Round 9/Challenge 4
Hi, I am posting today's poll on behalf of shannon730. garnigal did not request a pass and is disqualified. There was a problem with redeem147's submission, but that has been straightened out and she is still in the competition.
“They don’t even see me anymore,” Drusilla says conversationally to the darkness.
She’d always loved being up high, like a feathered bird singing from its perch. From the roof of the building she stands on, Dru can see the alleyway below, where the tattered remnants of her family are engaged in a desperate battle for their lives.
She mewls softly. Even from this distance, she can smell the reek of the souls which they bear.
It’s wholly unnatural, and Dru is frightened to think that it might be some defect in her bloodline that would make her susceptible. Even Grandmother, before she died, had succumbed to that weakness of the heart. Drusilla still has dreams about it -- the soul glowing from beneath Grandmother’s skin like starlight, like deadly sunlight. And when she awakens, screaming in terror, there is no one there to tend to her.
But she has a design now, a plan, even if is was one that was whispered into her ear when she held a seashell up to it.
Mohra demons are tough little buggers to find, and they none of them are inclined to freely donate their blood. Fortunately, Dru has learned to be patient, like all the good little girls in the storybooks, and she has earned her prize.
She’d failed in her first attempt to reunite the family they once were, but Drusilla is determined to succeed at her goal, no matter how many attempts end in vain. Yes, by the time she has finished with them, Daddy and Spike will be thrilled with Drusilla’s cunning and dedication.
But first, she must pay a visit to her little brother.
The End.
This was what she'd always wanted. No more "one girl (or maybe two) in all the world." No more giving up her dreams to slay vampires. No more Doublemeat Palace, either; her Council salary took care of everything she needed.
And now that Dawn was off at college, Buffy could do anything she wanted. Patrol the streets of Rome. Take Giles up on his offer and move to England to train the baby Slayers. Even go back to school herself, if she wanted to. Her grades had been okay, before she'd had to drop out; she might not be up to Ivy League standards, but she'd have no problem being accepted somewhere.
It was hard to believe that after everything, they finally all got something like normal lives. Dawn was at school; Giles was in England running the Council. Willow was in Brazil, supposedly looking for Slayers, but spending a lot of the time on the beach with Kennedy. She didn't hear from Xander much, but from the postcards he sent from Africa, he liked his work.
Just a few years ago, she wouldn't have expected them all to still be alive by now, let alone happy, and she knew that she ought to be grateful for that.
But she kept remembering the old days back in Sunnydale, when Giles had said that some of her strength as a Slayer came from having friends and family beside her, and she couldn't help but wonder what was going to happen to her, now that she didn't really have either.
The End.
“Sir?”
“I thought I told you not to disturb me unless it was an emergency, Belzy.”
His scowl caused a flurry of feet shuffling and head ducking, but with resolve, Belzy continued. “Sir, I believe this may qualify. It’s really quite urgent.”
He pushed back from the desk, fingers tented as he focused his undivided attention. “Well?”
“The Los Angeles Office - you may recall the decision to put that strange creature, Angel, in charge last year?”
He waved his hand, “The vampire with a soul, subject of prophesies, yadda, yadda, yadda. Old news, Belzy.”
“Well, he seems to have caused a bit of a disturbance. This photo was just transmitted by a freelancer I am in contact with there, taken just a few minutes ago.” Belzy slid the picture across the polished, dark surface, the slight graininess not obscuring the image of a dragon with a man clinging to its neck, brandishing a sword as the creature swooped through an alley.
The man behind the desk snatched up the image quickly. “What is going on? And where is Hamilton - he was in charge of that office.”
“Sir, it seems that this Angel, he was attempting to take apart the Circle of the Black Thorn from the inside, a clever twist, really-” He paused at the glare across the desk and cleared his throat nervously. “But quite foolish, of course, and in retaliation, the Circle has called upon some of the Elder Ones and invoked a bit of,” he ventured a tiny smile, “hell on earth.”
The man pushed away from his desk, and opened a large cabinet, activating a screen inside. A short muttered incantation brought the screen to life, focusing in on a crowded alleyway full of demons furiously tangling around a few small pockets of resistance. A dragon swooped over them, then circled back, twisting to untangle the creature attached like a limpet to its back.
He continued to stare at the screen, as he asked in a deceptively quiet voice, “And Hamilton?”
“Sir, I’m afraid it’s been reported that Angel dispatched of him, a rather spectacular fight apparently, that also resulted in a great deal of destruction of our offices. The new ones.”
“I knew that putting that sniveling do-gooder vampire in place would be a mistake!” The man turned away from the screen, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Oh the irony, they said. Let’s watch him squirm as he’s corrupted from the inside, they said. And now profits are down, the Kuthlu clan has been making noises about being left off some guest list to the Oscars after party and threatening to take their business elsewhere, and the Circle’s decided to open hell in downtown L.A.” He whirled around, eyes blazing. “How are we supposed to cover that one up, Belzy? How?”
“I, I, I . . . earthquake, sir? And some sort of comic book convention in town rub amok perhaps?”
The man paused, listening with a thoughtful look on his smooth face. “I like it, I like it, Belzy. We get a clean up team in there quick, close the portal to whatever hell the Circle tapped, and start some spin.” He glanced back at the picture. “Call it a publicity stunt with one of those directors we rep if you have to - get Jackson or Del Toro to do some press - whoever’s looking to put together a new deal.” He paused. “Make it Jackson - the wife wants to see The Hobbit.”
“Of course, sir.”
And then, then I’m calling the Senior Partners together for a meeting. We’ve needed solid leadership in our West Coast office since we lost Holland Manners there and I’m not backing down this time. That hot shot I wanted to tap last spring - the one that sold his soul for a spot at Stanford, we still have that marker?”
“I believe we do, sir.”
“Excellent.” He rubbed his hands together. “It’s time to change things up at Wolfram & Hart, Belzy, old boy.”
The End.
All Spike smelled was blood and motor oil. He lifted his face to the rain, ignoring the sting where the wet concrete scraped his already broken skin. He blinked to force the droplets clinging to his lashes to fall.
That just meant he now saw the dark gray smearing his fingers. The dust he’d snatched out of the air when a demon twice his size had reared up behind Angel and cut off his head. He’d tried to warn him. The others, he couldn’t save; Gunn was a walking dead man before stepping foot in the alley, and Illyria disappeared into the fray too early to track.
But Angel, in spite of his stubborn, infuriating ways, was the closest Spike had to family anymore. He didn’t want him dead.
He realized he should’ve learned a long time ago that what he wanted and what he got were two entirely different things.
Spike groaned as standing shot fresh pain up his spine. That bloody dragon had swooped in out of nowhere. Half of his clothes were scorched away, but the rain had quenched the flames before he could combust, leaving him staggering back against the brick wall and out of the thick of the fight. He remembered nothing else until awakening. The thought he’d somehow failed filled him with dread.
His only hope was it was still night. He wasn’t dust so he couldn’t have been unconscious for long. There might be a chance to get back into the clash and die with honor alongside his friends.
As he staggered out to the street, the first thing he noticed was the absence of sound. The soft drive of the rain splashing into puddles could have been any midnight in any city, not the center of a hellbent fray. Streetlamps flickered. A few were shattered, glass splattered at their bases like shed scales, but most were still intact, testimony that the world went on.
His gaze jumped up and down the street. Empty. No more fight. How could it be over when it had barely begun?
But it was. He couldn’t deny what he saw with his own eyes. In the distance, a car honked, to be answered by another.
The world went on.
Spike leaned heavily against the wall, shoulders sagging. He craved a cigarette, but the pack he pulled from his pocket was sodden and useless. If the rest of LA wasn’t under siege, he could probably find a shop close by and get another, but that felt like too much effort. Better to wait, hold up the wall and not think about it holding up him.
If the fight really was over, he had other things to worry about, like what he was going to do now. He’d avoided making any real decision for the past year, but the clock had finally ticked its last tock. No Angel to annoy. No Gunn to drink with. No Illyria to leer after when her back was turned, because really, the goddess had the ass of champions, especially in that leather number. All he had left was himself. Maybe for the first time since getting turned.
Bugger, what he wouldn’t do for a smoke.
The sound reached through his growing malaise only because it was different. It wasn’t a construct of the city, nor did it resonate from the streets in front of him. It cut into Spike’s awareness because it came from behind, from the bowels of the alley he had only just vacated. It breathed of life.
Spike’s head whipped around, any sense of lassitude gone. He held still, listening. Looking. Waiting for a repeat so he could determine what exactly it was. It didn’t come. He crept forward. Proximity might make a difference. The softly falling rain masked his steps, but he remained tense, ready for anyone or anything to jump out at him.
He felt the heartbeat first. Fluttery, like a small bird’s wings. Too regular to be demon, too fast to be human.
Then he smelled the blood. It wasn’t spilled from open veins, and it wasn’t stale from hours of exposure. It was fresh and hot and rushed through flesh loud enough for him to hear.
It also pulsed in time with the heartbeat. He’d been wrong. It wasn’t too fast for a human. Just for an adult.
He found it near where he’d been laying. He’d been too wrapped up in returning to the fight to notice. A baby rested atop a swaddle of black leather, wrapped in a blanket only dry because the open dumpster lid protected it from the bulk of the rain. Its eyes were screwed shut, a tiny fist at its mouth as its lips pursed around a thumb and sucked vigorously. That was the sound he’d heard.
Crouching down, Spike pulled away the edge of the blanket. His eyes widened for a moment, before his brows drew together into a thick frown.
“Well, fuck.”
The baby had a birthmark he recognized all too well. He’d certainly mocked it enough when he saw it on Angel’s business cards. Which meant only one thing.
Carefully, he eased the fabric away from the kid’s head. It opened its eyes, but he didn’t need to see the liquid brown depths to recognize the wide, sloped forehead.
Spike growled. “Now this just isn’t funny.” He imagined Angel wouldn’t think so, either. The last thing he wanted was to pick the baby up, but nobody else was in the alley. If he didn’t, there was no saying who’d find the babe, if anybody even would.
“Not calling you Angel, you know. It’s a pansy name.” He straightened, taking care to cradle the baby’s head. “Just have to come up with something a bit more manly. Like Spike.” He grinned. “Or Spike Junior. Could get used to that.”
He could’ve sworn the baby glared at him. Didn’t matter. All that did was he wasn’t alone anymore.
The End.
Poll Round 9/Challenge 4
“They don’t even see me anymore,” Drusilla says conversationally to the darkness.
She’d always loved being up high, like a feathered bird singing from its perch. From the roof of the building she stands on, Dru can see the alleyway below, where the tattered remnants of her family are engaged in a desperate battle for their lives.
She mewls softly. Even from this distance, she can smell the reek of the souls which they bear.
It’s wholly unnatural, and Dru is frightened to think that it might be some defect in her bloodline that would make her susceptible. Even Grandmother, before she died, had succumbed to that weakness of the heart. Drusilla still has dreams about it -- the soul glowing from beneath Grandmother’s skin like starlight, like deadly sunlight. And when she awakens, screaming in terror, there is no one there to tend to her.
But she has a design now, a plan, even if is was one that was whispered into her ear when she held a seashell up to it.
Mohra demons are tough little buggers to find, and they none of them are inclined to freely donate their blood. Fortunately, Dru has learned to be patient, like all the good little girls in the storybooks, and she has earned her prize.
She’d failed in her first attempt to reunite the family they once were, but Drusilla is determined to succeed at her goal, no matter how many attempts end in vain. Yes, by the time she has finished with them, Daddy and Spike will be thrilled with Drusilla’s cunning and dedication.
But first, she must pay a visit to her little brother.
The End.
This was what she'd always wanted. No more "one girl (or maybe two) in all the world." No more giving up her dreams to slay vampires. No more Doublemeat Palace, either; her Council salary took care of everything she needed.
And now that Dawn was off at college, Buffy could do anything she wanted. Patrol the streets of Rome. Take Giles up on his offer and move to England to train the baby Slayers. Even go back to school herself, if she wanted to. Her grades had been okay, before she'd had to drop out; she might not be up to Ivy League standards, but she'd have no problem being accepted somewhere.
It was hard to believe that after everything, they finally all got something like normal lives. Dawn was at school; Giles was in England running the Council. Willow was in Brazil, supposedly looking for Slayers, but spending a lot of the time on the beach with Kennedy. She didn't hear from Xander much, but from the postcards he sent from Africa, he liked his work.
Just a few years ago, she wouldn't have expected them all to still be alive by now, let alone happy, and she knew that she ought to be grateful for that.
But she kept remembering the old days back in Sunnydale, when Giles had said that some of her strength as a Slayer came from having friends and family beside her, and she couldn't help but wonder what was going to happen to her, now that she didn't really have either.
The End.
“Sir?”
“I thought I told you not to disturb me unless it was an emergency, Belzy.”
His scowl caused a flurry of feet shuffling and head ducking, but with resolve, Belzy continued. “Sir, I believe this may qualify. It’s really quite urgent.”
He pushed back from the desk, fingers tented as he focused his undivided attention. “Well?”
“The Los Angeles Office - you may recall the decision to put that strange creature, Angel, in charge last year?”
He waved his hand, “The vampire with a soul, subject of prophesies, yadda, yadda, yadda. Old news, Belzy.”
“Well, he seems to have caused a bit of a disturbance. This photo was just transmitted by a freelancer I am in contact with there, taken just a few minutes ago.” Belzy slid the picture across the polished, dark surface, the slight graininess not obscuring the image of a dragon with a man clinging to its neck, brandishing a sword as the creature swooped through an alley.
The man behind the desk snatched up the image quickly. “What is going on? And where is Hamilton - he was in charge of that office.”
“Sir, it seems that this Angel, he was attempting to take apart the Circle of the Black Thorn from the inside, a clever twist, really-” He paused at the glare across the desk and cleared his throat nervously. “But quite foolish, of course, and in retaliation, the Circle has called upon some of the Elder Ones and invoked a bit of,” he ventured a tiny smile, “hell on earth.”
The man pushed away from his desk, and opened a large cabinet, activating a screen inside. A short muttered incantation brought the screen to life, focusing in on a crowded alleyway full of demons furiously tangling around a few small pockets of resistance. A dragon swooped over them, then circled back, twisting to untangle the creature attached like a limpet to its back.
He continued to stare at the screen, as he asked in a deceptively quiet voice, “And Hamilton?”
“Sir, I’m afraid it’s been reported that Angel dispatched of him, a rather spectacular fight apparently, that also resulted in a great deal of destruction of our offices. The new ones.”
“I knew that putting that sniveling do-gooder vampire in place would be a mistake!” The man turned away from the screen, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Oh the irony, they said. Let’s watch him squirm as he’s corrupted from the inside, they said. And now profits are down, the Kuthlu clan has been making noises about being left off some guest list to the Oscars after party and threatening to take their business elsewhere, and the Circle’s decided to open hell in downtown L.A.” He whirled around, eyes blazing. “How are we supposed to cover that one up, Belzy? How?”
“I, I, I . . . earthquake, sir? And some sort of comic book convention in town rub amok perhaps?”
The man paused, listening with a thoughtful look on his smooth face. “I like it, I like it, Belzy. We get a clean up team in there quick, close the portal to whatever hell the Circle tapped, and start some spin.” He glanced back at the picture. “Call it a publicity stunt with one of those directors we rep if you have to - get Jackson or Del Toro to do some press - whoever’s looking to put together a new deal.” He paused. “Make it Jackson - the wife wants to see The Hobbit.”
“Of course, sir.”
And then, then I’m calling the Senior Partners together for a meeting. We’ve needed solid leadership in our West Coast office since we lost Holland Manners there and I’m not backing down this time. That hot shot I wanted to tap last spring - the one that sold his soul for a spot at Stanford, we still have that marker?”
“I believe we do, sir.”
“Excellent.” He rubbed his hands together. “It’s time to change things up at Wolfram & Hart, Belzy, old boy.”
The End.
All Spike smelled was blood and motor oil. He lifted his face to the rain, ignoring the sting where the wet concrete scraped his already broken skin. He blinked to force the droplets clinging to his lashes to fall.
That just meant he now saw the dark gray smearing his fingers. The dust he’d snatched out of the air when a demon twice his size had reared up behind Angel and cut off his head. He’d tried to warn him. The others, he couldn’t save; Gunn was a walking dead man before stepping foot in the alley, and Illyria disappeared into the fray too early to track.
But Angel, in spite of his stubborn, infuriating ways, was the closest Spike had to family anymore. He didn’t want him dead.
He realized he should’ve learned a long time ago that what he wanted and what he got were two entirely different things.
Spike groaned as standing shot fresh pain up his spine. That bloody dragon had swooped in out of nowhere. Half of his clothes were scorched away, but the rain had quenched the flames before he could combust, leaving him staggering back against the brick wall and out of the thick of the fight. He remembered nothing else until awakening. The thought he’d somehow failed filled him with dread.
His only hope was it was still night. He wasn’t dust so he couldn’t have been unconscious for long. There might be a chance to get back into the clash and die with honor alongside his friends.
As he staggered out to the street, the first thing he noticed was the absence of sound. The soft drive of the rain splashing into puddles could have been any midnight in any city, not the center of a hellbent fray. Streetlamps flickered. A few were shattered, glass splattered at their bases like shed scales, but most were still intact, testimony that the world went on.
His gaze jumped up and down the street. Empty. No more fight. How could it be over when it had barely begun?
But it was. He couldn’t deny what he saw with his own eyes. In the distance, a car honked, to be answered by another.
The world went on.
Spike leaned heavily against the wall, shoulders sagging. He craved a cigarette, but the pack he pulled from his pocket was sodden and useless. If the rest of LA wasn’t under siege, he could probably find a shop close by and get another, but that felt like too much effort. Better to wait, hold up the wall and not think about it holding up him.
If the fight really was over, he had other things to worry about, like what he was going to do now. He’d avoided making any real decision for the past year, but the clock had finally ticked its last tock. No Angel to annoy. No Gunn to drink with. No Illyria to leer after when her back was turned, because really, the goddess had the ass of champions, especially in that leather number. All he had left was himself. Maybe for the first time since getting turned.
Bugger, what he wouldn’t do for a smoke.
The sound reached through his growing malaise only because it was different. It wasn’t a construct of the city, nor did it resonate from the streets in front of him. It cut into Spike’s awareness because it came from behind, from the bowels of the alley he had only just vacated. It breathed of life.
Spike’s head whipped around, any sense of lassitude gone. He held still, listening. Looking. Waiting for a repeat so he could determine what exactly it was. It didn’t come. He crept forward. Proximity might make a difference. The softly falling rain masked his steps, but he remained tense, ready for anyone or anything to jump out at him.
He felt the heartbeat first. Fluttery, like a small bird’s wings. Too regular to be demon, too fast to be human.
Then he smelled the blood. It wasn’t spilled from open veins, and it wasn’t stale from hours of exposure. It was fresh and hot and rushed through flesh loud enough for him to hear.
It also pulsed in time with the heartbeat. He’d been wrong. It wasn’t too fast for a human. Just for an adult.
He found it near where he’d been laying. He’d been too wrapped up in returning to the fight to notice. A baby rested atop a swaddle of black leather, wrapped in a blanket only dry because the open dumpster lid protected it from the bulk of the rain. Its eyes were screwed shut, a tiny fist at its mouth as its lips pursed around a thumb and sucked vigorously. That was the sound he’d heard.
Crouching down, Spike pulled away the edge of the blanket. His eyes widened for a moment, before his brows drew together into a thick frown.
“Well, fuck.”
The baby had a birthmark he recognized all too well. He’d certainly mocked it enough when he saw it on Angel’s business cards. Which meant only one thing.
Carefully, he eased the fabric away from the kid’s head. It opened its eyes, but he didn’t need to see the liquid brown depths to recognize the wide, sloped forehead.
Spike growled. “Now this just isn’t funny.” He imagined Angel wouldn’t think so, either. The last thing he wanted was to pick the baby up, but nobody else was in the alley. If he didn’t, there was no saying who’d find the babe, if anybody even would.
“Not calling you Angel, you know. It’s a pansy name.” He straightened, taking care to cradle the baby’s head. “Just have to come up with something a bit more manly. Like Spike.” He grinned. “Or Spike Junior. Could get used to that.”
He could’ve sworn the baby glared at him. Didn’t matter. All that did was he wasn’t alone anymore.
The End.
Poll Round 9/Challenge 4