Out of Joint -- Chapter 9 (Part 2)
Aug. 12th, 2005 02:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sharelleAs always, much appreciation to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
makd. You're such a wonderful help.
Hope everyone else likes. Something about this scene made it one of those I'd been looking forward to writing for a while.
All other parts are here.
* * *
Note: I have this image in my head of what parts of the W&H offices look like in this story, and they don't always coincide exactly with what we see on-screen. Therefore, descriptions of the physical layout of the building may be a bit altered in some places. Nothing major, but you detail buffs may notice.
(Chapter 9 – Part 2)
The cell was stark, sterile, and steel on three sides. Angel's impeccably groomed flunkies had dumped him in here hours ago, and Spike had combed every inch of the place, looking for a possible way out. He couldn't come up with so much as a loose bolt. The walls were sheer and glassy and nearly unblemished . . . or, at least, they had been until Spike had decided to take out his aggression in a constant assault on that one spot to his right. Even then, the only evidence of his hostility was a minor dimple in the smooth bright surface of the metal. Spike wished the same could be said for his hand. That was some strong bloody stuff, the likes of which he'd never seen before – and Spike had been in some pretty sticky spots in his day. Of course, that didn't mean he was about to give up trying. No way was he going to allow himself to be caged, not by that sodding wanker. He'd find a way out.
Maybe the sixth time was a charm.
The fourth wall of the cell was clear and nearly invisible, made from a deceptively flimsy-looking plastic. That, too, was a grand illusion. In truth, it was near unbreakable. Spike knew; he'd tried – several times, in fact. It was probably just as strong as the steel walls around him, maybe even more.
He stared scathingly at the transparent surface, then up at the high wall across the hall from his cell. At least as far as Spike could see, the only color in the sterilized gray hallway was provided by the monotonous blinking red light on the security camera that pointed staunchly at his prison. He growled lowly at the piece of machinery and flashed two defiant fingers toward the peering lens. Then, for the umpteenth time in as many hours, he began to pace.
Spike glanced out of the clear cell wall as he walked, taking in some of his surroundings again. Most of the other holding chambers were empty, except for the one directly across from him. That one, however, looked even more high security than Spike's did, if that was possible. In fact, it looked a lot less like a cell and more like a one-man storage unit: heavy steel door and a miniature window set at head-height, framing the face of the unfortunate sod encased inside.
His hair was long and greasy, his face drawn, and waxy circles of sickly brown entirely surrounded his wide eyes. Spike hadn't seen those eyes blink once since being deposited into the opposite cell. The bloke looked like death. There were electrodes attached to his head and every once in a while the man's facial muscles would twitch spasmodically. The nameplate adjacent to the door labeled the man as "Pavayne, M."
Bloody hell, now there's a bloke who royally pissed off Angelus.
Spike resumed his pacing, every once in a while glancing up at his neighbor. Pavayne's dead eyes stared vacantly ahead, right at him. Spike's face scrunched up in revulsion. "What are you looking at, bitch?"
A noise down the hall caught his attention and Spike walked to the corner of his cell where the plastic barrier met the steel. He pressed against it, straining to see where the sound had come from, but couldn't see beyond a few short feet of hallway. The sound had been loud and reverberating and was shortly followed by the hitching echo of a latch catching in its cradle. Like a heavy door opening and easing shut. Sharp footsteps followed, ricocheting off the close sterile walls in the hallway outside. They grew progressively louder as someone approached. The weight of the steps allowed Spike to peg the person as female, unless Angelus' green demon friend was more of a twinkle-toes than he looked. Of course, Spike could smell nothing through the barrier that held him. So he stepped back and waited for the person to come into view of his cell.
She did. And Spike smirked at her through the plastic shield. "Well, hello, Clarice."
Fred smiled grimly in response, her large eyes looking back at him with a kind of sympathy. She held a large plastic mug in front of her. Spike looked from it back to her face. "What? No sippy cup? Bully for me, I must have graduated."
Fred shrugged hesitantly and took a step closer to his cell. "I thought you might be getting hungry down here," she said.
Spike nodded, looking sarcastically impressed. "I can see why you're the brain, Doc," he replied. "And since he sent you, can I assume that Angelus eviscerated Butterfingers Barbie? Or is that just my wishful thinking?"
"Harmony's fine," Fred answered. "And nobody sent me. I wanted to bring it."
Spike grinned predatorily. He took a step closer to the transparent barrier. "Hadn't had your fill of the Big Bad yet, huh?" His tongue pressed against his top teeth as he looked her up and down. He noticed that, for all her cool exterior, she shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. His grin widened. "So what you're saying, Doc," he asked in a harsh whisper, "is that you came down here all by your lonesome. And nobody knows?" His eyes looked greedy as they stared her down from the other side of the wall.
Fred smiled, but showed no further signs of uneasiness. She pointed behind her to the security camera which continued to blink at him from across the hall. "I wouldn't say that."
Spike straightened dispassionately and moved back into the body of the cell. He had only gone a few steps when he turned around to face her again. "Besides," Fred said, stepping casually closer to the plastic wall, "I don't see you breaking out of that any time soon." She tapped it slightly and it made a dull, hollow sound. Almost no resonance whatsoever – sturdy and heavy.
"What is it, anyway?" Spike asked. "Pretty bloody strong for the look of it."
"Actually, we haven't named it yet," she answered automatically. "But it's a kind of advanced Kevlar, augmented by an enhanced method of polymerization. Superiorly high tensile strength. Some of the process for making it is mystical, which is why it can only be manufactured here in our labs, but once Gunn has secured the copyright we'll be distributing it among the country's law enforcement agencies. So, you know, helping the good cause, which keeps Angel happy – or, at least, suitably monotone – and turning a beaucoup profit, which satisfies the Senior Partners. And . . . ," Fred paused, her face blanching a bit as though she'd said something she shouldn't have. After a moment she composed herself and stared apologetically back at Spike, ". . . I'm . . . sorry. You probably don't really care about all that, huh?"
Spike gave an apathetic shrug. "Love, I have no idea what you're talking about. The only plastic that really interests me is resting between your lovely, elegant, yet overly bony fingers."
Fred suddenly seemed to remember the mug in her hands. "Oh," she exclaimed, flustered. "Sorry." She approached the barrier. Off to the side was a two-way sliding drawer, set into the center of the main cell door in the thin curve of one of the steel walls, just before the plastic one began. Fred pulled the drawer toward her, glancing over at Spike as she did so. "And I do not have bony fingers," she said pointedly as she placed the mug inside and closed the drawer, causing it to open on Spike's side of the wall.
He walked toward it and removed the mug. He noticed that Fred continued to stand close to the barrier so he moved toward it as well, standing as near to her as possible with the partition of the wall between them. He gave her a hungry grin. "Oh, I could pick my teeth with those digits, Doc." He tilted his head and continued to eye her avidly. "Would love to, in fact." He may not be able to smell her through the barrier of his prison, but he could certainly hear the nervous skipping of her heartbeat, even though her expression never changed. Satisfied, Spike smiled nastily and pushed away from the wall. He paced back into the cell, giving the contents of his mug a sniff.
"What is this malignant swill you and your lot keep unloading on me?" he asked as he wrinkled his nose at the scent of the blood. He took a drink.
Fred shifted again. The mug gone from her hands, she began to fidget with her fingers. "Pig's blood, mostly," she answered. "But there's some otter in it. I-I've been told the taste is as close to human blood as you can get without – you know – it being actual human blood."
Spike continued to glare at the mug in his hand with distaste. "You would have been misinformed," he replied dryly.
Fred shrugged, casting her eyes down to her restless fingers. "I guess," she said. "Not that I would really know, you know, since—"
Fred released a frightened yelp at the sudden explosion erupting directly in front of her face. Spike had hurled the mug as hard as he could at the plastic wall, its contents coating it in a gruesome splatter. Blood began to stream down the clear barrier in gory crimson rivulets.
In the blink of an eye, Spike was once again at the partition. In his rush, he slammed the flat of his hand against the wall and glared viciously down at her. Fred started at the movement and trembled a bit under his brutal gaze, visibly shaken. It took her a moment to completely raise her eyes to meet him.
"Now, I want you to answer me something, Doc," he grated lowly, his voice quivering with sudden rage. "Can you do that?"
It started to look as though Fred was remembering the strength of her mystic Kevlar polymer-whatzit wall because she noticeably relaxed. On the surface, that is. Spike noted that her heart was still beating out of her chest as he stared her down. She raised her chin defiantly and gave a minute shrug, a non-committal response.
"Where the hell am I?"
Fred tilted her head patiently. "Spike, I think that question has been answered for you more than onc—"
"Then maybe I'm just not asking it right," Spike interrupted, his tone rough and dangerous. "Should I say: what sodding time warp did I get stuck in?"
Fred's eyes widened and she stared back at him. Her mouth opened and closed several times before she could actually speak. "H-How . . . ? What makes you—?"
"Don't give me that phony innocence, Doc," Spike growled. "I may be disoriented but I am not – fucking – stupid. Was it a spell? A curse? A vengeance wish gone wrong? What?" When she didn't answer him, Spike pressed closer to the blood-streaked wall, pulling himself up as tall as he could over her. "I think I can tell the difference between Angelus – the bug-shagging crazy lunatic who had a hard-on for stalking his stake-happy honey – and the Angelus who appeared in front of me the other day. That's not the Angelus I left in Sunnydale. Something happened to me, and I want to know what."
When Fred still didn't answer, and only stared steadily back at him, Spike continued. He pushed off the wall and stalked back into the cell, prowling back and forth, but never took his eyes off her. "Come on, love, it's not like it isn't obvious," he said. "The Angelus I know didn't stash a high-tech 007 lair in the back rooms of the factory. He doesn't direct legions of perfectly manicured patsies. He doesn't develop ultra-polymerized Kevlar for law enforcement. And he doesn't serve pig's blood with a dash of sodding otter! The Angelus I know would sooner watch me starve . . . be more fun." Spike stopped pacing then, paused as he stared back at Fred through the crimson-streaked surface of the wall, and took a few steps back in her direction. "Then there's you, Doc."
Fred shifted and backed up a step, but met his eyes defensively. "What do you mean 'me'?"
Spike's eyes again made an appreciative scan of her body and, for all his hostility, he managed to curl his lips into a perfect predatory grin. "Well, pet, let's just say there isn't any way Angelus would keep a tasty morsel like you around, even if you could . . . enhance his polymer." Spike's grin faded and the dangerous scowl returned. His eyes traced the column of her throat. "Don't notice any scars on you, Doc," he hissed. "Angelus isn't the type to appreciate a woman for her brain, unless it's as an entrée. No, he's more of a lungs man. He'd want to know just how loud he could make you scream before he drained you of every . . . last . . . drop. No. That wanker out there – that's Angel. But he's not even the Angel I knew." Spike's face was very close to the barrier now, his eyes pinning Fred to the spot. "So now," he whispered, "how about answering my question, Doc?"
Fred squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. She barely blinked as she stared back at him. "No. I can't."
Spike's eyebrow went up and he tilted his head at her. "That right?"
Fred sighed heavily. "I don't think you're stupid, Spike. I mean, there's so much going on here, it makes trying to pass the situation off as 'status quo' seem pretty ridiculous," she said. "But trust me, the less you really know right now the better."
Spike's nostrils flared. "And why is that?"
"Because sometimes too much knowledge can be dangerous." She turned to go.
"I get out of this . . . ," Spike called after her, ". . . and you're going to see what's dangerous, pet."
Fred returned and stood directly in front of him. She seemed perfectly calm now, though her heart was still fluttering slightly quicker than normal. She looked him dead in the eye. "I'm not afraid of you, Spike," she said softly but pointedly.
"So you said the other day," he returned. "But you should be."
Fred shook her head. "No," she said. "I know you. You may not know it yet, but I do. And I'll probably catch hell for telling you this much, but . . . " she glanced cryptically at the cell across from Spike where the comatose man continued to stare deathly forward, ". . . there's a part of you that's good. The Spike I know saves lives."
Spike scoffed. "Then you don't know me at all, Doc."
Fred took a long deliberate pause. The sympathetic eyes, which she had worn when she first appeared in front of his cell, were back. "Maybe better than you think," she finally replied. And with that, she turned down the hall.
Spike listened to the click of her shoes echoing through the hallway, followed by the solid clack of the door at the far end latching behind her as it swung shut. Spike glowered at his surroundings once again, especially the blood which now streaked the front wall of his cage. His eyes focused on the security camera, aimed inexorably at him. He exhaled fiercely through his nose and stared directly into the eye of the lens.
"Well," he announced to the air around him, "sometimes too much knowledge can be dangerous."
* * *
To be continued . . .
makd. You're such a wonderful help. Hope everyone else likes. Something about this scene made it one of those I'd been looking forward to writing for a while.
All other parts are here.
Note: I have this image in my head of what parts of the W&H offices look like in this story, and they don't always coincide exactly with what we see on-screen. Therefore, descriptions of the physical layout of the building may be a bit altered in some places. Nothing major, but you detail buffs may notice.
(Chapter 9 – Part 2)
The cell was stark, sterile, and steel on three sides. Angel's impeccably groomed flunkies had dumped him in here hours ago, and Spike had combed every inch of the place, looking for a possible way out. He couldn't come up with so much as a loose bolt. The walls were sheer and glassy and nearly unblemished . . . or, at least, they had been until Spike had decided to take out his aggression in a constant assault on that one spot to his right. Even then, the only evidence of his hostility was a minor dimple in the smooth bright surface of the metal. Spike wished the same could be said for his hand. That was some strong bloody stuff, the likes of which he'd never seen before – and Spike had been in some pretty sticky spots in his day. Of course, that didn't mean he was about to give up trying. No way was he going to allow himself to be caged, not by that sodding wanker. He'd find a way out.
Maybe the sixth time was a charm.
The fourth wall of the cell was clear and nearly invisible, made from a deceptively flimsy-looking plastic. That, too, was a grand illusion. In truth, it was near unbreakable. Spike knew; he'd tried – several times, in fact. It was probably just as strong as the steel walls around him, maybe even more.
He stared scathingly at the transparent surface, then up at the high wall across the hall from his cell. At least as far as Spike could see, the only color in the sterilized gray hallway was provided by the monotonous blinking red light on the security camera that pointed staunchly at his prison. He growled lowly at the piece of machinery and flashed two defiant fingers toward the peering lens. Then, for the umpteenth time in as many hours, he began to pace.
Spike glanced out of the clear cell wall as he walked, taking in some of his surroundings again. Most of the other holding chambers were empty, except for the one directly across from him. That one, however, looked even more high security than Spike's did, if that was possible. In fact, it looked a lot less like a cell and more like a one-man storage unit: heavy steel door and a miniature window set at head-height, framing the face of the unfortunate sod encased inside.
His hair was long and greasy, his face drawn, and waxy circles of sickly brown entirely surrounded his wide eyes. Spike hadn't seen those eyes blink once since being deposited into the opposite cell. The bloke looked like death. There were electrodes attached to his head and every once in a while the man's facial muscles would twitch spasmodically. The nameplate adjacent to the door labeled the man as "Pavayne, M."
Bloody hell, now there's a bloke who royally pissed off Angelus.
Spike resumed his pacing, every once in a while glancing up at his neighbor. Pavayne's dead eyes stared vacantly ahead, right at him. Spike's face scrunched up in revulsion. "What are you looking at, bitch?"
A noise down the hall caught his attention and Spike walked to the corner of his cell where the plastic barrier met the steel. He pressed against it, straining to see where the sound had come from, but couldn't see beyond a few short feet of hallway. The sound had been loud and reverberating and was shortly followed by the hitching echo of a latch catching in its cradle. Like a heavy door opening and easing shut. Sharp footsteps followed, ricocheting off the close sterile walls in the hallway outside. They grew progressively louder as someone approached. The weight of the steps allowed Spike to peg the person as female, unless Angelus' green demon friend was more of a twinkle-toes than he looked. Of course, Spike could smell nothing through the barrier that held him. So he stepped back and waited for the person to come into view of his cell.
She did. And Spike smirked at her through the plastic shield. "Well, hello, Clarice."
Fred smiled grimly in response, her large eyes looking back at him with a kind of sympathy. She held a large plastic mug in front of her. Spike looked from it back to her face. "What? No sippy cup? Bully for me, I must have graduated."
Fred shrugged hesitantly and took a step closer to his cell. "I thought you might be getting hungry down here," she said.
Spike nodded, looking sarcastically impressed. "I can see why you're the brain, Doc," he replied. "And since he sent you, can I assume that Angelus eviscerated Butterfingers Barbie? Or is that just my wishful thinking?"
"Harmony's fine," Fred answered. "And nobody sent me. I wanted to bring it."
Spike grinned predatorily. He took a step closer to the transparent barrier. "Hadn't had your fill of the Big Bad yet, huh?" His tongue pressed against his top teeth as he looked her up and down. He noticed that, for all her cool exterior, she shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. His grin widened. "So what you're saying, Doc," he asked in a harsh whisper, "is that you came down here all by your lonesome. And nobody knows?" His eyes looked greedy as they stared her down from the other side of the wall.
Fred smiled, but showed no further signs of uneasiness. She pointed behind her to the security camera which continued to blink at him from across the hall. "I wouldn't say that."
Spike straightened dispassionately and moved back into the body of the cell. He had only gone a few steps when he turned around to face her again. "Besides," Fred said, stepping casually closer to the plastic wall, "I don't see you breaking out of that any time soon." She tapped it slightly and it made a dull, hollow sound. Almost no resonance whatsoever – sturdy and heavy.
"What is it, anyway?" Spike asked. "Pretty bloody strong for the look of it."
"Actually, we haven't named it yet," she answered automatically. "But it's a kind of advanced Kevlar, augmented by an enhanced method of polymerization. Superiorly high tensile strength. Some of the process for making it is mystical, which is why it can only be manufactured here in our labs, but once Gunn has secured the copyright we'll be distributing it among the country's law enforcement agencies. So, you know, helping the good cause, which keeps Angel happy – or, at least, suitably monotone – and turning a beaucoup profit, which satisfies the Senior Partners. And . . . ," Fred paused, her face blanching a bit as though she'd said something she shouldn't have. After a moment she composed herself and stared apologetically back at Spike, ". . . I'm . . . sorry. You probably don't really care about all that, huh?"
Spike gave an apathetic shrug. "Love, I have no idea what you're talking about. The only plastic that really interests me is resting between your lovely, elegant, yet overly bony fingers."
Fred suddenly seemed to remember the mug in her hands. "Oh," she exclaimed, flustered. "Sorry." She approached the barrier. Off to the side was a two-way sliding drawer, set into the center of the main cell door in the thin curve of one of the steel walls, just before the plastic one began. Fred pulled the drawer toward her, glancing over at Spike as she did so. "And I do not have bony fingers," she said pointedly as she placed the mug inside and closed the drawer, causing it to open on Spike's side of the wall.
He walked toward it and removed the mug. He noticed that Fred continued to stand close to the barrier so he moved toward it as well, standing as near to her as possible with the partition of the wall between them. He gave her a hungry grin. "Oh, I could pick my teeth with those digits, Doc." He tilted his head and continued to eye her avidly. "Would love to, in fact." He may not be able to smell her through the barrier of his prison, but he could certainly hear the nervous skipping of her heartbeat, even though her expression never changed. Satisfied, Spike smiled nastily and pushed away from the wall. He paced back into the cell, giving the contents of his mug a sniff.
"What is this malignant swill you and your lot keep unloading on me?" he asked as he wrinkled his nose at the scent of the blood. He took a drink.
Fred shifted again. The mug gone from her hands, she began to fidget with her fingers. "Pig's blood, mostly," she answered. "But there's some otter in it. I-I've been told the taste is as close to human blood as you can get without – you know – it being actual human blood."
Spike continued to glare at the mug in his hand with distaste. "You would have been misinformed," he replied dryly.
Fred shrugged, casting her eyes down to her restless fingers. "I guess," she said. "Not that I would really know, you know, since—"
Fred released a frightened yelp at the sudden explosion erupting directly in front of her face. Spike had hurled the mug as hard as he could at the plastic wall, its contents coating it in a gruesome splatter. Blood began to stream down the clear barrier in gory crimson rivulets.
In the blink of an eye, Spike was once again at the partition. In his rush, he slammed the flat of his hand against the wall and glared viciously down at her. Fred started at the movement and trembled a bit under his brutal gaze, visibly shaken. It took her a moment to completely raise her eyes to meet him.
"Now, I want you to answer me something, Doc," he grated lowly, his voice quivering with sudden rage. "Can you do that?"
It started to look as though Fred was remembering the strength of her mystic Kevlar polymer-whatzit wall because she noticeably relaxed. On the surface, that is. Spike noted that her heart was still beating out of her chest as he stared her down. She raised her chin defiantly and gave a minute shrug, a non-committal response.
"Where the hell am I?"
Fred tilted her head patiently. "Spike, I think that question has been answered for you more than onc—"
"Then maybe I'm just not asking it right," Spike interrupted, his tone rough and dangerous. "Should I say: what sodding time warp did I get stuck in?"
Fred's eyes widened and she stared back at him. Her mouth opened and closed several times before she could actually speak. "H-How . . . ? What makes you—?"
"Don't give me that phony innocence, Doc," Spike growled. "I may be disoriented but I am not – fucking – stupid. Was it a spell? A curse? A vengeance wish gone wrong? What?" When she didn't answer him, Spike pressed closer to the blood-streaked wall, pulling himself up as tall as he could over her. "I think I can tell the difference between Angelus – the bug-shagging crazy lunatic who had a hard-on for stalking his stake-happy honey – and the Angelus who appeared in front of me the other day. That's not the Angelus I left in Sunnydale. Something happened to me, and I want to know what."
When Fred still didn't answer, and only stared steadily back at him, Spike continued. He pushed off the wall and stalked back into the cell, prowling back and forth, but never took his eyes off her. "Come on, love, it's not like it isn't obvious," he said. "The Angelus I know didn't stash a high-tech 007 lair in the back rooms of the factory. He doesn't direct legions of perfectly manicured patsies. He doesn't develop ultra-polymerized Kevlar for law enforcement. And he doesn't serve pig's blood with a dash of sodding otter! The Angelus I know would sooner watch me starve . . . be more fun." Spike stopped pacing then, paused as he stared back at Fred through the crimson-streaked surface of the wall, and took a few steps back in her direction. "Then there's you, Doc."
Fred shifted and backed up a step, but met his eyes defensively. "What do you mean 'me'?"
Spike's eyes again made an appreciative scan of her body and, for all his hostility, he managed to curl his lips into a perfect predatory grin. "Well, pet, let's just say there isn't any way Angelus would keep a tasty morsel like you around, even if you could . . . enhance his polymer." Spike's grin faded and the dangerous scowl returned. His eyes traced the column of her throat. "Don't notice any scars on you, Doc," he hissed. "Angelus isn't the type to appreciate a woman for her brain, unless it's as an entrée. No, he's more of a lungs man. He'd want to know just how loud he could make you scream before he drained you of every . . . last . . . drop. No. That wanker out there – that's Angel. But he's not even the Angel I knew." Spike's face was very close to the barrier now, his eyes pinning Fred to the spot. "So now," he whispered, "how about answering my question, Doc?"
Fred squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. She barely blinked as she stared back at him. "No. I can't."
Spike's eyebrow went up and he tilted his head at her. "That right?"
Fred sighed heavily. "I don't think you're stupid, Spike. I mean, there's so much going on here, it makes trying to pass the situation off as 'status quo' seem pretty ridiculous," she said. "But trust me, the less you really know right now the better."
Spike's nostrils flared. "And why is that?"
"Because sometimes too much knowledge can be dangerous." She turned to go.
"I get out of this . . . ," Spike called after her, ". . . and you're going to see what's dangerous, pet."
Fred returned and stood directly in front of him. She seemed perfectly calm now, though her heart was still fluttering slightly quicker than normal. She looked him dead in the eye. "I'm not afraid of you, Spike," she said softly but pointedly.
"So you said the other day," he returned. "But you should be."
Fred shook her head. "No," she said. "I know you. You may not know it yet, but I do. And I'll probably catch hell for telling you this much, but . . . " she glanced cryptically at the cell across from Spike where the comatose man continued to stare deathly forward, ". . . there's a part of you that's good. The Spike I know saves lives."
Spike scoffed. "Then you don't know me at all, Doc."
Fred took a long deliberate pause. The sympathetic eyes, which she had worn when she first appeared in front of his cell, were back. "Maybe better than you think," she finally replied. And with that, she turned down the hall.
Spike listened to the click of her shoes echoing through the hallway, followed by the solid clack of the door at the far end latching behind her as it swung shut. Spike glowered at his surroundings once again, especially the blood which now streaked the front wall of his cage. His eyes focused on the security camera, aimed inexorably at him. He exhaled fiercely through his nose and stared directly into the eye of the lens.
"Well," he announced to the air around him, "sometimes too much knowledge can be dangerous."
To be continued . . .
