Continued from HERESlippin' my hand outta her hair, I let it slide down and wrap tightly around her throat. I licked my lips, wishin' I could just snap her pretty little neck. But I couldn't
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I started laughin' again. What the hell was goin' on around here. See to my health?
"Hate to be the one to wet the paper here, but I'm fuckin' dead people. So my health? Not really an issue. Now, all this other shit? That's an issue."
That's when B's voice echoed in my head. Somethin' she said a minute ago. Somethin' that didn't fuckin' register til now.
"Faith, listen... I know this is hard to believe, but...... we put your soul back."
I lifted my hands up to my ears, holdin' the sides of my head. It has to be the voices. Somebody's usin' B's voice to fuck with me.
"Don't use her voice to lie to me! They're tellin' lies! Nobody put my soul back. That was Angel. He's fuckin' gone now. Angelus...." I shook my head again. "...Spike. Not me."
"....we put your soul back."
"Stop fuckin' lyin'! Can't put the cracker jack prize back into the opened box! The box is open, no prize inside."
No. This wasn't real. No way did they put my fuckin' soul back.
I looked at ‘em all. They was still givin' me that look. That look of pity. Of guilt. They did it. I could fuckin' smell it on ‘em.
Somebody was gonna pay.
I clenched my jaw, narrowin' my eyes as I glared at B. She's the one who did this shit. It was her voice echoin' through my head.
"....we put your soul back."
"How could you fuckin' do this to me? Just couldn't stand it B, could ya? For once in my life I was better than you. Stronger than you. You couldn't beat me, so you shoved my fuckin' soul back in me huh? Not cool, B, not cool at all."
With that, I lunged towards her. She was gonna pay for this. I was puttin' an end to it once and for all. If I was gonna be punished, then so was she. And when I was done with her, I was gonna take care of the rest of ‘em.
Once, in my younger days at Watchers' Academy, a group of friends and myself headed out into London on an evening's pass, intent on seeing the latest avant garde production of Shakespeare that was garnering quite rave reviews from West End criics. In the Bard's home country in particular, young artistically minded theatre types were always keen on 'reinventing' or 'reinterpreting' Shakespeare's works, whether transposing them to different time periods, using more symbolic and esoteric stage tricks, or what have you. Personally, I was something of a traditionalist, but it was still a night out on the town with the chums.
Instead of a theatre, we entered a clean, if somewhat elderly warehouse space, the entire place painted pitch black, with harsh, bright lights hung at seemingly random spots. Rather than the traditional arrangement, the audience for this performance was seated in the middle of the space, all facing inward, with a handful of aisle dividing the sections. The play-- Hamlet, of course, the ultimate subject of artistic rearrangement-- proceeded to occur around and amongst us for the next several hours. I myself was nearly nicked in the ear by Laertes' rapier during the dueling.
As so often occurs, my mind was unintentionally dragged back into the recollection of this particular event by the only tangential similarity of the events unfolding before me in real life. The loose triangle of myself, Buffy and Willow staged near the foot of the staircase, with Faith nearly isolated facing back at us. Faith at the moment was as unhinged as the fictional Prince of Denmark had ever pretended to be, if not moreso. She continually seemed to be addressing nothing and no one at all, which I could only surmise was a manifestation of a reaction to her sudden onrush of guilt. Buffy, on the other hand, stood opposite the other Slayer, with Laertes' steel determination, but with the intention of helping, and not killing her onetime sister.
"Good idea Wes. Better do what the little woman tells ya to."
I bristled at the comment, but only for a moment. Buffy's plan, Buffy's rules. It had been effort enough to prevent Buffy from turning herself into what she saw before herself; I was not going to risk her reversion to Plan A.
Faith's internal tumult was quickly becoming obvious, as she continued to address the thin air with increasing anger and disbelief.
"Don't use her voice to lie to me! They're tellin' lies! Nobody put my soul back. That was Angel. He's fuckin' gone now. Angelus.... Spike. Not me."
Her head snapped up, and it was clear that realisation had set in. It was also clear that Faith's reaction was unadulterated fury.
"How could you fuckin' do this to me? Just couldn't stand it B, could ya? For once in my life I was better than you. Stronger than you. You couldn't beat me, so you shoved my fuckin' soul back in me huh? Not cool, B, not cool at all."
Like a great panther, Faith took only a split second to coil herself before launching into the air, springing at Buffy, her hands curled into wicked claws, and the vampire's face matching the cold scream of anger.
I am not a hero. I believe, perhaps, that at one point, I had the chance to be one.
For most of my life, I was not worthy of that title. Year and years passed, ever-hopeful and constant in the overwhelming desire to be a hero, that I was not enough; that I came up short of the mark. And then, I allowed the dark things into my soul, turning myself, as Lilah was so very correct in pointing out, gray, forever. Since then, I have gone past what a hero would do, and there is no turning back.
I am not a hero. But, I believe it is my honour and privilege to stand beside them. And, surprisingly, to love one. And I am more than content to do my part.
And that is why when Faith attacked, it was my left hand that slipped under my jacket, and it was the air pistol loaded with tranquiliser darts that rose and fired. The red flare at the base of the dart blossomed, and the needle drove enough sedative into Faith's system to put down a linebacker on amphetamines.
The dark-haired vampire fell to the marble floor, a foot short of her target.
I let out a long-held breath, and started walking towards the still form, glancing at Buffy, hoping that for once, there might be a second chance for ones such as myself. And one for Faith, as well.
"Hate to be the one to wet the paper here, but I'm fuckin' dead people. So my health? Not really an issue. Now, all this other shit? That's an issue."
That's when B's voice echoed in my head. Somethin' she said a minute ago. Somethin' that didn't fuckin' register til now.
"Faith, listen... I know this is hard to believe, but...... we put your soul back."
I lifted my hands up to my ears, holdin' the sides of my head. It has to be the voices. Somebody's usin' B's voice to fuck with me.
"Don't use her voice to lie to me! They're tellin' lies! Nobody put my soul back. That was Angel. He's fuckin' gone now. Angelus...." I shook my head again. "...Spike. Not me."
"....we put your soul back."
"Stop fuckin' lyin'! Can't put the cracker jack prize back into the opened box! The box is open, no prize inside."
No. This wasn't real. No way did they put my fuckin' soul back.
I looked at ‘em all. They was still givin' me that look. That look of pity. Of guilt. They did it. I could fuckin' smell it on ‘em.
Somebody was gonna pay.
I clenched my jaw, narrowin' my eyes as I glared at B. She's the one who did this shit. It was her voice echoin' through my head.
"....we put your soul back."
"How could you fuckin' do this to me? Just couldn't stand it B, could ya? For once in my life I was better than you. Stronger than you. You couldn't beat me, so you shoved my fuckin' soul back in me huh? Not cool, B, not cool at all."
With that, I lunged towards her. She was gonna pay for this. I was puttin' an end to it once and for all. If I was gonna be punished, then so was she. And when I was done with her, I was gonna take care of the rest of ‘em.
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Instead of a theatre, we entered a clean, if somewhat elderly warehouse space, the entire place painted pitch black, with harsh, bright lights hung at seemingly random spots. Rather than the traditional arrangement, the audience for this performance was seated in the middle of the space, all facing inward, with a handful of aisle dividing the sections. The play-- Hamlet, of course, the ultimate subject of artistic rearrangement-- proceeded to occur around and amongst us for the next several hours. I myself was nearly nicked in the ear by Laertes' rapier during the dueling.
As so often occurs, my mind was unintentionally dragged back into the recollection of this particular event by the only tangential similarity of the events unfolding before me in real life. The loose triangle of myself, Buffy and Willow staged near the foot of the staircase, with Faith nearly isolated facing back at us. Faith at the moment was as unhinged as the fictional Prince of Denmark had ever pretended to be, if not moreso. She continually seemed to be addressing nothing and no one at all, which I could only surmise was a manifestation of a reaction to her sudden onrush of guilt. Buffy, on the other hand, stood opposite the other Slayer, with Laertes' steel determination, but with the intention of helping, and not killing her onetime sister.
"Good idea Wes. Better do what the little woman tells ya to."
I bristled at the comment, but only for a moment. Buffy's plan, Buffy's rules. It had been effort enough to prevent Buffy from turning herself into what she saw before herself; I was not going to risk her reversion to Plan A.
Faith's internal tumult was quickly becoming obvious, as she continued to address the thin air with increasing anger and disbelief.
"Don't use her voice to lie to me! They're tellin' lies! Nobody put my soul back. That was Angel. He's fuckin' gone now. Angelus.... Spike. Not me."
Her head snapped up, and it was clear that realisation had set in. It was also clear that Faith's reaction was unadulterated fury.
"How could you fuckin' do this to me? Just couldn't stand it B, could ya? For once in my life I was better than you. Stronger than you. You couldn't beat me, so you shoved my fuckin' soul back in me huh? Not cool, B, not cool at all."
Like a great panther, Faith took only a split second to coil herself before launching into the air, springing at Buffy, her hands curled into wicked claws, and the vampire's face matching the cold scream of anger.
Reply
For most of my life, I was not worthy of that title. Year and years passed, ever-hopeful and constant in the overwhelming desire to be a hero, that I was not enough; that I came up short of the mark. And then, I allowed the dark things into my soul, turning myself, as Lilah was so very correct in pointing out, gray, forever. Since then, I have gone past what a hero would do, and there is no turning back.
I am not a hero. But, I believe it is my honour and privilege to stand beside them. And, surprisingly, to love one. And I am more than content to do my part.
And that is why when Faith attacked, it was my left hand that slipped under my jacket, and it was the air pistol loaded with tranquiliser darts that rose and fired. The red flare at the base of the dart blossomed, and the needle drove enough sedative into Faith's system to put down a linebacker on amphetamines.
The dark-haired vampire fell to the marble floor, a foot short of her target.
I let out a long-held breath, and started walking towards the still form, glancing at Buffy, hoping that for once, there might be a second chance for ones such as myself. And one for Faith, as well.
Reply
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