Under a blood red sky

Riley wasn't really into repeat performances, but he had had such a pleasant time at the fair the previous afternoon, he found himself back amongst the tents for the second time in so many days.

He had originally intended to return to the Curiousities tent, compelled to talk more with the kind man who worked there, but found himself distracted by the crisp evening weather. There was something perfectly quaint about an autumn night at the fair, and Riley decided now was the time to really take in all the sights he had previously glossed over.

Wandering among the tents and booths, Riley was taking inventory of what all the fair offered. In his hand, a giant, pink fluff of cotton candy. Okay, so it wasn't the most masculine, but he figured if ever there was a place to feel like a kid again, why not here?

Letting the sugary puff melt in his mouth, the soldier started making a B-line for the games booths. He was still adverse to rides, but he figured he'd try his skill at the skeeball or something. Perhaps he could even win a stuffed animal to give to his new friend, Molly. She seemed nice enough, and he figured it would make her day.

Rounding the corner near the water balloon game, Riley stopped dead in his tracks. There, standing a few feet in front of him, was the last possible person he wanted to see. Especially here.

With an exasperated sigh, cotton candy fell out of the soldier's mouth mid-sentence.

"You've got to be shitting me."

The man with the pipe had his tent set up sort of off of the main drag, away from the noise and the rides. It was at the edge of the fair, near trees, and it was hung with white Christmas lights.

The tent had a sign that read CURIOSITIES, and nothing more. There was an arrow pointing to the tent flap, and an ornate tassel with which to pull back the flap and see inside.

Inside, the man with the pipe waited, seated in an armchair that appeared rather out of place, reading a book. There were tables inside the tent, and glass cases. Items were on the tables, sitting on displays and inside the cases, lit from beneath. A generator hummed next to the tent.

The man with the pipe waited.

Molly had decided to explore a little more of the town she was now living in, wanting both the lay of the place as well as what was where, who was here and what to avoid. The whole place made her skin crawl at times. Some places more than others. So far she has kind of gone out of her way to avoid people, again some more than others, but she was slowly beginning to feel more comfortable.

This evening she wanted to follow her nose more mystically, see what power sinks and leylines were around. She didn't want to mess with them. She just wanted to know where they were with the idea of making a map with Harry or something. It was good information to have, right? Right. At least it made sense to her.

She didn't bother opening her senses too much. Molly didn't have to. The Ragged Lady was more sensative to energies than almost anybody. All she had to do was pay attention. Location was her goal this time, not identification for potential use. She'd rather have Harry with her for that just in case she came across something that disagreed with her sketchy sanity. As it was, the road she found herself on felt...wrong. Glancing up at a sign she frowned. Trout Run Road. Seemed innocent enough. Homey, even. But it felt...angry.

The sun was just going down as she wandered along the side of the road. There weren't many cars which seemed odd to her, but she prefered it that way. Less people to stop and ask her if she were lost. Was she hungry? Did she need someone to keep her warm? Assholes.

It is remarkable how, in times of certain apocalypse, everyone seems to disregard the government.

As all the supernatural authorities rushed into clandestine meetings, hotly debating the fate of humanity, it seemed that they forgot to invite the humans themselves. Of course, just because they weren’t invited, didn’t mean they weren’t aware. From the moment Wolfram & Hart began to mobilize the various powers into conference, the Initiative couldn’t help but take notice. Ever the masters of surveillance, they might not have been seen, but they were certainly listening.

Immediately upon York's identification as a hot zone, the Initiative was there. While the other parties were still discussing strategy, agents were slowly put into place, beginning to monitor and prepare for Armageddon prevention. If the Initiative had their way, when all was said and done, this would be a minor blip on the evening news. An exploded gas main, a natural disaster, something that could be explained away. Apocalypse prevented and denied.

…and heading the mission was a man who had seen and denied his share of supernatural danger: Riley Finn.

Certainly it was a position of importance and trust, and Riley couldn’t help but feel a little pride of the confidence the newly rejuvenated Initiative had placed in him. However, there was a part of him, beneath his solider’s veneer, that was having trouble reconciling his proximity to another Hellmouth. The last time he had been positioned at the precipice of Hell, everything he had known was rocked to its very foundations. He had lost trust, belief, and love. It had taken him a lot of time recovering some semblance of the man he was, and he wasn’t particularly thrilled to be thrust into a situation that could drudge all that up again.

However, he was a man of duty…and duty always came before the self.

Things in York had been relatively tame since he arrived, a few minor instances with low-level vamps and demons. Although his network of informants had begun to spot some of the major players in town, thus far everyone was keeping quiet. This suited Riley for the time being. He didn’t want action sprung on him that he wasn’t ready for.

Tonight was a rather routine investigation around the streets, patrolling the town’s perimeter for any unwanted beasties. Although Hellmouth containment was the primary mission, Riley couldn’t ignore that the streets were becoming less safe for the town’s residents, and if he could do his part to put every last undead son of a bitch in the grave, he would.

Sidling down a back alley, Riley was alerted to a slight noise. Rats, perhaps. But, having lived in Sunnydale, he knew that rats tended to be the camouflage of bigger vermin. Slowly un-holstering his semi-automatic, Riley defensively turned the corner. Uncertain of what he might find, his heart began to race. A feeling with which he was very familiar.

…a feeling that he loved.