

By the time he'd stopped the car and opened the door, he had justified the trip to himself, arguing that, no matter into what abyss he'd sunk, he needed to continue doing what he felt was morally right. It might prove to be the wrong course of action in the end, but to leave them without a warning...

He did a double take when he entered through the doors and saw the young woman sitting on the sofa near the front stairs. His heart skipped a beat, his breath caught in his throat until his attention was drawn away by the expletive uttered by Gunn.

"... man, are you stupid? Do you have a death wish or something?"

"Wesley, please," Fred added. "It's dangerous. If Angel finds you here--"

"He'll kill me. Yes, you made that quite clear in the hospital. Sorry I couldn't answer you at the time."

Fred nervously glanced up the staircase before she began to cross the lobby. "Wesley, I can't say I'm not glad to see you, but, --"

"I'm hardly here for a spot of tea and a social visit."

"Good," Gunn agreed. "Because, I gotta say, violent deaths tend to be very anti-social."

"So," Fred said as she stopped in mid-stride, checking her inclination to either hug Wesley or push him out the door. "So, why are you here? Couldn't you call or e-mail or something less, I don't know, suicidal?"

"Are you two quite finished?" Wesley asked dryly.

"Get out," they heard Angel growl from the stairwell.

Fred jumped in front of Wesley and turned between the two men. "Angel, Wesley just --"

"I don't care. If he wants to live, he'll be gone before I reach the bottom."

"But he --" Fred turned to Gunn for help. He just shrugged and stayed behind the counter, drinking his coffee.

"On second thought," Angel said, stopping just out of arms' reach. "Stay. Who knows how much longer you'll be alive, since rumour has it you're sleeping with the devil herself. Tell me, aren't you afraid she'll turn on you like you did on us?"

Wesley stood his ground and stared, angry defiance written in the arch of his eyebrow and the sullen set of his mouth.

"Nothing to say?" Angel taunted. "Then let me get it all out into the open and tell you exactly how I feel."

Fred spun around and looked at Gunn. His coffee mug was frozen on its journey to his mouth. He returned her astonished expression and shook his head. Fred backed up slowly, listening to Angel as he fulfilled her wish, spitting out pain and venom with each syllable.

"You and Lilah are made for each other and I hope to hell she gives you exactly what you deserve." Angel laughed then, a malicious bark. "Just think of it, Wesley, what you did means we'll both end grief-stricken and betrayed. Because of your paranoia..."

Wesley said nothing, not because he thought Angel was right or justified in his anger, not because he understood the reasons for the tirade, but because when he did say anything it would be to deliver the message and leave.

"... false prophecy led you to the one person you knew could not be trusted..."

Wesley knew Angel was still not ready to hear what he knew, still not ready to face the reality that Connor was not and never would be the son Angel had dreamed he would be.

"...any idea how much pain you caused? How could you? You..."

Wesley knew Angel wouldn't believe the facts as he had read them, nor accept any apology he might be willing or able to express. Angel wasn't ready to let go of the scapegoat just yet. As Wesley listened to Angel uncharacteristically vent his frustration and anger and take small, deliberate steps toward him, he realised that time might never come.

"Any closer and Wes is a goner," Gunn whispered to Fred, who simply nodded.

"...when all you hoped for is ripped out from under you. All of it, every..."

Fred inclined her head slightly, so that Gunn could hear what she was saying over Angel's angry shouts. "I wish Wesley would leave before..."

"... I wish you could be in that Hell where I suffered, for just a fraction of the time..."

"Done!"

All heads turned toward the front stairs. As the woman smiled and acknowledged the reality of her pronouncement, Wesley shimmered and was gone.

Without a warning.