"Oh Kim,
your diary said,
the voices're calling you,
from the edge.
You know I hear them too
they're telling me to stay."
Willow
POV
Night-break.
Amy’s
house is not safe, I figure this out during the day when Amy’s father shows up
and I have to kill him.
The
magic also seems to be waning. Not
fast, but definitely a finite supply, I feel fidgety, like there is a hole
inside of me, not like hunger, different.
I felt
Amy’s
dad had a nice car, shiny and red. I
believe the appropriate response to a 45 year old man in such a car is, ‘Oh,
sorry to hear about your sex life.’
No
one is at Buffy’s, so I leave a message on the machine for her and Xander. I also take a ring that I’ve seen her wear. It fits, and more importantly, it’s
hers. Amy says I should check Xanders
house. That chuckle sustains me for a
few blocks. Xander? At his parents? Willingly? I’d have a
better chance of finding him by turning over random leaves and rocks. I entertain the notion of taking her there,
just to see how many parts they’re in.
Rack’s
place is where we left it. Guess it
doesn’t move without help. It’s pretty
much cleared out. The foyer is empty. Okay, I am being generous with the word
foyer, this is basically a crackhouse…
Inside the room where Rack does his ‘business’ I find him, and he’s
pretty gross. Two of his ‘customers’
are curled up near him, one looking pretty catatonic, the other sobbing and
clutching herself. I’d think she was a
vampire, since her face is bloodied, and Rack has signs of, well, of being
gnawed. Nope, has a pulse. She’s human. Barely. I drain them
both. They had potential, just a
little, and I take it. It isn’t much,
but it’s something. I can feel the
power in this room. There is something
here, but it is confined. It isn’t
something I can take, no matter how much I try. I end up causing the room to swirl, and Amy flies around,
staggering like she’s drunk. I barely
notice, but I can see the town, ghostly, moving around me. I stop the merry-go-round when I get near
Amy’s house. I keep going, perspectives
changing, Amy wailing and staggering, bodies flopping around. This is a fun ride.
When
I am done, I walk out into the ‘foyer,’ and out the door. I am in Amy’s attic. There are no words for how cool this
is… Amy throws up. Not so much cool. I swap out all of the ratty trashed furniture in the foyer for
neater stuff from Amy’s living room.
Vampire strength doesn’t suck. I
throw out the bodies. I spray lemony-fresh
Pledge around the area, and some lilac Glade in the foyer, in a corner that I
think someone has pissed in and that no amount of lemony-freshness will
conceal. Much nicer.
By
the time I’m done, I notice that the furniture, some of it pretty new, is
moldy and battered by the time I finish lemony-freshening. I watch. The
stuff is visibly aging and corrupting, the nice pleathery sofa turning into
something that appears to have come from a dump.
Great. I just can’t have nice stuff.
This
is how Rack worked, I realize. He takes
your future, your potential, everything you could ever be, could ever do, and
burns you up, making you twice as bright, twice as beautiful, but only for the
moment. He isn’t giving power, he is
tearing off the end of your life and feeding you a few scraps of it in the
now. You feel strong and confident, and
you wither and die. Nice scam. I felt the power when I consumed him, the
lives within him, but I didn’t recognize them until now. So many people, so many futures cut
short. He took a healthy cut, which is
where he must have gotten the power he gave to me willingly, since my future
can’t be touched. I have no life, no
spark. I realize this at the last, that
I will never be able to grow the magic within myself, only steal it from
others.
That
sucks.
I’m
going to have to become Rack, if I want power.
Trade people a taste of their own potential, in exchange for putting a
lien on their souls. And it doesn’t
work on vampires. I have to suck the
magic out of living people, if I want any for myself…
This
really, really sucks.
But
in here, I have power. It won’t leave
with me, but I can touch it. This
place, it’s Mastercard, it’s everywhere I want to be. I spin the town around me.
Amy wails in the foyer. I hear
her slamming around. I close the door
and keep letting the earth turn beneath me.
It’s a blur, but I know I’ll recognize what I’m looking for. Amy’s settled down to a dull moan. Finally I see what I want. Xander.
In the middle of the street. Some
other vampires surround him.
Stop
the world, I wanna get off. I hear a
thud and Amy sobbing. Whatever.
I
step out of the doorway into the middle of the street. I see some little vampire child all in
black, like Angel had a kid or something, standing right in front of Xander,
almost like he’s threatening him. He’s
got a half-dozen cronies around him, all students. Hey, that’s, um, I don’t remember, he’s in a band, I think.
The
child raises his hand and tells Xander to come meet his master or some shit. I hold back a smile as I raise my hand,
eager to show them that there’s a new sheriff in town. I feel the wind behind me, cold and reeking
of death. It is hungry and I see my
hair stirring around me, I hear my clothing begin to whisper. The wind whips around me, caressing me. It wants me to say the word. The word is…
Whoa.
Xander
is on his back, laughing. He was
holding the kids head, and now it’s gone, crumbling into ash. The kids body falls back, I think he kicked
it or something, cause it just flew, and it also falls apart as it hits the
ground. He’s laughing, and it’s almost
hysterical. I’ve heard this
before. I’ve heard him like this before. The other vampires just scatter, one after another. They have no idea what has happened, but
Xander is just laughing in a pile of ash, ignoring them. Then he stops. Cold. Just like
that. He looks back and sees me and
rolls to his feet with a grin.
“Hey
Wills. Nice look ya got going on
there.”
I
think we are ready to meet the
Master…
So
skip the teary reunion, ‘cause really, there wasn’t one. I concentrate on Buffy’s ring. I feel her, but I can’t make the connection,
I just don’t know how. But there is
something. I could probably find her
in the Rack-a-Whirl, but I realize that I don’t need her. Xander is strong. I am strong. The Master
might have been able to handle a Slayer, but I don’t think he can handle us.
So,
long story short, minus Buffy, Giles or even Cordelia, Xander and I walk into
the high school alone, to take on the master of all vampires. Probably not my greatest plan, but I’m going
to chalk it down to dizziness from all the spinning around town.
Besides,
what can go wrong? I’ve got my lucky
knife, all attuned to death and stuff.
Xander
is strange, seemingly enthused at the chance to fight the Master, his eyes just
light up at the thought. Even more when
I mention the bit about getting the guy who killed Buffy. But his enthusiasm dims, like that a second
later. When I mentioned Cordelia, he
also didn’t look thrilled.
I
wonder if he screwed her too? Nah. Not unless he did it while she was dead or
something.
He
really doesn’t like Amy or something.
Mood-swing-guy. I’d think he was
jealous, if I thought he could be.
The
Master sits at the table in the library.
A big comfy plush chair has been brought in from somewhere else in the
school, the drama department probably.
A half-dozen vampire minions, all high schoolers, serve him, bustling
about like whipped slaves. It’s
disgusting. One even holds the door for
us, it looks like one of the swim-team guys.
I think his name is Gage. I used
to think he was hot. Hmm. Still do, actually.
Gage
announces our arrival and tells us all about how fortunate we are to be in the
presence of the Master. I look at
him. He looks back, thinking that we
are checking each other out. His
clothing starts to smolder, but he manages to roll around shrieking and it goes
out.
“Not
here to listen. Here to talk.”
The
Master sets down his teeny little cappuchino cup and stares raptly, giving the
distinct impression of being willing to humor this display. Humor this, batface. I’ll give you something to laugh about. I feel the wind, the fire, the earth beneath
me. All of them have something to say.
He
claps his hand, and his minions stop whatever fussing about they are doing and
stand off to the side. A smallish bald
man in a suit is tied to a chair and gagged, he looks like the new principal,
Skinner, I think. He isn’t struggling
and looks, dead, but dead inside, resigned or something. I don’t really want to think about what has
been done to him.
“You
have my attention,” he says, only a lot
condescendingly.
I
am suddenly nervous. He is strong. I can feel it. The wind is scared, it howls warnings. The earth groans and will not shake. The fire, well, it always wants to play, but it suddenly doesn’t
feel as all-consumy as it should.
Xander stands behind me, almost like a minion, but I knows he isn’t, not
really. He knows it too. I don’t know what he is, how powerful, how
dangerous. This also makes me nervous.
“Since
Luke and Darla are, well, no longer with us, I think you might find us suitable
replacements,” not my planned line, but suddenly safer sounding than an
immediate confrontation. He looks
intrigued, and I feel a tiny surge of relief.
One
of the Masters minions choose that moment to point out Xander as the one who
killed the Annointed One.
I
want to hit Xander as he says, “What?
That kid? What kind of idiot
makes a little kid into a vampire anyway?”
Apparently
I forgot to tell Xander the new plan, and the ‘follow my lead’ part of the old
plan seems to have gone over his head.
He goes over my head like he’s on a wire, and the Master is twisting and
tossing him aside like he’s a rag doll.
A minion, band-kid again, breaks his fall, and he bounces back into the
fray like he’s on a bungee.
They
fight. I am stunned at the savagery of
it all.
I
can barely see them move, but the Master is so much faster, so much stronger
that it is clear after a few seconds that he is toying with Xander. He finally literally snatches Xander
one-handed out of the air during a fairly impressive leap, holding him up by
the throat and catching the leg that tries to kick him with his other
hand. Xander grunts as the Master
begins to squeeze with one hand and pull him apart like a chicken with the
other.
I
realize that I am about to watch him die, and I reach into myself and unleash
the fire. “Put. Him.
Down!”
The
Masters lame leathery jacket thing starts to smolder, which is odd, since he
should be a pyre with how much fire I am throwing at him. I see the Masters head turn towards me, eyes
wide, and suddenly I am slammed against the wall, Xander piled on top of me,
unconscious, maybe dead.
No
time to check, I push him off and the Master looks actually somewhat alarmed,
and points to his minions, “Kill them!”
The
minions, kids I went to school with earlier this week, move in around and I
realize that even if I hadn’t just burned major power trying to immolate the Master,
I couldn’t take all of them. One of
them has grabbed Amy. Whatever. Bon appetit.
A
new voice rings out behind me, “Back off!”
It’s Giles!
I
must look like a schoolgirl again, all puppydog happy to see him again, like a
week ago, a lifetime ago. Buffy is with
him. He is dressed the same as always,
but rumpled and disheveled. The
vampires surround us warily, but no longer certain, not sure what to make of
Buffy and Giles presence.
“Excuse me,” a voice rings out, and
Gage, who was creeping towards the door, trying to get behind us, goes flying
into and over the check-out desk. I
think he ends up in Giles’ office. I’d
recognize that voice anywhere and I turn briefly to shoot her a glare.
Holy
outfit!
It’s
Cordelia. If she were dead. And a supermodel dominatrix.
Let’s
start with the boots. Almost to her
knees, black leather, about $650. Then
the skirt. Make that mini-skirt. Make that micro-mini-skirt.
Oh fuck it, lets not mince words, I’ve worn thicker belts. Black leather. It shouldn’t cost much, since the leather required to make it
could have come from a squirrel.
Actually, I think he’d have leather to spare. Anyway, then her bra.
Yes, bra, since isn’t wearing anything else. It’s also black leather, and it’s not a large bra, that leaves
something to the imagination.
Nope. No imagination
required. I can see them moving,
hypnotically as she breathes. I wonder
if she knows that she doesn’t have to?
I sincerely hope no one ever tells her... Then the jacket. Guess
what color it is? Guess what animal
died to make it? It explains the
shortage of leather to make her skirt and bra, since all by itself it explains
the near-extinction of the American bison.
It has pouches and straps and pockets and sashes and pleats. It has metal ornaments, square spikes, like
little silver pyramids. I’d say it
weighs 25 lbs, with an extra 20 lbs for the chains and metal studs and
stuff. Cost? I don’t know, several thousand, easy. And you can’t get stuff like that in Sunnydale, it had to come
from LA. Or perhaps another planet,
where they regularly make skirts out of squirrel-leather. I know she hasn’t been to LA since she died,
so she had that in her closet, in case she ever happened to be a vampire
supermodel dominatrix, I suppose. I’ve
just now decided that I like girls.
(Amy doesn’t count. I don’t
actually like her.)
Oh,
and Harmony is behind her, standing in a pose, one hand on her hip, other hand
outraised, like she’s one of the Supremes.
I expect her to be singing, ‘Stop!
In the naaa-aamme of love…’ But
with the outfit, I think perhaps Village People is more what she was going
for. God Harmony, I’m embarrassed to be
a vampire. Cordelia should have never
let you dress yourself today… Leather
boots? Yes. Red leather hand-tooled cowboy boots? No. Tight faded jeans? Good.
Tight white T-shirt, no bra, so that I can count your exact change? Fine.
(And thank you Xander for teaching me that expression, and teaching me
also the importance of always wearing a bra, even if I don’t really have to,
since a close encounter with a frosty beverage can happen at any time.) The belt though? Thicker than Cordy’s ‘skirt’ and with a buckle large enough that
a Greek Hoplite could have been carried home on it? Oh, hell no. The
‘coat.’ Red leather and with no sleeves
and no front, slashed away so that nothing is covered except your shoulders and
a v-shaped wedge of your back?
Whatever. Shoulderpads is what
that is, not a jacket. And the bracelet
of hand-tooled red leather on the arm, I don’t even know what the hell that
is. Some sort of bracer or
something. Go Wonder Woman. Go far.
Antarctica would be nice. I have
no time to discuss the accessories, I’m only going to live forever.
I
know, it seems like I took time to notice this stuff, but it was fast, a second
or two to look at Cordelia and think, ‘Holy shit!’ and a second or two to gaze
dumbly at Harmony and think, ‘What the fuck?’
Which left me plenty of time to track my gaze back to the impending
fight and see the other reactions.
Xander, nearest to me. I’ve seen
that look. He hasn’t even noticed that
Cordelia has a head yet, he’s still trapped by the bra. Buffy, look summed up, ‘the fuck?’ Giles, eyebrows reaching for the sky. Not a look I’ve seen on him before. Band-guy minion, the usual male reaction,
deer in headlights. He’s on his ass, still
not recovered from cushioning Xanders fall.
Nurse Greenleigh is standing over him, frozen in the act of helping him
up. (Nurse Greenleigh? The hell?
Show some fucking discretion whom you bite, people! God, what was, whoever, thinking?) Anyway, her expression is priceless and
indescribable. I’m gonna have to
practice that look in front of the…
Damn! Can’t! The last reaction I note is the Master,
appraising, appreciative, amused.
Great. I’m just going to give up
now. The Master, a vampire older than
sliced bread, is checking out Cordelias tits.
I
hate this world sometimes, particularly the half that have penises.