Chapter 10: A Revolution in London
Nervously running one hand over the fabric of her knee-length skirt, Andrea glanced at the man by her side. It was funny, really, how quickly they had both discarded the relaxed clothes they had been wearing in California to the benefit of tweed and, well, tweed. Old habits died hard, as the saying went. But it wasn’t just a question of habit. They had both slipped in their Watchers’ costumes to leave no doubt in the minds of the persons they would be addressing that they were Watchers, in heart if not in title for Giles, and despite the revolutionary ideas they were going to voice.
The guards at the entrance door hesitated for an instant when they requested access, as Rupert Giles was obviously on their list of personae non gratae . But a quiet reminder from Andrea of what exactly her last name was had convinced them that the ex-Watcher could be admitted as a guest under her responsibility.
The Headquarters of the Council, in the very center of London, was housed in the five stories of what had been, a couple of centuries before, one of the mansions belonging to a true blue-blood British family. This family had been quite grateful for the quiet (and scandal-free) help the Council had provided concerning one of its recently deceased, but more undead than dead members. The building had been a token of thanks – and a bribe to keep silent about this sad matter.
Many rooms, in this old edifice. Many, many books. And a surprisingly high number of Watchers. Well, surprising for anyone but Andrea and Rupert. The first thing they had done, upon arriving in London, had been to contact as many Watchers as possible, inside as well as outside the country. They had only told them that something very, very big was happening, and to show up on this day and time at the HQ for the complete details. Instead of following Andrea straight to the fifth floor, where Quentin Travers’ office, as well as those of the highest ranking Watchers and the conference rooms, were located, Rupert wandered from room to room, alerting everybody he saw that the main event would be taking place soon on the top floor.
Andrea’s hand, closed over a heavy briefcase’s handle, was a bit slippery as she stepped out of the elevator and made her way on the thick carpets toward her father’s office. Rupert had agreed with her to give one chance to the head of the Council to get out of all of this of his own choice, with his reputation intact. They both doubted he would use that opportunity, but it seemed fair to them both.
As she was about to knock, the office door opened abruptly in front of her, and two members of the High Council walked out, glaring at her, and hurried away. Shrugging, she entered the room and closed the door behind her.
“Why did you bring him here?” Quentin Travers asked her immediately, his tone harsh.
He was sitting in that imposing chair that she privately called his throne, hands spread out on the desk in front of him, dark eyes made even darker by irritation.
“It is nice to see you too, father,” she said, a bit sarcastically. “I suppose ‘him’ is Rupert Giles?”
She approached the desk but did not sit down. She knew by experience that the uncomfortable guest chairs were designed to make visitors fidget and to look up at the slightly elevated desk and its owner. She placed her briefcase on the chair she was standing next to, and her now free hand slipped into her jacket’s pocket. As her rhetorical question received no answer, she made her offer, looking at the man squarely, as if he was neither the most powerful man in the building nor her father.
“You have a choice, sir, but not much time to decide, I’m afraid. You can come out of this room and immediately present your resignation, or Mr. Giles and I will convince the Council that you should be replaced with the briefest delay possible. In any case, I can assure you that you will not leave this building as the Head of the Council.”
The eyes of the aging man widened incredulously, and he shook his head slowly.
“I have tolerated many things from you that I wouldn’t have from other Watchers, because you are my blood. But this…”
“It is because we are blood kin that you even have a choice, sir”, she interrupted him. “But knowing that you intended to have a Slayer killed, when our very reason for existence is to help them, I cannot remain silent and sanction your actions.”
“Whoever told you that lied,” he said, too calmly. “I never planned Faith’s death. William the Bloody…”
“William the Bloody,” she interrupted him again, “is a truly fascinating man. Full of surprises. But then, so are you. I’d be curious to know how you knew I was talking about Faith, and not about Buffy, for example. She’s a vampire, after all, so why didn’t we ever try to suppress her?”
The mask of calm slowly disappeared, replaced by cold anger. Anger against Andrea, Buffy, Faith or himself, the woman wasn’t quite sure.
“Buffy Summers may be a vampire,” he said icily, “but getting rid of her is not worth the risk of failing. Faith had been lost to our cause for too long. She made it clear she wanted nothing to do with us. We needed a Slayer. She had to die so that a new one could be Chosen. Being in my seat is not always easy, but that particular decision wasn’t the hardest I ever made.”
Nodding slightly, Andrea gave the man in front of her a sad smile.
“And you just proved to me that I am making the right decision, sir. I suppose you won’t be resigning? I thought not. Let’s go on with the show, then.”
Without even a last glance at the puzzled Head Watcher, she walked out of the office and went directly to what had once been a ballroom, but was now the largest conference room of the building. She was aware that her father was behind her, but she ignored the sharp hiss of her name that came from him. Trying to appear confident and serene, she moved through the crowd assembled in the ballroom and toward the podium where Rupert was engaged in an animated discussion with several members of the High Council. She didn’t concern herself with that; she only needed to get the attention of everyone present. Pulling a small digital recorder from her jacket’s pocket, she placed the device in front of a microphone after having made sure it was on. Andrea caught the face of her father in front of the podium as she pressed the play button and could see his surprise and sudden horror as he understood what was happening. His recorded voice filled the room, and everyone became quiet instantly, including the men arguing with Rupert behind her.
“… Summers may be a vampire, but getting rid of her is not worth the risk of failing. Faith had been lost to our cause for too long. She made it clear she wanted nothing to do with us. We needed a Slayer. She had to die so that a new one could be Chosen. Being in my seat is not always easy, but that particular decision wasn’t the hardest I ever made.”
Andrea stopped the recording. For a few seconds, the silence in the room was complete. Then Quentin Travers, after throwing a deadly glance at her, turned toward the Watchers behind him.
“We needed a Slayer,” he repeated coolly. “The world needed a Slayer. The war against evil never ceases, and it was a necessity for mankind’s safety that a new Slayer join the battle.”
“The world never needed Faith to be murdered,” Rupert enunciated in a slow but strong voice, walking a few steps to stand at Andrea’s side by the table. “For one thing, whatever mistakes this young lady made, she paid for them. For another, there has always been a fighting Slayer. Buffy Summers may not be the current Slayer, she may not be working for the Council anymore, but she is still fighting that never-ending battle. Three times she died, and still she remains standing between the Hellmouth and the rest of the world.”
There was a slight murmur in the room. Buffy was quickly becoming a legend, one of the longest living Slayers and the only turned one to keep fighting the good fight.
“The world didn’t need a new Slayer, Sir,” Andrea said calmly, her eyes finding her father’s as he turned toward the podium. “You needed one. You wanted a toy to obey your wishes. But Slayers are not toys for us to manipulate. They are precious beings we are sworn to help. And it is time for you, for us all, to remember it.”
Again, Quentin Travers faced the Watchers, as if searching for support on the shocked and reproachful faces in front of him. There was some movement, and four men and three women came out of the crowd and climbed onto the podium, joining the two members of the High Council who were already there. For a few seconds, they talked quietly, their whispers inaudible even in the still quiet ballroom. Then they all came to stand by the table, and the oldest of them, a woman named Maryan McNeely, announced in a trembling voice:
“By unanimous decree of the High Council and as the Code allows it, Quentin Travers is now removed from his functions and banned from the Council of Watchers for the cause of high treason.”
A murmur ran through the room, and all eyes converged on the now ex-Watcher who still stood in front of the podium. The few words of Maryan seemed to have taken away the grace that had always protected the man like a shield, and he suddenly seemed a little older, a little weaker, and a little smaller. His gaze appeared to stray for a few seconds before finally settling on Andrea, and she shivered at how dead those eyes looked.
“ Tu quoque ”, he quoted in a whisper, before turning away and walking out through the parting crowd.
To her own surprise, Andrea felt a slight pinch to her heart. She had no doubt she had done the right thing, but she also knew with the same certainty that she had just destroyed her father. Another surprise came with Rupert’s hand gently taking hers, and from the comfort that simple touch brought her.