The characters herein are the property of Joss Whedon, David Greenwalt, Mutant Enemy, Fox and a host of other entities. They are used without permission, intent of infringement or expectation of profit. I do not use relationship or character-death spoilers; you read the fic, you take your chances. However, for this fic I will add the following caveats: (1) This is farce. Do not take any of what follows too seriously. (2) Some real-life people are portrayed in this fic, but only for the purposes of parody. In no way should the story be taken to reflect their real actions or attitudes.
This story takes place during ATS' third season, pre-baby and pre-"Billy," though any further effort to fit it into a timeline is entirely beside the point. Readers may run into spoilers for anything up to that point. Thanks to the great beta team of Rheanna and Amy. This is dedicated to Rodney and Jesse, the two nicest guys on planet Earth, who have waited for this story for a long while now -- but no longer. (And a special happy birthday to Jesse.) Any and all comments are greatly appreciated; send praise or flames to Yahtzee63@aol.com.
Rating: PG
Archive: Anyplace you wish, but please let me know.
Summary: When the Staples Center becomes infested by demons, there's only one detective agency in L.A. the Lakers can call on.
"Ready?" Angel said. He stared across the Hyperion lobby at Cordelia, then held up the Interdimensional Grimoire to reveal a drawing of a spiny demon. "Well?"
Cordelia sighed, "Velga demon. Like I don't know THAT one."
"How can you tell it's a Velga demon?"
"Spines on their hands. Dead giveaway. Suppose their moms never have to tell them any stories about going blind, huh?"
"Traits and habits?" Angel insisted.
She didn't bother looking up from her manicure (L'Oreal Jet Set #155, "Soar") as she answered. "The spines contain a mind-altering toxin. They tend to nest near bodies of water, so they're totally guaranteed to ruin your beach volleyball game. They make this weirdo barking sound."
Angel relaxed slightly. "Good." She smiled.
"Your turn!" Cordelia said, picking up the most important text of her area of expertise, taking care not to smudge her still-wet nails. "Well?"
Angel squinted. "Umm -- Jimmy Choos?"
Cordelia nodded and patted her hand against the glossy pages of the November Vogue. "How can you tell?" she persisted.
"The little spiky heel?" Angel said, then smiled as Cordelia nodded.
>From their place at the counter, Fred, Wesley and Gunn watched the study session. Gunn said, "Do you believe this?"
"It's astonishing," Wesley said, shaking his head in amazement. "I would've sworn those were Manolo Blahniks."
Gunn sighed deeply. "Fred, you wanna make a little run for the border?"
"Not in those shoes," Fred said. "I mean, they look like Chinese foot-binding. Except, you know, in patent leather instead of - whatever it is Chinese people used -- "
"How 'bout I drive us instead?" Gunn held a hand out to the door, and Fred smiled as they went on their way.
Wesley waved them off absently, participating in Angel and Cordelia's game as best he could. Given that he had years of training as a Watcher and a six-month relationship with Virginia Bryce, who didn't even consider buying a garment unless its price was in four figures, he was quite good at it, if he did say so himself. Cuzfau beast -- Michael Kors -- Hevreth demon -- Stella McCartney --
The door swung open, and a man walked in -- at least, Wesley thought it was a man. The face looked human, and the suit was ordinary enough, if rather upscale. (Hugo Boss?) But the size of him -- good lord, he was practically seven feet high --
Wesley shot a warning glance at Angel, who sniffed the air carefully, then shrugged. "Smells human."
"Excuse me?" the tall man said.
"Don't mind him," Cordelia said, smiling brightly as she tossed Harper's Bazaar aside. "He's a social outcast, nothing like yourself, I'm sure --"
The tall man looked doubtful. "Is this Angel Investigations?"
"Indeed it is," Wesley said hurriedly, stepping out from behind the counter. "How may we assist you today?"
The tall man still looked doubtful, but he followed Wesley into his office, only casting one suspicious glance back at Angel (who was still discreetly trying to take a whiff of their new client) and Cordelia (who was not-so-discreetly waving her hands around so her nails could dry) as they followed. He took a seat in the chair opposite the desk; as he was approximately twice the chair's size, he folded up in it rather uncomfortably, knees a little too high, elbows slightly akimbo. "Now how may we help you today?" Wesley said.
"I understand your agency deals with, ah, unusual problems," the man said. He stroked his grayish mustache for a moment, stalling, to see what they would say. When Wesley just nodded (they had learned, the hard way, to let the client be the first to say "demon"), the man sighed and said, "Supernatural problems?"
They all relaxed and smiled. Good, Wesley thought, a man who needs our help.
Hmm, Angel thought. Could he be a demon who just changed into human form from time to time? A very large human form? He inhaled deeply again.
At last, Cordelia thought, a bona fide client, who understands what's going on, who needs the kind of help we provide for a fee, and who, to judge from the totally excellent suit and major jewelry overload, will be able to pay us for it. Enough to cover the phone bill, and the heat, and also possibly a nice suede jacket, seeing as how they were discounted for fall.
"That's right," Angel said, sniffing the tall man once more. "How did you figure out that your problem was otherwordly in origin?"
The tall man relaxed a little bit -- but not much. "I've been around. I've seen a few things. And when you start finding animal bones in pentagrams in your office, and blood starts running from the walls, and two cheerleaders start ripping out their hair and declaring that they're Princesses of Zambari of the Elwek Dimension -- well, it's either cult activity or pilot season. And it's not pilot season."
Behind her, Cordelia heard the front door swing open and Gunn call out, "Hey! Fred's feelin' all overexposed in the convertible. We got a car with an actual roof I can borrow?"
"Excuse me," she whispered, then hurried into the lobby, flapping her hands to finish drying the nail polish. Jet set my ass, she thought. "Gunn, what is your damage? We have a client in here."
Gunn was unrepentant. "Yeah, and of all the scary things this guy could find out about us, the fact that we use a convertible is numero uno. This guy look legit?"
"He looks like money," she confided. "New money, of course. I mean, the jewelry thing? Just shy of Mr. T with the rings there."
"I don't care how green his green is," Gunn said, strolling toward the office. "God knows we can use the ca--"
Gunn saw their client and froze -- stood shock still. Ohmigod, Cordelia thought, paralyzing venom! Time's standing still again! Oh, wait, he blinked --
"You -- you're -- ya --" Gunn waved weakly in the client's direction, then breathed out, reverently, "You're PHIL JACKSON." The tall man smiled and held out a hand to shake Gunn's. Gunn didn't shake, but stared down at the hand. He whispered, "Championship rings. Is -- is that 1997?" He pointed at Coach Jackson's index finger. Coach Jackson drew his hand back and looked askance at Gunn.
"Championship rings?" Wesley said.
"I'm a champion," Angel said. "The Powers have been really clear about that. Almost too clear. But so far no jewelry."
"NBA championships!" Gunn said. "This is PHIL JACKSON. The coach of the Lakers? Coach of the Chicago Bulls before that? Please tell me you've heard of Michael Jordan."
Wesley's face brightened. "The chap who sells trainers?"
"And underwear," Angel said.
"They're foreign," Gunn said apologetically to Coach Jackson.
The Lakers. The Bulls. Michael Jordan. Cordelia was not much on sports, unless she was specifically cheering for them. Even then, her interest usually was limited to knowing whether she should be yelling for defense or offense. But she paid enough attention to television and papers to know that Coach Jackson was a very good basketball coach, and therefore a very wealthy basketball coach, as well as the leader of a team of very wealthy players, all of whom were financially backed by extremely large, multinational corporations. No doubt Coach Jackson's money was new, but there was a whole lot of it, and all signs indicated that it was just going to keep on coming.
She gave him her most stunning smile, which she knew full well was very stunning indeed. "So, let's get down to work on this pentagram business, okay?"
Wesley was used to their investigations taking some time. A client generally came in with only the barest few facts about the situation; descriptions consisted of less-specific terms such as "gross green thing" and "some freakin' MONSTER," which were not useful for purposes of cross-referencing.
However, Coach Jackson was a more careful observer than most, and by the time he'd finished telling them all the strange events taking place at the Staples Center, Wesley had managed to look up enough details to have an idea what was going on.
Normally, he still would have waited before saying anything specific. But Wesley could tell -- Coach Jackson was becoming unnerved by his situation. Not by Angel, despite the fact that he was still periodically smelling the coach to verify his humanity. Not by Cordelia, despite the fact that she'd had a vision just as she took a big sip of water, which led to a very difficult-to-explain, not to mention wet, situation. (Fortunately, the vision was about a Velga demon appearing in about two weeks, something they'd already penciled in the schedule after some prophecy translation last summer.) Nor by Fred, who had been coaxed in from the car and was doodling on the wall -- in pencil, now, which Wesley considered as progress.
However, Gunn had stared at Coach Jackson, slack-jawed, for two hours straight.
Coach Jackson glanced sideways at Gunn again, then looked back at Angel. "Is he -- you know -- well?"
"Smells healthy enough," Angel said. Coach Jackson fidgeted in his chair.
"Right, then," Wesley interjected. "Based on the clues you've given me, I believe I know what's happening in your stadium."
"Great," Coach Jackson said, clearly relieved on many levels. "What's going on?"
"It appears that someone has prepared the Staples Center for the emergence of several Mueg demons from the hell dimension of Elwek. If I understand the signs correctly, the demons are actually here already -- but they have been forced to assume human shape. When the hell dimension is connected to our dimension at the proper time, those human shapes will be discarded, and the demons will at last be free to create havoc and mayhem."
"Not good," Cordelia summarized.
"The proper time, you said." Coach Jackson frowned. "When is that, exactly?"
"It appears to be -- and mind you, this might be off by a smidge --" Wesley looked at his books again, then checked his watch. "-- tomorrow night. Perhaps 9 p.m."
"Oh, no," Coach Jackson said. "We have a home game tomorrow night. The Knicks. The Center's going to be packed."
"Can't you just cancel the game?" Angel said. Everyone else stared at him. "This is one of those social things I don't get, right?"
Cordelia patted his shoulder. "At least you're pretty."
"This is a dangerous situation," Wesley said. "But I think raising an alarm would only lead the demons to change their plans."
"Seems like a pretty dumb plan," Fred said, her voice somewhat muffled by the fact that she was chewing on one of her braids. "I mean, aren't there some fortresses of doom or something they could use? If you were gonna pop out into a new dimension, I'd think you'd want some privacy."
"There could be any number of reasons the Staples Center was chosen," Wesley said. "Astrological, geological, historical --"
"What do you mean, historical?" Gunn shook his head. "The Lakers only moved in there a few years ago."
"Human history didn't begin with the Lakers, Charles," Fred chided gently. Then she blushed and smiled weakly at Coach Jackson. "I hope it wasn't rude to mention that."
Coach Jackson shook his head. "Six of these rings don't involve the Lakers."
"So, what we have here is a situation where a whole bunch of demons are gonna show up and rock the house," Cordelia said. "We have a set plan for dealing with this, right, guys? We show up first, with better weapons."
"That's the plan?" Coach Jackson said. "You guys are supernatural experts, and the whole plan is -- Get 'em?"
Angel folded his arms. "Got a better one?"
"Come to think of it, no." Coach Jackson sighed. "Okay. We need to get you guys in there. I can arrange for some seats pretty close to the court."
Wesley and Angel nodded. Gunn looked heavenward and mouthed "thank you."
"But the two places there's been the most activity are up in the sound booth and on the court itself," Coach Jackson said.
"So we should have someone in both those places during the game," Wesley said.
"The sound booth," Cordelia mused. "Hey -- who's singing the National Anthem?"
Coach Jackson raised an eyebrow. "You?"
Angel snorted. Cordelia whacked him on the arm. "No. But we have a friend who can totally belt it out. He'd be great up there. Now, he's a demon himself, but don't worry. Totally harmless, unless you interrupt his Donna Summer set."
"Is there anyone up there who's going to be, you know, alarmed to see a demon?" Angel said.
"Maxine runs the sound board," Coach Jackson said. "And after Mariah Carey flipped out last year, trust me, she doesn't shock easily."
"We'll talk to Lorne," Wesley said. "That just leaves the basketball court itself."
Gunn's eyes went wide. "Does -- does this mean -- that -- we're gonna suit up?"
"No," Coach Jackson said quickly. Then he tried to gloss it over with a smile. "I think I know a way you can manage that."
Tamara Glendale was from Lawrenceville, Kansas, and as the season program said, she was the leader of the Laker Girls and earned her living as a "dancer in the film and television industries."
Tamara had since learned that being a "dancer in the film and television industries" was not quite as glamorous as it was cracked up to be. Mostly, it consisted of wearing thongs in music videos and occasionally doing a thankless opening number for an awards show. However, she was pretty happy with the Laker Girl gig, which really did involve celebrities and excitement, if not as much money as she might have hoped.
However, the last couple of weeks had gotten to be a MAJOR drag. Gross rabbit innards in their gym bags, pentagrams on the floor, and then Debbie and Carolyn had totally lost it, screaming about the whole princess thing.
And now, she had to replace them -- not with the trained, practiced alternates she'd worked with, but two mercy hires. What did they do for this? Tamara thought tiredly. Or, more likely, who?
"I do have cheer experience," said the short-haired one -- Cornelia? Cordelia, that was it. "Just high school, but we took it way seriously."
"You have four routines to learn before tomorrow night," Tamara said. "Can you handle that?"
"No prob," Cordelia said. "They never had to show me a combination twice."
Cordelia smiled, and Tamara managed to smile back. This one seemed game, at least. They could stick her in the back, and it wouldn't be too bad.
But the other one --
"Have you ever done any tests on the tensile strength of spandex?" Fred pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and smiled.
It's gonna be a long day, Tamara thought.
Of all the group, Angel was physically the strongest, most experienced and most coordinated. This meant that he naturally had the jobs requiring the most strength, experience and coordination; Angel had noticed that these were usually also the jobs requiring beating up large, ferocious things and getting beaten up by them in return. He didn't mind it, though. The rewards outweighed the problems, as long as the impalings were kept to a minimum.
For instance, another job requiring strength and coordination was that of spotter to two young, scantily clad women working through a very gymnastic routine.
"And twist -- turn -- down-and-shake-your-butt and toss -- toss --" Cordelia chanted, swinging her head from side to side, not to mention certain other parts. Angel was amazed by a lot of things at the moment, among them the fact that Cordelia seemed to have this routine down perfectly. Certainly it was hard to imagine that the way she was moving couldn't be absolutely, totally right --
Angel forced himself to focus on Fred, who was a beat behind, and only shaking her hips very awkwardly. Cordelia sighed and punched "pause" on the jam box. "Come on, Fred. We've done this, like, eight times. You should know this by now."
"It's not that I don't remember," Fred said. "I remember just fine. I mean, if you can learn the atomic weight of meitnerium, you can learn to shake your butt on four."
Cordelia folded her arms in front of her. "So why, then, does the butt not shake?"
"I think Fred's just feeling uncomfortable," Angel said. "She does know the moves. And she's got rhythm."
"And you would recognize rhythm how?" Cordelia asked.
"Angel's right," Fred said. "I mean, if I could do this alone in my room, I bet I'd be just great. But the idea of, you know, moving all sexy in front of people --" She flushed scarlet. "Well, I just feel weird about it."
"You must have moved sexy in front of someone, sometime," Cordelia said with a raised eyebrow.
Fred shook her head and said, "Not on purpose."
"We can't do this alone in your room, Fred," Cordelia said. "We have to be in front of thousands of people tonight. And you're going to stand out a LOT less if your dancing fits in a lot more."
"That makes sense, I know," Fred said. "But I just feel strange about it. And have you SEEN what we have to wear?" She went to the wall, where a very purple, very shiny and very small outfit hung. "I am about the tiniest girl on earth, and there is no way this thing is gonna cover me."
"It stretches," Cordelia said.
"It stretches how far?" Fred asked. "Besides, there's one area where it's not gonna stretch -- it's gonna sag --"
"Oh, that," Cordelia said. "I've taken care of that."
"What?" Angel asked.
The basement door opened, and Gunn's voice called down, "I bought Fred's boobs!"
Fred glared at Cordelia. "I will get you for this."
"You'll thank me for this," Cordelia said. "Trust me. Confidence, thy name is C-cup."
Fred, still blushing, went upstairs to deal with Gunn and what he'd bought. Angel glanced sideways at Cordelia. "You really did embarrass her."
"She embarrasses too easily," Cordelia said. "I mean, come on. We all saw her in her burlap-sack stage, right? I don't think a pair of falsies is anything to get freaked out about."
"You're doing great," Angel said. "If we don't watch out, we might lose you to the Lakers."
"Don't be silly," Cordelia said. "Being a Laker Girl is only part-time."
"Wait -- you're serious?"
"Being a Laker Girl can be a major stepping stone, Angel," Cordelia said. "I mean, a lot of celebrities got started that way. Paula Abdul used to be a Laker Girl!"
"Who's Paula Abdul?"
"Hmm. Good point," Cordelia said thoughtfully.
"I just figured -- I mean, you haven't talked about acting since that suntan oil thing," Angel said. "I thought you weren't worried about that kind of stuff anymore."
"Fame and fortune and all that jazz?" Cordelia smiled and looked wistful. "I know I have a higher purpose, Angel. A higher responsibility. Being a seer and a champion -- that means a lot more than just being some vapid, self-centered movie star."
Angel smiled. Cordelia continued, "So, I'm thinking about being an enlightened, role-model movie star. Like maybe Richard Gere."
"I guess that would be a change," Angel said uncertainly. Eager for a change of subject, he said, "Tonight's going to be difficult."
"The demons?"
"The game," Angel said. "I just don't get sports."
"Oh, no, you don't." Cordelia poked Angel in the chest with one finger. "This is not the time for you do go into social-recluse mode."
"That's my mode."
"Well, you're gonna find a new one." Cordelia kept poking to emphasize her words. "There are gonna be really important at this game, Angel. Courtside at a Lakers game? Major money. Major power. People that it would be really good for us, particularly me, to know. So no brooding, no questions like 'what is a basketball,' nothing. Make conversation. Make nice. Make normal. For me, okay?"
She looked up at him in a way that, Angel was quickly learning, meant he was going to do whatever she said. He smiled. "Okay. One order of normal, coming up."
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