This story is set sometime in season 4 after Spike is chipped, minus the Veruca episode so that Oz still graces us with his laid back presence. Contains OCs, but good ones. : )
--KICKING AND SCREAMING--
Tome I – Welcome to Sunnydale
A dusty red car veered around the corner, straining under the weight of the suitcases piled five high on its roof rack. Loud, thumping music blared into the night.
"Remind me again why we're moving to Sunnydale?"
The complaint was shouted in an attempt to be heard above the noise. The driver glanced to her left at the speaker before focusing back on the road.
"Because," she replied brightly; "the housing is super-cheap, it's nearer to friends, and I hear the death rate has really changed for the better in recent years."
The vehicle slowed momentarily as they passed the large sunshine 'enjoy your stay!' sign that staked out Sunnydale's territory.
"…You have got to be joking."
"Bad taste," remarked the woman, raising an eyebrow.
"That's so insulting. Don't they realise this is the Hellmouth?"
--
Buffy exhaled noisily and dropped the stake she'd improvised from a white picket fence. "Are we done yet?" she yawned, grinding a black high heel into the dusty heap of ex-vampire as she left the cemetery. "Geez, it's late! Are they trying to defeat me through sleep deprivation?!"
She couldn't really hide the fact that she was getting sluggish. That had been her fourth staking of the day – never mind the fact that it was now tomorrow – and the oppressive heat wave of the last fortnight had continued to hang around well into the night. Shoes clacking slowly along the pavements, she fully embraced the feeling of Thank-God-It's-Friday. Up until she remembered the lengthy essays all deadlined for Monday, anyway.
Thunder rumbled across the sky, and the unexpected cacophony was the only reason Buffy looked up to see the figure standing on the corner. It was like no figure she'd seen before, and it stared calmly into the distance with an air of repose.
A frisson of foreboding inched down the Slayer's spine.
Humanoid, yet clearly demonic, the stranger was tall and elegant. Draped in embroidered silk sashes and rippled Indian trousers, its hair was heaped on its head in a pile of elaborate knots and jewellery. The arms were crossed, but she could just see the glimmer of bangles and golden armbands beneath the shoulders. What was unsettling, rather than merely outlandish, was the ring of translucent crimson that punctured the skin of the muscular back twice and encircled its head in a morbid red halo.
When it swivelled a beautiful face in her direction, she had trouble deciding if it was male, female or both until it turned fully; attention caught. The demon fixed her with an intent look, strangely interested in her neck.
Or chest, supposed the girl; he is a guy, after all. And I've met plenty of post-mortem perverts in my time…
Analysis completed, Buffy launched into an attack. "Don't bet I'll give you time to even think about becoming the next Big Bad!" she yelled, sprinting the remaining distance between them and high-kicking him in the head. He grunted as his neck snapped back, stumbling sideways. The ethereal attitude vanished. It was replaced by pure hatred.
"¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦!!" swore the latest opponent.
"Back at you times infinity!" chirped Buffy childishly, never needing a translation to know she was being cursed at. He balked, freezing up in fear almost as if he believed her. Seconds passed as she tried not to laugh at his reaction, realised it didn't matter, and laughed anyway. The monster glared; shoulders relaxing as whatever curse he'd called down on her failed to backfire.
She smashed a fist into his off-guard torso, pressing her advantage with a volley of fast, brutal blows. A spinning kick, two elbows cracking down on the lowered skull, knee to the chin and a heavy punch to the exposed throat to rattle his brain and impair his breathing. The Slayer could be likened to a one girl mob, and often was. Continuing her relentless assault, it seemed to be going smoothly.
Suddenly her victim retaliated.
Moving faster than she could react to in her overconfidence, he grabbed her left arm. Dragging it away was impossible: he was showing his true strength. Immovable strength. Buffy pulled back her right hand for a long-ranged, powerful hook. It connected with a satisfying smack! that staggered her enemy.
The demon caught her right arm before she could withdraw it, recovering swiftly. Upper body trapped, she briefly considered the best way to kick him really really hard inside the arm's length of space. Then he reached for her neck with a third hand, and she realised how deep the trouble she was in had become. She managed to lash out twice, but too soon he lifted her off the street, bodyweight hanging painfully from his chokehold.
Shit! Shit! Oh fucking hell! The woman who had defeated countless undead, surviving time and time again, gurgled helpless and panicking in the grip of a foreign god-like devil. Why didn't I notice he had too many freaking arms?!
A fourth hand stretched towards her. She couldn't see what was happening; only felt the long fingers with their sharp nails scraping her collarbone. Cold rings made of precious metals and gemstones brushed against her skin. The demon plucked at the silver cross that always hung from her neck, which Angel had given her the first time they met, the one necklace she never took off. Twisting his fist round the chain, he tugged sharply. It didn't break. Buffy had had far too much experience of losing accessories to risk buying the usual weak chain for her most treasured cross. He merely pulled harder.
The necklace dug deep into her spine, leaving red welts in her flesh before it finally succumbed to the pressure and snapped. Holding it up to the orange light of a streetlamp, it seemed that the only desire of the fiend had been procuring this trinket. He sang to the metal softly, eerily, and the sound echoed off the silver. It jangled in the Slayer's ears, making them ring at a shrill and painful degree. Buffy's body slackened, beginning to black out. She was dropped carelessly onto the tarmac road, head spinning.
The ornamentation and jewellery of the stranger chinked and chimed as he left her half-dead; walking serenely away with a graceful gliding movement. The polar opposite of the furtive habits of vampires, he showed no shame of his inhumanity. Rather he remained entranced by his prize, serenading the silver he had stolen all the way down the street.
Buffy lay where he'd left her, not coming to her senses until the weather finally broke and warm rain rushed from the black sky to drench her.
