Chapter Text
In retrospect, Kevin the Deadly should have spent a little more time vetting the book he brought to His Queen. But hindsight was 20/20—or 40/20 if one were a Minion demon, which of course he was.
It had all started in Sunnydale, California, in 2008, Dimension 598765, one of the relatively few worlds where the small city had not become a giant crater in the early aughts. Kevin preferred to do errands in these dimensions, as throughout the vast stretches of the universe, the citizens of Sunnydale remained among those most willing to turn a blind eye to patrons with “skin conditions.”
That day, his business was to find a new book for His Queen, as she had thankfully grown bored with the cloaked residents and petty dramas of Hogwarts. So, after shaking off the dust of interdimensional travel, he had made his way to the shiny new bookstore next to the Espresso Pump.
That was where it had all gone downhill, because the coffee shop’s brightly colored chalk sign was advertising something called a pumpkin spice latte. A fan of all the previous seasonal drinks they had offered—the raspberry mochas, the salted caramel cold brews, the dragon drink that turned out to have nothing to do with dragons, the “unicorn” frappe he was convinced did have something to do with unicorns (it sparkled!)—Kevin was intrigued. If he hurried in the bookstore, he would have time to sit and enjoy this tantalizing new libation before His Queen expected him back.
And so he had grabbed the first book he saw from a large display at the front, a black-jacketed number called The Hunger Games, which he assumed had something to do with baking competitions. After doing a brief scan of the inside flap to make sure there was no mention of vampires (vampires, even baking ones, were the only thing His Glorious Ruler had expressly forbidden, a decree that had made it decidedly difficult for him to find anything for her to read when he jumped here between the years 2005-2008), he had pulled down his large hat and gone to purchase it from the bored cashier who never tired of asking him if he was a club member. (He was, but not until 2073.)
The pumpkin spice latte had proven delicious. In fact, he had snuck back to this dimension several times in the last few weeks, and now he was only one punch away from having a full card. Yet, even so, he would give up every single punch, every delectable drop, if it meant preventing Her from this new bloodthirsty whim.
Not that he could express that to the fellow minions gathered here in the alley behind the building known as the Bronze. While they had started with a team of about forty, their numbers had dwindled to half that. Even with the tranquilizer darts they’d found in the secret rooms beneath the university, their quarry was proving . . . difficult.
“This is the last one?” Nick the Handsome said hopefully, his scaly hands fluttering up every so often to gingerly touch at his face, which, while not symmetrical, had been the most symmetrical until one of the Slayers had kicked him into a decorative bird fountain on the last trapping mission.
Kevin pulled the list She had given him--now crumpled and stained with the blood of his fallen comrades--to reconfirm the last target. As he feared, the remaining un-scratched-out item had not changed in the last twenty-four hours.
Another couple.
He hated the couples.
Trapping the solo targets for His Queen’s game had proven difficult enough, but the last couple they’d trapped had managed to take out ten—ten—of his fellow minions before finally being subdued, including Jeff the Totally Invincible. And although Kevin would never admit it out loud, he was still sore from the vampire calling him a “scabby-looking wanker” not once, but in three different dimensions.
All he could do was hope this latest obsession of Hers passed quickly. While he of course trusted Her benevolence and wisdom in all things, this whole mission had him feeling less like “Kevin the Deadly” and more like “Kevin Could Use a Nap.” Or “Kevin the Desirous of Early Retirement.”
“It is the last one, but it is another two-target capture,” he said. Was he imagining it, or were they all gazing at him with resentment? He knew many of them blamed him for introducing Her Majesty to the new books, but then again, they were the same ones who kept complaining about being sorted into the wrong “houses” and chasing him around with demands to be “reassessed.”
There were a few grumbles. Probably from the Slytherins.
He made a show of frowning. “I know Our Wise and Shiny One would be dismayed to hear that your loyalty only extends so far,” he said. “Has She not been our best and greatest Mistress? Has She not raised us from the muck of our former existence? Before Her, we were not even allowed to choose our own names.”
In truth, they were still not really allowed to choose their names, having been given a strict list from which to choose. Though many had attempted to slip in an obsequious question as to the origins of the allowed names—were they perhaps fond pets from years of yore?—Her Gloriousness had always been cagey, as she always was when it came to questions about her past. However, in her great understanding, she did allow them to choose their own attached sobriquet when it became clear that the presence of ten A.J.s was confusing.
“It’s not that we do not revere Her of the Naturally Lustrous Hair,” A.J. the Bold said, fingers twisting his cloak as he looked around the circle for support. “It is only that . . . well, we would hate for Her Scrumptiousness to get in trouble,” he said in a rush. “Or . . . more trouble. We like it here, don’t we?”
There was a rush of lanky-haired nods.
“Ha!” Kevin scoffed, although secretly he was plagued by similar worries. True, he’d been going on excursions outside their prison for years to ease Her infinite boredom, but this was the first time She’d asked him to bring back actual living beings, and not only that, to bring back important beings—a slayer, an infamous vampire—whose disappearances and potential gruesome deaths might in fact change the course of their respective dimensions. It seemed sure to catch the attention of their jailers. Jailers who would definitely not let them choose their own names or zip out for a nice pumpkin-flavored drink.
Not that he was going to be the one to tell her that. His Majesty’s benevolence was only eclipsed by the shrillness of her shrieking when dissatisfied.
“I will tell Our Shiny Queen that you desire a meeting to air some reservations,” he said smoothly.
With a high-pitched laugh, A.J. took a step back. “No! No! Please, forget I said anything. Not sure what got into me. Caffeine probably. Too much caffeine. I’ve got a cold, too, yes, a cold, and it’s given me this weird sinus thing?” he rambled before wisely deciding to mime zipping his lips.
“If there are no more interruptions . . .” Kevin said, trying to snap the list, but it only made a dull thwapping sound, worn as it was by this point. “Our next stop is Sunnydale, California, Dimension 232, Year 2000, at 8:32 p.m. on November the Fourteenth. In this world, she is a slayer, he is a vampire. Try to take her down first, as we’ve learned her capture makes him erratic and impulsive.” He surveyed the remains of his group. “Did we all remember to bring our weapons this time?”
There was a shuffle in the circle as the tranquilizer guns were brandished and then rehidden in the folds of their dull brown cloaks. Each gun held one dart. Or at least they should.
“Did we all remember to load our weapons this time?”
There was a curse and a scuffle from the back that said, no, we all did not.
Once he was certain they were prepared—with loaded guns and extra ammo—Kevin tucked the list back in his cloak and bowed his head, one hand wrapping around the dimly glowing green stone at his neck.
As he whispered the coordinates, a small cut appeared in the air at the end of the alley. She had instructed him that they would find the pair somewhere near here in the alternate Sunnydale. While it wasn’t necessary to start at a parallel point in their world, it did make the effects of jumping more mild. No one wanted another vomiting incident—except maybe for Justin the Thwarter of Societal Expectations.
With a nod that the others should follow, Kevin walked to the tear in space and time and stepped through.
The Sunnydale into which he exited looked much like the one he’d just left, although the sound of laughter coming from the main street proved this was a world sadly populated by more than incarcerated hell goddesses and their minions. It always took Kevin a little while to get his bearings after a jump, and for a second he found himself staring dazedly at a row of dumpsters, which unlike those in their world, were full and fragrant and smelled of . . . pumpkins? If he was quick, perhaps he could make it several blocks to the Espresso Pump and get that last—
No, you worm! he chastised himself. That is what got you in this trouble in the first place. And in any case, the rest of his party were already starting to silently gather behind him.
“Do you see them?” said Drew the Chill, who had the itchiest trigger finger among them. Kevin was about to hiss at him to hide his gun when a familiar voice floated from deeper in the dirty blue-lit alley.
“. . . And the thing about the dance is, you never get to stop.”
It was the vampire—Spike, as he was most often called—and he was spinning a pool cue as this Buffy looked on, mouth tight with restrained anger. She clearly did not like what he was saying.
“Oooh, this one’s wearing the coat again!” A. J. said brightly, but Kevin told him to shush, not wanting to ruin the element of surprise. The two were so focused on one another that they didn’t even see the party silently amassing forty feet away. Perhaps casualties could be kept to a minimum. Not that he’d feel that bad about Drew.
“Every day you wake up, it’s the same bloody question that haunts you,” Spike continued. “Is today the day I’m going to die?”
A startled Kevin watched as Spike brought the pool cue toward the Slayer’s face. In return, the Slayer backhanded him, hard enough that the vampire fell to his knees.
Kevin couldn’t believe it. Mission after mission, these two had fought capture like a well-oiled machine. But now, they were fighting . . . each other? Dare he hope that this one would actually be easy?
Panting, Spike regained his feet. “Death is on your heels, baby. And part of you wants it. Not only to stop the fear and uncertainty, but because you’re just a little bit in love with it.”
She punched him straight in the face then, making him fall once again.
“When should we attack?” Drew whispered.
Now, probably, but Kevin was kind of enjoying watching the vampire get punched in the face. Nevertheless . . . “Let us get a bit closer. Slowly.”
“Death is your art,” Spike was saying, still on his knees. “You make it with your hands, day after day. That final gasp. That look of peace. Part of you is desperate to know, what’s it like? Where does it lead you? And now you see, that’s the secret, not the punch you didn’t throw, or the kicks you didn’t land. She merely wanted it. Every slayer has a death wish. Even you.”
Spike rose to his feet, holding the Slayer’s gaze.
“The only reason you’ve lasted as long as you have, is you’ve got ties to the world. The mum, brat kid sister, Scoobies, they all tie you here. But you’re just putting off the inevitable. Sooner or later, you’re going to want it. And the second . . . ” He lunged forward to clap in her face. “The second you do. You know I’ll be there. Have myself a real good day.”
Tension hung in the air, enough that if Kevin had had body hair, it would be standing on end.
After staring intently into her eyes, Spike backed up. “Here endeth the lesson. I just wonder if you’ll like it as much as she did.”
Buffy finally spoke. “Get out of my sight. Now,” she said with deadly calm.
They were within thirty feet, plenty of range for their darts to hit with accuracy. The pair still hadn’t looked in their direction once.
“On my mark,” Kevin said softly. “Remember, shoot her first.”
“Oh. Did I scare ya?” Spike was saying. “You’re the Slayer. Do something about it. Hit me. One good swing. You know you want to.”
Kevin wanted to. But the Slayer was showing remarkable restraint.
“I mean it,” Buffy bit out as Spike just moved in closer.
“One . . .” Kevin said.
“So do I. Give it to me good, Buffy. Do it.”
“Two . . .” Kevin said.
“He’s going to kiss her?!” Drew blurted, his non-chill cry cracking through the alley.
Their targets sprung apart, blond heads whipping toward them in unison, before Buffy’s whipped back.
“Wait,” she seethed at Spike. “Was this some kind of trap? Lure me out here for some demon ambush?”
“Don’t know these plonkers from Adam. And besides, you invited me,” Spike said. “How would it be a bloody trap?”
“I swear to God, Spike, if you—“
“Three!” Kevin said wildly, before this spun even further out control.
Pushing their cloaks aside, the Minions released a volley of tranquilizer darts, three of which struck the Slayer. One in the chest, one in the neck, and another in the upper thigh. They were lucky—they’d found three was the perfect number with Slayer iterations.
“Hey!” Buffy said. “You’re going to regre . . .” she started, but it faded as her eyes started to roll and flutter. “You’re going to . . .”
She slumped down.
Spike stared at her crumpled form as if he were having trouble computing what exactly had just happened, which gave them time to reload. But when Kevin looked up, he was barreling toward them, stupid coat flapping.
“Oi! You scabby-looking wankers shouldn’t’ve—“
Ping! Kevin shot him, right in the neck.
“What the—” he got out, before his eyes began to roll up too. A part of Kevin wanted to unload three more into his face, one for each “wanker,” but he knew that would be overkill. Even at his most vampiric, as long as they hit his neck, Spike never took as many darts to go down. Perhaps Kevin would write that fact on a note and pin it to his shirt for when he woke up.
For a few moments no one spoke, just stared at the two fallen foes.
“Really think he was going to try to kiss her,” Drew said after a beat, walking over to nudge the vampire with a toe. “Even though I don’t think this one of her even likes him.”
Kevin didn’t think so either. Which was interesting, given the other couples they’d trapped, who at least knew how to work together. And the solo ones . . . well, it was clear His Queen had chosen them for the special advantages they offered.
“Bet they go early,” Nick said then let out a whistle as he circled the Slayer. “Look, she’s injured.” He pointed to where her tan coat had fallen open. The thin shirt beneath had inched up to reveal a large bandage.
The smell of fresh human blood hit his nose, and Kevin started to panic. It didn’t look fatal, but he didn’t want to be on the other end of Her unholy shriek if one of Her contestants expired before the game had even begun.
“We have to get them to their starting places,” he said.
“Where are they going?”
Tucking his gun away, Kevin pulled his list back out to check the column beside their names. “The motel, edge of town.”
“Why do you think She hates these two so much?” A.J. mused, scooping down to loop his hands underneath the vampire’s arms as Drew took his feet.
It was another thing Kevin had wondered, had even made a list of possibilities once while taking sips of foamy pumpkin coffee—he wanted to understand his Queen, even if she was infinitely unknowable—but all he said was “We must not question Her Supreme Deviousness’s will.”
As his fellow minions scurried to follow his orders, Kevin took one last look at the couple. It wasn’t that he felt sorry for them, exactly, especially since at some point, some version of them had done something to fall on Her bad side (bad as in figuratively of course—all sides of His Queen were physically lovely). But he had seen the boards outlining Her plans, the mayhem she planned to enact. Somehow, it seemed unfair to punish these two for a crime their doppelgangers had committed somewhere out in the vast universe.
“Do you think she really has a death wish?” Nick said, hunched over now that he was carrying the unconscious slayer on his back.
The question shook Kevin out of what he now realized were supremely treasonous thoughts. He would have to punish himself when they got back—he would take a marker and cross off several coffee punches from his card. Yes, that was the only way to make it right with His Queen, apart from actual punches to his face.
“I think it is good for her if she does,” he said, then laughed his most evil laugh, to show just how on board he was with Her Plan.
Because no, he thought as he headed back to the portal, a swell of echoing laughter at his back.
This pair did not have much of a chance at all.