Disclaimer: All the characters from Buffy the Vampire Slayer are the exclusive property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the WB station. I own nothing, I’m a poor college student, please don’t sue!
This story is written in the third season, anything through Gingerbread is fair game, I didn’t have the heart to use anything from Helpless *sob*, so be warned! Proceed at your own risk! Spoilers may lie ahead!
I would like to give a HUGE thank you to Petronius, who graciously let me have this idea to toy with while I am seriously stuck in the middle of Heart to Heart. Author’s note: the title is taken from one of my favorite Giles quotes: “It may be that you can wrest some information from that dread machine.”
Oh, he would never admit it to anybody else, not in a million years. No, to his friends and colleagues, few as they were, he was. . . resting. Gathering his strength. Thinking. Planning. Strategizing, even, but he couldn’t fool himself, not even in this drunken state. He sat in his living room, drinking whiskey, listening to the Who, and sulking. Sulking because he’d been denied his fun, because he’d been run out of Sunnydale not once, not twice, but three bloody times by that wanker Ripper and his little girl superhero. Of course, they would take up on a hellmouth. Oh, he could have small fun here in London - or anywhere else, for that matter - but to perform really cool tricks, he needed a place with power. A place like the Hellmouth.
“It’s not so much to bloody ask, I just wanted to have a little fun and make some money in the process,” Ethan slurred to the empty room, wallowing in self-pity. That damn slayer. . . he wanted to make her pay, her and that sniveling Watcher of hers, but Ethan knew that he was a coward. He wouldn’t be dropping by Sunnydale anytime soon. Without warning, his brooding complacency was replaced with a fit of temper.
“DAMMIT!” he screamed as he lurched to his feet, swaying drunkenly, and hurled the glass he was holding at the wall, shattering it into a hundred pieces and splashing the amber liquid across the wood paneling. . .
Directly above the computer.
Ethan seemed to see the machine for the first time, jaw slack and eyes clouded. He took in the large, angular box, the delicate gray of the plastic, its sleek lines making the hulking thing look oddly graceful. Its blank screen stared out at the room, appearing to almost glare at him with contempt and technological superiority. As if to distance himself from the accusatory gaze, Ethan took a staggering step backwards and got his feet caught in each other, throwing him unceremoniously to the floor. Ethan’s teeth clipped sharply over his tongue when he hit the floor, drawing blood, the coppery taste of it slicking his throat.
“Owww!” he growled as he grimaced and spit to the side, a kind of clarity piercing through his alcohol-induced stupor from the pain in his mouth. He glared at his feet angrily and grunted something unintelligible. Just then, the computer on the desk caught his eye once again. His eyes narrowed to slits as he cautiously got to his feet with the aid of his armchair and weaved his way towards it. Catching his balance on the edge of the oak desk, he used his free hand to run his fingers across the keypad. The small buttons made smart tapping noises as he drew his fingers across their rows. At length, his gaze returned to the dark monitor. Its silence seemed powerful, but this close the screen looked like a blind eye. Had he really sensed emotion in that thing? Ethan shook his head slightly to clear it a little. No, impossible. The screen held nothing now, it looked mindless.
Mindless. . .
A look of intense concentration crossed his features as he plopped into the swivel chair and spun around lazily.
Mindless. . .
What had prompted that word? It seemed to hiss at him inside his head as it repeated itself to his hazy thinking like a mantra.
Mindless. . .
A small grunt of frustration escaped him as the gears in his head began to slowly turn. His gaze fell on one of his bookcases, and he looked at it sharply. Spellbooks. Old stuff. Ancient. This time, he said the word out loud as he made his way across the room, already sobering up.
“Mindless?” he queried softly to the books as he caressed their spines. An old, leather-bound volume found its way into his hands, and Ethan paged through it absently until something caught his eye and he quickly double-backed to stare intently at one page. A slow grin spread across his face as he turned back towards the computer, now smiling evilly. He nodded his head at the machine as if in response to a question it had asked him silently.
“Mindless,” he answered with an air of finality.