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theatrical_muse] 301 - Wake up
Sep. 22nd, 2009 11:59 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
prodigalwatcher301 - Wake up.
First oblivion, then existence. I knew at once what had happened, and I had a single reaction:
"Bastards."
The person-- no, it wasn't a person in the least, in point of fact, but a visible manifestation of the Senior Partners' wishes to communicate with their employees. The manifestation standing before me pursed its meticulously coloured lips in a bemused, condescending expression that I knew far too well.
"Now Wesley, you know it just isn't good form to talk about your former-- and, as it turns out, current-- employers like that."
I didn't give the slightest damn that the Senior Partners had decided to put this particular face on for me. Somewhere, out in the world or perhaps out in some other dimension, the real Lilah Morgan was a restless spirit trapped in a reanimated body, still damned to work for Wolfram & Hart by one of their standard contractual 'perpetuity clauses'. But this could not be Lilah.
Because this was the White Room, and only the Senior Partners spoke here.
"You always were the star pupil," said the manifestation. "Less than an hour since your death, and already you know where you are, what I am and have a pretty darned good idea what you are. Highest marks, isn't that what they say in England?"
My face was still set in a scowl. "I reiterate: bastards."
The manifestation sighed, as if explaining something for the umpteenth time to a recalcitrant child.
"A good metahor," said Lilah-- said the manifestation. "All of you are such children. As if you could possibly do us any harm with your pathetic little plans. So you put a hitch in our stride, a pause in our step. The world is still spinning towards oblivion." It laughed, throaty and self-satisfied. "That is, all of the world but Los Angeles."
Before I could ask for clarification, a kind of mystical window appeared near us both. It took little supposition to know I was staring at a viewing portal into a Hell dimension. It took less to recognise the Wolfram & Hart building standing in the middle of the demonic ruins of Los Angeles.
"Bastards," I rasped.
"That song's getting old," Lilah cooed.
I spun around, my hands reaching out in a futile gesture of anger, only to have them pass through the manifestation's body as if it were made of little but smoke. Lilah shook her head. "Not me, lover. You." She reached into her impeccably tailored business jacket, extracted a small green wad of crumpled paper and tossed it.
It was a crushed dollar bill, and it sailed through my insubstantial form. It was then I saw myself, dressed in a tweed suit, complete with spectacles. Not only had my own perpetuity clause been activated, but my incorporeal form had been reconfigured to a younger, less rugged and more priggish version of Wesley Wyndam-Pryce. Of all the indignities, that stung particularly hard.
"Bas--"
"Save it," Lilah said, cutting me off. "Now go play with Angel and tell him to enjoy Hell for however long he can. Give him, as our duly appointed representative here in the Wolfram & Hart Los Angeles offices, our best regards."
The next thing I knew, I was standing with a befuddled Angel, having just materialised in his office.
"Bastards," said Angel, understanding what had happened.
"That's what I said."
(561)
OOC Note: Immediately precedes the Angel: After the Fall storyline. Only canon characters are referenced in this response.
First oblivion, then existence. I knew at once what had happened, and I had a single reaction:
"Bastards."
The person-- no, it wasn't a person in the least, in point of fact, but a visible manifestation of the Senior Partners' wishes to communicate with their employees. The manifestation standing before me pursed its meticulously coloured lips in a bemused, condescending expression that I knew far too well.
"Now Wesley, you know it just isn't good form to talk about your former-- and, as it turns out, current-- employers like that."
I didn't give the slightest damn that the Senior Partners had decided to put this particular face on for me. Somewhere, out in the world or perhaps out in some other dimension, the real Lilah Morgan was a restless spirit trapped in a reanimated body, still damned to work for Wolfram & Hart by one of their standard contractual 'perpetuity clauses'. But this could not be Lilah.
Because this was the White Room, and only the Senior Partners spoke here.
"You always were the star pupil," said the manifestation. "Less than an hour since your death, and already you know where you are, what I am and have a pretty darned good idea what you are. Highest marks, isn't that what they say in England?"
My face was still set in a scowl. "I reiterate: bastards."
The manifestation sighed, as if explaining something for the umpteenth time to a recalcitrant child.
"A good metahor," said Lilah-- said the manifestation. "All of you are such children. As if you could possibly do us any harm with your pathetic little plans. So you put a hitch in our stride, a pause in our step. The world is still spinning towards oblivion." It laughed, throaty and self-satisfied. "That is, all of the world but Los Angeles."
Before I could ask for clarification, a kind of mystical window appeared near us both. It took little supposition to know I was staring at a viewing portal into a Hell dimension. It took less to recognise the Wolfram & Hart building standing in the middle of the demonic ruins of Los Angeles.
"Bastards," I rasped.
"That song's getting old," Lilah cooed.
I spun around, my hands reaching out in a futile gesture of anger, only to have them pass through the manifestation's body as if it were made of little but smoke. Lilah shook her head. "Not me, lover. You." She reached into her impeccably tailored business jacket, extracted a small green wad of crumpled paper and tossed it.
It was a crushed dollar bill, and it sailed through my insubstantial form. It was then I saw myself, dressed in a tweed suit, complete with spectacles. Not only had my own perpetuity clause been activated, but my incorporeal form had been reconfigured to a younger, less rugged and more priggish version of Wesley Wyndam-Pryce. Of all the indignities, that stung particularly hard.
"Bas--"
"Save it," Lilah said, cutting me off. "Now go play with Angel and tell him to enjoy Hell for however long he can. Give him, as our duly appointed representative here in the Wolfram & Hart Los Angeles offices, our best regards."
The next thing I knew, I was standing with a befuddled Angel, having just materialised in his office.
"Bastards," said Angel, understanding what had happened.
"That's what I said."
(561)
OOC Note: Immediately precedes the Angel: After the Fall storyline. Only canon characters are referenced in this response.
