Hybrids (2 of 2)
Title: Hybrids (2 of 2)
Author: kanedax
Recipient: intl_princess
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Rating: PG-15
Spoilers: BtVS Season 5 (w/ minors of 7 & 8 and AtS 5)
Warnings: character death (duh), language, and disturbing images
Summary: Buffy can't save the world every time.
Thanks to charma_10 for the beta!
Hybrids (1 of 2)
She didn't think that the smell could get any worse than it was down in solitary.
But as Faith entered the cellblock, she realized just how wrong she was. Within moments she was on her hands and knees, her stomach squeezing what little it contained up her throat and out her mouth. A thin trickle, a combination of toilet water, saliva, and stomach acid--with just a hint of Dinty Moore canned beef--dribbled from her mouth to the concrete.
The smell coming from the cells was overwhelming. Unthinkable. Unimaginable. How many women did this place hold, anyway? Three thousand? Four? How many corpses?
"Astonishing, isn't it?" Wilkins asked from behind Faith as she pushed her self to her knees, wiping a shaking hand across her mouth. "The power of man, in all its glory."
In any other case, Faith would have had some sort of snappy comeback about men in general. Right now, however, she was utterly speechless.
"Let's leave this place, Faith," he continued, walking past her and down the hall, his black Rockports clicking on the concrete (but did they make an echo in the cavernous cellblock? Faith didn't think so). "The exit is this way, and the sooner we get out of here, the happier we'll all be."
"Yeah, no shit," she replied, her voice even more hoarse than normal after her upchuckathon. She pushed herself to her feet. Her legs shook slightly, but soon found themselves. Moments later, she was following him.
"We have a lot of work when we get out, Faith," Wilkins explained as they walked. "The world is in chaos as we speak. The dregs of society are quickly taking control. We need to find order. Find balance."
"Yeah, balance. Right," Faith said absently. What she did next she couldn't explain. She wanted to get her perfectly-shaped ass out of this prison pronto. But maybe she had just seen too many horror flicks and decided that it was the traditional thing to do in this situation, even if it meant calling the ax-wielding psychopath out of the shadows to take her from behind.
Or maybe it was just Slayer instinct kicking in. Slayer instinct, the one that says she should do anything she can to help the little guy. Little chick. Whatever.
Either way...
"Hello?" she called out into the death. Now there was an echo back, her voice and her footsteps bouncing off the walls and the bars. It was the only answer she expected, but she tried anyway. "Anybody here?"
"Faith, they're all dead," Wilkins said quietly. "There's no use in calling."
"Hey! Anybody here?"
"Not unless you want to wake the dead..."
"Yo, anybody?"
"Faith..." There was a slight note of agitation in the Mayor's voice now.
"Hello?"
"Hello?"
Faith paused. That was no echo. She looked up to the second level, the steel grated balcony in front of the upper cells. It had come from there.
"Hey," Faith called out. "Is someone alive?"
"Faith," a quivering voice replied, "is that you?"
"Leave her, Faith," Wilkins said anxiously. "Let's get out of here now while we still have a chance."
"Faith?"
Now she recognized the voice.
"Gabby!" Faith yelled, and broke into a run.
"Faith, leave her!" Wilkins yelled after the Slayer as she reached the end of the hall and mounted the grated steps. "Leave her, she's still sick, you could still be infected, Faith, I order you--!"
But Faith didn't care. She sprinted down the aisle, her footsteps clanging on the metal flooring, until she reached the girl's cell.
Gabrielle Tallis. Twenty years old. Serving five years for first-time B&E and possession. Short. Skinny. Skinnier now that she hadn't been fed in days. Spiky blonde hair. And one of Faith's only friends in this shithole.
"Oh, God, Faith," Gabby sputtered. Her arms were currently flailing outside of her bars, grasping for Faith's arms, her prison pajamas, whatever. Her eyes were big. Wide. Too wide, even. "Is it you? Holy fuck, is it really you?"
"It's me, it's me," Faith said, trying her best to not get her face smashed into the bars of Gabby's cell as the small girl pulled her forward. "Ease off, will ya?"
"You're real you're real you're real..." Gabby chanted, her mouth twisted into a frightening grin. "You're not dead you're real not dead..."
"Gabby!" Faith yelled sharply. "Calm the fuck down! Now!"
Slayer authority. That was another one of those perks, I guess. Faith's voice cut through the fog faster than anything could have, possibly saving Gabrielle Tallis before she fell into total hysterics. The blonde stood still, her hands still wrapped in the lapels of Faith's shirt, her breath still short and sharp, but otherwise calm. Calm enough, at least.
"Now leggo, and stand back," said Faith. "I'm gonna get you outta here..."
"How?" Gabby asked meekly, taking a few hesitant steps back.
Faith cracked a small smile. "I'm gonna show you some kick-ass kung fu."
---------
Knock-knock
A pounding from the other side of town.
Knock-knock-knock
No. Closer.
Knock-knock-knock-thump-thump-thump
"Hello? Buffy? Joyce? Dawn?"
The door.
"Anyone not dead and rotting in there?"
Anya.
"Let me in! Someone let me in!"
THUMP-THUMP-THUMP
The pounding drew Buffy from inside with a jerk. She looked around spastically, temporarily unaware of her surroundings. The dark of the living room was deeper than she was used to. More imposing. More physical.
That's because the streetlights are out, her rational mind explained. All the power in the neighborhood. All the lights.
"Please, someone answer!"
THUMP-THUMP-THUMP
Buffy pushed herself from the floor, her legs wobbling in protest (How long was I sitting there? How long was I leaning against the couch? Did I fall asleep? Why didn't I just lie down?), and gingerly made her way through the black living room to the door. The shades had been closed on the living room window ever since Joyce had fallen ill, and the bars of moonlight through the front door's three descending panes were her only guides.
She pulled the door open (not locked--can I trust Spike with a key?) and found Anya's silhouette leaning against the doorframe.
"Buffy," she panted, her eyes wide with fear. "It's about fucking time, there's vamps all over town, I got here as fast as I-"
"Get inside," Buffy said quickly, grabbing Anya's arm and dragging her into the house.
"Are you sick?" Anya asked as Buffy closed the door. "I mean, you're not...you're not coughing, or anything..."
Buffy shook her head. "No, I'm fine."
"Dawn?"
"I've been sleeping," said Buffy, deciding that ignorance is bliss when it came to just what her brain and body had been doing the last few hours. "Dawn's upstairs. Coughing, but that's all--"
"I couldn't take it anymore," Anya quickly interrupted, sitting down on the step. "I couldn't take it. Xander was dead, and Tara, and Willow, and Giles, and Hallie's nowhere to be found-"
"Hallie?"
"-because she must be busy granting wishes for all the little girls who lost their parents, why would she pay attention to me? I mean, I only lost my boyfriend, what's that compared to-"
"Anya--" Buffy said, jumping in vain.
"-little tiny girls who can't understand what's going on, and she knows that she can't bring their parents to life, but, hell, give them a pony make them happy, and Xander's dead, he's dead and I was coughing and spitting up green mucus and-"
"You're sick?" asked Buffy. "You seem fine-"
"--and I didn't wanna die and I couldn't find Xander's car keys and I walked over here and they're out there, all of them, and they're hungry, and I don't wanna die-"
"You're gonna be okay," said Buffy, kneeling down in front of the former Vengeance demon. "You're here, you're safe-"
"I'm hungry."
Buffy blinked. Anya had been in their lives for a year now, and Buffy was still far from used to the woman's abrupt behavior.
Hungry.
Her stomach had been like a tight ball of lead ever since her mother had died, but the thought of food suddenly loosened it. How long had it been since Buffy had eaten anything?
Maybe something easy, she thought. I can take some crackers or something...
"Come on," said Buffy, standing back up again. "The fridge is off, but I don't think it's been out long enough to make anything go bad."
Anya nodded, and followed Buffy into the dark kitchen. "Dawn's upstairs?"
"Yeah," said Buffy, opening the refrigerator. "I'll make her something and go check on her."
"Don't worry about it," said Anya. "She's going to be dead soon."
"What--?"
Thinking back later, Buffy knew that she should have known better. Her instincts had been dulled, of course. Years of training versus a few simple hours when everyone she had ever loved died choking.
The door had been unlocked. Anya had never been the type to stand outside waiting for someone to open a door for her. And even if she did wait, she'd usually walk in as soon as the door opened, pacing back and forth while spouting whatever anti-social monologue she had produced that day.
But she'd waited. At the door, leaning against the frame, until Buffy told her to come in. Until Buffy gave her an invitation.
She had been sick on the phone earlier, when Xander died. Coughing, sneezing, congested. Now she was the picture of health.
Well, except for the cold arm that Buffy had grabbed when Anya was pulled inside.
I didn't want to die...
Buffy recalled all of this later. Now, she was too numb to fully register everything until after Anya slammed the refrigerator door on her head. Fortified by Anya's newly-endowed strength, a hit like that would have crushed the head of a normal human. As it was, Buffy's knees buckled as stars erupted in her vision. She collapsed to the ground, followed shortly by shattering bottles of soy sauce and lime juice.
Trap! her mind screamed vainly as supernaturally strong hands yanked her into the air by her collar and belt. It's a trap, you have to do something, you have to fight back!
The rest of her, however, failed to listen. All the death, all the loss, had rendered her weary beyond all recognition, body and soul.
Whatever Anya planned to do would be a mercy compared to what lay ahead of her.
"I had to do it, Buffy," said the vampire as she hoisted the Slayer over her head. "Xander died, and I was sick, and I thought I'd want to be with him, forever. But I just couldn't die, it's mortal and it's stupid and I'm not ready..."
"Anya..."
"They're out there, Buffy," said Anya. "And they're hungry."
Hands released Buffy as she was hurled through the window over the kitchen sink. Shattered glass cut her palms and face, and she felt the cool night breeze against her skin moments before landing on the grass. She rolled over to see Anya looking at her through the gently wafting curtains, her face now twisted, her forehead now sloped, her teeth now exposed in a pointed grin.
"They're hungry," Anya repeated. "And so am I."
And then Anya was gone.
And as Buffy finally realized who Anya's true target was, they were upon her.
---------
"Dawn!"
William the Bloody was sprinting towards the Slayer's voice before he even knew his legs were moving.
Spike had been wandering around the Revello neighborhood since sundown, in a continuous debate over whether he should be putting his sodding neck on the line, patrolling what was quickly becoming a ghost town.
The Slayer would want to keep patrolling.
"Yeah, well, fuck the Slayer," he had grumbled under his breath before taking another drag off his cigarette. After spurring his advances, denying the fact that he was in love with her, even rejecting the idea that he would kill his Dru for her, why should he do what she would want? She didn't care about him and was too stupid to recognize their bond, so why even bother anymore?
And yet here he was, wandering the same block over and over, leaving a trail of filters in his wake.
Now he was running to save the girl.
Bloody hell, he thought as he rounded the corner to see the mass of bodies. How many are there? Twenty? Thirty?
"Dawn!" the voice cried again, this time from the middle of the swarming crowd.
Vampires. A pack like that could be smelled from here. And the Slayer was in the middle of them.
Been wanting a scrum like this for a while, Spike thought, pulling two oaken stakes from his trench coat. He could see the Slayer's blonde hair. Could smell her blood, charged with the power of generations. He forced the thrill of hunger to the back of his mind. Now wasn't the time. It would never be the time, not if he wanted to convince her to be with him.
"Buffy!" he yelled as loudly as possible, extending the Slayer's name into a primal howl of rage. He hoped to distract the two vamps that were currently feeding on her, or at least some of the others that were surrounding, waiting for their taste, even fighting each other for what was quickly becoming a rare commodity in Sunnydale: living, breathing, healthy human.
A half-dozen vamps turned in his direction, and the two currently clamped on the Slayer were, thankfully, among his audience.
Quick and clean, he thought through the scream, taking advantage of their stunned looks by driving the stakes into one heart, and then another. No time to pummel. No time to enjoy the kill. Just do it.
"Buffy!" he yelled again, taking down a third and a fourth, including a large vampire, long haired and flannelled, that had the Slayer's blood dripping down his chin. Buffy was able to yank herself away from her other captor, but fell to her hands and knees, obviously shaky from blood loss. The four puncture marks on her throat weren't the only wounds that were showing, as her arms and face were covered in small slashes.
Spike again had to swallow that animalistic thirst.
"You alright?" he said, staking vamps left and right. After the initial attack the pack had, predictably, fallen into the defensive. They were now coming at him in twos and threes, allowing him to take control.
"Dawn..." Buffy wheezed.
"They have her?"
"The house... Go..."
"Not without you, luv," Spike replied with a smirk.
"I'm fine..." she said, swerving as she gained her feet. Spike barely grabbed her arm in time to pull her away from one of the advancing vampires. "My legs aren't... Go..."
"Bollocks."
"Go or she dies!"
Spike tried his best to stare down the Slayer. Pulled away from that hard gaze long enough to stake another approaching vampire before snorting in frustration. He grabbed Buffy's hand, slapped one of his stakes into her hand, and ran for the house.
The smell of death was prevalent in the house as he paused in the kitchen, trying to figure out where exactly where he needed to go. Buffy had buried Joyce and the witch before collapsing into the state Spike had lastfound her, but the reek of putrescence still remained.
How the bloody hell did a vamp get in, anyway? he thought to himself. Why would she invite one? Why would she invite anyone with all the shit going on outside?
She's not right in the head, he responded. You know that. You came and went, what, three, four times in the last two days? Did she even see you? Even respond to your presence? Even, hell, even move from that same spot on the floor? She's not the same girl that pummeled you till the end of time. Not the same girl who kicked Angelus's ass. She's slipping. Hard.
Maybe, but...
A piercing scream from upstairs cut through his thoughts, and he was on the move again, heightened night vision keeping him from tripping over a fallen stool.
"Stop screaming!" came a voice from the top of the stairs as Spike pivoted around the banister. His eyes widened as he recognized the voice. "For Pete's sake, Dawn, do you know how screechy your scream is? I've had to replace displays."
"Help!" Dawn wailed as Spike ascended the stairs. "Buffy!"
"Buffy's dead, Dawn," said Anya. "You're all alone. We both are. So I'll give you the choice. Do you want to die, or do you want to live forever?"
"BUFFY!"
"Of course, you do have to promise to not scream so much..."
Spike ran down the hallway, stake in hand. He turned into the doorway to see Anya, arched over Dawn Summers's bed. He raised the stake over his head in time to see the new vampire's core turn a dirty brown color, quickly spreading to cover her entire body. Anya froze, and Spike heard the familiar sound that comes with the death of the undead: The scream of the vanishing demon combined with the rush of air filling a vacuum. He saw Anya's skeleton, and then it too was gone, leaving nothing but a pile of dust and Dawn, both hands clutched tightly around a small wooden stake tensed at her breastbone as she sat on her bed. Her eyes were wide with shock as she looked up at Spike, who was still holding his own stake over his head, struck motionless by the scene.
"Spike..." she whispered, her lip quivering.
"Yeah..."
There was a soft thump as her stake fell to the plush carpet of her bedroom, and she was diving at him, grabbing the vampire around the middle and pressing her face into his chest. He looked down at her, at a total loss as to what to do as she howled into him.
This is one of those things you could handle better, he thought. One of those things that not dead things could handle with ease.
"Um, there, there," said Spike stiffly, awkwardly patting the top of Dawn's head. "It's gonna... It's gonna be alright..."
"It was Anya," Dawn moaned, soaking Spike's shirt with her tears. "Anya, she's dead, Spike, and Mom, and Buffy, and Will, and please don't die, Spike, please don't leave me, too..."
"I'm already dead, niblet," he said. "Figure it's the reason I'm still standing."
Dawn made a sound, and Spike couldn't tell if it was a laugh or a sob. Outside, Spike could hear the grunts and snarls that proved Buffy was still kicking.
"And your sis isn't dead yet," he said, pulling Dawn away from him and picking up her stake. "But she will be soon if we don't give her a hand."
Dawn's eyes widened, but her jaw set as she realized what she was being asked to do for the first time in her young life.
---------
"What was that?"
"What was what?"
"That! Out there!"
"Um, fighting?" Dawn said with a twitch of her lip.
"You can't do that!"
"Obviously she can, luv," said Spike, fading as he leaned back against the couch, pulling away from the candle that was now lighting the three remaining faces of the Scooby Gang. "You saw it, I saw it."
"That's not what I meant," Buffy stammered. "You're not... You're not supposed to be able to fight."
"Verdict's still out on how good I am," Dawn mumbled from beside Spike. "I only took out two..."
"Yeah, and saved your sister in the process," said Spike, digging through the inside of his coat. "She should be bloody grateful, you ask me."
"That's not the point," said Buffy.
"Then you'd better get to it right fast, Slayer," Spike snapped. "Time's short. World ain't what it used to be. Not anymore."
"She shouldn't... She shouldn't have to be exposed to that!"
"Right, cuz a global supervirus is Sesame Street material," said Dawn dryly.
"Dawn-- Don't light that."
"What?"
"There's no smoking in this house," said Buffy to Spike, who had pulled a pack of cigarettes from an inner pocket.
"Yeah, sure," Spike said, flicking his lighter and touching it to the tip, "when your Mum tells me to stop I'll get right on it."
Buffy, who was sitting across from the other two, was on her feet in a flash, barely missing the candle as she dove across the coffee table and punched Spike across the jaw. The cigarette, which had been clutched between his lips, flew in the other direction, landing on the carpet.
"Bloody hell!" Spike growled. "What you do that for?"
"Don't you ever talk about Mom, you hear me?" Buffy screamed. "Never!"
"I'll say whatever I please! I liked your Mum, she was a dear old lady, but she's gone! They're gone! All of em, and we have more important things to do now than dwell, so fuckin' deal with it!"
"Get out of my house."
"Make me..."
"Buffy, no!" Dawn yelled as Buffy grabbed a hold of Spike's arm. "Buffy, no, we need him, he's all we have left!"
"We can deal," said Buffy. "We're better off without him."
"Yeah, right," Spike snorted as he was lifted to his feet. "Cuz you've been catatonic for the last day, ambushed by a pack of vamps, invited another one in and let her almost kill little sis. Yeah, you're doing a swell job."
"Buffy, please," Dawn said, the tears hiding behind her voice. "Please don't let him leave. I can't... I can't stand losing anyone else."
Buffy paused in the front hall, an iron grip still on Spike's bicep.
"There's a lot less humans out there, luv," Spike said. "And the same vamps as before. Same demons. Only this time I reckon they won't be as worried about hiding or making a ruckus as they used to."
"And Glory..." said Dawn quietly. "There's still Glory."
"Who's tossed your skinny arse all across town, last time I checked."
Buffy glared up at Spike, contemplating the choices. In the end, she released his arm and stormed back into the living room, picking up Spike's smoldering cigarette from the floor.
"Thank you," said Spike, holding his hand out for it.
"Put out your fucking cigarette," Buffy replied, shoving the glowing embers into the vampire's forehead. Spike roared in pain and turned to face down the Slayer, who only turned away and sat back down in her chair. After a few moments of glowering, Spike wiped the ashes from his face and sat down beside Dawn.
"So he's staying?" asked Dawn hopefully. Buffy nodded. "Okay, so what do we do now?"
"Well, we can't stay here," said Spike. "It'd be ritual suicide."
"I agree," said Buffy.
"About bloody time," Spike muttered under his breath.
"But where can we go?" asked Dawn. "You heard the radio, this virus is taking out everyone."
"Not everyone," Buffy corrected. "We're still here. That means there are others."
"Yeah, but we're not exactly human, are we?" asked Spike.
"Spike..."
"Well, it's a fact," Spike continued. "Immortal, soul-less hybrid. Slayer born with demon-enhanced powers."
"I was never-"
"Let's not get into semantics," Spike said with a wave of his hand. "You're a Slayer. You're not exactly full-fledged human."
"And I'm not human at all," said Dawn into her clenched hands.
"Of course you are, Dawnie," said Buffy. "The monks made you human."
"But she's still the Key," Spike said with a nod. "And even if she was totally human, the monks wouldn't let her die of the sniffles. Must have, I don't know, magic white cells, or something..."
"That's why I got sick," said Dawn. "Then got better."
Spike clapped his hands together. "See? There you are."
"You've been sick before, though," Buffy said, then quickly changed her mind. Of course she hadn't been sick before. She'd only been alive for, what, six, seven months? Any memories Buffy had of little Dawnie sitting around with footie pajamas, chicken soup, and a box of Kleenex and watching Tiny Toons was forged by the monks in her own head. Just make-believe.
"So, okay, there may or may not be any more humans left," said Spike. "So what do we do? Where do we go? Do we call the werewolf? Do you have his number? I reckon he's still alive, I've heard plenty of dogs barkin' up a storm."
"I know where we can go," said Buffy.
"Where's that?"
"Good idea," said Dawn, not even needing to hear Buffy's suggestion.
Spike looked back and forth between the two girls before the pieces fell into place. "Oh, God, no," he said. "Are you fucking kidding me?"
"It makes the most sense," said Buffy. "He'll need our help, we need his help. Until we figure out what kind of demon or mystic or whoever caused this to happen."
"It doesn't have to be a mystic!" said Spike. "When are you gonna get it through your skull that not every bad thing that happens in this world is because of the supernatural? This could just as easily be a human virus, made in a lab, released by some whackjob terrorist or, hell, even the good old U.S. of A."
"No one would do anything like this. No human would..."
"I ate my way through chlorine shells on the Western Front," Spike continued. "Fed on Jewish ghetto dwellers in Prague and Berlin, and spent a few months on a submarine with Nazi scum who wanted to use me and the Prince of Lies to make an invincible vampire army, so, yeah, I think humans are perfectly capable of doing something like this."
"There still has to be a way," Buffy insisted. "There has to be a way to fix this."
"If there is, going to Los Angeles isn't it," said Spike. "Wolfram & Hart will make that town Demon Heaven by the time the sun rises."
"Which is why we have to go," said Buffy. "They need our help. He needs our help."
"Prom Queen, Watcherboy, and Big Bad Baldy are just as dead as everyone else," said Spike. "Angel's on his own."
"He is," said Dawn, "but he doesn't have to be."
---------
"Are you sure that's a good idea?"
"Not really," said Faith with a shrug, taking another sip of quickly-warming Michelob. "But this guy's helped me out in the past. Helped me deal with a lot of shit."
"I met you in prison, Faith," said Gabby. "Can you really say he's helped you if you ended up there?"
The two convicts were camped for the night in the Circle K outside of Fairmead, a few miles from the correctional facility. After a few hours of searching, with the help of Wilkins' disembodied body, they had been able to work their way out of California's newest mausoleum and had wanted to get as far away as possible. Unfortunately, Gabby's weakness from starvation only allowed them to make it the short distance that first night, and they were currently feasting on Keebler Grasshopper cookies, Oscar Meyer bologna and a twelve-pack from the convenience store's thawing refrigerator.
"Whatever," said Faith. "I did a lot of bad shit in the past, and he helped me get what I did. He didn't want me to go to prison. It was my choice."
"So you want to go to Los Angeles to see this guy."
"I got nowhere else to go, Gab."
"Yes, you do," said Wilkins, who was leaning against the door to the men's bathroom.
"I ain't goin' to Sunnydale," said Faith.
"What?" asked Gabby.
Faith looked at her friend and shook her head. "Nothin," she said. "Nevermind." Faith recognized early on that Gabby couldn't see the Mayor. That somehow, she was the only one who was privileged with his presence. If it weren't for everything that she had been through, everything that she had seen, in the last few years, Faith would have questioned her sanity. Seeing things that ain't there, talking to people that don't exist, ain't supposed to happen in the real world.
Faith, who hadn't been living in the dictionary definition of "the real world" for a while now, was taking it all in stride. She just had to remember to keep her mouth shut when Wilkins decided to talk or else Gabby would really start to wonder.
"It's nothin'," Faith repeated, pushing herself from the linoleum floor. "LA's the place. You need a smoke? I need a smoke."
Although it had no consciousness to speak of, and thus no feelings that could be described by simple human thought, the primal force of nature known as The First noticed the look of doubt on the girl's face as the Slayer wandered behind the counter and pulled a pack of cigarettes from the above shelving unit.
The look of distrust pleased It.
Ever since the simple vial was dropped by a lab employee in St. Petersburg, Russia, results had been a mixed bag for The First. The human population was now nearly extinct, as was the population of potential Slayers, and yet the demon population, Its minions, remained steady.
Yet...
Glorificus was lost. Her human host, Benjamin Wilkinson, had contracted the virus, and had grown closer to death with every transformation. All the while Glory, without a suitable food supply, had fallen further and further into madness until neither could function properly. Ben had died hours ago, and Glorificus remained forever trapped in insanity within her decomposing meat sack.
Warren Mears and Amy Madison, who were destined to become destroyers of many potential Slayers, had also succumbed.
Willow Rosenberg, agent of Evil for centuries to come, was lost, and the mystical seal on the tomb of Daniel Holtz was only delaying his inevitable demise.
Robin Wood. Lindsey McDonald. Shar Roden.
And Caleb... Caleb, The First's most devoted servant, the right hand and the general of Its army of Bringers. Dead of the same virus that choked all those below him.
Yet the Slayers still lived. The Champions still lived.
The First, in Its infinite wisdom, Its vast omniscience and omnipresence, felt that Faith Lahane could be of vital importance in the days, weeks, and months to come. Unstable enough, she could be swayed to follow Caleb's path. Could be swayed to coordinate the Bringers and eliminate the few Potential Slayers that remained alive on this planet.
Could be swayed to eliminate Buffy Summers, the Accidental Slayer.
And, if Buffy should happen to defeat Faith in battle, then that would be one more item to check off from The First's list.
And yet...
The First planned for Faith Lahane to leave that prison alone, and to retrieve the Weapon from the vineyard before Summers even knew it existed. Even a short jaunt through Los Angeles could easily lead back to the beginning.
Gabrielle Tallis was unexpected. A wild card in The First's deck. The virus was to have only left one in every ten thousand humans alive. Was she here purely by random chance? Was she the one from the ten thousand?
Or was there something more to her? Something not quite human?
The First could not get a firm grasp on the girl, and this troubled It. Her mind was weak, true, and The First could easily convince her to do many horrific things, both to herself and others. All it took was a few private visits from her mother, her older brother, or the love of her life, the man who had put her on the path that landed her in jail.
"So how are we getting there?" asked Gabby as Faith returned to the floor, cigarette clenched between her lips. "The roads were pretty clogged. And what about that barricade?"
"Yeah, people love to run away when there's a panic," said Faith, offering her cohort a smoke. "And soldier folks love to keep them right where they were. Probably all died in their cars. I'm thinking motorcycles should be easy enough to handle."
"Thanks," said Gabby, accepting a light from Faith's new Zippo, swiped from behind the counter along with the Marlboros. "But I don't ride."
"It's easy enough," said Faith. "Like riding a bike."
"How about horses?"
Faith's eyebrow arched.
"I'm serious!" Gabby continued. "I rode a bunch when I was a kid at summer camp. They're fast if we need them to be. They'll be easier to feed than motorcycles, since the gas pumps are just as dead as the rest of this town. Most of all, they're smarter. They'll be able to maneuver around stalled cars, and they won't fall over on top of you."
"Horses," Faith mused. "That's pretty bad-ass, Gab. All Young Guns and shit."
The young blonde blushed. "Thanks."
"We'll take a look around tomorrow," said Faith after a drag of tobacco. "See what kinda stables are around these parts."
Yes, thought The First. This Gabrielle Tallis was definitely a wild card.
But a benefit or a detriment to Its plans?
Richard Wilkins sighed. Only time would tell.
And, of that, The First had plenty.
Author: kanedax
Recipient: intl_princess
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Rating: PG-15
Spoilers: BtVS Season 5 (w/ minors of 7 & 8 and AtS 5)
Warnings: character death (duh), language, and disturbing images
Summary: Buffy can't save the world every time.
Thanks to charma_10 for the beta!
Hybrids (1 of 2)
She didn't think that the smell could get any worse than it was down in solitary.
But as Faith entered the cellblock, she realized just how wrong she was. Within moments she was on her hands and knees, her stomach squeezing what little it contained up her throat and out her mouth. A thin trickle, a combination of toilet water, saliva, and stomach acid--with just a hint of Dinty Moore canned beef--dribbled from her mouth to the concrete.
The smell coming from the cells was overwhelming. Unthinkable. Unimaginable. How many women did this place hold, anyway? Three thousand? Four? How many corpses?
"Astonishing, isn't it?" Wilkins asked from behind Faith as she pushed her self to her knees, wiping a shaking hand across her mouth. "The power of man, in all its glory."
In any other case, Faith would have had some sort of snappy comeback about men in general. Right now, however, she was utterly speechless.
"Let's leave this place, Faith," he continued, walking past her and down the hall, his black Rockports clicking on the concrete (but did they make an echo in the cavernous cellblock? Faith didn't think so). "The exit is this way, and the sooner we get out of here, the happier we'll all be."
"Yeah, no shit," she replied, her voice even more hoarse than normal after her upchuckathon. She pushed herself to her feet. Her legs shook slightly, but soon found themselves. Moments later, she was following him.
"We have a lot of work when we get out, Faith," Wilkins explained as they walked. "The world is in chaos as we speak. The dregs of society are quickly taking control. We need to find order. Find balance."
"Yeah, balance. Right," Faith said absently. What she did next she couldn't explain. She wanted to get her perfectly-shaped ass out of this prison pronto. But maybe she had just seen too many horror flicks and decided that it was the traditional thing to do in this situation, even if it meant calling the ax-wielding psychopath out of the shadows to take her from behind.
Or maybe it was just Slayer instinct kicking in. Slayer instinct, the one that says she should do anything she can to help the little guy. Little chick. Whatever.
Either way...
"Hello?" she called out into the death. Now there was an echo back, her voice and her footsteps bouncing off the walls and the bars. It was the only answer she expected, but she tried anyway. "Anybody here?"
"Faith, they're all dead," Wilkins said quietly. "There's no use in calling."
"Hey! Anybody here?"
"Not unless you want to wake the dead..."
"Yo, anybody?"
"Faith..." There was a slight note of agitation in the Mayor's voice now.
"Hello?"
"Hello?"
Faith paused. That was no echo. She looked up to the second level, the steel grated balcony in front of the upper cells. It had come from there.
"Hey," Faith called out. "Is someone alive?"
"Faith," a quivering voice replied, "is that you?"
"Leave her, Faith," Wilkins said anxiously. "Let's get out of here now while we still have a chance."
"Faith?"
Now she recognized the voice.
"Gabby!" Faith yelled, and broke into a run.
"Faith, leave her!" Wilkins yelled after the Slayer as she reached the end of the hall and mounted the grated steps. "Leave her, she's still sick, you could still be infected, Faith, I order you--!"
But Faith didn't care. She sprinted down the aisle, her footsteps clanging on the metal flooring, until she reached the girl's cell.
Gabrielle Tallis. Twenty years old. Serving five years for first-time B&E and possession. Short. Skinny. Skinnier now that she hadn't been fed in days. Spiky blonde hair. And one of Faith's only friends in this shithole.
"Oh, God, Faith," Gabby sputtered. Her arms were currently flailing outside of her bars, grasping for Faith's arms, her prison pajamas, whatever. Her eyes were big. Wide. Too wide, even. "Is it you? Holy fuck, is it really you?"
"It's me, it's me," Faith said, trying her best to not get her face smashed into the bars of Gabby's cell as the small girl pulled her forward. "Ease off, will ya?"
"You're real you're real you're real..." Gabby chanted, her mouth twisted into a frightening grin. "You're not dead you're real not dead..."
"Gabby!" Faith yelled sharply. "Calm the fuck down! Now!"
Slayer authority. That was another one of those perks, I guess. Faith's voice cut through the fog faster than anything could have, possibly saving Gabrielle Tallis before she fell into total hysterics. The blonde stood still, her hands still wrapped in the lapels of Faith's shirt, her breath still short and sharp, but otherwise calm. Calm enough, at least.
"Now leggo, and stand back," said Faith. "I'm gonna get you outta here..."
"How?" Gabby asked meekly, taking a few hesitant steps back.
Faith cracked a small smile. "I'm gonna show you some kick-ass kung fu."
---------
Knock-knock
A pounding from the other side of town.
Knock-knock-knock
No. Closer.
Knock-knock-knock-thump-thump-thump
"Hello? Buffy? Joyce? Dawn?"
The door.
"Anyone not dead and rotting in there?"
Anya.
"Let me in! Someone let me in!"
THUMP-THUMP-THUMP
The pounding drew Buffy from inside with a jerk. She looked around spastically, temporarily unaware of her surroundings. The dark of the living room was deeper than she was used to. More imposing. More physical.
That's because the streetlights are out, her rational mind explained. All the power in the neighborhood. All the lights.
"Please, someone answer!"
THUMP-THUMP-THUMP
Buffy pushed herself from the floor, her legs wobbling in protest (How long was I sitting there? How long was I leaning against the couch? Did I fall asleep? Why didn't I just lie down?), and gingerly made her way through the black living room to the door. The shades had been closed on the living room window ever since Joyce had fallen ill, and the bars of moonlight through the front door's three descending panes were her only guides.
She pulled the door open (not locked--can I trust Spike with a key?) and found Anya's silhouette leaning against the doorframe.
"Buffy," she panted, her eyes wide with fear. "It's about fucking time, there's vamps all over town, I got here as fast as I-"
"Get inside," Buffy said quickly, grabbing Anya's arm and dragging her into the house.
"Are you sick?" Anya asked as Buffy closed the door. "I mean, you're not...you're not coughing, or anything..."
Buffy shook her head. "No, I'm fine."
"Dawn?"
"I've been sleeping," said Buffy, deciding that ignorance is bliss when it came to just what her brain and body had been doing the last few hours. "Dawn's upstairs. Coughing, but that's all--"
"I couldn't take it anymore," Anya quickly interrupted, sitting down on the step. "I couldn't take it. Xander was dead, and Tara, and Willow, and Giles, and Hallie's nowhere to be found-"
"Hallie?"
"-because she must be busy granting wishes for all the little girls who lost their parents, why would she pay attention to me? I mean, I only lost my boyfriend, what's that compared to-"
"Anya--" Buffy said, jumping in vain.
"-little tiny girls who can't understand what's going on, and she knows that she can't bring their parents to life, but, hell, give them a pony make them happy, and Xander's dead, he's dead and I was coughing and spitting up green mucus and-"
"You're sick?" asked Buffy. "You seem fine-"
"--and I didn't wanna die and I couldn't find Xander's car keys and I walked over here and they're out there, all of them, and they're hungry, and I don't wanna die-"
"You're gonna be okay," said Buffy, kneeling down in front of the former Vengeance demon. "You're here, you're safe-"
"I'm hungry."
Buffy blinked. Anya had been in their lives for a year now, and Buffy was still far from used to the woman's abrupt behavior.
Hungry.
Her stomach had been like a tight ball of lead ever since her mother had died, but the thought of food suddenly loosened it. How long had it been since Buffy had eaten anything?
Maybe something easy, she thought. I can take some crackers or something...
"Come on," said Buffy, standing back up again. "The fridge is off, but I don't think it's been out long enough to make anything go bad."
Anya nodded, and followed Buffy into the dark kitchen. "Dawn's upstairs?"
"Yeah," said Buffy, opening the refrigerator. "I'll make her something and go check on her."
"Don't worry about it," said Anya. "She's going to be dead soon."
"What--?"
Thinking back later, Buffy knew that she should have known better. Her instincts had been dulled, of course. Years of training versus a few simple hours when everyone she had ever loved died choking.
The door had been unlocked. Anya had never been the type to stand outside waiting for someone to open a door for her. And even if she did wait, she'd usually walk in as soon as the door opened, pacing back and forth while spouting whatever anti-social monologue she had produced that day.
But she'd waited. At the door, leaning against the frame, until Buffy told her to come in. Until Buffy gave her an invitation.
She had been sick on the phone earlier, when Xander died. Coughing, sneezing, congested. Now she was the picture of health.
Well, except for the cold arm that Buffy had grabbed when Anya was pulled inside.
I didn't want to die...
Buffy recalled all of this later. Now, she was too numb to fully register everything until after Anya slammed the refrigerator door on her head. Fortified by Anya's newly-endowed strength, a hit like that would have crushed the head of a normal human. As it was, Buffy's knees buckled as stars erupted in her vision. She collapsed to the ground, followed shortly by shattering bottles of soy sauce and lime juice.
Trap! her mind screamed vainly as supernaturally strong hands yanked her into the air by her collar and belt. It's a trap, you have to do something, you have to fight back!
The rest of her, however, failed to listen. All the death, all the loss, had rendered her weary beyond all recognition, body and soul.
Whatever Anya planned to do would be a mercy compared to what lay ahead of her.
"I had to do it, Buffy," said the vampire as she hoisted the Slayer over her head. "Xander died, and I was sick, and I thought I'd want to be with him, forever. But I just couldn't die, it's mortal and it's stupid and I'm not ready..."
"Anya..."
"They're out there, Buffy," said Anya. "And they're hungry."
Hands released Buffy as she was hurled through the window over the kitchen sink. Shattered glass cut her palms and face, and she felt the cool night breeze against her skin moments before landing on the grass. She rolled over to see Anya looking at her through the gently wafting curtains, her face now twisted, her forehead now sloped, her teeth now exposed in a pointed grin.
"They're hungry," Anya repeated. "And so am I."
And then Anya was gone.
And as Buffy finally realized who Anya's true target was, they were upon her.
---------
"Dawn!"
William the Bloody was sprinting towards the Slayer's voice before he even knew his legs were moving.
Spike had been wandering around the Revello neighborhood since sundown, in a continuous debate over whether he should be putting his sodding neck on the line, patrolling what was quickly becoming a ghost town.
The Slayer would want to keep patrolling.
"Yeah, well, fuck the Slayer," he had grumbled under his breath before taking another drag off his cigarette. After spurring his advances, denying the fact that he was in love with her, even rejecting the idea that he would kill his Dru for her, why should he do what she would want? She didn't care about him and was too stupid to recognize their bond, so why even bother anymore?
And yet here he was, wandering the same block over and over, leaving a trail of filters in his wake.
Now he was running to save the girl.
Bloody hell, he thought as he rounded the corner to see the mass of bodies. How many are there? Twenty? Thirty?
"Dawn!" the voice cried again, this time from the middle of the swarming crowd.
Vampires. A pack like that could be smelled from here. And the Slayer was in the middle of them.
Been wanting a scrum like this for a while, Spike thought, pulling two oaken stakes from his trench coat. He could see the Slayer's blonde hair. Could smell her blood, charged with the power of generations. He forced the thrill of hunger to the back of his mind. Now wasn't the time. It would never be the time, not if he wanted to convince her to be with him.
"Buffy!" he yelled as loudly as possible, extending the Slayer's name into a primal howl of rage. He hoped to distract the two vamps that were currently feeding on her, or at least some of the others that were surrounding, waiting for their taste, even fighting each other for what was quickly becoming a rare commodity in Sunnydale: living, breathing, healthy human.
A half-dozen vamps turned in his direction, and the two currently clamped on the Slayer were, thankfully, among his audience.
Quick and clean, he thought through the scream, taking advantage of their stunned looks by driving the stakes into one heart, and then another. No time to pummel. No time to enjoy the kill. Just do it.
"Buffy!" he yelled again, taking down a third and a fourth, including a large vampire, long haired and flannelled, that had the Slayer's blood dripping down his chin. Buffy was able to yank herself away from her other captor, but fell to her hands and knees, obviously shaky from blood loss. The four puncture marks on her throat weren't the only wounds that were showing, as her arms and face were covered in small slashes.
Spike again had to swallow that animalistic thirst.
"You alright?" he said, staking vamps left and right. After the initial attack the pack had, predictably, fallen into the defensive. They were now coming at him in twos and threes, allowing him to take control.
"Dawn..." Buffy wheezed.
"They have her?"
"The house... Go..."
"Not without you, luv," Spike replied with a smirk.
"I'm fine..." she said, swerving as she gained her feet. Spike barely grabbed her arm in time to pull her away from one of the advancing vampires. "My legs aren't... Go..."
"Bollocks."
"Go or she dies!"
Spike tried his best to stare down the Slayer. Pulled away from that hard gaze long enough to stake another approaching vampire before snorting in frustration. He grabbed Buffy's hand, slapped one of his stakes into her hand, and ran for the house.
The smell of death was prevalent in the house as he paused in the kitchen, trying to figure out where exactly where he needed to go. Buffy had buried Joyce and the witch before collapsing into the state Spike had lastfound her, but the reek of putrescence still remained.
How the bloody hell did a vamp get in, anyway? he thought to himself. Why would she invite one? Why would she invite anyone with all the shit going on outside?
She's not right in the head, he responded. You know that. You came and went, what, three, four times in the last two days? Did she even see you? Even respond to your presence? Even, hell, even move from that same spot on the floor? She's not the same girl that pummeled you till the end of time. Not the same girl who kicked Angelus's ass. She's slipping. Hard.
Maybe, but...
A piercing scream from upstairs cut through his thoughts, and he was on the move again, heightened night vision keeping him from tripping over a fallen stool.
"Stop screaming!" came a voice from the top of the stairs as Spike pivoted around the banister. His eyes widened as he recognized the voice. "For Pete's sake, Dawn, do you know how screechy your scream is? I've had to replace displays."
"Help!" Dawn wailed as Spike ascended the stairs. "Buffy!"
"Buffy's dead, Dawn," said Anya. "You're all alone. We both are. So I'll give you the choice. Do you want to die, or do you want to live forever?"
"BUFFY!"
"Of course, you do have to promise to not scream so much..."
Spike ran down the hallway, stake in hand. He turned into the doorway to see Anya, arched over Dawn Summers's bed. He raised the stake over his head in time to see the new vampire's core turn a dirty brown color, quickly spreading to cover her entire body. Anya froze, and Spike heard the familiar sound that comes with the death of the undead: The scream of the vanishing demon combined with the rush of air filling a vacuum. He saw Anya's skeleton, and then it too was gone, leaving nothing but a pile of dust and Dawn, both hands clutched tightly around a small wooden stake tensed at her breastbone as she sat on her bed. Her eyes were wide with shock as she looked up at Spike, who was still holding his own stake over his head, struck motionless by the scene.
"Spike..." she whispered, her lip quivering.
"Yeah..."
There was a soft thump as her stake fell to the plush carpet of her bedroom, and she was diving at him, grabbing the vampire around the middle and pressing her face into his chest. He looked down at her, at a total loss as to what to do as she howled into him.
This is one of those things you could handle better, he thought. One of those things that not dead things could handle with ease.
"Um, there, there," said Spike stiffly, awkwardly patting the top of Dawn's head. "It's gonna... It's gonna be alright..."
"It was Anya," Dawn moaned, soaking Spike's shirt with her tears. "Anya, she's dead, Spike, and Mom, and Buffy, and Will, and please don't die, Spike, please don't leave me, too..."
"I'm already dead, niblet," he said. "Figure it's the reason I'm still standing."
Dawn made a sound, and Spike couldn't tell if it was a laugh or a sob. Outside, Spike could hear the grunts and snarls that proved Buffy was still kicking.
"And your sis isn't dead yet," he said, pulling Dawn away from him and picking up her stake. "But she will be soon if we don't give her a hand."
Dawn's eyes widened, but her jaw set as she realized what she was being asked to do for the first time in her young life.
---------
"What was that?"
"What was what?"
"That! Out there!"
"Um, fighting?" Dawn said with a twitch of her lip.
"You can't do that!"
"Obviously she can, luv," said Spike, fading as he leaned back against the couch, pulling away from the candle that was now lighting the three remaining faces of the Scooby Gang. "You saw it, I saw it."
"That's not what I meant," Buffy stammered. "You're not... You're not supposed to be able to fight."
"Verdict's still out on how good I am," Dawn mumbled from beside Spike. "I only took out two..."
"Yeah, and saved your sister in the process," said Spike, digging through the inside of his coat. "She should be bloody grateful, you ask me."
"That's not the point," said Buffy.
"Then you'd better get to it right fast, Slayer," Spike snapped. "Time's short. World ain't what it used to be. Not anymore."
"She shouldn't... She shouldn't have to be exposed to that!"
"Right, cuz a global supervirus is Sesame Street material," said Dawn dryly.
"Dawn-- Don't light that."
"What?"
"There's no smoking in this house," said Buffy to Spike, who had pulled a pack of cigarettes from an inner pocket.
"Yeah, sure," Spike said, flicking his lighter and touching it to the tip, "when your Mum tells me to stop I'll get right on it."
Buffy, who was sitting across from the other two, was on her feet in a flash, barely missing the candle as she dove across the coffee table and punched Spike across the jaw. The cigarette, which had been clutched between his lips, flew in the other direction, landing on the carpet.
"Bloody hell!" Spike growled. "What you do that for?"
"Don't you ever talk about Mom, you hear me?" Buffy screamed. "Never!"
"I'll say whatever I please! I liked your Mum, she was a dear old lady, but she's gone! They're gone! All of em, and we have more important things to do now than dwell, so fuckin' deal with it!"
"Get out of my house."
"Make me..."
"Buffy, no!" Dawn yelled as Buffy grabbed a hold of Spike's arm. "Buffy, no, we need him, he's all we have left!"
"We can deal," said Buffy. "We're better off without him."
"Yeah, right," Spike snorted as he was lifted to his feet. "Cuz you've been catatonic for the last day, ambushed by a pack of vamps, invited another one in and let her almost kill little sis. Yeah, you're doing a swell job."
"Buffy, please," Dawn said, the tears hiding behind her voice. "Please don't let him leave. I can't... I can't stand losing anyone else."
Buffy paused in the front hall, an iron grip still on Spike's bicep.
"There's a lot less humans out there, luv," Spike said. "And the same vamps as before. Same demons. Only this time I reckon they won't be as worried about hiding or making a ruckus as they used to."
"And Glory..." said Dawn quietly. "There's still Glory."
"Who's tossed your skinny arse all across town, last time I checked."
Buffy glared up at Spike, contemplating the choices. In the end, she released his arm and stormed back into the living room, picking up Spike's smoldering cigarette from the floor.
"Thank you," said Spike, holding his hand out for it.
"Put out your fucking cigarette," Buffy replied, shoving the glowing embers into the vampire's forehead. Spike roared in pain and turned to face down the Slayer, who only turned away and sat back down in her chair. After a few moments of glowering, Spike wiped the ashes from his face and sat down beside Dawn.
"So he's staying?" asked Dawn hopefully. Buffy nodded. "Okay, so what do we do now?"
"Well, we can't stay here," said Spike. "It'd be ritual suicide."
"I agree," said Buffy.
"About bloody time," Spike muttered under his breath.
"But where can we go?" asked Dawn. "You heard the radio, this virus is taking out everyone."
"Not everyone," Buffy corrected. "We're still here. That means there are others."
"Yeah, but we're not exactly human, are we?" asked Spike.
"Spike..."
"Well, it's a fact," Spike continued. "Immortal, soul-less hybrid. Slayer born with demon-enhanced powers."
"I was never-"
"Let's not get into semantics," Spike said with a wave of his hand. "You're a Slayer. You're not exactly full-fledged human."
"And I'm not human at all," said Dawn into her clenched hands.
"Of course you are, Dawnie," said Buffy. "The monks made you human."
"But she's still the Key," Spike said with a nod. "And even if she was totally human, the monks wouldn't let her die of the sniffles. Must have, I don't know, magic white cells, or something..."
"That's why I got sick," said Dawn. "Then got better."
Spike clapped his hands together. "See? There you are."
"You've been sick before, though," Buffy said, then quickly changed her mind. Of course she hadn't been sick before. She'd only been alive for, what, six, seven months? Any memories Buffy had of little Dawnie sitting around with footie pajamas, chicken soup, and a box of Kleenex and watching Tiny Toons was forged by the monks in her own head. Just make-believe.
"So, okay, there may or may not be any more humans left," said Spike. "So what do we do? Where do we go? Do we call the werewolf? Do you have his number? I reckon he's still alive, I've heard plenty of dogs barkin' up a storm."
"I know where we can go," said Buffy.
"Where's that?"
"Good idea," said Dawn, not even needing to hear Buffy's suggestion.
Spike looked back and forth between the two girls before the pieces fell into place. "Oh, God, no," he said. "Are you fucking kidding me?"
"It makes the most sense," said Buffy. "He'll need our help, we need his help. Until we figure out what kind of demon or mystic or whoever caused this to happen."
"It doesn't have to be a mystic!" said Spike. "When are you gonna get it through your skull that not every bad thing that happens in this world is because of the supernatural? This could just as easily be a human virus, made in a lab, released by some whackjob terrorist or, hell, even the good old U.S. of A."
"No one would do anything like this. No human would..."
"I ate my way through chlorine shells on the Western Front," Spike continued. "Fed on Jewish ghetto dwellers in Prague and Berlin, and spent a few months on a submarine with Nazi scum who wanted to use me and the Prince of Lies to make an invincible vampire army, so, yeah, I think humans are perfectly capable of doing something like this."
"There still has to be a way," Buffy insisted. "There has to be a way to fix this."
"If there is, going to Los Angeles isn't it," said Spike. "Wolfram & Hart will make that town Demon Heaven by the time the sun rises."
"Which is why we have to go," said Buffy. "They need our help. He needs our help."
"Prom Queen, Watcherboy, and Big Bad Baldy are just as dead as everyone else," said Spike. "Angel's on his own."
"He is," said Dawn, "but he doesn't have to be."
---------
"Are you sure that's a good idea?"
"Not really," said Faith with a shrug, taking another sip of quickly-warming Michelob. "But this guy's helped me out in the past. Helped me deal with a lot of shit."
"I met you in prison, Faith," said Gabby. "Can you really say he's helped you if you ended up there?"
The two convicts were camped for the night in the Circle K outside of Fairmead, a few miles from the correctional facility. After a few hours of searching, with the help of Wilkins' disembodied body, they had been able to work their way out of California's newest mausoleum and had wanted to get as far away as possible. Unfortunately, Gabby's weakness from starvation only allowed them to make it the short distance that first night, and they were currently feasting on Keebler Grasshopper cookies, Oscar Meyer bologna and a twelve-pack from the convenience store's thawing refrigerator.
"Whatever," said Faith. "I did a lot of bad shit in the past, and he helped me get what I did. He didn't want me to go to prison. It was my choice."
"So you want to go to Los Angeles to see this guy."
"I got nowhere else to go, Gab."
"Yes, you do," said Wilkins, who was leaning against the door to the men's bathroom.
"I ain't goin' to Sunnydale," said Faith.
"What?" asked Gabby.
Faith looked at her friend and shook her head. "Nothin," she said. "Nevermind." Faith recognized early on that Gabby couldn't see the Mayor. That somehow, she was the only one who was privileged with his presence. If it weren't for everything that she had been through, everything that she had seen, in the last few years, Faith would have questioned her sanity. Seeing things that ain't there, talking to people that don't exist, ain't supposed to happen in the real world.
Faith, who hadn't been living in the dictionary definition of "the real world" for a while now, was taking it all in stride. She just had to remember to keep her mouth shut when Wilkins decided to talk or else Gabby would really start to wonder.
"It's nothin'," Faith repeated, pushing herself from the linoleum floor. "LA's the place. You need a smoke? I need a smoke."
Although it had no consciousness to speak of, and thus no feelings that could be described by simple human thought, the primal force of nature known as The First noticed the look of doubt on the girl's face as the Slayer wandered behind the counter and pulled a pack of cigarettes from the above shelving unit.
The look of distrust pleased It.
Ever since the simple vial was dropped by a lab employee in St. Petersburg, Russia, results had been a mixed bag for The First. The human population was now nearly extinct, as was the population of potential Slayers, and yet the demon population, Its minions, remained steady.
Yet...
Glorificus was lost. Her human host, Benjamin Wilkinson, had contracted the virus, and had grown closer to death with every transformation. All the while Glory, without a suitable food supply, had fallen further and further into madness until neither could function properly. Ben had died hours ago, and Glorificus remained forever trapped in insanity within her decomposing meat sack.
Warren Mears and Amy Madison, who were destined to become destroyers of many potential Slayers, had also succumbed.
Willow Rosenberg, agent of Evil for centuries to come, was lost, and the mystical seal on the tomb of Daniel Holtz was only delaying his inevitable demise.
Robin Wood. Lindsey McDonald. Shar Roden.
And Caleb... Caleb, The First's most devoted servant, the right hand and the general of Its army of Bringers. Dead of the same virus that choked all those below him.
Yet the Slayers still lived. The Champions still lived.
The First, in Its infinite wisdom, Its vast omniscience and omnipresence, felt that Faith Lahane could be of vital importance in the days, weeks, and months to come. Unstable enough, she could be swayed to follow Caleb's path. Could be swayed to coordinate the Bringers and eliminate the few Potential Slayers that remained alive on this planet.
Could be swayed to eliminate Buffy Summers, the Accidental Slayer.
And, if Buffy should happen to defeat Faith in battle, then that would be one more item to check off from The First's list.
And yet...
The First planned for Faith Lahane to leave that prison alone, and to retrieve the Weapon from the vineyard before Summers even knew it existed. Even a short jaunt through Los Angeles could easily lead back to the beginning.
Gabrielle Tallis was unexpected. A wild card in The First's deck. The virus was to have only left one in every ten thousand humans alive. Was she here purely by random chance? Was she the one from the ten thousand?
Or was there something more to her? Something not quite human?
The First could not get a firm grasp on the girl, and this troubled It. Her mind was weak, true, and The First could easily convince her to do many horrific things, both to herself and others. All it took was a few private visits from her mother, her older brother, or the love of her life, the man who had put her on the path that landed her in jail.
"So how are we getting there?" asked Gabby as Faith returned to the floor, cigarette clenched between her lips. "The roads were pretty clogged. And what about that barricade?"
"Yeah, people love to run away when there's a panic," said Faith, offering her cohort a smoke. "And soldier folks love to keep them right where they were. Probably all died in their cars. I'm thinking motorcycles should be easy enough to handle."
"Thanks," said Gabby, accepting a light from Faith's new Zippo, swiped from behind the counter along with the Marlboros. "But I don't ride."
"It's easy enough," said Faith. "Like riding a bike."
"How about horses?"
Faith's eyebrow arched.
"I'm serious!" Gabby continued. "I rode a bunch when I was a kid at summer camp. They're fast if we need them to be. They'll be easier to feed than motorcycles, since the gas pumps are just as dead as the rest of this town. Most of all, they're smarter. They'll be able to maneuver around stalled cars, and they won't fall over on top of you."
"Horses," Faith mused. "That's pretty bad-ass, Gab. All Young Guns and shit."
The young blonde blushed. "Thanks."
"We'll take a look around tomorrow," said Faith after a drag of tobacco. "See what kinda stables are around these parts."
Yes, thought The First. This Gabrielle Tallis was definitely a wild card.
But a benefit or a detriment to Its plans?
Richard Wilkins sighed. Only time would tell.
And, of that, The First had plenty.