Title: Angels Deserve to Die
Rating: M for Mature
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Buffy/Angel, Willow, Xander, Dawn, Spike, Faith, everyone (pretty much every Buffy character of any importance will make some sort of appearance)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Drama
Warning: Character Deaths aplenty, and lots of blood and gore.
Disclaimer: everything belongs either to the brilliance of Joss Whedon, or the macabre sense of humor of Quentin Tarantino
Author Notes: I've neglected this story for far too long, so I'm starting from scratch by doing a complete rewrite
Summary: The same story line as Kill Bill. Buffy is the Bride, who is put into a coma by Angel and his crew. A few years down the line she wakes up and goes on a bloody killing spree to get revenge.
ANGELS DESERVE TO DIE
Prologue
The scent of blood and gore was heavy on the air. The bodies lay butchered among the shattered pews of the chapel, pools of blood creating small lakes in the low spots. Over the occasional thrust of a sword or burst of bullets to end the lives of the survivors, the sounds of ragged breathing could be heard. The souce of the short gasps was the bride, all decked out in her white gown, now torn and splattered with blood, her once carefully applied make-up now smudged and overshadowed by cuts and bruises. Her veil was tangled up in bloody, golden hair. As she struggled to breath, the sound of heavy footsteps was heard. With a split second break in her gasping, the Bride began to struggle a little bit, trying to get up.
A chuckle sounded. The chuckle that only men have in regards to women.
Sighting down her body, she saw a pair of nicely polished black loafers approaching, attactched to a pair of nice long legs encased in black slacks. The shoes stepped over an arm that was lying about three feet from the former owner, before skirting around a puddle of blood. The man stopped before a broken pew that was lying across his path, reached down with one hand and tossed it aside like it was nothing. The Bride tried to drag herself but stopped with a pained gasp as she pulled her broken body.
The man chuckled again as he stepped closer, one hand in the pocket of his pants while the other unbuttoned his suit jacket, revealing a perfectly white shirt buttoned up beneath it. The top three buttons were undone, revealing a smooth expance of tanned skin. When she gave up on the idea of escaping, she devoted all of her energy into trying to glare the man to death.
The man with the angelic face chuckled once again, his brown eyes alight with humor.
"I bet I could fry an egg on your face right now." he said in a smooth bariotone, his voice the slightest bit rusty, as if he didn't use it often. He crouched down by her side, pulling out a monogramed kerchief from his pocket. With slow, smooth strokes, he began to clean the blood from her face while he continued to talk. "Don't look at me like that." He cajoled her. "You know I don't hate you. Or anyone for that matter." He folded the kerchief and wiped a trail clean from her temple to her cheek. "You know I gave up on hate a long time ago." Once her face was relatively free of blood he folded up the kerchief and placed it in his breast pocket. He reached his hand out again and let his fingertips ghost over her bruises before circling her lips, gathering up the last of her blood. Gazing into her green eyes with his brown, he brought his finger to his lips and sucked clean the blood.
"Mmm." he said, letting his eyes drift close as he savored the taste. "Slayer blood." His eyes opened. "Nothing like it." His tongue peeked out and licked his lips as he returned his gaze to her face, meeting her silent glare. "Really, the silent treatment." He shook his head in mirth. "I know that you think I'm sadistic... which I am, of course. I'm probably the biggest mass murderer you've ever encountered and I killed each on with a song in my heart. But not towards you. Never towards you." He said in a near whisper, reaching his hand out and stroked the side of her face, brushing her blood soaked hair behind her ear. Looking her in the eyes once more, the humor drained from his face and he stood, rebuttoning his jacket in the process. He held out his right hand and a young woman around the Bride's age stepped forward, her long dark tresses falling freely around her face. With a smile in place on her pouted lips, she held out a large revolver, which he took without a second glance.
"No, lover." he said, pulling back the hammer on the revolver dramatically. "This is me at my most masochistic."
"Angel." the Bride managed to choke out, coughing up some blood in the process. "It's you bab-"
The gunshot sounded loudly in the small chapel and a burst of blood and bone exloded from the side of the Bride's head, her eyes instantly closing.
"Looked dead, didn't I? Well I wasn't. But it wasn't for lack of trying, I can tell you that. Actually, Angel's last bullet put me in a coma. A coma I was to lie in for five years. When I woke up… (laugh) well, lets just say I was pissed. I went on what the movie advertisements refer to as a Roaring Rampage of Revenge. Oh, I roared, and I rampaged, and I got bloody satisfaction. I killed a hell of a lot of people to get to this point, some of them once considered among my closest friends, but I killed them. There's just one more. The last one. The only one left. The one I'm driving to right now. And when I arrive at my destination, I'm going to kill him. Because whatever your religious beliefs, this Angel deserves to die"
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