Summary: School, baby-faced vamps, tingly weapons, and blood soaked clothing. What's new? Because from her perspective, Buffy really couldn't tell.
Disclaimer: I don't own Buffy: The Vampire Slayer, or Vampire Knight.
One: Really?
Buffy knew shit happened to her. She knew The Powers That Be were assholes, Fate was a bitch, and that whatever other Higher Beings she came in contact with tended to throw her (sometimes literally) under the bus, laughing every time she stood up from the resulting red splatter. This was Fact, an aspect about her life she'd come to accept somewhere between the whole "dying" incident and her twenty-fifth birthday. It was annoying, but manageable. This though…
…this was complete and utter bullshit.
She stared at the reflection of her teenage body in mute horror, thoroughly unimpressed. Pooled at her feet was a white shift, the billowy fabric like silk against her skin before she'd ripped it off. Through the open bathroom door was a typical hotel room, crisp bed sheets wrinkled where she'd lain, a suitcase, small duffle and one familiar messenger bag sitting unassumingly against the far wall. On a stiff motel seat across from the bed and next to the cheap cherry-colored desk, sat a pile of clothing; a uniform, cleaned, carefully folded, and placed in clear view. A manila folder lay unopened on the desk, her name -Summers, Buffy- bolded on the paper like an obscene stain. She glared accusingly at the image presented to her; the room, the bags, that damned folder and her naked body, still scarred, despite its apparent youth.
This was so beyond Not Cool that it was verging directly into Hell Hath No Fury. She could feel the vicious snarl building in her throat, hear the ever-present drums pounding in her ears and see- well, she was beginning to see red. The deadliest and oldest surviving Slayer was Not Happy.
Not. One. Bit.
Buffy forced back the howl of rage with some difficulty, appeasing her inner Slayer with thoughts of retribution, violent and dark. It settled grudgingly, hissing with displeasure.
Though this body was young, the scars of her past battles thinner and lighter than they had ever been, her mind was her own, every instinct, every thought, and every harrowing memory intact. She was not the girl she once was, prone to bouts of anger and rashness. She was clever, shrewd, and just as passionate.
Determined blue eyes caught on their doubles and for a moment, all was still. Then the reflection smiled, a vicious thing, and the Slayer's mouth responded with an answering quirk.
Hell hath no fury indeed.
The dimension was, in all the ways that counted, completely foreign. The language, the people, the customs- all of it similar, but with just enough of a difference to keep her on edge. Small differences she could handle. She had always been adaptable and stubborn, if nothing else. But this? She wanted to stuff her face with cheese puffs and just watch as the world burned.
The problem lay in her prey; they weren't your run of the mill stabbity-stabbity-with-stake kind of vamps. These were different. Faster and stronger than anything back home, these biters were so deeply entrenched in, well… everything, they practically lived and breathed and fed amongst normal human beings like it was the most natural thing in the world.
From politicians to actresses to doctors and even school teachers, these creatures were part of a hierarchy that made the vampire community of her world seem barbaric, a pale reflection of what could have been. Though the vast majority of this world had no knowledge of their existence, those that did- ha! They amused themselves by playing a dangerous game of favors, wealth, prestige, and most of all, blood. Always with the blood.
Buffy groaned as she read though the file, laying naked on her stomach as the papers slowly spread further out onto the bed around her. Loose blond hair fell freely over her shoulders as she scowled down at the crisply printed words, wishing more than anything for a good beer.
According to the oh so convenient information in this lovely packet, shit was about to get real; in the form of an experiment. Sanctioned by a Pureblood and some big honchos from something called The Vampire Hunter's Association, (probably similar to the Watchers of her world, the miserly pricks) the experiment blithely overlooked catastrophe by stipulating that if some little-widdle baby vamps can get along with some poor, clueless (cross out, replace with: defenseless) humans at a private boarding school way out in the middle of nowhere, then the future of cross-species cooperation was assured.
Buffy slumped face-first in a backwards 'corpse', limp in her attempt at yoga, though her position really had nothing to do with bending into absurd shapes and more to do with this world's idiocy.
Apparently some vampires (mostly those of "noble birth") had inherited what appeared to be "magical" talents. They were almost more similar to the demons of her plane than the blood suckers. They were vicious, yes, but not mindlessly so, and coupled with their apparent lack of aversion to sunlight, they were more dangerous than she ever could have anticipated; though it wasn't anything she couldn't handle, given time and information. They were not undead -a damn pity, really- but they were immortal, with all the bells and whistles. And since they were born, not created, there had to be a discrepancy: The Level E.
Which brings her to the most frustrating part of all this. Never mind that she was supposed to be safely dead, or that she was in another dimension. God forbid that she'd be annoyed at being shrunk down to a mini Buffy, or that, ya know, she'd never get to see her little sister and friends again. Noooo.
Some ape-faced idiot with too much time on their hands decided that not only would she be brought here, changed, and then stuck-
-she also had to go to school while doing it.
And yes, it's that school. And yes, she'd be hunting mutant apparitions created by careless vamps too stupid to remember to keep their choppers firmly within their mouths.
It was all there, in the file.
Buffy banged her head against a pillow, mourning her significant lack of alcohol.