Title: Hostile X

Author: iridescentZEN

Willow & Riley without being Willow/Riley. Dark themes. Post-Series. Mature.

They watch with the enthusiasm of bored student yawning his or her way through a lecture. It is normal to them, mundane. Something that happens day to day. It takes more than a dead body to shock a coroner; more than a bad accident to roll a hardened cop's stomach. The scientists at the Initiative have seen more than any human had a right to. Their eyes witness the unfathomable, and the unspeakable every day. They write what they see with analytical precision with all the compassion of a robot.

Hostile X was found sleeping next to her girlfriend in a small hotel room in Rio. They were both neutralized before they could wipe the sleep from their drunken, blood shot eyes. Efforts had been helped the night before by paying the bar owner to spike their drinks with double doses of rohypnol. Unfortunately, the slayer was terminated before study. The young girl was too much of a nuisance and there were plenty where she came from thanks to Hostile X and a very old, very powerful scythe.

Hostile X is invaluable to the program. Invaluable as she is immortal. A side effect not of the slayer awakening as was previously assumed by the supernatural community, but by the aftermath of a nearly apocalyptic rampage of revenge. There is still a lovely plum colored vertical scar between her shoulder blades. The ax wielded by Warren Mears that did nothing to stop her also sealed her fate. It pierced her flesh, deep enough to hit bone. It should have killed her. Instead, magic blossomed out of her flesh and blood like an ugly flower, keeping a heart that should have stopped beating pumping with the rot of mankind. Magic brings her back every time.

Even now with a bullet to the head execution style. A 9mm slug; there was nothing special about it. Only there was not a thing she could do with her magic muzzled as it was. All full of gas and without a single match to light the blaze. She hadn't so much as trembled before the pull of the trigger. No pleas or whines to fall upon deaf ears. It was amazing that she could accept it so easily without a wince or a bat of an eyelash. It was either a testament to her strength or the brutality that came in the months before it. From all the other tests that have her wishing she could end it even though she wakes up every time.

The body is still with death even though rigor mortis never sets in. Maggots thrown on dead flesh simply wiggle away as though looking for a feast that they can smell but can't find. The reservoir within her rises like an engorged brook after a heavy rain. Darkness trails across her milky white skin in thin lines like lightning flashes across the sky. There is a sudden rapid-fire burst of jet black gunk that reached clear across the room. A spray that erupts from the inside of her shell to shoot out from the clean gouge in her cranium to paint the wall with black. The bullet that had been lodged deep within brain matter comes out with it, its tiny metal body landing on the floor as loud as a rocket lift off in the otherwise silent room. The black sludge on the walls and floor starts to move, wiggling like gelatin before taking the form of scarab beetles. They are magic bugs that begin to roll blood and brain matter like dung, back to the hole they spewed from; a loud hissing in the air like an angry crocodile is their only accompaniment. The scribbles of the scientists' pens against clipboards comes just moments later, and then the sound of a zooming camera; lab techs that are making sure every moment is captured at every possible angle.

The magic slowly pieces her back together in a meticulous process. It takes nearly three hours. Aside from a moment where the magic bugs stop working to simply stare at the scientists with fathomless insect eyes as though inquiring about their repeated visits, it is fairly routine. When it is done all traces of magic disappear. The bugs disintegrate, the black smears on the wall and floor are gone. The hostile's skin turns pink with the healthy glow of fresh pumping blood; her chest moves with her first breath and she wakes up as good as new. She closes her hazel eyes against the harsh lighting like a newborn baby, a moment later she screams like one too. Her body finally reacting to her commands, she jolts up like she's not entirely in control of her own body. Her hand, stained a rusty orange with her own blood, immediately reaches to her head searching for the hole she knows should be there but isn't. The hole is healed over, and as good as new. A pot hole freshly filled with tar, smoothed over like it was never there.

It's a critical moment.

Dozens of eager eyes are on Hostile X as she's welcomed back to her sterile, plastic, magic holstered Hell. The intercom activates as a disembodied voice says, "Welcome back, Hostile X."

"I'm Willow Rosenberg," she whines somewhat pathetically. "Stop calling me Hostile X." A thick plume of gas is released from valves built into the walls. It covers her like a fog, and she coughs fitfully before falling into a deep, forced sleep.

Special Agent Riley Finn watches Hostile X from a two sided mirror. He knows Willow knows he's there even if she doesn't know who he is. She makes no attempt to cover her nakedness even though there's a fluffy, benign looking blanket at the foot of her cell door. It's folded, warm looking, and untouched.

As if Willow is reading his thoughts, she says, "You wouldn't take it either if you knew what you had to do for it."

She is aloof and on guard, but what hostile isn't?

Riley is more perturbed by the dozens of scars that criss-cross her skin in an inky black than he is by the fact that anyone walking down Row 11 will get an eyeful. Still, he's biting the inside of his cheek, hard. His blue eyes are cold. A simple click on his comm and Riley asks, "Why is Hostile X naked?"

A clipped reply comes a moment later, "A hostile is a hostile, Sir." Yes, yes it is.

Willow is freezing. His eyes zero in on the gooseflesh rising on her skin rather than her body's more obvious signs of cold. She doesn't look around her cell; she merely stares at the two way mirror, green eyes dull with pain and changing, green to black, seemingly against her will as though she is a TV with an owner that can't settle on a channel.

"Take the blanket, Hostile X," A scientist admonishes over the intercom, as though she is a petulant child.

"No thank you," she replies, "I don't feel like sucking cock today."

Riley is startled but stays silent. He's waiting for some kind of punishment to be met out when he realizes that the words weren't said out loud. She projected them into his head.

Without wanting to betray her for her magic use, he simply asks a nearby tech, "How likely is she to do magics?"

The tech snorts. "Parlor tricks, Agent. Telepathy, random illusions and the heebee jeebies. We're safe guarded to the max. She's chipped. Completely harmless unless we want her to be."

The perfect weapon, Riley thinks. "It's tamper proof. All kinds of dark forces in that one. Thankfully, we've got Wolfram and Hart's connections. As bad as she is, there are dozens more that are older, stronger, and perfectly willing to sell her out for a taste."

"A taste of what?" Riley blinks, studying the perfect curve of her breast through a cell silhouette.

"Her," the tech stresses, as though Riley is an idiot.

As if on cue a man dressed in all black appears in her cell, freshly teleporting in. Willow, for the first time since Riley's been watching her, appears to be seriously distressed. Amazing, since they have been killing her over and over again without any kind of fuss. The sound of the security alarms dies out as the man flashes what appears to be an ID card at a camera he clearly knows is there. The tech squints at the screen in front of them. "All clear. Be advised the hostile is fresh and at full physical strength."

The man in the cell laughs like a villain, his dark eyes dancing with delight. Sparks of magic arc back and forth between his fingers with a deliberate air that suggests show boating. Hostile X's breathing is loud and panicked over the comm. She makes no attempt at modesty, but she does curl into herself, turning her face and body toward the only off white wall of her enclosure.

"Cooperate," the tech says blandly, while Riley wonders if power trips occur. It's an awful lot of responsibility for a guy who doesn't look over 20-years-old.

Willow makes no attempt to cooperate. The man doesn't seem mad, as he runs his long fingers suggestively over her arm from shoulder to elbow.

"Hostile X, cooperate or stage 2," the tech states without going into details.

Willow flinches at the threat, and very deliberately turns toward the man, baring herself to his lecherous gaze, her eyes remaining averted.

Riley clenches his teeth, wishing he had something to punch, wishing that he didn't have to be anything but a super soldier as the man runs his fingers over Willow's clavicle to rest his large hand on her chest, his wrist nestled between the swell of her naked breasts. Willow's eyes are black, inhuman, but the tears that trickle from the corners are very real and startling. A plume of magic shoots from the man's hand to settle in a red hot light on her chest, connecting them. She's sitting up against the wall, but at the first pull of the warlock's hand as he tastes her magic her head snaps back, her mouth opening in an agonized but silent scream. Her back is arched so painfully away from the tether of the warlock's hand at her chest, that the position doesn't look possible. She looks for all the world like a rat in the mouth of a snake still trying to fight when it's clear the snake's already won.

It's magic rape. The warlock is taking from her, violating her on a cellular level. Against his will, tears form in Riley's eyes, but he doesn't let them drop. The tech doesn't notice, his beady brown eyes are glued to the scene in front of him. "This is my favorite part," he says, as though they are watching a game on TV, two old friends sharing a pizza and beer.

As Riley Finn watches the warlock's other hand snake up to cup Willow's breast, a liberty apparently taken before, he wonders how come no one has saved her. Did loving Tara as much as she had condemn her to this Hell? Or was the darkness already in her, just helping her find her way? Where are her best friends? Where are those noble people? Where are the vampires with souls? It can't be up to him. It just can't be up to Special Agent Riley Finn. There has to be an armada waiting to storm the gates. But no. There won't be a rescue. Riley's read her file. She's been here eight months. Clearly her friends think the world is better off without her.

The tether between warlock and witch is angry; the magic so fierce and white hot it is searing her skin, smoke billowing up around the warlock's hand from her chest like some kind of twisted barbeque. She brings up her right hand, moving to clutch the warlock's wrist in a feeble attempt to make him stop touching her. In desperation she is scratching only at the hand that is burning her, the hand that is taking pieces of her essence.

The warlock slaps her hand away, brings his slimy hand back to her breast, and burns her with a new wave of red hot magic. She screams this time, loud and piercing. A banshee wail piercing the walls of the establishment, causing immediate panic throughout the facility.

The other hostiles feel her pain. Very few demons hate witches. Most wish to live by their side in order to sparkle in magic's shadow, to be exalted by her spells. They hear her pain, and they rage, battering their cells with their bodies, clawing the walls, growling in full game face. It's a sight to behold. Riley is momentarily stunned by the visceral reaction of the other hostiles on the numerous security feeds playing on the dozens of screens hanging from the ceiling.

"Stop," she cries, for the first time using her voice and not her magic. It's pure Willow Rosenberg. Riley feels his heart tug in memory of young woman who helped him find his first love, despite her own heart ache.

"Stop it!" She sobs out a single, "P-please."

That's it.

Riley snaps.

Before the tech has a chance to warn anyone in the facility, Riley cleanly slits his throat. What would Buffy think of that? It doesn't matter what Buffy thinks. It doesn't matter what Sam thinks, because Sam is dead, and there's not too much of Riley Finn left at all. He died with his wife. All security cameras are immediately disabled with a few passwords typed with Riley's steady fingers. The blue orb stationed by the door to Willow's cell is now empty, whatever magic that swirled within it binding her there no longer did so. The chip in her head is electromagnetically fried, but just in case, he will find someone to remove it later. The door to her cell is unlocked, and the warlock has no protection against the knife that slides across his throat, a knife he clearly isn't expecting. The magic keeping his hand seared to Willow's chest ebbs out before finally disappearing, and she is free of him.

Riley picks up the blanket, and quickly wraps it around her thin frame. She does nothing, blinking at him owlishly, as though she doesn't know him, and she offers her neck with with such submission it makes him angry. "I'm not here to kill you, Willow. I'm here to save you."

Willow sinks back to the floor, nestling against the wall. "Too late for me," she says hoarsely, not looking him in the eye.

For me too, he thinks. He can't have it all be for nothing. "Never," Riley tells her. "It's never too late."

He hopes.

End.