2. Step Away From The Glass

Faith flinched inside as a cop car passed her. She knew not to let them bother her; after all, it had been over a year since she broke out and so far she'd only had one close call. She was on the other side of the country, one of thousands of wanted fugitives in the US, and as long as she lay low the chances of a cop looking at her and going "Hey, isn't that chick wanted for murder?" were pretty slim.

Still, she flinched.

When she saw another black'n'white heading the other way (gee, two police cars in five minutes in downtown Manhattan, what are the odds... calm down, girl) she ducked into a bar for a breather. It was just her and the bartender, which suited her just fine. Just the one exit too, which suited her somewhat less, but whatchagonnado.

"Double vodka. Plenty ice."

"ID."

"I stole a copy of And Justice For All the day it was released. Just give me a drink, OK babe?"

The bartender shrugged and poured her what she'd asked for. This girl seemed like a type 14 customer to him: the kind who desperately needs to talk to someone, but doesn't really want to, and shouldn't be too crowded. "I'm Jim, by the way."

"Good for you." Faith pointedly looked past him into the mirror behind the bar as she raised the glass. Not that he didn't seem like a nice guy, but... funny, with all the practice she'd had at being alone, she still felt like something was missing now that she wasn't part of the Slayer gang anymore. It had been her decision; they never said anything to her face about it, especially not the juniors who had heard a few too many stories about her to ever be completely relaxed around her, but she knew having a wanted murderer on the team was a problem. Everyone had to be extra careful at all times, and simple things like buying a plane ticket or explaining to a cop why you were carrying around a sharp stake became almost impossible; not very convenient for a mobile demon-hunting team trying to keep a low profile. So like so many before her she'd gone to New York to disappear in the crowd, with no one but Giles knowing how to get in touch with her, and hunted alone leaving as few witnesses as possible. And to think that her and B had actually been... OK, "friends" might be saying too much, but... it had been nice to have a mission.

"This seat taken, sweetheart?"

She was jolted out of her thoughts as a man planted himself on the barstool next to her without waiting for an answer. Forty-ish, balding, overweight... and obviously bent on more than just conversation. Great, that's all I needed right now.

"So, what's your poison, honey? Mind if I buy you a drink?"

Is this dude for real? Faith felt a rising urge to just slam the guy's face down on the counter, but reminded herself that she was low-profile girl these days and just clenched her teeth and looked away.

"Come on, darling. Don't be like that. I know you'd like to have some fun..." It was so out of the blue it took Faith a second to register what was happening: the guy had actually reached out and grabbed her boobs. The old Faith would have sent him to the emergency room. The new Faith almost did, but reigned herself in at the last second and instead calmly seized him by one wrist just hard enough to not snap it. Part of her felt way too good about hearing him gasp in pain; he pulled back his other hand so quickly he got caught on her jacket and almost ripped it off.

"Everything OK here?" Jim stepped a little closer as the guy struggled to free himself; in 20 years of bartending, he'd had to intervene more than once to stop a fight. Often more than once a night. Usually over women not half as good-looking as this one.

"Five by five," Faith remarked casually as she wrenched the fatso's hand from her chest and slammed it down on the counter. "Mr Three-seconds-from-castration here was just about to leave... ain't that right?" She gave his wrist an extra little squeeze and then let go. He was off the barstool and out the door so fast she was almost disappointed.

Oh well, she might as well pay up and leave. She reached for the wallet in her inside pocket, and found something else as well. An envelope that hadn't been there before the pervert stuck his hands inside her jacket. Whaddyaknow, he must have been one of Giles's couriers. What is it about carrying other people's mail that attracts psychos? She looked at the envelope with her name on it and recognized the handwriting. Rather than paying up, she ordered another drink and then read Wesley's letter.

From over by the register, Jim watched her read and saw her face harden from annoyance to shock to grief.

"Bad news?"

Faith didn't answer for a while, just sat there staring at the counter. Then, just as Jim was about to move closer she crumpled up the letter in her fist. She lifted her glass and toasted thin air, downed the vodka in one gulp and then hurled the glass past the bartender's ear, smashing a couple of bottles and the mirror.

Jim instinctively ducked behind the bar as he was showered with broken glass. It probably saved... maybe not his life, but at least his health, since the glass was quickly followed by two of the bolted-down barstools. He cowered behind the bar as Faith went apeshit on his furniture. When he looked up ten minutes later, she was gone, as was most of his bar; chairs broken, pictures smashed, the jukebox thrown halfway across the room... Jim picked up the phone, which turned out to be broken as well, and then headed outside to find a cop. He'd always been good with faces, and he was sure he could give them a good description.