Emmie (angearia) wrote,
Emmie
angearia

FIC: Mission Implants

Title: Mission Implants
Summary: The Trio's looking to gain more intel on the Slayer.
Characters: Andrew, Warren, Jonathan, Buffy
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1082
Author's Note: This is quite possibly the silliest thing I've ever written (or maybe not), but I couldn't help myself.



It was a quiet night on Revello Drive, Andrew thought with an eyebrow raised to a diabolically villainous angle. A little too quiet.

“Testing. Testing.” He tapped his ear piece. “This is Rogue Agent commencing with Mission Implants.”

“That’s not what it’s called, you idiot. It’s Mission Big Brother. Big Brother!” Warren’s voice hissed mechanically through the ear piece.

“Okay, okay, Mission Big Brother,” Andrew conceded, lovingly patting the patchwork on his black tracksuit spelling out ‘M.I.S.S.I.O.N. I.M.P.L.A.N.T.S.’ in neon yellow thread. Walking up to the front porch of Buffy’s house, he whispered, “I am entering the enemy’s lair. I am at the door of the enemy’s lair about to cross the threshold. I am checking the door to see if it’s unlocked so that I may cross the threshold and enter the enemy’s lair.” He gasped. “Rogue Agent to base, Rogue Agent to base!”

“What?” Warren snapped.

“The door is unlocked. I repeat – the door is unlocked.”

“Just open the stupid door,” Jonathan ordered, exasperated.

“Seven-eleven, over.” Andrew turned the knob with a feather-light touch, pushing the door open so slowly that it creaked in horror movie fashion before stepping inside. “I have crossed the Slayer’s threshold. Phase One of Mission Impl-, uh, Big Brother is now complete.”

“Commence with Phase Two,” Warren directed.

“Okay, commencing with Phase Tw-omph,” Andrew yelped, banging his knee against the coffee table in the middle of the living room. “Engaging, ow, secret agent light source,” he said with a wince, pulling out a pocket flashlight, clicking it on and scanning the dark room. Stopping in front of the television, he cocked his head and smiled, before placing a tiny metal disc near the base of the television stand. “First bug has been implanted. I repeat – first bug has been implanted.”

A sound reminiscent of a forehead smacking against a desk transmitted across the receiver, then Warren muttered, “Just hurry up and finish.”

Andrew roamed through the house, hiding listening devices in places he was certain would remain undiscovered – the freezer in the kitchen, the faucet head in the hall bathroom, behind the washing machine in the basement. Just as he reached the second floor, he heard a door slam from downstairs.

“Dawn!” Buffy called. “I’m home! And I brought dinner! Doubly yummy Doublemeat Medley!”

Andrew flung himself against the wall, trying to blend into the paint but only succeeding in hugging the flat surface. He sniffed the air and gagged at the smell of Doublemeat Medley drifting from the kitchen below. “Rogue agent to base,” he whispered, pinching his nostrils shut. “Target has come home to roost. I repeat-”

“We heard you the first time, nimrod,” Warren growled. “Where is she?”

Listening to her footsteps, he said, “She’s in the kitchen. No, the living room – no, wait the front hallway. And- and- she’s coming up the stairs!” Freezing in place, Andrew’s eyes darted up and down the hallway like a terrified rabbit caught in the sights of a hungry wolf.

“Abort! Abort!” Warren ordered.

“Aaaaah!” Andrew dropped to his knees and crawled forward, slipping through an open door at the end of the hall. He continued crawling until he found himself in a bedroom closet, his shaking hands clutching at an assortment of dresses for camouflage. Peeking through the hems of dresses draped over his head, he panted, “I think she knows I’m here.”

“She doesn’t know anything,” Warren reassured him. “Just lay low.”

“What if- what if Slayers can smell fear?” Andrew stammered, pausing to sniff at his underarms.

“Slayers don’t have a heightened sense of smell as a superpower. If she did, we’d have clocked it when we tested her,” Jonathan said.

“Right. She can’t smell me,” Andrew whispered to himself, leaning back into the safety of the closet.

He frowned at the feel of something hard digging into his back. He wiggled, testing to feel what was behind him before reaching back to brush his fingers along the smooth, hard surface. When his finger ran across an out-thrust knob-like thingie, he jerked back in surprise before touching it again. Pressing down harder caused the knob to flick back. Alarmed at a low humming and the growing heat pressing into his back, he pulled out his pocket flashlight and turned around.

Gazing in awe at the rocket launcher leaning up against the wall, he breathed, “Cool.”

Holding the flashlight in between his lips, he ran his hands along the weapon’s edge, almost afraid to touch it.

“Andrew. Andrew. Andrew!” Warren and Jonathan yelled, causing the ear piece to shriek and nearly burst his ear drums.

“What?” Andrew winced, one hand on his aching ear while the other still grasped the rocket launcher.

“She’s downstairs,” Jonathan said.

“Make a break for it before she finds you,” Warren added.

“Uh, okay,” Andrew said, teetering to his feet. “But guys, you’ll never believe what I fo-”

“Just get out of there!” Warren snapped. “Or she’ll find the bugs we planted and the whole plan will be ruined.”

“Yeah, and being the Slayer’s prisoner doesn’t sound like fun to me,” Jonathan sympathized.

“Yeah, that too,” Warren added as an afterthought. “Now move it!”

Andrew ran his hand along the rocket launcher before giving a sloppy salute. “Until we meet again, sweet weapon of death…”

Then he dove out the bedroom window, sliding down the sloping roof and crashing into the hydrangeas below, spraining his ankle and cutting his forehead on a pebble.

The backporch light turned on and Buffy called, “Dawn! Is that you?”

Warren and Jonathan waited until she had gone back inside before rushing forward and dragging a wimpering Andrew back to the van.

Thirty minutes later, aspirin in his system and a slushy in his hand, Andrew regaled his evil brethren with the tale of how he escaped the Slayer’s clutches and what wonders he’d seen within her lair. He was just about to tell them about the rocket launcher (he’d wanted to take it with him but had immediately concluded it was too heavy for him to carry alone), when Warren slammed his fist against the surveillance console.

“None of these are working!” Warren said, twisting the dials with a barely leashed fury. “I’m only getting a signal from one of the devices and it’s gotta be interference. It sounds like… like the QVC shopping network...?”

“Huh.” Andrew reached past Warren to grab a notebook and scribbled, ‘The Slayer watches late night shopping infomercials to alleviate insomnia. Oh, and she has a super cool rocket launcher in her closet.’
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