The Last Son and the Final One
Disclaimer: Don't own a thing!
Pairings: Cute plus adorable plus (a dash of) cannon. Some definite Buffy/Clark infatuation, but will it ever actually turn into anything?
Notes: This story was written a bajillion years ago (pre-Smallville: Lantern, hence Hal) and barely edited, so apologies in advance.
Summer of 1990
Smallville's happiest married couple stood near the counter in Fordman's Department Store on Main Street. They patiently waited in line to purchase some new kitchen appliances.
"Jonathan, where's Clark?" Martha Kent asked worriedly, her vibrant red hair flying through the warm summer air as she spun around searching the shop.
She knew that they should have left him on the farm. The wonderful little boy that Mr and Mrs Kent adopted last fall, after the devastation of the meteor shower, had disappeared from plain sight. Clark had toddled off somewhere, which was a definite cause for concern.
Jonathan and Martha's son was special. He was different. Clark Kent wasn't exactly from around Smallville, the state of Kansas or, quite possibly, anywhere near the Solar System.
The 1989 meteor shower had changed so many lives. Most residents of the close-knit community had theirs taken a turn for the worse, whereas the Kent family was blessed with the most precious gift they ever could have hoped to chance upon. An endearing young boy with thick black hair and brilliant blue eyes who had literally fallen from the stars.
The Kents knew they should have felt guilty that Smallville's ultimate day of death and destruction was their happiest. So many good people were killed before their time was up. Mr and Mrs Fordman Snr and their youngest, Lolly, were brutally hit by a gigantic cluster of space rock that took out an entire suburban block. They had died instantly. As did Lewis and Laura Lang in the middle of Main Street, orphaning a crying three-year-old in a pink fairy princess costume.
Martha smiled to herself whenever she thought back to the moments before the meteors rained down upon the small farm town in an epic hailstorm of fire. Little Lana Lang was sitting on the counter in Nell's Bouquet, where the Kents were buying tulips, with her wings and her wand. Her huge, innocent eyes blinked up at the kind red-headed woman as the three year-old girl asked if she wanted to make a wish. Not long after that, Clark came into Jonathan and Martha's lives.
"Clark!" Mrs Kent called out. "Clark!"
Travelling at such speed so that he was almost an inhuman blur, a twinkly-eyed boy ran up to his parents. He tugged on Martha's pant leg. Clark's face was flushed with splotches of red. A look of awe and fascination was etched upon it.
"Mommy, Mommy, I think I saw an angel!"
The mother felt relieved and bent over, hands resting on her knees. Martha was thankful that no alarming incidents had occurred during the time he wandered off. She was worried that someone would find out about Clark's uniqueness and take him away. Jonathan greatly shared her concerns.
Martha was curious about Clark's excitement. Her son nodded enthusiastically. She had never seen his bright, beautiful smile this bright and this beautiful before.
"Really, honey?"
Increasingly animated, Clark's head shook up and down over and over again.
"Where?"
The three-year-old boy eagerly pointed toward a bare section near the back of the modestly-sized establishment where two young, blond children were playing. Or, more specifically, where one blond child tossed a toy football and another happily sat atop a pile of boxes, chattering incessantly and energetically swinging a pair of tiny legs.
The older child was Whitney Fordman, the owner of the department store's only son. He insisted to be called by his middle name, petulantly deeming his first too "girly."
Whitney wore his yellow blond bowl cut with a straight middle part. He enjoyed the scarce time he'd gotten to spend with his little cousin that lived far away in California. He didn't see her often but had regarded himself as a protective big brother figure. He was well practiced in playing the part for their other cousin, who also lived in the small farm town.
The younger, merrily sitting upon her haphazard throne of folded cardboard, was only in town for a couple of more days. Her name was Buffy Summers.
Even though the Coast City native only visited Smallville for a few weeks during the summer, nearly everyone who frequented the main parts of town knew the bubbly, bouncing girl – at the very least, by sight. She was a memorable personality, always talking and asking questions to whomever happened to walk by her on the street. Buffy Summers never let a dull moment pass in her presence.
Clark had never seen the pretty blonde girl before because he was almost always kept on the Kent Farm by his parents. Jonathan and Martha were very watchful of their son. They had sheltered him from a lot of the outside world and the people who would, no doubt, exploit him.
Buffy was the kind of effervescent child who had an extraordinary amount trouble going unnoticed. She had a dazzling smile that was able to light up any room and possessed an engaging, lively personality that made it impossible not to brighten any grouch's gloomy day. Buffy Summers was a lot like Clark Kent in that way. They both shined through the darkness in other's lives like the most startling sunlight and the most captivating moonbeams.
"Is that a real angel, Mommy? She looks like what I think an angel is supposed to be, only … prettier."
Martha smiled knowingly. It seemed that her young son had his first crush, even if he didn't know what such a thing was yet. She wasn't too concerned about having to intervene, for the sake of keeping her son's secret. The situation was not a worry because Buffy Summers lived in Coast City year-round. She was never in Smallville for too long.
Mrs Kent surveyed Buffy, who wore a knee-length white dress adorned with a daisy chain belt made with real, interlinking flowers. She had fashioned it with her other cousin yesterday in the Johnson family's backyard. She used her relatives' beautifully blooming garden as the weave's source and refused to throw the daisy chain away until its white flower petals had curled up and completely died.
Martha crouched down and leaned closer to Clark. She spoke softly into his tiny ear. "What to do you think, sweetie?"
"I think she is one, Mom."
Martha Kent somewhat agreed with her son. The frothy white dress she wore only added more fanfare to her undeniable combination of angelic features. Buffy's hair was silky and gleaming. It glowed gold, despite the dim fluorescent lamps that lit up the back of the shop where she sat. Her small, heart-shaped face had a youthful and naive beauty; and her hazel-green eyes held an unwavering sparkle.
"I think she is an angel," declared Clark Kent.
Summer of 1993
"MOM!" cried a frustrated little girl. Her shiny yellow-blonde hair was tied into two long pigtails. Wandering alone around Quinn's Market, the young girl couldn't find her mother anywhere. She impatiently tapped a platform sandaled foot on the black and white chequered, linoleum floor.
Buffy Summers vibrated with boundless energy. She was bored and circled the store twice more before giving up. In the end, she opted to pace up and down the same section instead of aimlessly roaming about like a moronic poop-head. She crossly folded her tiny arms and waited next to a gumball machine near the market's glassed front entrance.
She needed to ask her mom for some money so she could win something from it. Why? Simply because she wanted to. Buffy was used to getting whatever she felt a fleeting fancy for and refused to be treated any other way.
Irritated, Buffy blew away the chunk of sunshiny strands that had flopped onto her honey tanned face when a dark-haired boy who wore a plaid shirt and faded jeans walked up to her. He was very cute – she had never bothered with the mandatory 'boys have cooties' stage of childhood development and precociously bounded right past it.
Not a regular resident of Teenytown, she didn't recognise him. Buffy had visited the small town for years, but usually only ever in the summer and for the occasional festive season. She didn't know absolutely everybody there was to meet regardless of its practically nonexistent population. The boy did look a little familiar, though.
He shot her a sweet smile and took a rusty quarter out of his pocket, which he placed in the slot. A plastic ring encased in a clear sphere fell out from the machine's toy dispenser.
He brightly looked down at Buffy. He was well over a head taller than her and had bright blue eyes that were almost the exact same shade of the more intensely coloured squares on his well-worn button-up. His eyes met Buffy's large hazel-green ones as he took the plastic ring from the metal dispenser of the prize-toy machine and handed it to her.
The boy in plaid had the bluest eyes she'd ever seen. They were unearthly and captivating. The girl nearly couldn't bear to look away from them.
Buffy flashed him a radiant megawatt smile in thanks. Without a word, she chastely pecked him on one of his rosy cheeks and happily skipped away, her gift from the gumball machine in hand. She left him standing still and star struck, watching her bouncy blonde pigtails sway behind her in the pleasant summer air. A deep crimson flush had coloured his face.
Everyone was so nice in this isolated farm town filled with fields upon fields of corn. Buffy Summers decided, then and there, that she liked Nowheresville. Even if the place was two hours on the freeway away from modern civilisation.
Summer of 1995
"Oh sweetheart, I've just heard the most terrible news," Martha sadly told her eight year-old son.
Clark, quite tall for his age, looked up at his sorrowful mom with his big blue eyes. She hugged him tightly. If it weren't for his special abilities, Clark Kent was sure that he would have had trouble breathing by this point.
"What is it, Mom?"
Martha Kent sighed. "It's a girl in your class, Celia Johnson. She was hospitalised in Metropolis General because of the nasty flu that's been going around. She passed away late last night."
"Lana's friend?" he asked concernedly. Clark was worried and wondered how Lana Lang was doing. Celia was one of Lana's best friends.
Life only ever seemed to kick her in the teeth. Death appeared to taunt and follow Lana wherever she went. Smallville's beloved (fairy) princess had suffered through so much tragedy already.
"I'm afraid so, honey. It's all so sad. Apparently her cousin, Joyce Summers's daughter, was in the room with Celia when it happened. You remember Mrs Summers, don't you?"
Clark thought back and remembered a friendly woman with blonde hair and a soft voice. That nice lady usually came to town and visited his parents during the summer. He didn't know that she had a daughter.
"She didn't take it well and hasn't stopped crying since it happened," explained Martha.
"I didn't know that Celia had another cousin." Clark's brows furrowed. "One that's a girl."
Martha smiled affectionately at his inquisitiveness with a little humour hidden behind her eyes. Apparently Clark had no idea that the angel he saw in Fordman's Department Store many years ago and Celia Johnson's cousin from California were one and the same. "She's not from around here. She lives in Coast City, but occasionally comes to Smallville during the holidays with Joyce."
"How is Mrs Summers doing?" Clark questioned, genuine care apparent in his tone. He was raised to be a very compassionate and considerate boy. "We should do something for the Johnsons. I can help you peel Granny Smiths if you want to bake them a pie."
"Sure, sweetie. I think baking them a pie is a wonderful idea."
Clark beamed. It was important to him to help other people, and he enjoyed doing it. "We should make a couple more, as well. One for the Summers family and another for the Fordmans, too."
Martha hugged Clark again for his sweet suggestion. He was such a wonderful, thoughtful boy.
Fall of 2000
"Don't be such a jerk, Jordan! Like, seriously! Enough with the pom-pom jokes! You're ruining my happy day."
A grinning twelve-year-old boy who proudly sported a loosely-fitting, brown leather jacket and a mischievous face filled with mirth grabbed the purple tuft of loose plastic in Buffy's hand. He waved it around and did his mock impersonation of a cheerleader. She rolled her eyes and swatted him on the head with the yellow pom he hadn't taken.
"Why would I do that?" he laughed. "I think I'm hilarious."
"Like, of course you would …"
"I also think, and know as a matter of fact, that I'm good-looking, athletic, insanely handsome, witty, largely attractive, charming and good-loo―"
"I, however," she cut in sharply, "totally, totally don't."
Buffy snatched back her purple pom back and shoved him lightly. He nearly fell off the outdoor bleachers but Hal Jordan simply laughed harder. The newly official Hemery cheerleader scowled, but that quickly turned into a smirk. He hadn't seen what she did.
Buffy had noticed a certain striking, blue-eyed girl approaching the grassy field in front of them. Her long, black hair messily pulled back into an unfussy low ponytail, she walked onto the verdant turf in her purple and yellow soccer uniform.
Buffy knew exactly how to shut her annoying friend up.
"An opinion that I so share with Carol, if I'm not mistaken."
Hal's loud and obnoxious laughing ceased. "Low blow, Summers. Low blow."
"I know, right?" It was Buffy's turn to don a cheeky expression. "But, hey, you make fun of me for being a cheerleader, I poke fun at your obviously obvious and hysterically hysterical itty-bitty boy crush on Carol Ferris that is so old, it predates American capitalism."
Hal crossed him arms, upset.
"Ooh, and don't forget your ego," she added unapologetically.
He wasn't that obvious, was he?
"She thinks you're a complete idiot, you know."
"Really?" he asked casually, playing it cool. "I could care less."
Hal's ability to wear a fearless shell coated in nonchalance and indifference was one of the few talents he had up on his closest female friend – a handy skill to have at Hemery. Buffy was never good at hiding her emotions. She wore her heart on her sleeve for the whole world to see.
Buffy tried to ignore the troublemaker lounging beside her. Listening to her own internal or external monologue – it didn't really matter in her self-important opinion – was usually far more interesting than anything that anybody else had to say. Except for, perhaps, the Jordan boys. But only on occasion. "Well, not an 'idiot', I guess."
"Really?" Hal repeated. He let the tiniest smidgen of hope escape his lips that time.
"'Childish' is the word that Carol would choose."
Hal's face straightened, his voice sarcastic. "Ha, ha."
"The me that is Buffy Summers: future cheerleading captain of Hemery High, however, would way more rightly use the term 'total screw-up'."
"You're so funny!" he drawled flatly.
"Well, like, duh! Very, very. I am me."
"And modest," added Hal.
Buffy scoffed. "Like you're any better, Jordan!"
It was a pleasantly sunny afternoon in Coast City, California. Walking down the front stone steps of Hemery High School was a collective of gossiping girls. Walking in the middle of them all, at the front of the prissy pack, was a short, svelte fourteen-year-old who was, without a doubt, the prettiest one there. She held a surprisingly commanding presence which was sickeningly coated in sugar and spice and everything nice, creating the perfect bubble-brained bobble-head. She was obviously their leader.
The girl had long, yellow-blonde hair that reached past her waist and was meticulously styled at the front to create mini bouffant-like poof. She carelessly sucked on a strawberry lollipop.
"So, I'm like, 'Dad, you want me to go to the dance in an outfit I've already worn?'" Buffy re-enacted the totally dumb conversation she had with her father the night before in an exasperated voice whilst waving around her lollipop. "'Why do you hate me?'"
"Is Tyler taking you?" one of the girls excitedly asked her.
Buffy looked at the girl disbelievingly. "Where were you when I got over Tyler? He's of the past. Tyler would have to crawl on his hands and knees to get me to go to the dance with him – which, actually, he's supposed to do after practice, so I'm gonna wait."
She popped the strawberry sweet back in her shiny, lip-glossed mouth.
"Ohhhhkaaaaay," the question asking girl sheepishly replied, secretly unsure of how she was expected to keep up with Buffy Summers's love life. The blondest blonde in Coast City – possibly even California, if it weren't for a particular billionaire heir from Star City – practically had a new boyfriend every other week.
She had been that way with boys ever since she and Jack Jordan split up for (what everyone could only pray was) the final time in a very messy and very public affair. It had happened a week after the notorious couple was crowned as Hemery High's Homecoming King and Queen. There was a massive food fight, which all of the other students joined in on, that broke out in the school cafeteria. It was Buffy and Jack who had started it.
Buffy's group of It-girl subordinates made their leave for home. Or the beach. Or the mall. Probably the mall.
"See you later."
"Call me." Buffy girlishly wiggled manicured fingers on the hand that didn't hold her trademark lollipop, waving and saying goodbye. She always had a lollipop on her. It was something that Buffy Summers was known for – it was her thing. "Call me."
"I will!"
"Call me!" she added again, to the last lingering of her friends.
Buffy sighed absentmindedly and took off her deep-pink suede jacket. She rested it over her lap and revealed the white, daisy trimmed tank top underneath. The lollipop was back in her mouth. She casually sat on the bottommost set of steps out the front of Hemery's front entrance, waiting for boyfriend-ish-type guy-friend Tyler Jeffrey to finish his football training for the afternoon.
Out of nowhere, she was approached by a portly, discoloured-moustached man.
"Buffy Summers?"
"Yeah," she said distractedly. "Hi." She realised that she didn't know this man who could seriously have used a trip, or a hundred trillion, to the gym. OK, well, the older dude wasn't that fat – but where she was from, around who she hung out with, the standards of physical perfection were pretty darn high. "What?"
"I need to speak with you."
Buffy frowned. "You're not from Bullocks, are you?" That old guy couldn't have tracked her all the way to her high school for one silly, little misdemeanour. And the store was probably insured anyway, right? It wasn't her fault that money was tight at home because of her stupid parents' stupid divorce – stupid, costly lawyers. "Because I – I meant to pay for that lipstick."
"There isn't much time. You must come with me. You're destiny awaits," old and portly spoke seriously, with little to no emotion. He acted annoyingly aroundingly-bush-beaty, too.
"I don't have a destiny." Buffy pursed her pink lips, sceptical. He had to have the wrong person. The only destiny she had, making the Hemery High cheerleading squad, she already fulfilled. "I'm destiny free, really." The strawberry-flavoured candy made its way back inside her mouth.
"Yes, you have. You have been chosen. You alone can stop them."
Buffy took the lollipop out of her mouth. This man with the funny moustache was beyond confusing. He really had to cut with the cryptic if he wanted her to understand what in the frilly heck he was talking about. Also, she thought whilst giggling internally, a strange middle-aged man talking to a lone teenage girl outside of a building filled with other young people was kinda skanky. "Who?"
"The vampires," he stated concisely, as if that single statement cleared everything up.
"Huh?"
Winter of 2002
State-wide covering puffs of grey cloud, thick enough to block out that late afternoon's weak sunbeams, hung oppressively overhead. A steady drizzle of fittingly dreary rain fell upon a black cluster of umbrellas. They shielded a small crowd of people who surrounded an adult-sized coffin and were all dressed in depressingly dark funeral-wear.
Clark Kent morosely observed the friends and family of the recently departed Mr Fordman, opposite him. He saw the unreadable face of Lana Lang, who held hands with her boyfriend, and the late George Fordman's son, Whitney. The Smallville High football hero stood in between his distraught girlfriend and his heavily sobbing mother.
On the other side of Mrs Fordman was Joyce Summers. He remembered that Mrs Summers was originally Miss Fordman. She was the last surviving of Mr Fordman's three younger sisters – there was Joyce, the long passed Arlene Johnson, née Fordman, and longer deceased Lolly Fordman. His parents were friends with Mrs Summers. Jonathan Kent had known her during his days at Smallville High. She used to visit the Meteor Capital of the World every summer, until the one her niece Celia died.
Standing still and stoic and without a watery eye in sight was a dark-blonde-haired girl that Joyce Summers had a black-coated arm wrapped around. She was around his age. She looked vaguely familiar. Clark usually had an impeccable memory, yet he couldn't quite place her.
She evidently wasn't from Smallville. Her inappropriately short skirt, stylish sunglasses and high-heeled boots were strong proof of that. Also, he didn't know who she was. In Smallville, everybody knew everybody.
Clark swept over her alien (not in his specific sense, of course) appearance with interest and fascination. Whilst he did, he could have sworn that his eyes tingled, that they felt a little warm for a split-second. The warm sensation flared so fast that he quickly dismissed it and presumed he imagined the whole thing.
If Lana's face was difficult to read, this girl's was indecipherable. She was clearly sad but her hard face remained impassive. She masterfully masked a world-weary shadow at would have gone unnoticed if Clark hadn't seen a similar one cross his own face every morning in the mirror. Hers, however, had a haunted quality that his thankfully lacked.
Spring of 2002
Remy Zero played a slower, heartfelt hit at the Smallville High School Spring Formal. It was times like those that Lex Luthor's complicated friendship brought welcome and unexpected surprises.
Clark, in a crisp black suit, was slow dancing with his one of his best friends and his date for the dance, Chloe Sullivan.
"Clark Kent: Man of Mystery," Chloe stated very matter-of-factly, gazing up at him and grinning. "Just when I think I have you figured out, you surprise me."
"How's that?"
Chloe's head swivelled, contentedly taking in their colourful surroundings. "The song." She stared straight ahead, eye-level with Clark's chest. "The tux." She went back to admiring his handsome face. "Tonight."
"And I'm still here," he smiled, looking into her lovely green eyes.
Chloe beamed. "Yeah, you are."
Clark rested his dimpled chin on the top of Chloe's glitter-sprayed head and continued smiling. They blithely swayed, swaying on the spot. The multicoloured lights around them seemed to soften. He peered down at her, and he knew that she recognised the same thing he had. The splendidly cheesy, perfectly clichéd high school moment for them to lean in for a kiss at the school dance had come. They tiled their heads at the same time, slowly bowing towards each other.
"Stop! Stop the music, please."
They were interrupted when the painful ringing of someone tapping a microphone resonated throughout the packed gym. Remy Zero stopped playing.
"Excuse me for a-a second – yeah. Can I have everyone's attention, please?" a chaperoning teacher said hurriedly. "Um, thank you." He didn't sound like he had good news. "The National Weather Service has just issued a tornado warning. Apparently three funnels have been spotted heading toward Smallville."
The teacher standing on stage in front of his students had a light smattering of sweat coating his forehead. He talked very fast. Clark and Chloe exchanged worried glances. The whole gymnasium filled with incensed murmurs.
"Now, uh, please everyone, stay calm. The twisters are gonna set down south of here. But for your own safety, no one will be allowed to leave the gym …"
Clark felt a pit start to dig itself deeper at the base of his stomach. "The bus station's south of town." He realised something troubling. "Lana's there!"
"Clark, don't worry about it. I'm sure she's home by now," Chloe said reassuringly, patting his arm gently. "You know what? I'll go call her on my cell, and you wait here." She left him to find her purse and passed through the whispering throng of Smallville High students.
"Clark?" Chloe turned to look back at him, only to find he was missing. She retraced her steps, paying no attention to the hazardous mass of white balloons at her feet. "Clark?"
Buffy Summers slowly entered the Hemery High School gym. It was decorated with colourful banners, cheerful bunches of balloons and glittering, twisting streamers for the Senior Prom.
She was only a freshman, but had gotten back together with Jack Jordan after being dumped by an unappreciative jerk who shall not be named – whose name, however, only mentioned for the simple sake of basic information telling, was Tyler 'Butt-face' Jeffrey. Jack was a senior and had asked Buffy to be his date after their joyous (and one of many) reunion(s) a few months prior.
Buffy's tastefully made-up eyes darted around the room, searching for her Jack. He was probably unhappy that she couldn't meet him at home beforehand. Mrs Jordan was probably upset that she didn't have the opportunity to take pictures.
Buffy knew that Jack and his twelfth grade buddies had specially arranged for a stretch limousine to pick them up at the Jordan household before the prom. But, hello? It wasn't her fault that she had just touched back down in California only hours ago because of her Uncle George's funeral.
Buffy experienced a rare moment of gratitude for her Slayer powers. She wasn't blinded by the flashing lights that flooded the gymnasium.
Buffy caught sight of a dapper Jack Jordan dancing with a reasonably OK-looking girl that had a terrible perm (there should've been laws to prevent this kind of colossally atrocity-ish eyesore), which was drawn away from her tacky and heavily powdered face with a frothy pink scrunchie. That was weird – the girl's appearance, as well as the girl herself, who was with her boyfriend.
Buffy nonchalantly made her way over to Jack and the pink scrunchie girl who she was sort of sure was in the same year as him. "Jack! There you are."
"Buffy, hi," he stopped dancing and awkwardly scratched the back of his neck. "What are you doing here?"
"I thought we were … gonna come here together."
Jack averted Buffy's confused face and gently grabbed her French-manicured hand. He steered Buffy to an empty, traffic-free corner of the gym, away from the perm-haired girl he danced with. "I'm here with Jenny."
"I don't get it." Buffy crossed her arms across her chest. She was glad that she got that big, old hairy mole on her left shoulder removed. She wore a low, strapless number that evening.
"Come on, Buffy," sighed Jack. "You know what's going on. It's not working out at all. We've got to move on."
"To Jenny? Nice choice, by the way," she congratulated sardonically.
"Well, my choices were limited. It was either find a last-minute date or sit on my ass and twiddle my thumbs waiting. I knew how that was gonna end: with me most likely getting stood up by you."
Buffy pouted. She spent hours that afternoon getting her hair dyed a fashionable dark-blonde and her make-up professionally done. She had wasted weeks looking for the right dress. She refused to settle until she finally found the dress – a dusty pink gown that flawlessly fitted her like a specially tailored glove. "That is totally not fair."
"You know …" Jack paused. He didn't know how to word this. He still cared for her. She was the first girl – who wasn't him mom – that he ever cared about. "… I've heard the strangest rumours about you from the lowerclassmen."
"And you believe them?" derided Buffy in disbelief. She thought she knew Jack better than that.
"I don't know what to believe. Hal gets all shifty-eyed and guilty-faced whenever your name comes up. Other people look at me funny when I talk about you, too. And whatever other unexplainable insane you've got going on, I've had my own important, life-changing stuff happening, and my girlfriend hasn't been here for any of it."
"Gee, thanks." Buffy was given ample opportunity to pile on with the heavy sarcasm that evening.
"You and me … I think we've passed our prime, don't you?" he admitted resignedly. "I told you about all this. That's actually why I'm surprised you're here tonight."
Buffy shook her head at Jack was the ignorant party. "No you didn't."
"I couldn't get hold of you, so I, er, called. Didn't you get my message?" Jack's warm brown eyes took on an identical caginess that Buffy had gotten used to seeing on Hal ever since her peculiar behaviour began. She was ousted by their group of friends a while ago. Stupid Slayer calling.
"You left me a message?"
"You weren't around."
"You broke up with my machine?" she cried, majorly peeved.
Other kids started to take notice and stare. Many whispered amongst themselves, and most blatantly ogled the infamous Hemery couple, eagerly expectant of a nasty outcome. Buffy's increased Slayer hearing picked up on the anticipatory comments from a few of Jack's fellow seniors. They were curious to see if their little lovers' spat would blow up like their last one in the cafeteria.
Jack had pulled Buffy aside in an attempt to avoid a scene. It didn't work out.
Jack unintelligibly (to normal human ears) mumbled under his breath, "Like always."
"Well, excuse me if I was out of town because I had to go to my dead uncle's funeral."
Hal looked regretful for a short moment, before his frustration returned. "Which you couldn't have found the time to tell me about?"
"Pooh-pooh, for you! That is, like, so totally, way not –" Buffy stopped.
They were interrupted by the loud smashes of breaking glass. The Hemery High gym filled with high-pitched screaming and riotous swearing. Vampires. That was what her life had come to. No friends or boyfriends, just unholy creatures of the night.
Buffy didn't even have a second to properly break up with Jack (again).
Gigantic twisters were headed for a red pickup truck, which was stuck in a grassy ditch on the side of the road. Nature's violent ferocity increased and uprooted an entire wooden barn.
On an otherwise empty field, the three turbulent funnels savagely rampaging Smallville had combined into one terrifying twister. The wild, toppling tornado was as dark and dirty as it was monstrous. Mounds of the farmland were sucked into its howling vacuum.
Clark, in his tux, matching bowtie and white corsage, suddenly appeared out of nowhere. His lungs empty and mouth gaping, he was tired from running. He had never run that fast before. He was shocked at the frightening sight of the vortex's destruction so far.
"Clark!" Lana Lang smacked the truck door's window with all the adrenalised might she could produce. She had shut herself in there for safety from the approaching twisters. Now, however, she was trapped inside and about to be sucked into the tornado's fierce winds.
"Lana!" he yelled helplessly.
Lana screamed. "CLARK!" The pickup truck was lifted off the ground and sucked into the air.
"NO!"
Summer of 2002
Buffy had to get a new diary. A diary with a lock on it. She also had to learn to write in complex codes, or maybe a really old, obscure language. Or both. She seriously needed a brand new diary with a heavy duty, solid steel, incredibly impregnable lock and get with the brain-learning about some crazy complicated cryptography techniques. There was absolutely no way in hell that she would go through this again.
The Vampire Slayer was arrested for slaying vampires.
Buffy couldn't help but think that the fates were laughing their stupid little asses off with the irony of her predicament. It wasn't enough to dump a damning destiny on her poor, unfortunate lap. Oh, no. The universe had culminated her majorly sucky life for the past year into one huge joke for the all-seeing, all-knowing, all-controlling jerks upstairs.
Buffy had saved Hemery High. She was then charged by the cops for committing arson, which … she was actually, kinda guilty of. But it was life-saving arson. Arson which saved lives and prevented bloody, bitey badness!
Buffy hadn't simply woken up one morning and decided that it was a nice day to make s'mores. She wasn't a round the bend pyromaniac with an uncontrollable itch to scratch. There were no compulsive tendencies craving blazing infernos to temper.
Her Watcher was killed, the school dance was attacked by a hungry gang of vamps looking for some munchies and a murdery good time, and she had no other options.
Buffy was put into a position where she had to make a tough decision because of her cursed calling.
She chose the option that saved people but burned down her school gym to a crispy, smoky cinder. Everything fell further downhill from there. Far more than she had previously thought was possible.
Buffy had been remanded to Boca Hall. A truly lovely place. Charming. Cosy. Really. The place was one of Coast City's finest where she could be checked up on at all hours by Coast City's finest.
Buffy was arrested in front of her classmates and sentenced to a juvenile detention centre for two whole months. As she would have told anyone who asked politely enough, it was "lovely" …
Until her trial for the alleged arson charges, Buffy was entrusted into the custody of the Boca Hall Juvenile Detention Centre for delinquent girls. Her parents didn't bother to put up bail or much of a fight against the authorities. They believed that she was guilty because of her newfound attitude and bout of disobedient behaviour.
Hank and Joyce were too busy arguing amongst themselves about their crumbling marriage and which of them should get the blame for their daughter's criminal exploits to actually help her.
For two months, Buffy was trapped in a metal-barred building for felonious females. Enough time for her dark-blonde hair to return to its natural sunny, yellow state. She could have easily escaped, Slayerness and all, but that definitely wouldn't have helped her (soon to be, juvenile criminal) record.
Buffy was essentially jailed for doing her God-given – as close to literally as one could get – job. She never liked being the Slayer, but it wasn't until after her release from Boca Hall that she hated it.
She lost all of her friends, her boyfriend, her backup boyfriends, her reasonably non-totally failing grades, her reputation, her freedom …
The list of things she no longer had was endless!
The blows to her happiness and welfare were difficult enough to deal with. And then came Primrose.
Buffy was out of Boca Hall, sans the demeaning (and totally breakable) embarrassment of handcuffs and away from juvenile court for less than an hour. She sat in the backseat of her parents' car, ignorant of the mounting tension and uncomfortable silence. She was lost in thought over her odd variety of experiences at Boca.
She had no desire to be in such a soul-sucking place again, but not everything was horribly with the negative. Coast City's Slayer had picked up a few nifty, not-entirely-legal tricks that could come in handy someday. Would, actually, considering her inescapable profession.
Joyce cut through the harsh hush innocently enough for Buffy to remain unaware of her parents' underhanded intentions for her "own good." Either that or she just wasn't paying enough attention. A stupid mistake. Self-involvement, no matter how perfectly justified, was always a double-edged sword.
Buffy had no clue that her mom read her diary while she was remanded in Boca Hall.
"Sweetie, I heard about those horrible, erm, things."
Buffy uttered a barely audible, "Uh huh."
Hank and Joyce traded concerned exchanges, she more worried than he was.
"Yes. The vampires." Joyce sternly stared at her husband, her soon-to-be-divorced husband. They had chosen not to tell Buffy that piece of information quite yet. They would when she got better. "Right, Hank?"
Hank gulped. He was used to the irrational anger aimed at him over the past year but had rarely seen such a frightening face grace Joyce's fair face. "Er, oh! Yes. Those vampires. Those evil, blood sucking fiends."
If Buffy had paid attention to her father awkward conversational aberration, she would have discovered the precise source of her atrocious acting skills. She would have realised why she sucked at being Secret Identity Girl when caught red-handed with demon gore. Or, like the last time, a firebombed building.
"They're the reason why you burnt down the school gym. Aren't they, honey?" Joyce said soothingly.
Buffy heard the tail end of her mom's words. She found it difficult to believe what had passed through her ears. "Va-v-v-vamp-vampires?"
"Yes, sweetheart."
"You believe me?" Buffy asked hopefully.
That hope that was quashed ten minutes later.
In ten minutes, the Summers family was parked outside of a deceptively bright and inviting building. Its exterior looked like that of a smallish shopping mall. There were no telling signs of whom or what was inside. There was no reason to be suspicious.
Two minutes later, Buffy tried to convince her mom and dad that she wasn't crazy. That she didn't belong in a place like this.
She was told that she was sick and needed professional help to get better. Her parents said that they wanted her to be their "healthy little girl again." They pleaded for her to go along with their wishes.
Her parents weren't fighting for once, and she almost let herself indulge in the relief and joy of that for a moment.
Seven minutes after that, Buffy put up a struggle against white-coated orderlies. That's right. There were "nice men and women" in white freaking coats!
The orderlies eventually got the upper hand because of their vast numbers and unexpected upper body strength. There was an army of trigger happy doctors and nurses wearing white with a fleet of syringes at the ready.
It didn't take long for the white-coated oppression parade to douse Buffy's system with more than enough mental and muscle relaxants to drop a herd of elephants. The doctors rationalised the abnormal amount of drugs required to sedate her on adrenaline.
Nobody used the 'c' word but it was clear what everyone, from her parents to the certified specialists to the cooking staff, thought of her mental state. They believed that Buffy Summers was crazy. Her parents had her committed at the Primrose Clinic, the premier psychiatric hospital in Coast City.
Buffy experienced inconsistent rushes of emotions and memories. That was probably because she was doped higher than the decade of flower power with a nice cocktail of medication not actually required for her mental health.
On the little, littlest level, Buffy enjoyed her time in the cuckoo's nest. She didn't have to slay the forces of evil night after night. She wasn't Buffy the Vampire Slayer. She was Buffy the Alleged Arsonist in the eyes of the law. She was simply the New Patient at Primrose. Her new titles were hardly better than the first, but they weren't accompanied by the weight of the world.