Chapter 3: Let's Do The Time Warp, Again...Again

"I've...been here before."

Spike walked around...himself, asleep on the hospital bed. For starters, he hated how awful he looked. Eyes swollen, skin pale, bruised and burned all over. His hair was a mess. He remembered how he'd felt then, after the great battle with Rage.

"You'll be fine," Salim said, from behind Spike. He materialized without any fanfare or effect. Spike knew he'd find him, hiding out in the snapshots of his recent past. Spike wasn't sure how he'd found his way here, but Salim didn't look annoyed or concerned. He was patient with him. Spike, though scared and frustrated with the current state of things, appreciated that.

Spike looked over at Rage. It really was the same memory...only in living color. Spike remembered, even, fluttering his eyes awake around this same time. Sure enough, his double on the cot did just that.

Spike, the one with Salim, jumped back. "Oh, that's freaky. I knew I was going to do that. This is so eerie, watching myself."

"You mean...you aren't remotely turned on?"

Spike's ephemeral form frowned. "I'm not in the mood for jokes."

"Oh, come on."

Resisting the urge, Spike laughed. "Okay, fine. Might surprise you though, big guy, but none of this is exactly sexy to me."

"Remember, all of these events happened. You cannot change them. They cannot change you. It may seem real, but it's a memory."

Spike looked up at the clock. So did his past self, in the bed. He felt a pang of anxiety strike his heart. "Damn, that means that creepy alchemist dude is gonna come in here and second now and try and shank Rage."

Salim stepped forward, in the gap between the beds, between the rivals Spike and Rage. He looked at both, Spike in particular, and frowned. He appeared to be in deep thought.

"I said the past can't be changed." Salim smirked. "And it can't. But I'm riding your timeline, Spike. I'm part of events. And even thought the past cannot be effected, per se, you can sometimes send echoes if you intersect your own timeline."

Spike frowned. "Oh yeah, back in Varla's, you mentioned that."

"Observe." 

Salim leaned forward, to the Spike laying in the bed. He spoke softly, just as the door opened and the shifty alchemist-masquerading-as-ref waltzed in.  

"Don't open your eyes. Wait. You'll know what to do. Just don't let him notice you. Not yet."

Spike, in the present, winced. "What the hell. I remember that. I heard that voice inside my head."

"This is the echo I was talking about.

"I thought you said we couldn't change the past!"

The alchemist went to stab Rage. Past-self Spike extended his hand and conjured up his energy barrier, preventing him. Present Spike remembered the rest and turned away, not wanting to see the alchemist poison himself again.

"I'm completing a loop," Salim explained. "We're intersecting with your own timeline. It's self-determined. You ever heard of the bootstrap paradox?"

Spike shook his head. "What!? What do you--"

And then, just like that, they were in a chilly alleyway, at night. The sky above Spike and Salim was polluted with light. Angry shouts from up ahead turned their attention towards an attractive woman in a fur coat confronting a drunkard in a business suit. Spike, from a year ago, stood by and watched, waiting to intervene.

Present Spike remembered it clearly. "Hey, this is Vegas. The night before I fought Iggy!" Spike watched himself, from the back. "Wow."

"I know," Salim. "Kind of freaky, isn't it?"

"No, I was just thinking, my ass really does look amazing! You said I can't interact with my past self, right--"

"Looks like your amazing ass is about to be kicked by this loser in the ill-fitting suit." Salim nodded to the altercation. The business man summoned several icicles, hanging mid air, aimed at Spike and Marcy Diamond, the dancer informant for Lily and Aradia.

“Get out of the way, candy ass,” the rude drunk slurred. The dagger of ice above him trembled.

Salim walked around to 'Past' Spike, and it was then that 'Present' Spike noticed how subtly undercooked his old self was. He looked at his old self, unsure. Slackened shoulders. Timid eyes. Had he really changed that much the last year?

"No, you’re right on the money," Salim said to Spike's past self. "Keep talking. Run out the clock."

Spike remembered this moment, so clearly. That voice inside his head...back then, he thought he was crazy. He wrote it off as his own conscious trying to get his ass into gear; send encouragement. 

"Wait, that really was you!" Spike blurted out, as El Amante interrupted the action and helped save the day. 

The giant man, Spike's psychopomp in this temporal underworld, stood back. "Damn, was it?" 

"Like you don't remember?"

"I'm just closing a paradox loop," Salim said. "I probably don't even realize it. Like I said, time has its way of doing what it needs to do to keep reality intact. Sometimes, I am merely its agent."

Spike frowned. "Y'know, this really sounds like you're making this up as you go along."

"I already told you, Spike, time travel is a lame plot device. Let's just power through it. Still, if we're travelling along your recent, personal timeline, it means...we're getting closer to where we need to be."

"What do you mean?"

Salim pointed to him. "You're steering this ship, sailor, whether you realize it or not. You are taking us where we need to go."

"I don't know--"

Now, they stood inside an even darker space--though one much more quiet than a Vegas back-alley. Spike looked around the old, dusty apartment above the tailor shop. It was his first apartment, post-discharge from the Navy. Even the way the light from the city outside travelled through the gaps in the blinds brought back memories.

"My old apartment!?" Spike ventured into the den, examining his past self fumble with an old cassette tape and television set. "This was the night before my first match. With Ryan Hartley. That was also the night I met Cian and..." Spike smiled at Salim. "When I got signed to the GSA."

"Heh. No wonder you took us here." Salim leaned forward 'Past' Spike, sitting with his strong legs tucked to his chest, listening to the player whirr to life. "Huh. That's a VHS tape? In the sixties? Hmm. Didn't think they'd be inventing those til a few years from now..."

Spike remembered this moment very clearly. It was the reason he thought his apartment was haunted. "Wait, that was you too?" But it was the second part of Salim's statement that confused him. "What do you mean? We've had video tapes for, like, ever."

"Oh? What year do you remember first seeing them?"

"Psh. That's easy. I've been recording old spellbreaking matches since..." Spike paused. His head was fuzzy. "Uh...since...?"

His memory fizzled out. Suddenly, he couldn't recall anything about television or cassette tapes. Stranger still, Spike watched as the fight footage on TV--a moment he had witnessed with his own eyes, and could recall with crystal clarity--shifted both quality and grain, turning briefly from color to monochrome. 

Spike shook his head, trying to rid himself of this bizarre hallucination, only it brought on further change--the television 'blinking' into an old projector reel, with circular film canister attachment and all, and then an extremely flat television monitor with vibrant color and sound. Thankfully, the hallucination passed, and Spike's old, shoddy TV resumed its normal shape.

"What the hell!? Did you give me drugs, Salim? Is it DRUGS?"

"Calm thyself," Salim said, though he was almost as surprised as his unwitting companion at the jumping back and forth of technology. "This timeline is out of whack. You know most other universes don't even have magick, right?"

"Whaddy'a mean 'other universes'?" Spike's mind couldn't keep up with the implications. He suddenly grew very afraid--mostly for his perception of the world around him. If Salim could rewrite himself outside of history, then what other quirks of temporal magick had influenced the world Spike thought he knew? 

Salim gave him a knowing grin. "One thing at a time, sparky."

"IT'S SPIKE!" 

The two men followed the pre-GSA Spike down the staircase to the dusty showroom below the apartment. Spike eyed the skittering cockroaches on the wall and was very glad he'd managed to 'move on up' to better accommodations since then. 

“Place is a fire trap,” 'Past' Spike mumbled in the dark, trying not to think about ghosts. He had never run into one before (thankfully) but he’d heard all sorts of spooky stories about them while travelling at sea.

Salim, standing behind him, rolled his eyes. "For a spellbreaker, you really need to grow some backbone..."

At his side, Spike flinched. "Yeah, I definitely remember hearing that too." This was insane. Spike was glad, for once in his life, to be such an air head. If he fully comprehended all that was happening around him, he thought me might go insane! "So, these voices I was hearing...it was because I was doing this," he pointed to both himself and Slaim, "with you?"

Spike stopped, just as his 'Past' self rummaged around a box of fabric at the back of the shop, destined to craft his first pair of branded trunks.

"Then that means..."

Salim completed the thought for him. "Looks like you and I go wayyy back, kid. You remember the night we met?"

"What?"

Suddenly, Spike was standing in a warmly lit, grander space--the antithesis of his old apartment. The fundraising gala, back in San Antonio. Spike fondly remembered the palatial ballroom. That was the night he'd met White Tiger, gotten to know Buck, and even met...

"Travel by flashback!" Salim laughed. Suddenly, he was wearing a fine, tailored suit--the same one he'd worn to the gala, in fact. "The most convenient way to travel."

"How the friggin' hell did you do that?" Spike balked.

The giant spellbreaker shrugged. "Temporal privileges."

"Why didn't I get a nice suit..." Spike grumbled.

But Salim was already preoccupied with the party room around them. They weren't far from the entrance staircase. Spike could even pinpoint recognizable faces: Liuliu in her beautiful dress, Colt in his best bolo tie, and Reina Rosa, smashing down champagne in the corner with Buck.

"The gala," Salim said, his eyes distant and knowing. "Ah, so this is it. I can feel it."

"Feel what?"

"The reason why we came here. Spike, let's split up."

Dumber words had never been spoken, Spike thought. "You sure that's safe!?

"We'll be fine." Salim pointed to 'Past' Spike, dressed in the uncomfortable rented tux he'd been forced to wear to the shindig. "Nobody can see us, but we can see events that happened in our vicinity. Listen to conversations where we weren't even present."

Spike had tuned out. He was now watching his younger self interacting with Buck--his old flame deftly moving his fingers to the nape of Spike's collar, presenting him with the little anchor lapel pin that Spike so fondly remembered.

I miss him. It was a privilege just be able to look upon him again. He was handsome, with his hair slicked back. Now, Spike could understand how dangerous a gift of magick like this could be. How tempting it would be to shelter oneself in the past, surround themselves in a comforting blanket of better days, and stay there.

Instead of chastising Spike, Salim softly smiled at the younger man admiring his crush. "He really likes you, small friend."

"Yeah..." Spike said, sadly. "Took me too long to realize it."

Salim was quiet a moment. Spike didn't bother to look up at his face. He'd come to realize that Salim was good at hiding his feelings behind other feelings. A mask behind a mask behind a mask.

"Spike...let me ask you something. And you don't need to answer me now. But, if you could rewrite your life so that you were with Buck..." He trailed off. "No. If you could rewrite everything so your parents were still alive, and supportive, and you had Buck and the title belt, would you choose that?"

Spike frowned. It was an odd question, for one, but these were odd circumstances. "You said time can't be rewritten."

"I did. And I was telling you the truth, small friend. I am merely asking you...what if it could?"

Of course, the thought had crossed Spike's mind--in a way. It had surely crossed the mind of anybody who had ever lost a parent as a child. Other times, other 'universes', when they may be alive. Back in the orphanage, on the really bad days, Spike would even fantasize about his mom and dad coming around the day room entrance and giving him a big hug.

"Yes. I've thought about it before. But...it's like..." He shook his head. It was hard to put into words.

"Go on. I'm listening."

"My life is my life, Salim. I would have loved ma and dad to have been a part of it. But...who knows what would have happened if I'd been raised with them? I might not have ended up in the Navy. Or become a spellbreaker. Or met my friends, or Buck, of hell, you. What if my dad didn't approve of me liking guys? What if my mom had me enrolled me in like some glyph academy? I would probably be a different person with a different life. I wouldn't be me...the Spike I am now."

Salim was quiet for a moment. Spike, suddenly feeling quite cold, knew better than to look behind him and meet his eyes. He felt...an intensity from Salim. He'd felt it before, in fact, at several points. He liked the man. Trusted him. But the truth was, Salim sort of scared him too...

And not just because he was the size of a truck.

"I could show you the..." Salim started. Then, he laughed. "No. No. I won't do that to you. I apologise habibi. I got ahead of myself. I like to see people happy, you understand. I want to...see everyone happy. But, let's focus at the task at hand, shall we? Now, if I recall, this was the night Mrs. Zorn got got by the chandelier, Phantom of the Opera style."

Spike was thankful to change the subject--even if said subject revolved around a traumatic accident. "Damn, you're right! Gee, poor Mrs. Z. Hey, maybe we can find out who did to her!"

Salim's eyes widened with pride. "My thoughts exactly, small friend!" He craned his head towards the entrance, flanked by massive pots filled with flower arrangements. "Do you remember anything strange from that night?"

Spike did his best to recall. Thankfully, and much to his surprise, he hadn't drank heavily  that night. "Oh, geez. Well, I had met you. And then I kind of did some nervous wandering around and drinking champagne...I was sort of all over the place."

Salim was patient. "Yes, yes. Anybody else you remember?"

"Hm...oh yeah, I met Recida. Bleck. And oh yeah, that was the night I met Joseph!" Spike gestured to the latticed window some paces away. "We were on the balcony over there." He remembered how giddy and shy Joseph, the smoothest of the smooth had made him. "Yeah. I remember freaking out because I saw Vahni and tried to hide. I got out there and..."

!!!

"Wait a minute." Spike moved towards the window, but stopped short. Buck passed by. Spike thought of reaching out to touch him, but remembered the task at hand. "Yeah! I remember seeing Semyon down below, in the little courtyard. He was talking to someone outside, by the river."

"The garden," Salim said. His entire persona, and body language, shifted. Spike flinched. "You need to go there. Now. Remember, he can't see you."

Spike suddenly felt as if he'd gladly walk to world's end for this massive man. He could understand why soldiers, in Salim's ancient days (Spike still couldn't quite believe his story) had listened to him. He really was a leader. 

"Right! Um...but is it okay to be so far away from you? I won't blink out or get like, stranded during the Black Plague or something, right?"

"Should be fine." Salim dismissed his concern with a wave. "I mean, there's..." He shook his head, cutting himself off.

"What! WHAT? THERE'S WHAT!?"

"Nah, if I tell you it'll just make you anxious." He gave Spike a rather unconvincing grin. "You'll be fine. If you get separated from me, you'll just wake up back in Varla's apartment."

Or...be stranded somewhere in time and space, Spike thought, nervously. "Er...right. What will you do?" 

"I'm going to see if I can track down Rage. Maybe I can eavesdrop and find out if he knew anything about Zorn, though judging from how Semyon deliberately kept him in the dark about the Chalice, I doubt it. You have your mission, small friend. Go forth!" 

Salim left Spike to his task, and then turned on his heels towards the entrance, straightening his lapel as he did. Damn, he's a handful, the time magi thought. Still, I always pick the right one for the job. His innocence is his shield. I will ensure everything works out for him, in the end.

Salim, standing at the landing of the marble staircase, considered his agenda. Provided he does not go against me, that is.

As the GSA's 'Million Dollar Manager' mounted the steps, he found time slowly blur around him. Party goers reversed their steps in double tine, phantoms trailing after-images of themselves.

Salim's eyes narrowed. Something was amiss. Time had just rewound by ten or so minutes. But, as with all challenges and threats, Salm didn't frown. He smiled. How curious.

He noted Spike bounding up the staircase towards him. 

He blinked. "Habibi, what are you doing here? I thought you were supposed to go down to the garden?”

Spike stopped. It was then that Salim noticed he was wearing his formal suit.

“Hello…giant man. Have we me before?”

Salim cocked his head to the side, tapping finger to his chin. He eyed Spike up and down. This was the wrong 'Spike'. That much was certain. 

He noticed the absence of Buck's anchor pin and snapped his fingers in realization. “Ah, your lapel...not yet, it seems.” He gave this Spike a graceful bow, turning away. “A thousand pardons.”

He moved quickly back the way he came, not wanting Spike to see his face. Somewhere, back in Varla's apartment, Salim's Eye of Osiris was likely burning bright. Someone was interfering with this dip into the past, whether intentional or not. Which also meant Spike was in every bit of danger that Salim had told him to ignore.

---

Spike stood behind a tree. Even though he was deadass sure Semyon couldn't see or hear him, the creepy man's presence was so great that Spike didn't even want to risk it. He watched, waiting to catch a glimpse of Semyon's guest's face. It was hard to see, from this angle. Carefully, Spike ran from one bush to the other, changing perspective. He briefly eyed the balcony up above. He could see 'himself' speaking to Joseph. This was the right moment.

"...considerable difficulty convincing them otherwise," Semyon said, his voice low. "These vultures are well managed, fortunately. But Zorn is smart. She must be dealt with. You can...handle her, I trust?"

"I've infiltrated parties with tighter security than this," came a familiar voice, answering Semyon with a venomous, lilting accent. 

"Yes. Your abilities are very becoming of your moniker, Redback."  

The man, all in black, moved to the side. Just as Spike registered the name, he saw the face.

 

"I bloody hate these mixers," Bruce Halsetti, promoter for Deadboy Daemian's old fed, spat. "Full of people with their heads up their own arses."

Spike was glad he was non corporeal. He might throw up. His first thought was that Daemian was completely aware of Redback's identity. Which didn't bode well at all. But no. Spike wanted to believe his old friend was better than that. 

Semyon continued, placing his hands together in contemplation. "Then allow me to bestow upon you the opportunity to channel your frustration. I want Marianne Zorn gone. Or at the very least, rendered useless."

"That's the spellbreaking commission treasurer, eh? Yeah, I got me a bone to pick with her too after she snubbed sXs. Ah well. Guess she'll learn the hard way..." Bruce laughed, just as he tugged his red-branded balaclava over his face. "Don't poke a spider's nest."

Spike pressed his back against the tree and covered his mouth. Oh no, he's Redback. Crap. Crap. Crap.

"Then you know what to do," Semyon said, punctuating the statement by digging the base of his skull-tipped cane into the soft earth. "I cannot allow her to stop us from hosting the championships at Kitezh. I will not be thwarted again. With the chalices in hand, the ritual will be complete. The hand of the Goddess will be ours."

Bruce nodded, and then--most sickening of all--clung to the wall of the gala building, skittering up the wall like the spider of his namesake. 

"Just like in Kitezh..." Spike repeated to himself. He remembered the strange, ghostly, medieval looking city--like something from a dark fairy tale. He remembered Semyon, or Koschei, or whatever he'd called himself across all those centuries, trying to enact some dark magick over that strange basin at the foot of the Goddess statue. 

Spike looked over his shoulder, jut as Semyon turned away and began to walk towards him. His movements, and the mad intensity in his eyes, made Spike shiver. He was much too close to where he was standing.

"Oh, this is so weird. It's almost like he can..."

Semyon's hand caught Spike's throat before the young fighter could react. At first, Spike thought he was hallucinating again. There was no way...

But then, he felt the fingers squeeze tighter. Though Spike had no real neck, or breath, he felt the restrictive sensation all the same. How was this possible? 

Semyon leered at him. "Caught myself a little shadow."

Spike tried to move, but whatever magick was in effect, it was more potent than his own. Still, he forced the words out: "How..."

Semyon suddenly flinched. Could he see Spike? The direction his eyes move suggested something was off about his approach. Though there was, most definitely, nothing off about his tight grip.

"The Eye of Set," Semyon muttered, holding up his cane with his free hand. The eyes of the pewter skull glowed an eerie red. Spike, trying not to panic, could just barely make out a crystalline object hidden inside the skull, emitting the light. 

Semyon glared, just off to the side of where Spike's 'face' would be. It was then that Spike decided he definitely couldn't see him. Not completely, anyway.

"I can barely make out what you are. A wraith. A spirit? WHO SENT YOU?"

Spike was now more curious than afraid. What did he look like, to him? And had this happened in the past? Or had Semyon somehow travelled back with them? 

"Who summoned you," Semyon hissed. "And from where? Your silhouette...it looks so...familiar."

"Hands off the twink."

Spike's eyes darted towards Salim, who had materialized behind Semyon in a burst of blue light--the same aura Spike vaguely recalled before they'd fallen into the trance leading them into the past. The giant man, with an expression far more serious than Spike had seen on him before, waved his hand.

Semyon's cane reacted--the light, suddenly dimming. As it did, Spike felt his 'body' pass right through Semyon, outside his grip. He turned around and saw the gaunt man looking around wildly for where his phantom self had wandered.

The man sneered, recomposing himself. "An interloper," he said, looking down at his cane. "Is this your demon or familiar, then?"

Spike suspected that Semyon couldn't quite make out Salim either. 

"I was wise to dig this out of the Library, then." Semyon moved closer to his target, or where he expected his target to be, anyway. "But...a time magi? Impossible." He smiled, then; the same way Spike had seen Salim grin earlier when presented with a mystery.  "Unless..."

Salim waved his hand again. Whatever he did, it threw Semyon off even more. He looked pissed.

"Incessant magi, working against me," Semyon hissed. "No doubt those Aradia stooges. No matter..."

The creep wandered off, presumably back inside the gala. Spike was glad to see him go.

"Are you okay?" Salim asked him friend, earnestly.

Spike glared at him. "I'm more of a twunk, just so it's clear. Also, WHAT THE HELL, SALIM!"

The giant man ignored the outburst. He had no time for Spike's emotions. "You're still alive, aren't you? What did you find out?"

"Koschei..." Spike shook his head. "I mean Rasputin, I mean Semyon, is gonna use the Chalices to do whatever he tried to do in that weird city in Russia. That's why he tried to bump off Madame Zorn! She was gonna put the whole kibash on it. And whatever he's doing there, he needs the Chalices."

Salim stared intently at the lights dancing across the surface of the river. "But why hold the World Championships there? Unless...he needs people with glyphs. Strong magick." He considered the possibility. 

Anxiety swelled inside Spike's heart again. "My guy, I don't like any of this s***. What's Semyon gonna do with all this weird magick stuff?"

"Current theory? He's trying to harness the magickal equivalent of an atomic bomb."

Spike twisted his head to the side, confused. "Er...why?"

"Power?" Salim shrugged. "You saw the life lessons his dear-old daddy taught him." Salim straightened his back. He walked to the edge of the river. It showed him no reflection. 

Salim laughed to himself. Not a happy laugh. "It's...so boring."

"What?" Spike approached his friend, even though his body language suggested another odd mood shift.

 

"Yes, boring. Dull. Powerful men are stupid and boring. All throughout history, the same Goddess-damned story, Spike. Men doing everything to maintain power and control, and then freaking out when it's out of their grasp. It's the same with fighting. Spellbreaking. One dog on top. The next day? Overthrown. Again, and again. We do this to ourselves because we're scared, because we think being strong and tough will bring us adoration, or hell, fear. It's because we're scared little boys, Spike. It starts with getting beaten up on the playground and then BAM the next day you've invaded the country next door just because it'll make you feel loved; because it'll make you a legend!" 

Salim slammed his fist into the wall. It made no sound, of course, because it was a memory--but Spike flinched all the same. He froze. Salim seemed ten times larger to him now, if that were at all possible.

He didn't even girt his teeth, or glare. It was the...emptiness in the eyes, a toxic tiredness, that scared Spike most of all, as the man spoke.

"Scared little boys trying to make their daddies happy. Or trying to replace their daddy. It's fathers, Spike. Poisoning their sons. Making them afraid of every damn person who doesn't think like them, or look like them, or bow down to them. But hell, at least the real bastards, the tyrants, and the dictators, and the pharaohs and...and the TSARINAS! At least THEY DIE!" 

Salim laughed, manically. "Except the real, big bastards like Semyon Grigorivich, or Koschei, or whatever he decides to go by in whatever decade he decides to piss all over and ruin with his stench. No, THAT bastard is playing for keeps. That's why I want him gone. That's why I want him dead. For good. And then..." Salim breathed.

Spike backed away.

"And then everything will be alright. I will bring about a good future. I will fix this tangled time period. Or..."

The giant's steely expression softened, just as he gently moved his lavish braid back over his shoulder. "Well, gee, small friend. Looks like I kind of went off the rocker there! Don't worry about it. I just have some...unresolved issues, okay? Don't we all. Now, what else did you learn while you were out here?"

Spike had been so utterly afraid of Salim's mad speech that he'd nearly forgotten the most shocking takeaway from Semyon's exchange with his servant. At last, Spike found his voice. "Bruce Halsetti is REDBACK."

Salim's lips twitched. "I knew it."

"YOU DID?"

"Well, I had a hunch! We gotta' get back to Texas. Nowwwwwssrsfsffsf."

Spike had been still juggling his anxieties, between the knowledge of Bruce, and the...whatever Salim's freak-out was about...that he'd barely noticed that they'd shifted time periods again.

This one, however, was unfamiliar to Spike. The air was full of fire and burning metal, but the cityscape around him was startlingly familiar. Moscow. 

Spike groaned. "Again? Russia, Russia, Russia!"

Before Spike could raise his voice and seek Salim's input, he was caught off-guard by a throng of moving, angry people--citizens--marching in a solid wave towards the gilded gates of an enormous palace.

Spike froze. He'd seen this on the news. Or, at the very least, similar footage. Soldiers, armed with assault rifles, guarded the gate and shot into the crowd indiscriminately. 

"Take me home, now," Spike choked. "I've seen enough of the s***, S."

Yet, just as he made the request, he noticed a blur of motion between the perimeter of rioters and the soldiers. One young, armed man suddenly doubled over, spitting blood. His compatriot fell at his side. One by one, the soldiers fell, just like the little toys Spike used to play with in the orphanage day room.

And at the front of the carnage, looming over their bodies with a cunning sneer, was Salim--dressed in a dark, gray overcoat. He picked one soldier, still alive, off the ground, and held him up in the air.

Spike recalled what Salim had told him, about the Alban soldiers in the Egyptian tomb where Salim had awoken after centuries of sleep. What he'd done to the those jerks had made Spike uncomfortable, but it was justified. They were bad guys, right? Unredeemable. Hell, they were part of the reason why Spike's parents were no longer around.

But seeing Salim now...like this?

The soldier kicked his legs, desperately, eyes resigning to his fate, as Salim looked into his eyes and smiled. The man aged rapidly, until his body resembled one of the old, withered carrots Spike had cleaned out of the pizzeria's walk-in fridge the other day. Salim, rejuvenated, turned his back and walked through the gates.

Spike's Salim, the 'Present' Salim, had turned his back to Spike, who was afraid of even speaking up.

Still, he found his voice. "Salim..." He swallowed. "You did this to these people?"

For a moment, Spike feared he hadn't spoken loudly enough. Salim didn't move. Then, he turned to Spike.

"Hmmm." He smiled. "Well, good luck, small friend. I'll be seeing you around." 

His smiled faded. His eyes burned green. "In Kitezh. At the end. Perhaps it will be you, Spike, who decides what form the future will take."  

One blink later, Spike found himself laying down on Varla's carpet, not a second past when he and Salim had dipped into their astral tour. And, like many occasions all throughout his own timeline, Spike was once again alone.

To Be Continued...