Everything, white and endless.
Boundless.
Green diamonds, rhombuses, vague shapes swirled past.
There was Spike, and there was...not Spike. Part of everything. All of this.
The outside. Maybe this is how life really was. Everything was outside, and infinite. This realm was the real. Where Spike was, a temporary state. A playground.
Wherever Spike was, whatever Spike was now, this...purest form, they were okay with that. They were at peace. They were warm. They part of an endless energy.
But...not so.
----
Car horns and voices. Winter wind.
Spike blew warm air into his gloved hands, rubbing them together in the chill air of the Lower East Side. The cross walked changed, and Spike stepped off the curb, crossing Houston Street, taking note of the banks of old, crystalized snowfall across awnings and rooftops.
Katz's Delicatessen sat on the corner. Most Manhattanites were convinced it was older than the Statue of Liberty. While mile high skyscapers of gold and bronze had grown tall around it, joined by massive colossi upholding skyways and byways across their shoulders, the deli remained an ever unchanged institution serving the intersections of New York.
It was a bright day. Bright, and cold. Spike stepped through the door, to the jingling of bells--into the wide, warm, rowdy room, rife with the scent of eggs, cooked meat, sauerkraut, and fresh rye bread. He forgot, momentarily, who he was meant to meet for lunch.
He looked around.
A skinny, clean-shaven man, with white hair (he could have been Spike if Spike was older and had never touched a dumbbell in his life) waved him over. Spike smiled and walked over to the table, passing...well, there were other customers here, yes, weren't there? Some faces familiar. Some, not so much. With every step Spike took, it felt like something was on the tip of his tongue. This was just a casual lunch with his father.
So, why did his heart feel like it might overflow with emotions?
"I already ordered you an egg cream," Lawrence Waterford sniffed as he put down the menu. "You're welcome."
"Thanks, pops," Spike beamed. He removed his coat, draped it over the chair, and sat down. "It feels like I haven't seen you in..."
"Forever?" The gentle man folded his arms (probably the most muscular part of his body) on the table. "I've been waiting."
"Aww geez, pops, you don't have to be so mean about it! Err...have you been waiting long?"
"I'm just teasing you, son," the man said. He wore a green cardigan. Looking at him now (Spike couldn't remember the last time...) he realized he'd also inherited his broad shoulders. "So, I hear you're beating up men in your underwear now? Is that so? Well, can't say it's the family business, but your dad was a war medic and your mom a singer...then a soldier...so I guess spellbreaking sits somewhere between entertainment and combat, no?"
Spike blushed, and but his lip. As he went to speak, a waitress approached their table with a trey, sitting down two egg creams. "Thanks," Spike said, looking up and trying to decide where he knew the dark haired woman from. She was pretty, with a mean look in her eyes. Her name tag read: 'Francesca.'
"Hey, don't I know you?"
The attractive (and somewhat scary) woman tucker a stray hair back over her ears and scowled at Spike so hard that the young fighter flinched. "Yeah. It's me."
Spike narrowed his eyes. Then... "Belladonna?"
"Yeah. This is my job now, I guess. I have to work here until I pay off my debt." She sighed, taking out her notepad. "Serving others. Pathetic."
"Well, don't expect a tip from me with that attitude," Lawrence said. "Just kidding. I always tip waitstaff. I'm a staunch unionist."
"Ah, so that's where I get the heroism from," Spike said.
The waitress glared at both of them. "Look, I'll come back when you're ready to order."
So strange, Spike thought, watching the woman vanish back into the kitchen. He looked back at this father. Really looked at him. Took in the kindness in his face. His lopsided smile. Unkempt, goose down-feathery hair. Spike's heart suddenly hurt.
"Pops..."
"I'm right here." Lawrence looked over his shoulder. "Was there another dad you were looking for?" Though he was joking, his eyes told another story.
He knew.
Spike sighed and placed his hands on the menu. He felt like he might cry...though strangely, he knew tears weren't possible in this place. "I miss you so much. The truth is, I always think how you should be in the audience at my matches. I'm just worried...well, I've always been worried...that I've grown up to disappoint you."
"Ah." Lawrence nodded his head. "What kind of idiot would I if I shamed the kid--my only son--who helped save the gosh darn world!? That would be petty. Really petty."
Reaching his hands over the table, Lawrence's fingertips met the space just between his and Spike's hands. "You're living your life, kid. Your truth. Your dreams. You're entertaining people! Just like your mom...."
Spike looked up at his father. He smiled. "Right."
Before he could ask any another question, however, Spike experienced a strange blur, a blip. A flash of light. Silhouettes looking down. Voices.
He's stabilizing. Heartrate is returning to normal. He might just make it.
When Spike managed to look up again, he met eyes with Belladonna, looking at him as if he'd just puked all over the table.
"Sorry. Head chef has politely asked you to leave."
Spike turned to his father, who wore a sad expression. Spike didn't want to leave. He didn't want to go anywhere. He was happy here. It was peaceful.
Then, he remembered all the people waiting for him back home. How much he would miss them.
"Oh, already?" Spike studied his father. He wanted to make sure to memorize his appearance, his face, the sound of his voice, so he could remember it. "Pops..."
"Right," Lawrence sighed. Belladonna let them be. The magi shrugged. "Well, can't argue with the head chef, now can we?"
"No," Spike said. "I guess not. I..." He opened his mouth. He'd never been good at coming up with smart things to say. It was certainly very difficult to try now. "I am incredibly sorry we didn't get more time together. It's my greatest regret."
"But...pops...you sacrificed yourself for a better world."
"And how you've followed in your father's footsteps." Lawrence laughed, sadly. "Well. I guess this is it. I...may have put in a good word and asked the certain 'powers that be' to give you a second chance. What do they say in spellbreaking? Er...you kicked out at 'two'?"
"Close enough." Spike stood, compelled by greater forces than he could comprehend. Already, the light was changing. He was becoming lucid. "Pops. I love you."
"I love you too, Sammy."
Spike wanted to reach out and touch him, hug him, but he knew this rare visit was worth a thousand world championships, and Spike would have given up the chance at all of them just to spend another moment talking to his dad.
Just as the light flooded in, and Spike was aware that he needed to be somewhere else, he turned to his father and asked. "Wait. Why isn't Ma here with you?"
The last image of his dad was a calm, knowing smile.
---
Bloody hell, Spike, if you die...I'm gonna' to kick your arse on the other side.
We must focus. I can feel his spirit...it is between this world, and the next.
Death and Spirit. That safe to combine powers like that, Ken?
Er...probably not. But we have no choice.
Right. Spike...your mates are comin' for ya!
---
Clarity returned, though where Spike found himself next was not at all where he'd expected to land. The smell of mildew and old sweat was familiar. The broken ceiling. Exposed pipes. Window fans. A very sad looking training room in a warehouse.
This is where it all began.
He knew Salim would be waiting for him in the ring. Spike also knew he had every right to bite his head off--aside from betraying his trust, nearly getting his friends killed (and that bit about taking over the world), Spike had nothing but disdain for the handsome giant.
But Spike found it a very difficult thing to hold much hate after Heaven. He stepped into the ring, crossed his hands over his chest (similar to the temporal excursion he'd experienced previously with Salim, he wasn't entirely sure he had a corporeal body).
This time, there was no fight to be had.
Salim turned and faced Spike. Either he'd pulled some magickal trickery, or the laws governing reality inside this 'space' were flexible, because he was suddenly decked out in a tailored suit of gold and white. This was a new look.
"Well," Salim, much more fresh faced (and less bloody) said. "It's good to see you."
Spike sized him up and down. He wasn't a threat. "You tryin' to tell me you've gone face with that beachside-wedding-in-the-Hamptons suit, you damn punk?"
"Spike...It's over."
"...The world?"
"If you want it to be..."
"I REALLY DON'T!" Spike blurted out. He could tell from Salim's ever-knowing smirk, however, that this was probably just one of his famous half-truths. That gave him hope. "Where...uh...where are we?"
Salim shrugged. "Oh, just one of those quantum pseudo-realities. Maybe a metaphor kind of thing. A waystation, if you will." He looked around the dusty room, stained with years of spilled soda pop and ceiling leakage. "Guess it took the form of your old training gym. Gee. What a dump."
"Hey, buddy, that's my dump you're talkin' about. And you got some nerve after what you just pulled. I trusted you. We all did. You were my friend!"
"I'm still your friend, Spike."
"FRIENDS DON'T TRY TO KILL FRIENDS IN A WEIRD CONTEST TO DECIDE THE FATE OF THE WORLD! DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH THEREPY THIS IS GONNA COST ME WHEN I GET OUTTA' HERE? ALSO, AM I DEAD? I SWEAR, IF I'M DEAD, I'M COMIN' TO HAUNT YOUR ASS!"
"...Are you done?"
Spike was done. "Whatever, Salim. So...what now? The world ends? Even after we just went through the trouble of kicking your ass to save it? That sucks. That really sucks."
"I'm surprised it took humans this long to wipe themselves off the face of the Earth."
"I don't want to be wiped off the face of the Earth! I don't want the world to end!"
"Then...it doesn't have to." Salim turned and rested against the ropes--reclined, really. He looked defeated. Resigned. Yet strangest of all, he also looked relieved. "Your cute friend was right. People like me shouldn't live as long as we do. I got tired of seeing humanity make the same damn mistakes, again and again. So, I tried to do something about it. But I guess it was opting fr the easy way out, like Mr. Iron put it."
Spike was confused. Still, he sensed he should let Salim speak.
"Him and I had talk. One of those mind-space things--before he gave me a piledriver that could have wiped out the dinosaurs, that is. He refused my world. I considered just going forward with my plan anyway, but then the thing with the Genesis Glyph happened. I guess even a demi-god can't control something like that..."
Spike was quiet. For the first time in his life (or afterlife) he didn't have a snarky retort.
"All this fighting," Salim began. Something caught in his throat. "It's really easy to lay on a metaphor about spellbreaking and wrestling--how it's a macrocosm of conflict and yadda-yadda. I just think humanity needs a safe outlet for its bloodlust, while we learn to evolve. And hell, maybe the world would be a better place if we could just settle our disputes in-ring."
"Where are you going with this?" Spike said, cutting him off.
Salim pushed himself off the ropes, rebalancing himself. "The world is more complicated than a wrestling match, Spike. I threw a tantrum thinking I could somehow challenge that notion. I lost. I was right to lose. You and your friends fought like hell for the world." Salim held out his hand, a diminutive form of the Genesis Glyph, near-gray, having lost its luster, materialized over his palm. "I hope you understand you're going to get the world you fought for now."
Spike flinched. "The Glyph of Creation..."
"It's power is waning, don't worry," Salim assured him. "I have just enough to slightly alter the timeline, prevent Russia and the US from going ham. At least, for a little while. The thing about time is that it's even more of a heel than I am. It's also self correcting. It may just delay things a little longer, but..." Salim crushed the glyph in his hands, turning into an ephemeral, multi-hued glitter. He smiled. "The world just kicked out at two."
"People really need to come up with better jokes," Spike said. He was too confused, too fatigued, too...non-corporeal, to be anxious about things now, though. "So, what does that mean? Remember, Salim, the Goddess made me pretty; She didn't make me smart."
"I keep telling you, small friend, you're smarter than you think you are. And it means that the timeline is spared. For now. The world returns to normal. You can go back to your life with everyone in it, and forge ahead." Salim paused. "I am glad to have known you, Spike Waterford. I hope you keep fighting to become world champion. Just watch out for Mr. Iron--he's got a mean clothesline."
Spike didn't know what to say. He was still angry at Salim, but a part of him held a certain degree of empathy. Certainly, there were worse people unable to admit when they'd been wrong. Maybe this was the man just trying to make amends.
"I know I will face judgment for my crimes," Salim said, turning and walking towards the ropes. He ducked under. "As I should. Which means...you probably won't be seeing me for awhile. I have some things I need to work on. I am still going to change the world. No doubt about that. And I cannot safely say what will happen to you if you try to get in my way again. But if puts your pretty, blonde head at ease, know this--I am going to try changing it on less...megalomaniacal terms."
Salim shrugged. "Besides, it would be so damn boring if they recycled me as the big bad for season 2."
"I still have no idea what you're saying half the damn time," Spike said. "But Salim. I hope when we do meet again, it's on nice terms. I'll miss my manager."
"And I'll miss my little babyface champ," Salim said, warmly. He stepped outside the ring, just as the room began flooding with light. "Oh yeah, about that timeline shift. I had to do a cut-and-paste job. Everyone on Earth who was alive and present when the Genesis Glyph ran amok will return...however, their lives, occupations, and relationships might be a bit...er...altered. I tried to help you spellbreakers out though. You'll retain memory of everything. Which may actually make things even more interesting for you studs."
Spike tried to make sense of it, even as he felt himself being pulled back into the void. "Wait, whaddya' mean our relationships will be changed!?"
But Salim only maintained his smirk, the same expression he'd work when Spike had first met him at the gala. "Word of advice, Spikey. New Coke is gonna suck. Also...you're gonna LOVE Madonna."
To Be Continued...
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