Another YAHF

ANOTHER YAHF

Celebwen Telcontar: Back with the YAHF fic!

Balrog: And what is Xander dressed up as?

Celebwen Telcontar: You’ll see! And Willow is the perfect opposite for him!

Balrog: What are Willow and Xander dressed up as? Willow being Xander’s opposite… is Willow a horse and Xander a cowboy?

Celebwen Telcontar: (Looks oddly at Balrog) No… Anyways, review, people! Please!

The young man left the house, going down the street, conscious of his outfit. He got multiple horns and someone threw a bottle at him, yelling something derogatory. He fled the abuse, and finally found shelter at the porch of 1630 Revello Drive.

As Xander rang the doorbell on the Summers home, he straightened his mussed clothing. He had seen Buffy leaving with a huge package, and Willow with a black wig. The door opened, and Mrs. Summers was there. She took one look at him, and gulped, going pale.

“You… Xander, you didn’t listen to history class, did you?” she stammered, fleeing for the kitchen. Buffy then came down the stairs.

“Buffy! Lady of Buffdom! Duchess of Buffonia! I permanently renounce Spandex!” he cried, seeing the vision in purple and pink that was his friend in a puffy 18th century noblewoman’s dress.

“Well, Xander, what are you? I don’t recognize your costume. And you don’t wear… Shit, is that… Xander Harris, take that thing off right now!! Do you want to be expelled and kicked out the school?! Schneider will think it’s real!!! Even I know what that symbol means!”

“Buffy, it’s just a costume—” Xander’s tirade was cut short as Willow descended in a wavy black wig, 1940’s or so clothes, with a book and pen in her hand. She screamed, loudly, and bolted up for the relative safety of the upper floor. Buffy glared at her friend, and ran up to comfort Willow. Reluctantly, Xander ripped off his armband, revealing black sleeve beneath, though he kept the armband.

When they got to the school, Schneider took one look at Xander.

“You’re expelled. That’s it, I have had it up to here with gangs up on PCP, with Summers and your gang, and now you are dressed as what you really are. Get out of my sight; I will not have you taking kids dressed as you are. You will remain here in my office. Go, Harris. Get out of my sight.” Harris went trudging for the office, wishing he had gotten a toy gun and old army fatigues as he would have. A teacher saw him, and began lecturing him on the importance of honoring the fallen, or something like that.

As he sat in the chair, waiting for Principal Schneider, he thought over what had made him dress as he did. Everyone was overreacting, Halloween was for being what you most certainly weren’t, and he wasn’t whom he had dressed up as. Then, the door opened, and the overweight, miniscule Principal came in.

“Harris. You are hereby expelled from Sunnydale High. We do not allow fascists in the school, much less murderers like that. You will go and leave the town, never to be seen again. Do you here me?!”

“Erm… Yes, sir,” Xander mumbled.

On the other side of town, Ethan Rayne finished his prayer to Janus, and smirked gleefully. Chaos would rule the night! He laughed. The town was certainly in for a roller coaster ride now! He gave forth a ringing cackle, and grinned like a lunatic.

Principal Schneider was reaming out the delinquent in front of him, when the young man’s eyes unfocused. He blinked several times, and removed the thick glasses from the pocket, and placed them on his face. He then looked scathingly at the Principal, and got up. He drew his pistol and fired it, demolishing the desk, then spat at the Principal, whom ran after the boy, and yelled about murdering and other things.

Principal Schneider was yelling at Xander when the young man felt the hot power flowing through him. He let the power go, his hyena self cackling at the changes the power was making, and then his mind was gone.

Heinrich Himmler was inspecting a unit of SS when he was suddenly snatched. He was flung before a man yelling at him in English. The man’s face, and his accent, marked him as a filthy Jew. He spat at the worm, and with a sneer and a warning gunshot to the desk, he stormed down the hallway. An arm caught his about the elbow, and he saw that it was the Jew bastard. With a growl of disgust, he blew the man’s brains to bits. He had been considering letting one of the new camps have him, but some filthy Jew going and grabbing him, the Reichsfuhrer SS, the Fuhrer’s right-hand man, wasn’t right. It was an insult to Germany and the Reich. He looked about himself, seeing the hallway. This wasn’t where he was supposed to be, and he would find out what was going on. It was just a matter of time. He found his Swastika armband in a pocket, and put it on proudly on his left arm. He was the Reichsfuhrer SS, not some Nancy boy pansy! With a smirk, he straightened his uniform. It was time to find some answers.

Anne looked about herself. This wasn’t Bergen-Belsen, where she and Margot had been interred, or anyplace recognizable in Poland or Germany. Her cough had cleared up, and she felt perfectly healthy, not emaciated and dying as she had in the camp. Her diary was clutched in one hand, her pen in the other. Whatever was going on was odd, but she was grateful that it had taken her out of Bergen-Belsen. Now if only it had taken her father, the only remnant of her family alive still, she would be eternally grateful to whatever it was. With a sigh, she looked about herself and took off down the street, wondering where she was and how she had gotten there.

Celebwen Telcontar: I figured this was rather new.

Balrog: (Muffled whines from behind curtains)

Celebwen Telcontar: Uhhh… Sorry.

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