The Oldest of Friends
[Takes place before Liar, Liar plot]

Some things man was not meant to witness. Outliving their children ranked among the top five. A nuclear holocaust? That went without saying (and so far, fingers crossed, would continue to be just a fever dream). A very large man dressed in nothing more than a g-string and a feather boa, belting out "I Will Survive" at a karaoke bar, should've been on the list, certainly.

A Hybrid, however, was altogether a different story. Especially if he was the ambassador to the United Nations on behalf of the Powers That Be. He got to see the real underbelly of existence. The forgotten, the discarded, the bigoted. Whistler lost count of the number of squabbles he'd been in the middle of. Nothing serious enough lately that required calling in the big guns, i.e. Rhiannon Lee, his right hand. But as his de facto partner in peacekeeping, it was always a good idea to check in.

Plus he missed the woman more than he'd let on. Before the rift, before the appearance on the world stage, moving to Chicago, the duo had been on each other's radar, always a stone's throw to either knock back a beer or crack heads (okay, she cracked heads, he mostly ducked). Las Vegas was a tonic for their friendship. Now Whistler was back on the road for days, weeks at a time, checking in when he could. And a part of him hated that. He despised that their meetings were becoming more planned in advance, or case-work on the road, rather than a simple bang on the door.

Speaking of a simple bang...

She could hear a couple carrying on from ten yards away. It was mostly the woman making all the racket, the intensely over-exaggerated kind that couldn't possibly be part of good sex. When something felt that good, a woman couldn't breathe. And you needed air to scream.

"Prostitute," Rhiannon concluded. She lifted her fist and rapped the hotel door a second time. "Whistler, get off the toilet and answer the door!" Of course she had no way of knowing if her friend was actually in the bathroom. Maybe he was throwing on a set of clean-ish clothes. She took a step back and rocked between her feet. Rhiannon slid her hands into the pockets of her cargo pants. They were baggy and long, so that only the toes of her boots poked out. She had a thermal on to keep her warm. Chicago got cooler a lot quicker than Las Vegas, and the wind was crispy enough to turn her cheeks pink.

He'd been crouched on the fire escape, contemplating a chilly escape into the night to avoid the cacophony next door. One thing Whistler didn't need a reminder of was his lack of a sex life. And while he carried an adventurous streak, auditory voyeurism felt dirty. The distant knock filtered between squeals and brought the hatted man inside, careful this time not to bang his head on the metallic window frame. He paused momentarily for the second rap at the door (to rule out the headboard crashing through the thin drywall) and threw it open. The gust of Chicago air sucked in from the action rustled the papers on the rickety coffee table.

Whistler smiled at his best friend as he eased back to let Rhiannon inside. "I dunno if you can call this hotel room a step up from the double-wide I rented in Searchlight," he said. "But the mini-fridge has beer if you want one."

Despite the rough verbal greeting, Rhiannon was actually glad to see her best friend. She wandered into the rented room but purposefully jostled his shoulder on the way. "Everything's better than Searchlight," she said, smiling. While she had grown accustomed to Nevada, it had never felt like a permanent home for her, a fact that Rhiannon hadn't realized until she picked up and left, and remembered what it was like to love a place. Love was still coming, but she definitely liked Chicago.

The brunette went straight to the mini-fridge and selected a bottle for herself. She handed one to Whistler. "When'd you get in? I was starting to forget what you looked like." The door closed on a sticky sound.

The hatted man pressed two thumbs under the cap of his drink and popped the metal disk into the air, whereupon it landed and rolled along the counter before coming to a stop just left of the laughably-sized coffee maker. "Uh, four hours ago," he answered, intently checking his watch. "Drove like hell from Silicon Valley. Someone was trying to market and distribute vampire-snuff films. Seriously, the shit I get called on these days."

Whistler took a long, cool sip of his beer and motioned Rhiannon to the fold-out couch, which was cleaner than it had a right to be in relation to the rest of the hotel room. The Argyle Inn was big in its day; it was one of a few bases during Prohibition and the height of luxury until the 1950s. Given his travels, it was entirely possible the Agent had stayed here before.

"What's shakin' your monkey tree?" He pulled out a cigarette and offered another to the brunette.


She passed for the time being. "I just burned one." Rhiannon climbed onto the arm of the couch and swung her shoes onto the cushions. So much for clean. "I just found a place a few blocks from the barricade. Trying to get Purity to move in with me and half the rent. Even though the market's terrible over there, it's still overpriced."

The cap popped off her beer with an easy nudge. "And since this guy I know... maybe you know him, he wears a hat? Since he hasn't called with any jobs lately, my bank accounts dwindling." She took a swallow of cold beer. "I've been debating back-up jobs."

"Oh him. Real jack-ass. Can't work a Blackberry." Whistler winked. Drops of condensation dripped down his thumb. "Got one," he continued through a puff of smoke. "Dunno if you wanna get your hands sticky. Klan offshoot." He took a second drag. "Taking 'White Power' to the next level; burned out a family o' water-breathers from some swamp land."

Rhiannon frowned. "Fun." On the times Whistler had called her in for back-up, rarely was it to a glamorous location. The population of demons in cities was higher, but the tolerance level was higher, too. The real skirmishes cropped up in places like backwoods swamps, and often they were out of control by the time anyone got around to noticing.

The label of her beer bottle held her attention. She scratched it with her thumbnail. "You know I'm in. I'm about to need the money in a serious way. But every once in a while's not gonna cut it, not that I'm saying it's your fault. I've just got to find something to supplement it."

She took another sip. "Any juicy stories from the road?"

Ash tipped from the lit cigarette like the Leaning Tower of Piza; the Agent wondered how long he could let the tobacco burn before the remains succumbed to gravity and graced the carpet. The need for nicotine however cut that experiment short and he butted the end into a glass ashtray and took a satisfying drag.

"You followed the news, or rather the weather reports," he began as a cool breeze snuck in through the open window. "Tropical Storm Xander caught me in the Florida Keys, nearly sucked down three metres of beach-front property. And fuckin' humid. Never thought I'd miss the dry heat of Nevada."

One last slur of his cigarette and Whistler butted the end into the ashtray. "And when I was in Kentucky, a 300-pound Slayer put the moves on me."

"God, how is that possible?" Rhiannon asked. "The 300 pounds part, not the moves. My metabolism's out of control. She must be packing in Little Debbies nonstop." As condensation formed on the outside of the beer bottle, the label moistened and became easier to tear. She shredded the upper portion.

A thought occurred.

"Wait. Did you take her up on it?" Their past was a bit... checkered, things having gone past the platonic line for a few months. Even though that was behind them, it would've been somehow disappointing for Whistler to go sleeping around with Slayers. "It's a fair question!"

He answered the second question with a look Rhiannon knew far too well; a cocked eyebrow that accompanied wide eyes and a slight droop from the corners of his mouth. "Not everyone was in top physical shape when the Call came, near as I can figure. And I wouldn't exactly call her an active Slayer, Rhi. Probably better if she stayed that way. Despite the padding if she accidentally staked herself.

"Yeah, I went there." Whistler began to take a drink and coughed up his beer. "The comment I mean, not the uh, other thing."

"Ha!" Rhiannon threw back her head and tried not to make with the imagery. She rubbed her eyes, as if that would help. "You're seriously killing me." Holding the drink aloft, she pivoted and dumped herself onto a couch cushion.

"I've got a new project," she said, settling herself on the groaning springs beneath her. "I got my hands on a few copies of watchers' diaries. Right now I'm flipping through them, just seeing if anything inspires. But I'm thinking about doing some illustrations." She took a sip of her beer, partly because she was thirsty, and partly because the idea made her nervous. There was a worry in the back of her head that what she was attempting was profoundly stupid. "Nothing too specific yet, I don't think I want to get into unauthorized biography territory. I just want to see if I can do it justice."

"A pop-up book for Slayers?" Whistler ducked in case a pillow or half-empty bottle of beer came at his head.

He squinted through half-open eyes before continuing. "If you're looking for validation, you should already know what I'm gonna say, Rhi. Damned books are stuffy and boring at best. Quite frankly, putting a few images to the crawlies and battles could be a benefit for future generations." Happy with the silent all-clear, Whistler added, "And given the current political climate, if you're really inspired, you could turn it into some kinda gallery tour."

She put a hand over her face and moaned, "I dunno what I'm doing." After a moment if hiding in there, she let her arm flop onto her lap. "I sold a couple of pieces at this festival a few weeks back. Five or six sketches, two paintings. A couple of them were," she put up her quote fingers, "Slayer themed. This guy Oliver bought my drawing of Jennie."

Rhiannon rubbed her knee. "I'm gonna start within the week, otherwise I'll just put it off. I can be so fucking chickenshit about things like this."

Another swallow of the beer. This time he noticed the warmth bubbling in the liquid, and the slight coolness in the Slayer's voice. "So tackle it like ya do the Calling. Never had doubts about that. You were born to it, and the art is another extension of who ya are. And that you made a connection with people at an open-air fest, just goes to show you're better than ya think." The last of the beer disappeared down his throat. "Always were."

Rhiannon's brown eyes cut to him. "That just got deep, didn't it?" Sometimes calling Whistler on getting personal made it easier to stand; by flipping the attention onto him instead of her, she was able to avoid feeling so vulnerable. She set down her beer. "Don't worry, I get the picture. I've been doing pretty good since we got here, you know, not isolating, not hanging around with demons. Present company excluded."

The car keys in her pocket were stabbing her thigh. She lifted up and tugged them out, then tossed them on the floor. "I sparred with Faith the other night. She's trying to get ready for this big showdown with Grace. What the hell is that, you know? I swear, we should've all rented a bus and driven to Chicago together."

Rhiannon took a breath and held it for a second. Then, "There's always got to be an arch nemesis. I had this dream about Deanna a few weeks ago. We were fighting by the lake, and then in the lake. My leg got caught on something underwater and she drowned me. It was so realistic, god, I would've sworn I had water in my lungs when I woke up."

"At least you didn't say 'this shit just got real'. Don't want a lawsuit from Jerry Bruckheimer on our hands," her best friend commented with his patented wry smile. "Why can't the universe expand forever without fear of it collapsing on itself?" Whistler put weight on his friend's words. "There's always a ying to the yang, but the guy who makes fourteen an hour selling shoes only has to worry about whether his supervisor had a fight with his girlfriend the night before and comes in with a serious hangover. They always leave the heavy lifting to idiots like us who they believe can take the freight."

The Agent wondered if he made sense. Not much made sense since the the world turned upside down and demanded humanity rub its prickly underbelly. People saw ghosts, vampires came out of the closet (some, quite literally), and the boogeyman who you tried to convince your parents lived under your bed suddenly did, and ate the family pet. He believed everyone wearing a white hat, who raged against the darkness when things were simpler (if you considered one or two active hellmouths even that) deserved compensation, or at least a few weeks in Tahiti.

He scratched at a loose thread on his shirt. "And we're stupid enough to keep pushing back."

"Right," Rhiannon said, letting her arm flop against her thigh. "Because you'll be damned if you're the one who backs down. So what if it gets you killed; you'd rather die with your ego intact."

She brought her knees in close to her chest, wrapping her arm around them. "Every Slayer needs an enemy to fight. If there's not an external one, she'll find an internal one. The thing with Faith is, I think she's trying to take on both at once." Looking down at her cargo pants, Rhiannon began to fiddle with the loose drawstring around her ankle. Hell, she might as well call herself a hypocrite there. She'd done it herself. Would probably do it again, if she didn't find herself a loyal punching bag soon. On a minor level, she was fighting herself about the art thing already, but it wasn't enough to soothe that inner itch for war. If she wasn't careful, she'd start looking for a string to unravel in her personal life, and rip that to shreds.

"I have yet to meet a well-adjusted Slayer," she said. "Or actually, for that matter, a well-adjusted fighter. At least one who's any good. I guess we have to be off-balance to risk so much."

Watching Rhiannon play with the drawstring on her pants caused the Agent to stop picking at the loose thread on his shirt. They were both antsy, waiting through the calm for the inevitable storm. "Maybe that's why we get picked, Rhi," he offered. "Not because we're maladjusted -- though I'm sure there's some truth to it -- but we can recognize that life isn't calm waters and we're willin' to wade into the surf to tackle that wave." He made a face. "Enough with the metaphors, right?" Whistler laughed.

Rhiannon reached across and chucked the brim of his hat. He was the only person she knew who wore a hat indoors. "That's how you are," she said. "Your curse, right?" A soft smile. "Nobody understands you completely. But I'm close."

She rested her arms atop her knees. "And you get me." Two of her fingers snapped and waggled at him. "Now I want a cigarette."

"And no way I'm tossin' you back into the lake --", he pulled the soft pack from his shirt pocket and snagged a cigarette before flipping the box to Rhiannon, "-- bad choice o' words. The fact we understand each other gives us a leg up."

"So who are we getting a leg up on next?" Taking one of her own from the pack, she lit it. "The White Power brigade, or somebody closer to home?" Rhiannon tapped the lighter against her thigh, rotating it end over end. "Of course, closer to home is relative. Where's your home now, Whistler?" It was a fair enough question. If he was always gonna be on the move, he could set down roots anywhere. Nothing like Searchlight planting him in one spot for good.

"To answer yer first, let's go after whitey. Simple road trip, home in no time." Legs went up on the coffee table, crossed at the ankles. His boots were unlaced but Whistler hadn't bothered to take them off after he came in from the fire escape. He'd tried Converse sneakers a few weeks ago, but they made his arches ache something fierce. Orthotics might become a necessary evil. "As for a base. The UN wants me in New York but I haven't been a fan o' that place since they cleaned up Times Square. It was paradise. And while I wouldn't give this hole in the wall more o' my money than absolutely forced to, I could be convinced to nest in Chicago. Plenty o' exits to the highway and an airport that hasn't been blown up yet."

She stretched for an ashtray and settled it on the couch cushion between them. "What'll it take to convince you?" Having decided to keep her friends closer than her enemies for a change, Rhiannon wanted her closest -- and oldest -- friend in the mix. He had a connection to the pipeline like no other, which made him practically useful. Nobody could deny that. The other stuff was what mattered to her. "And don't ask for anything humiliating. You know I'm a girl who values pride, so begging isn't my style." Not that she wouldn't be tempted.

Rhiannon leaned back against the couch and smoked.

It was a question that existed between them for over a decade, since their first meeting in Detroit. An unspoken bond between hybrid and Slayer. But past priorities had kept him moving, always at arms-length. Until Searchlight, when the Powers That Be had robbed him of his position and forced Whistler to face an uncertain future. Even after Rhiannon helped re-establish his post as an Agent, he'd accepted a life by her side. This wasn't going to change, even if the world had. "Just ask."


"That's it?" Rhiannon rolled her head towards him. "No catch." If only it had always been that easy. Why things were different now didn't make sense to her; Rhiannon got the feeling some of his absences earlier on were self-induced. She doubted he'd admit it. Ultimately though, she wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. "Alright." She reached across and picked up his free hand, giving it a tight squeeze. "Whistler, will you stay here with me? As much as you can."

"I'll think about it." Whistler immediately ducked, not realizing that Rhiannon already had hold of an appendage and could do more damage with a squeeze than by throwing a pillow. "As much as I can," he continued. "Maybe you can help me find a place that doesn't require constantly replenishing the roach motels."


Rhiannon rolled her eyes. "I hate your guts sometimes." Luckily she was more interested in smoking her cigarette than clocking him. She gave his hand another clench and let it go. "The good thing about apartments around the perimeter of Lincoln Park? They're cheap because of the unfortunate view into ground zero. That's where I looked. Apparently they were really freaking nice before, and now they've been empty a good year and the prices keep dropping. Might wanna look into it."

She tapped her ashes. "Oh... but avoid Meredith Management Company like the plague. They're slumlords. And a little pervy."

The hatted man grabbed himself another cigarette and lit up. "Lincoln Park. Not as if we're on a hellmouth but pretty close. Makes sense to set up shop there." He struck the zippo and lit the cigarette. "What's your take on MMC? Do we need to pay 'em a visit too?"


"What're we gonna do, report them to the Better Business Bureau?" Rhiannon shook her head. "No thanks. Although I wouldn't be surprised if they're demon-friendly. There's a building they've got off Clark Street that looks rife." She gestured vaguely with her hand. "You know, a bunch of frosted over windows, for 'privacy'? Right." She stubbed the filter and exhaled the last of her smoke. "That neighborhood makes me nervous. The military's close, but they've got all their eyes pointed over the wall, not at the deserted property around it. Plus, the closer the demons get to Lincoln Park, the more likely they are to find their way inside it."

She scrubbed her fingers against her pants. "And that's still on the radar. The last time we went in there, we were seriously outnumbered. I think the government's just hoping the mutants starve to death, rather than dealing with them. Which I guess would mean killing them. Unless the whole thing's just some sick project to leave them alone in there and watch what happens." Something about that struck an uncomfortable chord with her.

"And what if they decide they don't like being walled off?" It was obvious the military objective wasn't just about keeping people from going in, but also keeping things from breaking out. It was tough enough for some people to accept demons living among them; if they'd learned half of what Rhiannon and her crew scoped on their reconnaissance, Chicago would be gripped in mass panic. "Think there's a chance they'll be testing the boundaries, looking for weak spots?"

A shake of the Slayer's head, and then, "It didn't seem like there was a lot of thinking going on in there. Just..." She made her hands into claws. "Rargh. Slink, slink, thud. But faster." A thought came back to her. More of a lingering question she'd had since the trip into Lincoln Park. "What's weird is that I heard wings. There's something flying around in there. Why doesn't it leave?" The musing percolated for a moment. "Unless they're feeding off what's in there."

The mental picture was enough to turn her stomach. "Maybe I should've just sealed it up, you know? Let it be. Either they'll eventually get out, or a bad guy will get in and let them out. One way or another, we know about it, and you don't just ignore the leak in the dam."

The images sent a shudder down the Agent's spine. Within the labyrinth under Lincoln Park resided zombies from a George Romero movie, with a dash of Reign of Fire thrown in for good measure. "Can't just stick your finger in to stem the water, either," Whistler groused. "The pressure'll rip it right off. Which ultimately gives us one of three options."

He took a long drag of the cigarette. "One: keep our noses clean and let the military keep watch. Two: we patrol the outer perimeter just outta their sightline to make sure the cracks don't deepen. Or three..."

"Hang on." Rhiannon put up her hand. "See... If I were you, option three would be launching a massive attack in the zone, killing the threat before it can get out. Except last time, we rolled in four deep, and we were badly outnumbered. And we couldn't use guns or make a lot of noise, or we'd risk the military knowing we were inside. So before you say three... consider that."

Then she sat up straighter, apparently jostling herself with the rant.

"Wait." Rhiannon's eyes searched the carpet. "Okay, could there be somebody in the military who'd help us get past the guards, so drawing their attention wouldn't be a factor? Somebody's gotta be disgruntled, right? Tired of sitting on a wall." She chewed her cheek. "Mmm, even still, there are too many creatures inside to take on at once. What about some kind of bio weapon... the research says the creatures aren't contagious now, but some kind of infection might take them all out. But then you've got the flying things to worry about getting out. Could we set off a spell that mimics the barriers of the zone, and only affects whatever's living inside it?"

"A containment spell?" Whistler was staring at the crack in the far wall. It extended down from the ceiling, branched off in three directions and stopped about two-thirds of the way down. "Powerful magic, need anchors, charging. Monitoring." He ran a thumb over his eyebrow and nearly set his hat afire. "Problem is, knock an anchor off-kilter and boom. Literally. Supercharged energy, sure to grab their attention and cause a stampede."

He rubbed his nose and stopped. "Don't suppose a common cold would wipe 'em out."

She cut a look at him. "What, like in War of the Worlds?" Rhiannon snorted and picked up her beer bottle. There were a couple of swallows left in it. She drank them down and began to pick at the label again. "I don't suppose anybody ever tried to reverse what happened to them? I mean if it was mystical..." She shrugged. "That's probably too obvious, but I just thought I'd put it out there."

Whistler flicked his own ash into the glass between them. "Occam's Razor," he offered back. "'All things being equal, the simplest solution is best.' If it's truly mystical, then it could be reversed. But you'd need to know exactly what was done and how. Which leads us back to your earlier point. Needing someone on the inside who'd be willing to share that information. Don't suppose you have any leads on that?"

"No." Rhiannon shook her head.

"I dunno, the medical reports said that what initially happened was mystical. But even after the portal closed and they were taken elsewhere for study, they kept mutating. So once the portal effect got ahold of their DNA, I guess it never let go." Another unsettling thought there, one that furrowed Rhiannon's brow. "God. Which means they could either be getting stronger and stronger in there, or mutating into big puddles of goo. But... based on what I saw? I'm willing to assume the worst, which is stronger."

She covered the bottle neck with her thumb. "So what's the bigger danger? Leaving them in there and hoping they don't get out before they run out of food? Or unleashing some kind of bio or mystical weapon, putting on a containment spell, and hoping that doesn't get out?"

Leaning back against the couch, Rhiannon placed the bottom of the beer bottle on her forehead and balanced it. "I'd vote for casting some kind of contained spell that impedes the mutants' strength, then sending in an assault team of us to wipe them out before the spell wears off. With military support would be great, but it's a long shot. I guess it depends on whether the military see themselves as imprisoning a dangerous enemy, or protecting a science experiment. There is no way they don't know those things are alive in there."

Whistler took a final drag before expunging his second cigarette of their discussion. "We'd have to do this in stages," he said. "Information is critical at this point. Find out exactly what it is we have to stop from getting out, then bring in mystics who can tailor a spell specific to the threat. All the while forming a team we can trust to go in and mop up."

One thing the man wasn't, was a tactician. His idea of a plan consisted of wading into the middle of a problem and finding a useful way out. "I can try and tap the Powers to see if they'll provide intelligence but given the new state of things, who knows which way the dominoes will fall. Who's on your top ten email tree we can go to?"

Still with balancing act in place, Rhiannon held up her fingers and began to count. "Connor, Kris, Hayden, Purity, Faith..," she forced herself to dig deeper, "Logan, Joseph... and me and you. One short. I need more trustworthy friends. That's 4 fighters, 1 witch, 2 former watchers, 1 supplier, and 1 Agent. No military contacts, no scientists. God, where's Project Integration when you need it?"

"Do ya really wanna go there?" he asked. Despite their best intentions, the government's experiment was a complete disaster, one that resulted in their current predicament. "Although..." Whistler's mind dug back to the flea market he'd attended, and the brunette who erroneously thought he was from Wolfram and Hart. "I did meet someone who had a government smell about her. Could be worth pursuing."

"I'm shooting for military more than government, but it's worth a shot. Who is it?" Rhiannon took the beer bottle off her head before it left a circular mark. She rolled the bottle between her palms, thought-mode having put her in the mood to fidget.

He scratched his chin as the previous conversation with the young woman rolled back in his mind. "Jill Andersen," Whistler nearly exclaimed as the name finally came into focus. "Works for the FBI. I caught it before she offered, had to do a two-step to cover my ass. Used to work for Wolfram and Hart as a lawyer. Why she got recruited -- and why they let her go -- is a question mark."

Rhiannon re-gripped the beer bottle and slapped it against his thigh, none too lightly. "You do realize I once stabbed her... right?" Some days, she would swear he was going senior on her. "So she left Wolfram and Hart, signed up with the Project, got fired with the rest of us, and then signed up with the FBI? Sounds like a regular joiner to me."

He'd see a small, half-moon bruise by morning. "Did I say she was an ideal candidate to bring on board? Okay, I didn't say she wasn't either." Whistler instinctively hid behind a third cigarette. "But when you've got limited options, yer forced to make pound cake outta a mud pie."

"I dunno about this one," she mumbled. Rhiannon hauled herself off the couch and tossed the bottle in a trash can. "Do me a favor and don't... don't go anywhere with that yet, yeah?" Gathering up her keys, she looked around the room. "Wolfram and Hart means think twice." They had enough ideas to chew on before introducing that element. "I'm gonna head out, okay?"

"Not without your go," the hatted man nodded in agreement. "Sorry I haven't been better company tonight, Rhi. Too much road-time seeing the worst life has to offer can bring ya down. Makes staying in Chicago -- at least to be constantly harassed by you -- more attractive by the second."

"Hey. Don't worry about it. We'll figure it out." Rhiannon circled around to his side of the couch and squeezed his shoulders. "I'm glad you're here." She pressed a kiss to his temple and knocked on the top of his hat. "See ya."