[BtVS] Fic: The Inanna Complex
The Innana Complex
a BtVS fic
Rating: R
Genre: Action/Adventure/Angst
Disclaimer: The characters of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel belong to me Joss Whedon, me Mutant Enemy, me Sandollar & me Fox. Damn it.
Summary: Make one small change in the universe and see where it leads. Sci-fi, magic, punk and Pynchon on frappe, seventy-eight years forward. Branches off from the season finales of BtVS-6/AtS-3, with spoilery references to B.7/A.4.
***********
***********
Sunglasses at Noon
***********
It’s in the way he walks, just a little bit slowly, rolling from heel to toe on the outside edges of his feet. Every single sullen footstep creaks heavily down the damp stairs of La Muerte’s basement.
Moby, who's essentially a large melon, a pair of hands and a body of unwound coat hangers, makes Wesley Wyndham Price idly wonder where he stores the lungs that enable the plank to natter endlessly on over Yvonne Elliman’s Greatest Hits piping through from upstairs.
“Came up through here couple months ago, complete wackjob, if you know what I mean. Just-“ A pipe-cleaner finger loops around what Wes assumed is a right ear, “Wooo! I mean, I’ve seen everything and this guy…well, you gotta see for yourself.”
"So you’re sure about this?"
They both halt in front of the wine cellar.
"Vampire with a soul, right? So unless they’re handing out two for one specials at the Emporium, yeah, it’s him."
With no little flourish, he cracks the rusty bolt lock to the side and swings the door open. A chain snaps, and a bare, sixty-watt bulb jumps and flickers on, swinging shadows back and forth across the room.
In the back, among the bottles of Jack Daniels, aniseed and pasteurized goat blood, Wes spots a pile of rags…wait, no, there are, in fact, limbs lying beneath the clump tattered, filthy clothing. Squatting and gripping what can reasonably be determined to be a shoulder, he turns the pile over. Beneath the rags, skin sallow and waxy, stretches like shiny plastic wrap over a skeleton, and on every place visible - neck, arms, torso - pairs of puncture marks litter its body, new bites overlapping old, crusty ones. They'd drained this one until he bled white, and then they'd drained him some more, taking turns over a period of days, weeks, months. Hair, dirty brown and curly, with just a hint of white at the ends, sticks to skeleton’s face, crusted with old, black blood.
Wesley draws back, wiping his hands on his jeans. Glancing up at Moby, he spits in disgust, "This is a joke, right?"
Gunboat hands begin to visibly sweat. “What do you mean? This is the guy you’re looking for.” Spaghetti fingers stretch out to the vampire’s forehead, curiously pressing into the skin.
“This is William the Bloody. And yes, you’re right, undoubtedly vampire. However, the last time I checked, he didn’t have a-“
Feelers from Moby's other hand latch onto his forearm, and Wesley’s head snaps back as images assail him, a rapid flurry of drive-by snapshots and garbled sound bytes rocketing into his brain.
(Bury the dead, bury it all, and hide it. Dirt and splinters and blood and fuck, oh fuck...
Tell me you love me (yes, oh yes, yes, I love you I love you I love you) I'm using you (touch me kiss me fuck me) It's killing me (sex sweat spunk stains on her skin) Ask me why I could never love you (Crawling, squirming, get inside her, bury himself inside, shewantsthis, shewantsthis)
Give her
(Nobody -Murderer-- Nothing-- Whore-- Animal)
Give her
(Rapist)
Give the bitch what she deserves
(Beneath)
...back your soul)
Wesley snatches his hand from the death grip before falling back hard onto his butt. How foolish. How utterly stupid of him to forget the demon's an empath. Throwing a glare at Moby, he drags his knuckles over his mouth, wiping furiously at the bad taste trickling up his throat that's threatening to make a dash for the first and ten.
Wearily, with jerky, stiff movements, he continues to wipe at his face, rubbing his chin, lips and nose, slowly straightening.
“It’s not him.”
“But this--"
“He’s not Angel.”
“What, you’re just going to leave him here?” Indignant offense from the pile of pipe cleaners.
“He’s not Angel,” he repeats.
No, not at all. William the Bloody's always been a poor imitation of his sire. So, what does the inevitable fate of one counterfeit champion, an obvious mockery of the prophecy matter? Much easier to close the door. Walk out. Leave the vampire to his well-deserved ending. He still has to hunt for the real thing.
Angel Investigations helps the helpless.
But there is no Angel Investigations, is there? Not anymore. Wesley Wyndham-Price and crew are free. Masterless. Ronin. Their champion has abandoned them, him, again. As always.
And Spike, well, he's just one more vampire, isn't he?