The Nature of Inhumanity
Mar. 15th, 2021 04:21 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
madimpossibledreamerReminder, Steel = mob boss Spike.
Honestly, based on a certain canon episode you can probably guess who the perp is without any other clues. Obviously, he thinks of werewolves as not human, but Steel and Xander know the "hunter" is the one who's truly inhuman. the hurt/comfort isn't super obvious, but Steel is definitely trying to look out for Xander who's on the breaking point.
(random aside, but since I'm listening to the Chaos Bleeds OST again for this I just realized that the picture chosen shows everybody's face but Xander's. You can see where he's standing, but Willow's blocking him. I don't know if this is official artwork or anything but it's kind of funny, like that failed photo you try to take with your friends and someone puts their hand in front of your face as a joke or something)
Main Points:
Buffy/Dresden Files Crossover
Chapter Summary: Xander decides that questioning Steel about the latest deaths is a good idea.
Word Count: 1191
Rating: Teen
Warning: brief discussion of gruesome case
It’s kind of hard to keep up a wizardly intimidation thing going when you’re confused. “…Glasses?”
I hadn’t meant to say that.
Steel’s smile grows, blue eyes just as amused. Ideally, this would be the part where I could hit him, but since I didn’t want to get arrested for assault, I reluctantly thought better of it. “You thought I had 20-20 vision?”
“I—” It didn’t match the image, no. I tried to dredge up images of wolves wearing glasses and the only one I managed to find was in some illustrations of Little Red Riding Hood. More apt than it might appear, actually. Like this, he looked like a normal human being instead of a wolf in a woolen suit. Which might be the point. He uses being underestimated as part of his toolkit, every bit as much as being taken seriously—especially when it comes to the public, the press, and everyone else he wants to think of him as just another businessman. Or, in some cases, like mine, to be thrown off balance, so he has the upper hand in the encounter.
“As it happens, these are reading glasses. I would say they’re not everyday glasses, but,” he continues, dry and amused and waving a hand at whatever he’s working on, “…I do a lot of paperwork.”
“I can see why Superman used them as a disguise.” Again, there’s my mouth, getting away from me.
“Whatever do you mean? Clark Kent was merely a mild-mannered reporter, and nothing more.” His eyes are twinkling. Twinkling. That must’ve been some seriously awful paperwork, because he’s happy for the smouldering wizard interrupting (disclaimer: not actually smouldering, I can’t pull that off like Willow can, since it’s a fire thing). “Is there something I can offer you? Tea, coffee?”
The whole hospitality thing is very odd. I mean, I even get it. Staying polite is part of how he keeps the upper hand, keeps the wolf leashed. That doesn’t make it not-weird.
Deciding the intimidation ship has already come and sailed, I collapse into one of the comfortable looking chairs on the other side of his desk and instantly realize I’ve made a mistake. I’ve fallen for the trap of the Comfy Chair. (Vague bells ring in my head as I say this. Wasn’t that a Doctor Who skit or something?) I must’ve made some sort of noise of approval, because the amusement has only grown. “Should you wish to take that home with you, I can always replace it.”
That’s weird, but then, he always is. “Wouldn’t you not want…the expenses?” I force back the yawn, and there’s slight concern in his eyes when I manage to glance over.
“Please, I’m not an amateur, even if I am a newcomer to your world. I know better than to argue with a wizard when he wants something, and right now, you really want that chair.” He pauses and continues, levity replaced by the concern in his eyes. “Is there something I should be aware of?”
It’s hard to think, like treading molasses. Or quicksand. Not recommended. I hadn’t done either one, but some enterprising Warlock had turned the concrete to a quicksand-like consistency and reminded me, vaguely, of an anime, except one of the two was wearing a bodysuit and, uhm, had some weird poses. Thankfully not the real life one. That would’ve scarred me a little. It’s fine when you’re reading it or watching it and ten times more disturbing in person. I’d come here to accuse him, I knew that, but my eyes just wanted to close and my brain was close to a union strike. “You, uh, you haven’t put any contracts out on werewolves lately, have you?”
Ice-blue eyes turn even icier. “No. Has that been an issue?”
I think. Slowly. If I tell him anything, it might help him cover it up, or whatever. On the other hand, my instincts, which have largely been good to me, say that his cold rage over there isn’t faked. “Veruca McGowan and Nina Ash.”
“The two young women who were found shot and skinned.” At my raised eyebrow, he adds, “Please, it’s in my best interests to read the police reports. I’d thought it to be a serial killer, which is hardly more welcome in this city.” The ‘he’s been investigating on his own’ goes unsaid. Not that he doesn’t trust the police, but corrupt cops aren’t always the most reliable, and he’ll want to dispense his unique brand of justice.
“We think they’re going for werewolf pelts, but…” I trail off, sick to my stomach, unable to finish the sentence. I can guess as to several sick and twisted reasons some supernatural creature would hunt like that, and even why some humans would do so, despite the fact that as long as they can learn to control it werewolves are practically harmless. The worst part of it was…
“And you have reason to believe so-called vanilla mortals are the culprits?” There we go. I’m not sure why it made a difference—no, wait, I did. Because it was a choice. If a fae did it, it’d be in their nature.
“Fae don’t use guns, on account of the iron/steel thing. Most things that go bump in the night don’t, for different reasons.” I might be giving away too much information (at least the gun thing was probably in the report) but I’m already stressed enough, and if the devil’s willing to give me some information that can let me take down these monsters, I’m tired enough to take it. I haven’t slept for three days.
“They could, probably, should they wish to frame another, but I’m not a Signatory of the Accords.” There’s a weird tone in his voice that I’m too tired to try to decipher. “Please, rest for a little while, while I make some calls.” To the people he already has looking into it, I assume, though maybe some others if ‘trophy hunter’ gives him any additional ideas. “If I learn anything, I will, of course, inform you, but you are no good to anyone without a brief respite, and you can hardly solve the city’s supernatural problems if you are dead.”
“You care,” I state flatly and yawn again. Alas, the Comfy Chair is winning.
The unimpressed look he gives me is fair. After all, I’d seen his soul. He was more genuine in front of me because he could be. (Also, I think he found amusement in messing with me, but he certainly was serious about this.) “About this city, and its people? A good deal, in fact. And when someone decides to start making trouble in my city without permission, I…get upset.”
Territorial. But then, I knew he was. He’d considered me…I’m not sure what he considers me, other than some weird variation on a safety blanket, but he’s protective. It might be a weird Joker “only I can kill him” thing, but I don’t feel any hint of danger, and I’ve been on my feet for days without rest trying to stop this thing, so I’m asleep before I know it.
Honestly, based on a certain canon episode you can probably guess who the perp is without any other clues. Obviously, he thinks of werewolves as not human, but Steel and Xander know the "hunter" is the one who's truly inhuman. the hurt/comfort isn't super obvious, but Steel is definitely trying to look out for Xander who's on the breaking point.
(random aside, but since I'm listening to the Chaos Bleeds OST again for this I just realized that the picture chosen shows everybody's face but Xander's. You can see where he's standing, but Willow's blocking him. I don't know if this is official artwork or anything but it's kind of funny, like that failed photo you try to take with your friends and someone puts their hand in front of your face as a joke or something)
Main Points:
Buffy/Dresden Files Crossover
Chapter Summary: Xander decides that questioning Steel about the latest deaths is a good idea.
Word Count: 1191
Rating: Teen
Warning: brief discussion of gruesome case
It’s kind of hard to keep up a wizardly intimidation thing going when you’re confused. “…Glasses?”
I hadn’t meant to say that.
Steel’s smile grows, blue eyes just as amused. Ideally, this would be the part where I could hit him, but since I didn’t want to get arrested for assault, I reluctantly thought better of it. “You thought I had 20-20 vision?”
“I—” It didn’t match the image, no. I tried to dredge up images of wolves wearing glasses and the only one I managed to find was in some illustrations of Little Red Riding Hood. More apt than it might appear, actually. Like this, he looked like a normal human being instead of a wolf in a woolen suit. Which might be the point. He uses being underestimated as part of his toolkit, every bit as much as being taken seriously—especially when it comes to the public, the press, and everyone else he wants to think of him as just another businessman. Or, in some cases, like mine, to be thrown off balance, so he has the upper hand in the encounter.
“As it happens, these are reading glasses. I would say they’re not everyday glasses, but,” he continues, dry and amused and waving a hand at whatever he’s working on, “…I do a lot of paperwork.”
“I can see why Superman used them as a disguise.” Again, there’s my mouth, getting away from me.
“Whatever do you mean? Clark Kent was merely a mild-mannered reporter, and nothing more.” His eyes are twinkling. Twinkling. That must’ve been some seriously awful paperwork, because he’s happy for the smouldering wizard interrupting (disclaimer: not actually smouldering, I can’t pull that off like Willow can, since it’s a fire thing). “Is there something I can offer you? Tea, coffee?”
The whole hospitality thing is very odd. I mean, I even get it. Staying polite is part of how he keeps the upper hand, keeps the wolf leashed. That doesn’t make it not-weird.
Deciding the intimidation ship has already come and sailed, I collapse into one of the comfortable looking chairs on the other side of his desk and instantly realize I’ve made a mistake. I’ve fallen for the trap of the Comfy Chair. (Vague bells ring in my head as I say this. Wasn’t that a Doctor Who skit or something?) I must’ve made some sort of noise of approval, because the amusement has only grown. “Should you wish to take that home with you, I can always replace it.”
That’s weird, but then, he always is. “Wouldn’t you not want…the expenses?” I force back the yawn, and there’s slight concern in his eyes when I manage to glance over.
“Please, I’m not an amateur, even if I am a newcomer to your world. I know better than to argue with a wizard when he wants something, and right now, you really want that chair.” He pauses and continues, levity replaced by the concern in his eyes. “Is there something I should be aware of?”
It’s hard to think, like treading molasses. Or quicksand. Not recommended. I hadn’t done either one, but some enterprising Warlock had turned the concrete to a quicksand-like consistency and reminded me, vaguely, of an anime, except one of the two was wearing a bodysuit and, uhm, had some weird poses. Thankfully not the real life one. That would’ve scarred me a little. It’s fine when you’re reading it or watching it and ten times more disturbing in person. I’d come here to accuse him, I knew that, but my eyes just wanted to close and my brain was close to a union strike. “You, uh, you haven’t put any contracts out on werewolves lately, have you?”
Ice-blue eyes turn even icier. “No. Has that been an issue?”
I think. Slowly. If I tell him anything, it might help him cover it up, or whatever. On the other hand, my instincts, which have largely been good to me, say that his cold rage over there isn’t faked. “Veruca McGowan and Nina Ash.”
“The two young women who were found shot and skinned.” At my raised eyebrow, he adds, “Please, it’s in my best interests to read the police reports. I’d thought it to be a serial killer, which is hardly more welcome in this city.” The ‘he’s been investigating on his own’ goes unsaid. Not that he doesn’t trust the police, but corrupt cops aren’t always the most reliable, and he’ll want to dispense his unique brand of justice.
“We think they’re going for werewolf pelts, but…” I trail off, sick to my stomach, unable to finish the sentence. I can guess as to several sick and twisted reasons some supernatural creature would hunt like that, and even why some humans would do so, despite the fact that as long as they can learn to control it werewolves are practically harmless. The worst part of it was…
“And you have reason to believe so-called vanilla mortals are the culprits?” There we go. I’m not sure why it made a difference—no, wait, I did. Because it was a choice. If a fae did it, it’d be in their nature.
“Fae don’t use guns, on account of the iron/steel thing. Most things that go bump in the night don’t, for different reasons.” I might be giving away too much information (at least the gun thing was probably in the report) but I’m already stressed enough, and if the devil’s willing to give me some information that can let me take down these monsters, I’m tired enough to take it. I haven’t slept for three days.
“They could, probably, should they wish to frame another, but I’m not a Signatory of the Accords.” There’s a weird tone in his voice that I’m too tired to try to decipher. “Please, rest for a little while, while I make some calls.” To the people he already has looking into it, I assume, though maybe some others if ‘trophy hunter’ gives him any additional ideas. “If I learn anything, I will, of course, inform you, but you are no good to anyone without a brief respite, and you can hardly solve the city’s supernatural problems if you are dead.”
“You care,” I state flatly and yawn again. Alas, the Comfy Chair is winning.
The unimpressed look he gives me is fair. After all, I’d seen his soul. He was more genuine in front of me because he could be. (Also, I think he found amusement in messing with me, but he certainly was serious about this.) “About this city, and its people? A good deal, in fact. And when someone decides to start making trouble in my city without permission, I…get upset.”
Territorial. But then, I knew he was. He’d considered me…I’m not sure what he considers me, other than some weird variation on a safety blanket, but he’s protective. It might be a weird Joker “only I can kill him” thing, but I don’t feel any hint of danger, and I’ve been on my feet for days without rest trying to stop this thing, so I’m asleep before I know it.
