A chilly breeze swept through the street, bringing with it flecks of water that had clung to buildings and streetlamps. The sidewalk was still wet from the rain that had just cleared out of the city, though the young man took no care in avoiding the remaining puddles. The water sloshed up against his worn tennis shoes, soaking the turn-ups on his jeans. For as bustling a city as London was, it was quiet now. Still. It was too late for the good people of the city to be awake, and too early for the nightmares to take to the streets. This absence of population was where one Rupert Giles found himself treading. With a bag slung over his shoulder, the twenty-one year old watched the bus that had dropped him off continue on down the street.
Puffing on his fag, he tried to find solace in the medicating affects. He'd had a nightmare on the bus . . . his nightmares were often very similar. The day where he and his classmates had been sent off to take down a vampire . . . and found a Lorophage demon instead. The screams were what haunted him in his nightmares. Blood he could deal with . . . gore, in general, even . . . but not helpless, agonized screaming. His fingers trembled as he took the fag from his mouth, blowing out some smoke. Rupert closed his eyes, repressing the memory. He was finished with all of that. His father could go to Hell for all he cared. What sort of father forced his son into that sort of life, anyway? A life of trauma and death? "Bloody tosser," he grunted to himself, adjusting the bag more comfortably on his shoulder.
He continued to walk down the sidewalk, a lone figure under the cloudy night sky. A trail of cigarette smoke followed him, wafting up to the sky before it disappeared. His leather jacket wasn't doing much for the cold, so he bunched it closer together, the rage inside of his heart warming the rest of him. Fuck the Watchers. Fuck every single one of them. They were cruel slave-drivers. Heartless. Rupert might even consider them monsters, the way they just sacrificed innocent lives as if it meant nothing. As if it cost nothing.
A sudden familiar song, Blue Oyster Cult's Don't Fear the Reaper, drifted over the suffocating silence of the city. Rupert turned his feet in the direction of it. As he had expected, it was a pub. Pushing the door open, he found it surprisingly full. Leather jackets abound in this place, it seemed. Rupert headed for the bar, putting in an order of inexpensive ale. Reaching into his pocket, he touched the few coins that he had. Bugger it. He paid for the drink and brought the bottle to his lips after stamping out his fag. So what if he was spending the last of his income on alcohol? It wasn't as though he had anywhere to go. He was just another lost soul in London. Some worthless cannon fodder for the demons to take down. A name with a line drawn through it.
His mood soured further the more he drank. However, he caught the eye of some blond woman a few seats down. She blushed and looked away . . . then looked back. Rupert smirked. Coy. Just as he was about to move next to her, a snatch of conversation caught his interest.
"—magic outside right now. Wankers have reached their last level of creep."
"They think they're better than everyone else, pretending to cast spells. I say we teach 'em a lesson!"
"Yeah!"
Rupert turned his head and watched a group of leather-jacketed tossers heading out of the side door. A gang, obviously. He ought to just leave it alone . . . go speak to that blond bird . . . but magic. He finished off his ale in two more gulps, then left through the side door without sparing the blond another look. He arrived in the alley just in time to see the gang entering what appeared to be an abandoned building next door. Clenching his jaw, he followed after them, attempting to keep a low profile. The drink had made him bold . . . and the anger inside of him was reaching a boiling point. Rupert clenched his fists together, following the gang upstairs to a candle-lit room.
"There they are! You weren't fooling."
"What'choo up to now? Gonna make warts appear on us?" There was a sound of cruel laughter. Rupert peeked his head around the wall to peer within the room. It was certainly abandoned. Empty, save for a few desks and chairs. Clearly, this had once been an office building, but that had been decades ago. Rust and ceiling leaks over the years had filled it with mold and must. However, the most intriguing thing about the room was the group of five people seemingly around his own age. One girl, four boys. They sat in the middle of the room, surrounded by candles. They formed a pentagram, some sort of chalice in the middle. They were doing magic. Not well either, it seemed, as most of them shrank at the sight of the gang.
"We're tired of your shite. Get off our turf, before we make you," the tall one of the gang said, obviously the leader.
One of the casters stood, his hands clenched at his side. "We won't. We are free to do what we like here. It's an open building for anyone's use. And-and, you can all sod off before we make you," the young man said, his chin lifted . . . though it was clear he was nervous.
The leader laughed, his goons echoing his laugh. "Remember the last time you tried to do that, Rayne? Eh?" He pushed the caster back, taking a threatening step towards him again. "Didn't quite work, did it?" The boy named Rayne looked down in shame. "Now, clear off . . . she can stay though," he nodded to the only girl in the pentagram. "Got a few ideas for her, don't we, lads?" The chuckles were now menacing, their intent clear. The girl trembled and clutched one of the other casters next to her.
Rupert had seen enough. He was shaking from the rage. "Leave them alone," he growled, stepping into the room. Some part of him panicked. What was he doing? He was Rupert Giles. He didn't get into fights. However, something else . . . this new . . . dark . . . angry side of him . . . was fed up. He was tired of it all. Tired of being pushed around. Tired of seeing others pushed around. He was in charge of his destiny.
"Oho, look at this hot-shot," the leader turned to him. "Hullo there, Charley. Sure you want to start this? It's not going to end well."
Rupert's jaw clenched tightly, the strain of it nearly giving him a tension headache. Before he knew it, he murmured, "ignis surculus," tapping into the elements of the world, using his own energy to fuel the spell . . .and then threw a fireball at the gang. They shrieked, dispersing. One caught on fire and dropped to the ground, rolling. Rupert wasted no time and launched himself at the leader. Vaguely, he saw the Rayne kid go after one of the others, fists flying. Rupert slammed his fist into his opponent's head, grunting and losing himself in his anger and violence. God, but it . . . it felt incredible. His fist collided with his face, splintering bone and making blood splatter. At some point, he had fallen onto the ground with the opponent. He managed to kick Rupert in the ribs, which made him lose his breath for a moment.
This allowed the leader to roll him over. Rupert received a punch . . . two punches to the face, his nose nearly breaking in the process. He saw stars on the second one, his head hitting the wooden floor beneath him. Grunting, he reached up blindly, blocking a few more of the punches. There were sounds of violence all around him, as well as someone shouting, "its burning down! Get out of here!" Rupert shot his hand forward, and the fists stopped coming at him, but a wail occurred instead. Opening his eyes, he saw that he had stuck his fingers into the leader's eyes. Rupert felt . . . eerily calm in that moment. He could make this young man hurt. Just rip him apart. He could kill him, even. This control . . . this power . . . it felt good. The opponent started to clutch at him, trying to remove him. Rupert removed his fingers from his eye sockets, leaving his eyes in, but he shoved him off.
Getting to his feet, he kicked him in the stomach. "Clear off. This is my turf now," he growled, his speech slurred just a little due to the lump forming on his cheek and jaw. Rupert turned his attention to the others. They had more or less run off. The fire he had created was eating up the building, engulfing it in flames. The former leader of the gang crawled out, coughing. Rupert saw Rayne at the door, waving him over.
"Come on! It's all going to burn down!" he shouted over the cracking wood. Rupert shook himself out of the fighting daze and hurried over, ducking underneath the burning beams of wood. He followed Rayne downstairs and out onto the street. The flames had made it outside, and those in the pub next door were hurrying out and out of the way. Far-off, Rupert could hear sirens wailing. "Oi, come with us," Rayne said, grabbing the sleeve of his jacket and tugging him along. Rupert hesitated, looking back at the building, and then followed Rayne down the street. They walked for a time without speaking.
Rupert reflected on what had just occurred. His face was stinging, aching . . .as were his knuckles. God, but he felt good. He wanted to do it again. And the spell . . . it had come so easily. He never remembered magic being so easy before. At long last, they made it to a run-down house stuck between two equally run-down homes. Rayne unlocked the gate to the porch, letting Rupert enter first. "We saw what you did back there," Rayne said, finally, closing and locking the gate behind them. "With the fireball. That's real magic right there." He guided Rupert up the stairs and into the house.
The others were there, soot-covered, but unharmed. They sat about the sitting room in obviously rescued armchairs and sofas. They looked at Rupert curiously as he entered. "I think it's clear you're one of us," Rayne said, gesturing for him to sit down in one of the armchairs. "What do you think, everyone?"
"Definitely," one of the other boys said. "I've never seen anything like that."
"You saved us," the girl said quietly, her eyes shining with unshed tears. She swallowed, composing herself. "That makes you one of us."
"We're all magic casters, you see," Rayne said. "Or, trying to be. We're learning. As you've seen it's gotten us into a wee bit of trouble with the local scum. But we won't let that stop us," he said with a touch of bravado. "The magic we deal with is far scarier than anything they could ever dream up." Rayne eyed Rupert. "You don't scary easily, do you?"
Rupert analyzed himself. "No. No, I don't." Not anymore.
"Good. Yes, you'll do nicely," Rayne ran his gaze over him, almost hungrily. "Name's Ethan Rayne," he extended his hand. "And what might we call our newest brother?"
Rupert reached forward, gripping his hand tightly. Rupert was a thing of the past. That much was clear. He was a puppet controlled by the Council and his father. No. Now, he was, "Ripper." He squeezed Ethan's hand, a cold glint appearing in his eye, "I'm Ripper."