There was something innocent about a playground, with all its swings and merry-go-rounds. See-saws and monkey bars stood proud and tall, inanimate soldiers standing guard in the chill of the night, the smoothness of metal weathered down and the invitingly coloured paint chipped away by rust and friction. And from the darkness of the surrounding trees and bushes, the eyes watched, small eyes peering out with equal parts curiosity and simmering malice. He smelled their raw, childlike anger--uncontrolled, volatile. It was not rage or hatred, but malevolence in the purest sense of the word that filled the void left by their tiny hearts. Utterly unpredictable yet so very predictable.
As the wind whispered past the somnolent green leaves, Angel recalled another playground not so very different from this one back in a sleepy town called Sunnydale that no longer was. He had offered her a chance to leave then, a chance to avoid precisely the nasty reunion that had come to pass. Even if she was somehow willing to listen this time around, there was no place else for her to be. People came but none went. That was the law of the land, apparently, and it wasn't going to be as simple as slaying the big bad and getting a move on.
For all intents and purposes, he ought to be delivering merciful rest to his--no, Angelus'--magnum opus. That was, after all, what he had promised when last they had parted. That one last good-bye kiss. It was meant mostly for Darla, but not only for her. He'd owed it to both of them. He still had one of those debts left to pay. But then there was her army, her 'children,' her toythings to contend with. Not a problem, he was sure. He was a champion and he'd never been one to doubt in his own abilities. A little too confident, on occasion, partly because he was one of those stupidly courageous kind who believed in the hero's death. Still, no matter how you looked at it, a swarm of lilliputian vampire fledglings kind of paled in comparison to cavalry of hell's minions that he'd narrowly evaded for the better or for worse.
But. That was not why he was here. Not tonight. He had considered it, no matter how briefly, he would admit. How could he not? This was Drusilla. He had sired her. She was his responsibility. Regardless of can or cannot, though, he was not in the mood for killing or any attempts thereof. So much blood had been shed over the months leading up to now and the futility of those lives wasted made him a little deader inside. Doyle, the first soldier down. All downhill from there on end. No more. Somehow, by some miracle, they'd been reunited here and it was as though the first act of violence might shatter the one good thing that had come out of this mad trip down the proverbial rabbit hole.
His silent footfall crossed the threshold from grassy soil to the soft crunch of sand. 'Hello, Drusilla,' he said, stepping out of the shadows and into the revealing moonlight. His face was deadpan, void of such passionate feelings as love or hatred. Just tired. 'You always did like pets.' A not-so-subtle reference to the friends that she had sired.