Sarah the Vampire Slayer

By Liam2

Synopsis: You think being a deep cover operative and handler of the US government's most important intelligence asset is a heavy burden? Try being the Chosen One on top of it.

Rating: T for Teen. Basically a few cuss words.

Notes 1: This is a Chuck/Buffyverse crossover. For those unfamiliar with Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Angel, don't worry. I plan on including a crash course to help you understand things. For those who do know the 'verse, consider everything up through Buffy: Season Eight and Angel: After The Fall to be fair game. Also, I have no idea where this fic is going. It'll probably only be a few parts. Also, as you read, you might notice that I'm writing this in the style and attitude that I would an Buffy or Angel fic.

Notes 2: Yeah, I know. You're asking "Liam, dude, when you coming out with more Chuck Versus The Road to Innocence?" Truth is, I haven't the foggiest. I've been having more family issues lately. And what little free time I've had to write has been spent on my original scripts. In the meantime, please enjoy this. I'm also probably gonna post a Willow/Angel Buffy fic in a few days, so feel free to enjoy that, too.

Oh, feedback please.

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PART ONE: ANOTHER TOWN, ANOTHER GRAVEYARD

Another town, another graveyard. Sometimes I really hate my life.

Not only am I a deep cover CIA operative tasked with protecting the US government's most important intelligence asset, an asset I "have to" play the role of cover girlfriend to (as if it's an actual burden), I also pull 32 hours a week selling frozen yogurt to horny teenage boys.

Then, of course, I have to perform my other otherjob.

Hence, a graveyard. At one o'clock in the freakin' morning. And a chilly one at that. Tomorrow night I'll remember to bring a jacket. Or at least wear more than an Orange Orange tank top.

Anyway, here I sit, atop the tombstone of Morton Granger (June 14, 1955- August 12, 1997, Beloved Husband and Father), a paperback copy of Robert Heinlein's Stranger in a Strange Land in hand (damn Chuck for getting me hooked on his sci fi books!), staring at the freshly filled grave of Paul Allen (May 4, 1991-April 15, 2009, Beloved Son and Brother).

Jeez. Generic epitaphs much?

I spare a glance at my watch. Make that 1:02 in the freakin' am. I can't help the irritated sigh that escapes my throat.

"C'mon, Paul. I got a teleconference with Beckman at 7:30 and the Orange Orange opens at nine. I'd like to get a few hours of sleep."

Okay. So it's a bit bitchy on my part to be irritated. After all, the boy just died. On the other hand, I went through this same damn routine last night and only got three hours of sleep. I think I'm entitled to be bitchy.

That being said, the dead don't give a crap about my schedule. So I'm not really surprised when it's nearly three hours later, just after 4 am, when the dirt above Paul's grave finally begins to shift and undulate.

A few minutes later, Paul drags himself out of the grave. In life he was a handsome boy. Curly blond locks. High cheekbones. The chiseled physique of an athlete. But now…

His hair is disheveled. Clothes dirty and torn. His eyes flash an unnatural and sinister golden hue. Sharp fangs protrude from his mouth. Heavy ridges adorn his brow.

He's a vampire, for those of you in the studio audience who haven't quite caught on.

I felt sorry for the kid. Couple weeks shy of his 18th birthday. Had his whole life to live. But that future was cut down when another vampire drained him and then forced the boy to drink its own life essence, turning Paul Allen into a soulless demon, a violent creature of the night.

Like I say, I felt sorry for the kid.

And then he opened his mouth.

Naturally, being a teenage boy and crawling from his grave only to be greeted by the sight that is the profound hotness of me, Paul's first words were: "Hey babe. Wassup?"

Well, I did feel sorry for him. Honestly. At least for a minute. "Seriously? That's your opening line? Maybe you are better off dead."

I reach behind my back to the waistband of my jeans. The stake forged from an ash Louisville slugger baseball bat feels just as right in my hands as my Colt 1911.

In an instant, I drive the sharpened point into the heart of Paul Allen. He stares down at the wound, a stunned expression on his face.

"Dude," he moans. "I thought we could party."

An instant later the young boy turns to dust, down to his skeleton, then explods, his ashen remains floating away in the slight nighttime breeze.

I spare another glance at my watch. 4:04 am. Crap. It'll be thirty minutes before I get home. Then to be ready for the 7:30 debriefing at Casey, I need to get up an hour beforehand to shower and load up on coffee, leaving about… two hours to sleep. Little more than a nap. And when I've been awake this long, two hours sleep is only gonna make me feel worse.

Sometimes I really get Chuck. It's a real pain working a side job that was essentially forced upon you. Especially when you're not getting paid.

"I'm gonna need coffee," I declare to the empty cemetery. "Lots and lots of coffee. I wonder where the nearest Waffle House is located."

Yup. As if being a deep cover operative didn't suck enough. I have to be a freakin' Slayer, too.

END PART