Current mood:	contemplative
Current music:	Rodrigo, "Concierto de Aranjuez" (Gardiner/RCA Orchestra)

Strange Days.
Oh, dear. It appears that I've let a considerable sum of time lapse between entries here. I apologize for the extended absence; I've been off on a bit of a wild hair, I'm afraid. It's just that Angel and I were talking the other day, and he mentioned something about a prophecy wherein "the father will kill the son". Well, I have to admit I was intrigued. While it certainly doesn't seem to have any relevance to our current circumstances, I'm afraid I couldn't resist exploring it further.

I won't hesitate to admit that having a research team is quite efficient. It's certainly nice to be able to find what I'm looking for within minutes instead of hours, particularly when lives are at stake, and I can even allow myself the luxury of a few hours' rest without bringing the work to a standstill. But sometimes I do enjoy the prospect of combing through the archives myself, following the disparate threads of texts and references that leads one to the prize. There's something about observing the intricate web that the various oracles and divinations create, one leading into another like inlets flowing into rivers. I confess I've missed the opportunity to study the phenomenon up close.

Admittedly, however, it was a foolhardy venture, and not simply because my search ultimately came to nothing, and there proved to be no record of such a prophecy extant. Angel probably misquoted or misheard it. Oh, well; serves me right for being so easily sidetracked. I would apparently do well to take my own advice of a few weeks ago; there's no telling what manner of calamity might have descended on us while I was busying myself with minutae. So to everyone's certain relief, I will refrain from making any comments on Fred's recent care package misadventure.

Other than that, there's little to report, except to say that the events of last week demonstrate quite clearly why Angel, and not Spike, has had the title of champion bestowed on him. As much as he may be dispirited by certain losses of late, in addition to the still perplexing turn of fate that brings us here, I am glad to see what I believe to be a change in his spirits, though as always it's difficult to be certain of Angel's true mood. He keeps his cards close to the vest, and is loath to admit if something is truly troubling him. However, I flatter myself both that he took my words of a few days ago to heart, and that I have enough insight to detect that last.

Spike, however, is another story. I admit I was somewhat piqued at his suggestion that the shanshu Angel has been promised for so long might actually be, in fact, someone else's due. We've all been fighting on Angel's side for so long, it seems almost an act of deliberate cruelty for whatever Powers there are to dangle this promise under Angel's nose, and then snatch it away after all the trials he's endured. And for all those who proclaim the idea of Spike's inherent goodness as if it were a fait accompli, I can't help but note that he did precious little to aid us in our latest adventure. Certainly, I received far more aid from a fortuitously placed burlap sack than I did from him.

However, as invigorating as the high-spirited exchanges that I participated in a fortnight ago were, I'm afraid I simply don't have the time or inclination to debate Spike's merits, or lack thereof, any further. We'll all just have to let events prove, or disprove, our respective cases, whatever they may be.

I'm still perplexed about these hermanos numeros; it's still unclear just what they were. How did they obtain strength great enough to toss Angel about like a ragdoll? They no doubt lived in cacophonous times; certainly they would have had to be formidable fighters outside the ring as well as in. Could they have amassed that kind of strength simply through physical exertion, or was there some element of the mystic in them as well? I suspect the latter; after all, you see very few garden-variety wrestlers who are able to return from the dead. One surmises a deal was made in a back room of some dark cantina with someone whose face wasn't entirely visible underneath a heavy hood.

Not that I'm criticizing; we're hardly one to throw stones. Perhaps bargains for power sometimes do turn out in the buyer's favor. Certainly Gunn appears to be evidence of that; he seems to have adapted to the barrister's lifestyle with serpentine ease. I almost envy his comfort in these new surroundings. He certainly has made every effort to explore the company's resources and use them to our advantage. Whatever reservations we've had about his barter, he doesn't seem the least bit swayed by his new abilities; if anything, he seems to be the most focused of all of us. Let's hope the rest of us can muster both his audacity and his sense of enterprise.