Epitaph Again 1/?
Hi! It seems like newbies can just start posting? So I thought I'd go ahead and do so ... already have 15 or 16 chaps written, but will probably take awhile to get em all posted up ....
Title: Epitaph Again
Author: ghostofsnickerdoodle/ghostyouknow27
Chapter: 1: To Save Your World, You Asked This Man to Die
Pairings: S/B.
Rating: 15-18. There are a few bad words thrown around and the story's set in a brutal post apocalyptic world - that said, I don't get graphic.
Warnings: None.
Summary: One hundred years after Chosen, Buffy lives in a world destroyed by the Dollhouse's technology, looking for something she can't let herself remember. Her life changes when she gets a box in the mail (never mind that mail no longer exists) containing a certain incorporeal someone. The Dollhouse's technology plays a role in this fic, but the characters are strictly Buffyverse. This story has been nominated at the Sunnydale Memorial Awards for Best Crossover (TV). Go vote, if you're the voting type. If I win, I promise to give the whole world puppies.
Disclaimer: Joss owns everything.
There was a box, addressed to her, complete with post stamp. Odd, since mail no longer existed. She picked up the box (perhaps unwisely, but it was hard to care these days), listened to the metallic tinkling within. The date stamp read 2003.
“What do you think it is?” Jo was tall, plain, burn scars stretched across her chin and cheekbone, slipping into scattered snake scales across her brow. One eye was red with a slitted pupil. the other human and brown. Her birthmark read “Nicole,” but it was Jo who had merged with the demon, Jo who had figured out how not to die.
“A century late,” said Buffy, whose birthmark was her name. The cardboard tingled at her hands. “And demonic.”
Jo shrugged, she too was demonic, and too young to remember the days when demonic meant bad. A baby, Jo, at 34. Or 54. Buffy never could keep track of birthdays, or names, and her memory had only grown worse with the watery rush of decades.“It’s new,” she said.
Jo had a point. So little was new these days. Then again, new was usually bad. “2003, though, that’s ancient. Back when there was mail.” And shopping malls and suburbs. Fast food restaurants and fixed identities. So funny, now, to look back, and remember thinking it hell.
“It has your name on it,” said Jo. “It found you.”
Buffy nodded, removed one knife or many from her belt. The women were sitting on the couch - an old cement bench, covered with a rags heaped high - in what passed as Jo’s home, a stank hole in the network of stank holes and tunnels of the D.C. Underground. A century ago, it had been a metro rail tunnel. Now it belonged to the unwipeables. Demons and part demons and the spliced, and Buffy, who often suspected she had a cockroach gene or two. And nothing moved through it anymore.
The tape split neatly. Buffy put the knife back, gingerly lifted a cardboard flap. “Huh.”
It was an amulet, gaudy and gold. It pricked uncomfortably at her memory and felt warm in her hands.
Jo blinked her mismatched eyes. “A box transcends time, space and the complete collapse of civilization to deliver a piece of costume jewelry?”
“Neither rain, nor sleet,” quipped Buffy, as if Jo would get the reference, her gaze fixed on the amulet. She gently moved her thumb across its gaudy, gilded edge. The candlelight make moving patterns in its surface. “I feel something.” She met Jo’s eyes. “I think this was mine. Is mine. It’s - familar.”
“Its box had your name on it,” said Jo. “Back then, names meant things.” She blinked her human eye. Buffy knew Jo had seen something in her face, for her former sister Slayer, first thrust into civilian form, then spliced, closed her still-human hand over Buffy’s, over the amulet. “But it’s not doing anything for us at the moment, so -”
White. Flash. Buffy cried out at the sudden brightness, throwing an arm across her face. She heard Jo hiss, an unfamiliar familiar deep-throated scream. And then the dark was back, soothing at her throbbing eyes. She blinked against the embers behind her lids. Or in front of them - instead of diminishing, they coalesced. Formed from nothing into ash into a man. White hair. Black coat. Splayed on his knees as if her had fallen, lungs working fast..
Buffy’s legs had acted of their own accord, She was standing, fists up. Ready to kill.
“Buffy,” said the man, and there was something in his voice. Something that hurt. And he was on his feet, rushing her, arms outstretched, chest open and vulnerable. She braced herself, whipped out her blade, knowing his own force would impale him on her knife, easy peasy. But then he passed through her, and she felt nothing. No cold, no breeze. It was like he wasn’t.
She spun on her heel. He had not expected to run through her, for his momentum carried him too far, and he lurched and fell like a broken wind-up toy, hands windmilling before he caught them on the ground.“Buffy!”
“And you said it belonged to you?” said Jo, who had positioned herself at Buffy’s side.
Things were going fast. Too fast. She couldn’t breathe. Everything was periphery. Everything centered on him. Oh God, and it hurt. It hurt and she wanted it, and she wanted it gone, and if only she could ...
She stopped. Blinked. The pain receded. And the ghost was still there, on Jo’s floor. It was starting to laugh now, a mad little giggle.
Buffy swallowed. “Maybe it did. I don’t remember.”
The giggles ceased.
“Oh, that’s rich,” said the ghost, getting to his feet and turning around, dark eyes furious, voice rising in volume with every word. “A bloke dies for you. Burns up in the Hellmouth, skin crackling, eyeballs bursting in their sockets, saving the world, and you can’t bloody remember him!”
Jo let out a hissing laugh, “I don’t know who you are, but I know you didn’t save the world.”
“Did, too!” said the ghost (was he a ghost?). He motioned to the amulet, which Buffy had dropped on the floor. “Ringed that around my neck, didn’t I? Closed the Hellmouth while the potentials got all chosen. Didn’t tickle.”
Buffy’s head throbbed. For a brief moment, flames danced at the edges of her memory. She drew a deep breath and lowered her knife. “Sunnydale,” she said.
“Bloody right it was Sunnydale!” yelled the ghost, stalking towards her. He jabbed a finger into her chest, up to the knuckle, quickly withdrew his hand when he saw that he had. “What’s wrong with you, Slayer? Where is this? And what the bloody hell have you done to me!” He turned his head to glare at Jo. “Did you do this to her?”
Buffy wished she could push him away from her, but she had to settle for glaring up into his face. “Look, buster,” she said, “I don’t know who you are. I don’t know why you think you know me. But if you were in Sunnydale that day? You didn’t save the world. You helped me end it.”
Title: Epitaph Again
Author: ghostofsnickerdoodle/ghostyouknow27
Chapter: 1: To Save Your World, You Asked This Man to Die
Pairings: S/B.
Rating: 15-18. There are a few bad words thrown around and the story's set in a brutal post apocalyptic world - that said, I don't get graphic.
Warnings: None.
Summary: One hundred years after Chosen, Buffy lives in a world destroyed by the Dollhouse's technology, looking for something she can't let herself remember. Her life changes when she gets a box in the mail (never mind that mail no longer exists) containing a certain incorporeal someone. The Dollhouse's technology plays a role in this fic, but the characters are strictly Buffyverse. This story has been nominated at the Sunnydale Memorial Awards for Best Crossover (TV). Go vote, if you're the voting type. If I win, I promise to give the whole world puppies.
Disclaimer: Joss owns everything.
There was a box, addressed to her, complete with post stamp. Odd, since mail no longer existed. She picked up the box (perhaps unwisely, but it was hard to care these days), listened to the metallic tinkling within. The date stamp read 2003.
“What do you think it is?” Jo was tall, plain, burn scars stretched across her chin and cheekbone, slipping into scattered snake scales across her brow. One eye was red with a slitted pupil. the other human and brown. Her birthmark read “Nicole,” but it was Jo who had merged with the demon, Jo who had figured out how not to die.
“A century late,” said Buffy, whose birthmark was her name. The cardboard tingled at her hands. “And demonic.”
Jo shrugged, she too was demonic, and too young to remember the days when demonic meant bad. A baby, Jo, at 34. Or 54. Buffy never could keep track of birthdays, or names, and her memory had only grown worse with the watery rush of decades.“It’s new,” she said.
Jo had a point. So little was new these days. Then again, new was usually bad. “2003, though, that’s ancient. Back when there was mail.” And shopping malls and suburbs. Fast food restaurants and fixed identities. So funny, now, to look back, and remember thinking it hell.
“It has your name on it,” said Jo. “It found you.”
Buffy nodded, removed one knife or many from her belt. The women were sitting on the couch - an old cement bench, covered with a rags heaped high - in what passed as Jo’s home, a stank hole in the network of stank holes and tunnels of the D.C. Underground. A century ago, it had been a metro rail tunnel. Now it belonged to the unwipeables. Demons and part demons and the spliced, and Buffy, who often suspected she had a cockroach gene or two. And nothing moved through it anymore.
The tape split neatly. Buffy put the knife back, gingerly lifted a cardboard flap. “Huh.”
It was an amulet, gaudy and gold. It pricked uncomfortably at her memory and felt warm in her hands.
Jo blinked her mismatched eyes. “A box transcends time, space and the complete collapse of civilization to deliver a piece of costume jewelry?”
“Neither rain, nor sleet,” quipped Buffy, as if Jo would get the reference, her gaze fixed on the amulet. She gently moved her thumb across its gaudy, gilded edge. The candlelight make moving patterns in its surface. “I feel something.” She met Jo’s eyes. “I think this was mine. Is mine. It’s - familar.”
“Its box had your name on it,” said Jo. “Back then, names meant things.” She blinked her human eye. Buffy knew Jo had seen something in her face, for her former sister Slayer, first thrust into civilian form, then spliced, closed her still-human hand over Buffy’s, over the amulet. “But it’s not doing anything for us at the moment, so -”
White. Flash. Buffy cried out at the sudden brightness, throwing an arm across her face. She heard Jo hiss, an unfamiliar familiar deep-throated scream. And then the dark was back, soothing at her throbbing eyes. She blinked against the embers behind her lids. Or in front of them - instead of diminishing, they coalesced. Formed from nothing into ash into a man. White hair. Black coat. Splayed on his knees as if her had fallen, lungs working fast..
Buffy’s legs had acted of their own accord, She was standing, fists up. Ready to kill.
“Buffy,” said the man, and there was something in his voice. Something that hurt. And he was on his feet, rushing her, arms outstretched, chest open and vulnerable. She braced herself, whipped out her blade, knowing his own force would impale him on her knife, easy peasy. But then he passed through her, and she felt nothing. No cold, no breeze. It was like he wasn’t.
She spun on her heel. He had not expected to run through her, for his momentum carried him too far, and he lurched and fell like a broken wind-up toy, hands windmilling before he caught them on the ground.“Buffy!”
“And you said it belonged to you?” said Jo, who had positioned herself at Buffy’s side.
Things were going fast. Too fast. She couldn’t breathe. Everything was periphery. Everything centered on him. Oh God, and it hurt. It hurt and she wanted it, and she wanted it gone, and if only she could ...
She stopped. Blinked. The pain receded. And the ghost was still there, on Jo’s floor. It was starting to laugh now, a mad little giggle.
Buffy swallowed. “Maybe it did. I don’t remember.”
The giggles ceased.
“Oh, that’s rich,” said the ghost, getting to his feet and turning around, dark eyes furious, voice rising in volume with every word. “A bloke dies for you. Burns up in the Hellmouth, skin crackling, eyeballs bursting in their sockets, saving the world, and you can’t bloody remember him!”
Jo let out a hissing laugh, “I don’t know who you are, but I know you didn’t save the world.”
“Did, too!” said the ghost (was he a ghost?). He motioned to the amulet, which Buffy had dropped on the floor. “Ringed that around my neck, didn’t I? Closed the Hellmouth while the potentials got all chosen. Didn’t tickle.”
Buffy’s head throbbed. For a brief moment, flames danced at the edges of her memory. She drew a deep breath and lowered her knife. “Sunnydale,” she said.
“Bloody right it was Sunnydale!” yelled the ghost, stalking towards her. He jabbed a finger into her chest, up to the knuckle, quickly withdrew his hand when he saw that he had. “What’s wrong with you, Slayer? Where is this? And what the bloody hell have you done to me!” He turned his head to glare at Jo. “Did you do this to her?”
Buffy wished she could push him away from her, but she had to settle for glaring up into his face. “Look, buster,” she said, “I don’t know who you are. I don’t know why you think you know me. But if you were in Sunnydale that day? You didn’t save the world. You helped me end it.”