Watching the soldier until he was out of sight, Spike turned to face whatever demon they'd thrown in with him, then cocked his head in confusion. The girl that lay crumpled where he'd thrown her against the wall appeared to be a human, and a weak one at that. Only a few inches shorter than he, she was thin and drawn, though feed her up and she might make a succulent, curvy morsel at that. Spike took a few sniffs, appraising her. Yes, definitely human.

Shaking her head groggily, she raised her hands up to cover her ears, as if to block out the silence around them. Spike's gaze traveled over her again, watching as the tips of her dark hair brushed across the exposed, milky smooth skin of her collar bone. His eyes narrowed, homing in on that sweet spot where the shoulder met the neck. He could hear her heart racing, could almost see her jugular pumping away as the muscles in his abdomen clenched, screaming for the blood that pounded just underneath the skin.

Suddenly her gaze jerked up to his, and once again he found himself caught by eyes as black as any demon's, so dark he almost couldn't see the fear in them. Almost. That fear, that barely-there glint, was what broke the spell this time, that sweet, delicious fear that added the perfect tang to any meal, like a robust finish on a good wine. Spike felt his face shift, eyes blazing, teeth sharp as he let out the feral snarl of the wolf gone hungry too long. Across the cell in a single stride, he attacked, jerking her head to the side to expose her neck. So loud was the roar of his own thirst that he nearly didn't hear her panicked cry of 'wait!' before he struck, sinking fangs deep into her neck and gulping at the font of blood that rushed hot and salty into his mouth. His demon was starved, and sucked greedily with long, deep pulls, even as something in his brain shouted a warning. There was something wrong here, even as the girl struggled beneath him.

Her pulse was slowing but Spike's demon didn't care; he was going to take until there was nothing left. A hand came up to push against his chest, forcing him back an inch and surprising him with its strength, though it was not enough to throw him off. Then abruptly, the little warning in his brain clicked. Jerking in shock, Spike stumbled back, his prey sinking to the ground with eyes glazed. It couldn't be. It wasn't possible.

"Slayer?" he breathed.

It was over an hour before Feeder17 came back to consciousness again. She seemed to be half propped against a wall, listing to one side. She could feel a stinging pain on the left side of her neck, and with that pain came a flood of returning memories; being drugged and moved from her cell, thrown through the electricity into a pair of strong steady arms. Being thrown again, this time into the wall, the voice in her head shouting a warning, and a brief glimpse of her Hostile before he struck.

She had tried to stop him, to warn him not to bite, but she had failed, feeling the incredibly deep ache as his teeth broke deep into her flesh. She had tried to fight him, to struggle away from his teeth and escape, but she could not. She felt the pull as he drew her life into his body, lightness filling up her head as he took and took and took. Making one last attempt, she raised a hand to his chest and heaved with all her strength. She felt him give, and from her scattered head came the prayer that it had been enough. She doubted it. But then suddenly the pain had lessened, and just before she blacked out she heard his voice.

"Slayer?"

Slayer. She frowned. The word confused her, it was one she didn't know and didn't like the sound of. Slowly, she began to wiggle her fingers and toes, to flex the muscles of her arms and legs, testing her body. It appeared to be in working order, and the pain in her neck, the fatigue in her limbs, told her that perhaps she wasn't dead after all. Unwilling to wait even a moment more to find out, she opened her eyes. And flinched when she found herself face to face with her Hostile.

He was sitting mere feet away, Indian style with his hands on his knees. He wore his human face but his eyes were narrowed, his head tilted to the side as he studied her. He appeared contemplative, puzzled. He didn't move or speak as her vision cleared, so she took a silent moment to study him right back.

He was handsome, she supposed, in a sharp, dangerous way. His face was harshly defined, with high cheekbones and a thin scar through his left eyebrow. His eyes were a hard, cold blue, and they followed her gaze over his body without comment. As she'd seen on the screen days, weeks, months ago, he was pale and lean, but having been thrown into his arms she knew the strength in them, having collided with his body she knew the solid muscling of his chest. He was a fighter without the bulk of a brawler, a killer with a dancer's grace.

In the back of her mind, the voice marveled at how she knew this; why she knew what he would be, how he would move. She shook it off and went back to her sight-seeing. His bright blonde hair was more mussed than it had previously been, most likely due to a lack of gel and frustrated hands gripping it tightly. That she had personal experience with. Long leather coat, black t-shirt and red button-down underneath. Full lips and a strong chin smeared with blood. Her blood.

"So who the hell are you?"

She jumped at the sound of his voice, strong and clear with a heavy English accent, though it didn't sound as snobbish as she would've expected. Like the rest of him, his voice seemed to command space, to fill up the air of the cell and push against her skin. She frowned at him. For some reason she hadn't expected him to talk to her, and now she wasn't sure how to answer.

"I'm… I'm Feeder17."

He blinked once, then leaned back as if to see her better. "Come again?"

"I am Feeder17."

"And what in sodding hell does that mean?"

She flinched away from his harsh words, the flash of anger in his eyes. She opened her mouth to respond, but quickly snapped it shut again, looking nervously at the ceiling where a microphone sat surreptitiously near the speakers, much like the ceiling of her own cell back in the Feeder Wing. They were listening.