Chancy the Vampire Slayer
Season One: Episode One: The Beginning
((I started out with this being called "The Rising", but I want to save that song title and quote (Wearin' the cross of my calling on wheels of fire I come rollin' down here) for another story where it fits better. 'Cause for the most part I'm going to have episodes named after songs and then have a little quote from the song almost as a descriptor for the episode. So for now I have the LAMEST title EVER for this. If you have any song/title suggestions that fit with this let me know.))
Hi! Thanks for dropping by to read this. As the title and summary suggest this is based in the Buffy world, though Buffy and her pals don't exist. This is the story of another vampire slayer. She's based on a character I have already created, but tweaked a little to fit in this world.
Set in 2010.
There is a bit of strong language in here just warning you.
Hope you enjoy this. Reviews are really appreciated!
"Chancy! Are you paying attention?" I dragged my eyes away from the window. Did Ms. Broad really expect an answer? I stared into a face of nauseating expectation. Looked that way. I sighed.
"No." Ms. Broad swelled as the word left my mouth. She truly was a surprisingly large woman. There were a few snickers, but for the most part dead-eyed students stared at me. What a lively bunch, a real step up from my usual company.
"How do you expect to be ready for tomorrow's test?" I rubbed the back of my neck.
"I already know this stuff," I informed her, quite proud that I had left out the expletive that could have fit into that sentence.
"Ah, yes, you transferred from one of the best high schools in the country." The mocking tone in her voice blew past me. Her jibes meant nothing to me. A few more snickers circulated through the room, but I kept my eyes on Ms. Broad.
"Is there a point to this inquiry or can I go back to my daydreaming?" Ms. Broad's eyes narrowed to cold slits. A few months ago I would have quailed in the presence of that look, but I had seen much worse.
"How do you integrate the integral of the natural log of x?"
"One over x," I replied without thought.
"Care to share how you came to that conclusion?" Not really, but I did so anyway. I sat up a little straighter and stared around the room.
"For all you who are in the wrong class or menticapable, the anti derivative of lin x is one over x. Problem solved. Can I go back to daydreaming?"
"No, you can take your smart ass to the principals office." For the goodie-two-shoes and Mary Sues among us such a sentence would be horrifying, but for yours truly it was heard almost every day. The students didn't even ooh dramatically. I sighed and stood up. Ms. Broad jerked a thumb towards the door. I threw a lazy salute in her direction before grabbing my notebook and meandering towards the door.
There was once a time when I would simply go to my next class and wait outside the door, but the teachers had caught onto this indiscretion and had started calling ahead to insure that I made it to the office. Since not going would land me in deeper shit than going, I decided to cut my losses and have the oh-so-cuddly chitchat with Mr. Brightside.
I walked through the deserted halls. My left leg twinged slightly when I put weight on, the result of being knocked off a crypt. I grimaced. What had possessed me to wear heeled boots today? The painful trek finally ended when I reached the office door.
"Chancy, there you are." Mrs. Thompson—the only teacher I referred to by their real name—smiled at me as I walked in.
"Hi," I said, exaggerating the 'i'.
"Go right on in."
"Will do." I went to the principal's door and walked in without knocking. What? She said I could go right in? Mr. Brightside's ever-present scowl greeted me as I entered.
"Sit," he ordered. I plopped down in the seat, crossed my legs, and smoothed the too-tight skirt that my mother would never had let me leave in the house in. "Chancy, what am I going to do with you? You're facing suspension and we both know what follows that. Expulsion." I rubbed my forehead. Not this speech again. Mr. Brightside sighed at my clearly uncaring demeanor.
"Chancy, I have decided that we need to address your attitude issue." Indignation surged inside me. Issue? There was no issue with my attitude. Before I could formulate my offense into words, Mr. Brightside continued. "You will see a psychiatrist after school."
"What?" It was the best I could manage. After much spluttering, I finally spat out, "I don't need a shrink." Mr. Brightside gave a muted scowl. He was actually trying to be nice about this.
"Chancy"—What was with him and saying my name?—"I might not know the details, but I know you have been through a rough time these last few months," Mr. Brightside said. And good thing too. If I told you the details, you'd institutionalize me. "Transferring from one of the best schools in the country to a public school, moving out of your home, these are signs of depression and it is pass time that we addressed this. Though you are eighteen, I still talked to your parents about this; they agree that seeing a psychiatrist would be best course of action for you." I glowered at the table. These weren't signs of depression, dumb ass. These were signs of survival.
"Chancy. That's a unique name. How did your parents come up with that one?" I stared at the wall, finding it far more interesting than Mrs. Cleveland—I had yet to think of a name for her; I should really get on that. She wasn't as expecting as Ms. Broad, thankfully.
"We might as well jump right in," she said with a weak sigh. I silently congratulated her for her brilliance. "Why did you move out of your parents' home and in with your friend?"
"Emmeline has a pool." Silence stretched between us. I kept up my study of the wall.
"Chancy, you and I both know that isn't the real reason." I shrugged. It didn't make a difference; she wasn't getting the real reason. "Chancy, the only way we're going to get anywhere is if you open up to me." I swiveled my head towards her and stared at her pale, ringlet-framed face. She shifted uncomfortably under the gaze.
"Alright then," she said, noticeably bracing herself. "Lets start with your attitude." I raised my eyebrows. "You have a certain…'fuck the world' attitude." My mouth fell open slightly. She shifted again, plucking her skirt, which rivaled mine for tightness, but I had the body for an A-line.
"It's not an attitude," I said at last. "It's a philosophy. And it's not 'fuck this world'; it's 'fuck this school'." Mrs. Cleveland sighed.
"You dislike this school." I gave an exaggerated nod, but she ignored me. "Then why did you transfer here?"
"I needed more free time." The simple truth, what more did she expect from me?
"This is a big year for you, your junior year, but where do you expect to be in two years? There aren't many colleges who will look kindly on your track record." She spoke so kindly, soothingly, motherly. I wanted to vomit.
"Look, Cleaver, I know what I want from my life and I know how to get it."
"And what is that exactly?" She didn't get anything else from me. I just sat back on the couch and stared at the wall. She closed the session after about ten minutes of trying to make me tell her what I wanted.
All I wanted was to be with my family and the only way to do that was to stay the hell away from them. For a few more years at least.
Almost-spring sunlight spilled over the parking lot, the almost empty parking lot. Everyone else had earned there freedom a lot sooner than me. I walked over to my car, clicking the unlock button every now and then. The yellow lights blinked madly and would probably put an epileptic in a coma.
At last I reached the car and tossed my bag through the backseat window. I got in and settled into the soft leather. It might have been a used car, but it was a damn sexy used car. Back in the day when I was daddy's little girl I had had a brand new silver Jetta, but leaving home meant I had no seniority over the car anymore. But I needed one so I had used almost a quarter of my savings on this beautiful baby.
A buzzing from the back seat pulled me out of thoughts. I twisted around and dug my phone out of the bag. It vibrated in my hand and the name of the most annoying person in my life winked up at me. I answered.
"Hold on," I snapped. I held the phone between my ear and shoulder and turned on my car. "Hold on." I pulled out of the space with more than too much speed and zipped out of the parking lot.
"Chancy." The word snapped at me through the phone.
"Okay, speak," I said as I slowed my speed to something more legal.
"Chancy, where have you been?" I rolled my eyes to the heavens, but I smiled. That British accent, I could never get enough of it. "You were suppose to come straight over here after school."
"Yeah, yeah, keep your knickers on." An aggravated sigh echoed through the phone. "I'm on my way."
"Good. We have a little bit of a situation."
"Excellent." I rounded a corner and screeched to a halt at the stop sign.
"How is that excellent?"
"I've had a rough day. I need something I can hack into itty bitty pieces." Another aggravated sigh.
"Well, you'll be getting your wish."
"Awesome. See you five." I ended the call and tossed my phone in the back seat. I moderated my speed as I entered town. The last thing I needed right now was to be pulled over by the over eager police officer with a dislike for blond chicks in fast cars. Thankfully, he wasn't out or I would be toast.
Sherlock—a.k.a. the most annoying person in the world—lived on the street next to Dunkin Donuts. The house was big and white and old and the also the home for the local book drive. How Sherlock made time to send those books to those less fortunate was beyond me. I parked in the alley between his house and Dunkin and hopped out. Sherlock might have wanted me now, but I needed blood sugar and ASAP.
I entered Dunkin Donuts. The girl behind the counter with the short, cute ponytail started in the on my strawberry coolatta before I ordered. I grinned and dug out my money. Every day for the past few months I had gotten a donut and coolatta.
The girl smiled at me as she slid my order behind the counter. Though we say each other every day, we never exchanged words. I didn't mind—I didn't want to ruin or little friendship by saying something stupid, which was what I usually did.
I paid and left, slurping the drink as I went. I walked up the steps of Sherlock's home and wrapped on the door. It swung open almost instantly and there he was. His light brown hair stood on end and his shrewd brown eyes glared down at me. He would have been cute if he wasn't, like, forty. I smiled at him around the straw.
"Hi." He didn't get a word in as I pushed by him and walked into the living room.
"Chancy!" Emmeline grinned at me from where she sat on the couch. I smiled and slurped, plopping down next to her.
"Researching?" Emmeline shrugged.
"Clara is." I looked over at Clara who sat huddled over Sherlock's writing table in the corner of the room. Her ever-perfect auburn hair was twisted into two buns. She didn't acknowledge my presence.
"So, what's the what?" I asked without the straw in my mouth. Sherlock sat down in his winged armchair by the fire.
"One of my sources has told me that a group of Maliciant's worshippers have gathered underground and are attempting to raise their goddess."
"Maleficent?" I asked. "You mean the green skinned big bad in Sleeping Beauty?" Sherlock sighed and pinched his nose.
"No, Chancy, I mean Maliciant, the goddess of Chaos."
"Sounds like a bamf." Emmeline laughed quietly. Sherlock seemed unimpressed and uniformed to what a bamf was. His brows scrunched up, but he just shook his head.
"This is serious, Chancy."
"No shit, Sherlock."
"Did maturity pass you by?" Sherlock muttered.
"That and common sense." Clara entered the conversation, swiveling her seat and fixing me with her cool brown eyes. I rolled my eyes, which was my usual response when I had nothing good to say. Clara continued, "Maliciant was trapped in an idol almost five centuries ago. According to Sherlock's informant, Maliciant's worshippers found the idols and they are attempting to free her."
"Who exactly are her worshippers, where can I find them, and how do I kill them?" Might as well burn that bush down. Sherlock sighed.
"It might be a little more difficulty than that."
"I doubt it," I said. "Answers, please." Sherlock pinched his nose again.
"Maliciant's worshippers are Truick demons. All her worshippers are female," Clara said.
"Are they green?"
"Pukish brown actually," Emmeline said, handing a book over to me. I glanced at the picture.
"And nude." I snapped the book shut and handed it back to Emmeline.
"We believe there are three shamans and four fighters in the group. The shamans will be the ones trying to free Maliciant from the idol."
"So while they're tied up doing that, I can deal with the fighters. Good plan team, lets move out." Sherlock shook his head.
"Chancy, we need to think this through more."
"No, we don't. I had a really bad day and I need to hack someone to pieces and unless you want it to be you, you should probably let me go do my thing." Sherlock sighed quietly.
"They are preforming the ritual tonight since it's the new moon."
"And where's the underground base?" Sherlock exchanged glances with Clara. She shrugged.
"They are in the sewers beneath town center."
"And you want to sit around hatching out a plan? That goddess gets out and she'll be wicked pissed; she'll tear the town apart." Sherlock nodded.
"True, but we have eight hours until the ritual should start."
"Should? Those ugly slimy things might get impatient," I pointed out. Sherlock sighed. I recognized that sigh; he was a conceding the point. How smart of him. "Anything else I need to know?"
"You'll need silver sword. That's the only weapon that can harm them," Clara said.
"Excellent, I've been meaning to practice by swordsmanship," I said. I hopped to my feet and brandished an imaginary sword. I heard quite a few irritated sighs. I went to the weapon's chest, still fencing my imaginary foe. I kicked it open and pulled out the one and only silver sword. I quit fencing after that. Nobody here would appreciate my nearly decapitating them.
"Until tomorrow," I said, unable to resist a salute with the sword.
"Where do you think you're going?" Sherlock jumped to his feet. I looked at him.
"I have to change."
Truick demons had the most disgusting eating habits of any demon I had had the displeasure to watch eat. I crouched in a niche in the sewer tunnel. Before I had left to change into my comfortable yet attractive hunting outfit, Clara had informed me that Truick demons were horrible at smelling and hearing, which made my job of crouching in slimy sewer muck a lot easier.
The seven demons sat in a circle. Torches sat on the walls, illuminating their little gathering. They stuffed I didn't even know what into there enormous, round, toothless mouths. Slurping sounds filled the tunnel as their acid saliva dissolved their meals. I pressed a hand to my mouth. It was bad enough to be in a sewer, but to listen to that. It was just so icky.
At last they finished eating. The three demons, who I assumed were shamans because they were clothed in funky robes unlike the other four who wore nothing, began making slurping sounds. After a few minutes of watching their heads bob up and down as they slurped, I deduced that they were actually speaking to each other.
They finished up talking and one of the unwrapped a large bundle. She placed the object, which had been wrapped up, on the floor of the sewer. With a sharp slurp from one of the shamans, the four fighters skittered away on skinny legs. They stood facing down the tunnel, hands clenched on their spears. Sneaking up on them was out of the option.
The shamans stood in a triangle around the object. Between slimy legs, I caught a glimpse of it. A woman sitting cross-legged made of stone. Blank eyes stared at me across the sewer and yet a shiver ran up my spine. I looked away.
The slurping started up again. The shamans danced about the idol, slurping all the while. Finally, the party had started. I let them slurp a bit longer. They needed to be in the full throws of ritualizing according to Sherlock or else a disturbance—a.k.a. me, chopping off their pals' heads—would break them from their trance and then all hell would break loose. I stepped out of my niche, sword ready. There was no fast and furious way to do this and besides that so wasn't my style.
"You know, I would suggest a cute outfit for you ladies, but there isn't anything that would go well with that shade. Four sets of beady red eyes swiveled in my direction. They screamed, which was impressive considering that up until now I had thought they were only capable of slurping. Then they charge.
"Here we go." I ducked under the first lunge and sliced my sword across the demon's leg. She screeched and went down for a medical reason I didn't want to get into for fear of vomiting.
Another demon lashed out at me with her spear. I dropped to the floor and rolled away. I was so taking a shower when I got back to Emmeline's. I rolled into a crouch and spun around just in time to jerk my head aside as the gleaming tip of a spear descended. The spear glanced off the stonewall of the tunnel and flew out of the demon's hands. She clamped her mouth shut and made the most disgusting slurping noise I had heard this evening.
"What the hell was that?" I demanded when it had finally finished echoing through the tunnel. The demon's lips puckered. I dove to the side. The glob of saliva smacked against my arm. I screamed and jumped to my feet.
"Water! Water! Water!" I shrieked. The demons rounded on me, red eyes gleaming. "I'll be right back." I raced around the corner as spears clattered against the wall. A thin stream of sewer water glistened on the floor. I fell to my knees. Pain seared my arm as the saliva ate away at me. I pressed as much of my arm as I could into the water. The saliva hissed, but just as Clara had promised, it washed away. I lifted my arm up, but before I could examine it, the demons rounded the corner.
I grabbed my sword and met them in the middle of the tunnel. If I kept them fighting, they wouldn't have time to spit all over me. That was theory at least. One of the demons dropped back and I heard that tell tale slurp. I dropped my sword, grabbed another demon by her arms and spun her front of me. She gaped at me, her giant maw hanging open. Her friend spat. The saliva hit the demon in the back of the head. She didn't have time to make a sound before she dropped dead.
"Wow, that actually worked," I said. "What fail on your part." I grabbed my sword as the demons closed in. I might not have been a pro swordswoman, but I made short work of this lot.
At last I stood over their bodies. My sword dripped with a icky yellow blood. I wiped the blade on one of the demon's arms.
"Most disgusting day ever," I grumbled. A sound sent me spinning around. I brought my sword down from above but two strong hands caught my wrists. I stared at the man. As shameful as it is to admit, my first thought was damn, he is sexy. His face was thin with high cheekbones; his eyes a dark black; his light blond hair stood up sporadically.
"Who the hell are you?" I demanded, yanking my wrists from his grip. He held up his hands as mine shifted around the hilt of the sword.
"I'm here to help you."
"Well you did a great job," I said, indicating the mess of bodies around us. He had the decency to look ashamed.
"I guess I arrived a little late." I nodded.
"Acute observation." The slurping echoing through the tunnel caught my attention. "Maybe you can help with those three." He grinned. I wanted to smack myself upside the head. Your knees are not about to give way, Chancy, I thought.
We walked around the corner.
"Or you can help with this." Six sets of eyes stared us. Reinforcements had arrived. But thankfully not in the form of a goddess: the shamans were still chanting away.
"I'll get the three on the right. You can—"
"Just start killing, pretty boy," I snapped. He opened his mouth, but I had already sped ahead. I deflected the swing of a spear and kicked the demon in the chin. She stumbled back and pressed my advantage. Soon her hot yellow blood dripped from my blade. I danced back as two more closed in. Looked like mystery man got his wish after all. I glanced over to see how he was faring. His silver knife flashed in the dim glow of the torches. He had one demon pinned against the wall with a gloved hand—someone had thought ahead—and was parrying the other's attacks with annoying ease. The third slipped around to his back.
I rolled away from the two demons approaching me and came up behind mystery boy's stealth attack. I caught the demons head in my hands and snapped her head. If spinning this chick's head around didn't kill her, I was going to file a complaint to the Universe for overpowering a creature.
The man looked over his shoulder as the demon dropped. I didn't wait for a 'thank you'. I had my own problems. I spun and started in the two demons.
Finally, I stood, breathing heavily, over their bodies. One of them had landed slice on my arm. I glanced down at it.
"Bitch ripped my shirt," I muttered. A strong hand cupped my arm. I looked up. Mystery man examined the cut. "Diagnosis?"
"You'll live." His eyes continued to the acid burns. I flinched as he rest a finger on it. "This needs to be cleaned." I pulled my arm away.
"No duh." I turned away from him. "Wanna do the honors?" I asked, nodding to the shamans, still ensnared in their ritual. He grinned and set to work. I turned away. I had always had a stomach for gore, but this wasn't getting to the sensory overload point: the smells, the sounds, their skin color.
Soft footsteps echoed down the tunnel. I turned and looked up at the mystery man.
"Who are you?" I asked at last.
"Dominick," he said. "But everyone calls me Dom."
"That tells me absolutely nothing." I hefted my sword. He took a small step back.
"I'm one of Sherlock's informants."
"Ah, that explains a lot," I said. I looked around the tunnel.
"And you're the Vampire Slayer." I glanced up at Dom. A small smile played on his too perfectly curved lips.
"I'm Chancy," I replied stoutly. It came as little surprise that one of Sherlock's informants would know about me.
"It's nice to meet you, Chancy," Dom said with a small duck of his head. I waved his words away.
"I need a shower. Now." I turned and set off down the tunnel. I reached a ladder and scrambled up it. I pushed the sewer grate open and slipped out into the alley behind the thrift shop. Dom clambered out behind me. He looked none the worse for wear after the little skirmish. He also had the idol under his arm. Oops. Sherlock would have killed me if I had forgotten it.
"I'll take that," I said, tugging the idol out of his hands. A flash of annoyance crossed his face. I hefted the idol. Those blank eyes stared accusingly at me. I shrugged at the idol and headed off towards Sherlock's home.
"You coming?" I asked, looking over my shoulder. Dom ran a hand over his hair.
"No, I have to…" He seemed to be casting around for a plausible excuse.
"Whatever, pretty boy." I set off down the alley, but turned after only a few feet. "And by the way next time you come to lend a hand, don't be late." A small smile flashed across Dom's face. I glowered before rounding on my heel and marching off.
Seriously, Chancy? Fluttering heart? That is so not you.
"I'm back," I called with an edge of triumphant in my voice. I waltzed into Sherlock's living room, swinging the idol in my arms. "And I brought you a present." I dropped the idol into Sherlock's lap. He gasped and winced.
"Sorry," I mumbled. Sherlock hoisted the idol out of his lap and carefully placed it on the floor at his feet.
"Your arm!" Emmeline jumped from her seat on the couch and cupped my arm in her slender, tanned hands. I winced.
"Ah, yeah, about that." I pulled my arm from her hands. "It's fine, really. I just need to clean it."
"Does it hurt?" she persisted.
"If you don't leave it alone."
"Oh, sorry." The guilt in her voice made me shift uncomfortably.
"But not that bad." She sat back down on the couch, still shame-faced.
"I should take a look at that," Sherlock said, beginning to rise. I waved him back down.
"It's no big."
"How did it go?" Clara inquired from her place in the corner. I looked over at her.
"Quite well, thank you. I hacked and slashed those ugly, disgusting monsters to pieces." I accompanied my small retelling with some of trademark air fencing. Sherlock rested his forehead on his hand.
"Oh, b.t. dubs, do you have an informant named Dominick?" I asked. Sherlock looked up at me.
"Ah, no, I don't. Why do you ask?"
"No reason," I said with a shrug. Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "I'm gonna go to Emmeline's and take a shower. You coming, Em?" Emmeline shook her head.
"We're doing follow up research on the idol."
"Uh huh. You know as interesting and exciting that sounds, I'm going to have to pass. I'll be back tomorrow afternoon."
"Hold on," Sherlock said. He hurried over to a cabinet and pulled out an icky brown poultice.
"Apply this to the acid burn." I gingerly took the bottle from him.
"Will do," I grumbled. I left without another word. So, pretty boy had fibbed. Why was I completely and utterly unsurprised? I went to my car and hopped in. Now that the excitement had worn off, my mind began to register the pain in my arm. I grimaced and hightailed it to Emmeline's.
She lived a narrow road behind the high school. I could see the football field from her house, which made me wish she would move, but her parents hadn't left her with the right to abandon their home when they left for 'vacation' in the Caribbean.
I pulled into the drive and parked under the basketball hoop. Whenever I had a stab of guilt for moving into Emmeline's home, I always reminded myself that she would be all-alone without me.
I hopped out of the car and started towards the front door. The winding brick path led me to the porch. I mounted it and crossed to the door. Emmeline always locked. I had never locked my doors before living with her. But then again we hadn't needed to since we had lived so far removed from everyone else.
I went inside, locking the door behind me, and walked upstairs. I showered quickly—due to the fact that Emmeline's furnace wasn't working very well and we had no hot water. I applied the poultice. It stung and stained my fingers a putrid brown, but I was thankfully able to rinse it out.
At last I entered my temporary bedroom. It had been Emmeline's brother, but he was now living in Italy. I went to the bed and sat down. The window across from me let in a ray of moonlight. Its silver glow fell on the bedside table. I looked at the picture, which stood there in its silver frame. Four months stood between myself and the Chancy in that picture. She looked so much younger, so much happier as she hugged her mother's arm. Her father stood at her side, his silver beard bright in the light of the momentary flash. At her mother's side stood a boy, his hair sticking out at odd angles. Behind him stood another boy, a young man actually, he looked a bit like a hobo with his scruff bristles.
I stared at that family, perfect, happy.
Over.