Chapter 13: The Slough of Despond
As the dust finally began to settle, Willow realized that the excitement crackling over her skin was born of an entirely inappropriate giddiness at her success. Less than two weeks after finding the explosives warehouse hidden behind the boardwalk recruiting station and she had already perfected a mixture that took down organic enemies quickly, efficiently and with minimal damage to the surrounding environment. Below her lay the corpses of a dozen human beings who were dead by her own hand, and she felt as proud of the accomplishment as she was of her first perfect math test. It was…conflicting at best.
She heard Tara coughing around the corner of the next barrier, but looked instead to the rotting ceiling beams until she could harness herself back to the seriousness of the situation. After spending several weeks combing through the boardwalk and near-reaching structures of the town at Tara's insistence, they had finally made their way to the sprawling Calvert Estate only to find the mansion under attack once again. They had snuck in a side door, discovering a single male ghoul doing his best to hold his position against wave after wave of wild men and women, dressed in rags and wailing all manner of insanity as they charged down the doors with axes and shotguns.
The feral people had attacked them indiscriminately, forcing them down into cover on a shaky balcony overlooking the building's main atrium. Their ammo began to wear thin not long after, and in a rare break in the action Willow had bolted down the staircase and planted every experimental mine in her pack. She barely made it back to cover before the attack resumed, the buckshot-shredded edge of her jacket a testament to how close the call was.
Hands clenched down on her shoulders, shoving her roughly back into the sandbag barrier. "Don't you ever do something like that again!" Tara's eyes were bright and wild with terror, her voice harsh and angry. Willow opened her mouth to defend her actions, but was cut off before she could form the words. "I mean it, Willow," Tara almost snarled, "Never do something that stupid again. Promise me." Willow nodded wordlessly even as she felt the indignation of it all smolder into a low fire beneath the layers confusion and fear. She had protected them, nothing more and nothing less. This was not the first time Tara had lashed out at her methodology, and it was beginning to wear on her patience.
Tara released her abruptly, stalking around the corner and pushing a hand through her hair as she muttered under her breath, "Damned if I let this place take you, too." Willow stared after her for a long moment, focused on the slow-building resentment churning in her stomach, smoldering upward into her chest until the ghoul's coarse voice filtered up through the cracks in the floor.
"Who the fuck are you and what are you doing in my house?" He emerged at the base of the stairs clad in a dingy white suit, his face rotting behind a pair of thick rimmed glasses. Willow stood and cocked her rifle, prepared to answer with an equal measure of aggression until the ghoul's expression went strangely confused. "Hold on," he leaned to the side to get a better look at Tara, who had come up behind Willow. "You're the Maclay girl, aren't you?"
Willow whipped around just in time to see Tara turn an ashy shade of pale. The ghoul chuckled darkly at her reaction, "You are. Those soft-headed swamp dwellers were quite…upset when you got away."
"Baby, what is he talking about?" Willow whispered urgently as he started up the stairs towards them. Tara was already backing away, shaking violently. "N-n-nothing," she stammered as the ghoul reached the top step, casting an appraising look towards her. He paused when he passed Willow, sniffing the air with his absence of a nose. "Hmm. Strawberries," he said thoughtfully before continuing towards Tara.
"They weren't nearly as disappointed as those damn tribals, though. They were distraught," he growled, walking around Tara in a slow, predatory circle. "It was bad enough when your bitch mother got away from them, they haven't fucking let me alone since you left town. Five. Fucking. Years." When his skeletal hand began reaching towards her, Willow had finally had enough.
She flipped the rifle over in her hands and brought the stock down on his arm, using the second he doubled over in pain to insert herself between him and Tara. "Don't fucking touch her," she hissed. The ghoul just laughed as he righted himself, continuing on as if she wasn't even there.
"Smart of you to bring a body guard," he said with a ghastly grin. "When you think about just how many people want a piece of you, that is. Maybe we can help each other out. Some peace for you, and some quiet for Rack."
"Wh-wh-what do you, I-I-I mean wh-why," Tara struggled. "Easy-peasy," the ghoul said smoothly, stepping to the side to speak around Willow. "You and your little friend make your way up to the cathedral and convince those savages that their bloody goddess doesn't really want to destroy my house, and I'll give you more money than you can even dream of." He lurched forward and whispered in Tara's ear before Willow could react.
"You could leave this place. Forever."
Willow braced the rifle defensively with both hand and shoved it into his chest with all her strength. The ghoul stumbled backwards almost to the edge of the staircase with a terrible, grating laugh. "Think about it, girlie. You and your Strawberry." He chuckled to himself as he turned and descended the stairs, the sound of it echoing around the crumbling mansion. When she turned around to confront Tara, she was nowhere to be found.
"Tara!" she yelled as she ran down the side stairs as fast as she could, shouldering open the rotting pantry door and bolting towards the blonde head that disappeared on the other side of a shallow hill behind the house. When she finally caught up, she grabbed Tara's shoulder ungently.
"You can't just do that! I was scared out of my mind for a minute there," she panted. Tara did not turn to face her, her shoulder rock hard under Willow's hand. "You don't understand, Will," she started, her voice emotionless and distant. After everything that had happened, it was the last straw.
"You're right," Willow snapped, walking around in front of her. "I don't understand. Anything! You won't tell me a goddamn thing! It's been weeks, Tara. Weeks, and I still don't have a clue what has you so fucking scared all the time! That creepy ghoul guy knew more about you than I do. Way more. It's not a great feeling, let me tell you that much." She took a deep breath and tried to rein in her temper, releasing Tara's shoulder and reaching to touch her face more gently. "Please. I'm begging you. Just talk to me. I don't understand why you can't tell me…"
"Because it's none of your business."
The words hit Willow like a physical blow. Her hand fell limply to her own side when she saw the cold anger glittering in Tara's eyes. She messed up; she had pushed too hard, been too impatient, tried to treat the love of her life like another puzzle to be solved. For a heavy moment regret lay thickly on her tongue, bitter and numbing. Then an old friend rose from the cold, grey impotence. The glowing embers of resentment at last found the fuel to swell, to burn into hot, acidic rage.
"Fine," she spat. "You know what is my business? Making sure we have a future to go back to once you decide stop being so damn withdrawn!" She turned on her heel and started back towards the town. "Go do whatever the hell you want. I'll be back at the motel when you feel like treating me like someone you might actually trust."
So caught up was she in the righteous warmth of anger that she did not feel Tara's eyes on her as she stormed away. She did not feel them slip away. She did not hear the soft crunch of steps in the opposite direction. Towards the black silhouette of an ancient stone church on a distant hill.
Anya stared after Xander as he paced frantically between the large, cylindrical metal structures that obstructed most of the room, her temper simmering barely under the boiling point. She had tried to be understanding, tried to explain the obvious logic of their progression through the alien vessel, and still each setback, however minor, seemed to catapult Xander ever closer to a complete breakdown. He refused to listen to reason, and she was almost at her wit's end with it.
It had taken them a considerable amount of time to sneak up through the bowels of the ship, the total amount would remain forever unknown thanks to the seemingly fatal malfunction of Xander's wrist computer. By the time Sally successfully lead them to the transporter, the creatures had become aware of their intrusion and cut the power to the device. It was a hitch, but it certainly wasn't as insurmountable as Xander seemed convinced that it was.
A little more exploration of the surrounding rooms led to the discovery of a computer terminal. It was unlike any of the machines she had ever seen over Willow's shoulder, but a particularly fortuitous combination of buttons brought a shimmering, translucent blueprint into existence. After taking a few moments to orient herself to the idea of direction conveyed in three dimensions, Anya had deduced that power could maybe be restored to the transporter by bypassing the three main generators on this level of the ship. She was at a loss of how adequately connect the transporter to this new energy, but, damn it, at least she had tried to figure some of this out. Even the little girl, who had cheerfully run off to investigate the generators, was helping more than Xander.
She sighed as she heard Xander muttering to himself in disbelief as he stared into the metal cylinders. Each of them radiated an unnatural chill, and beneath the icy glass that made up their fronts very clearly stood a man. Each man was differently attired, one in some almost familiar iron grey-armor, another in a bulbous space suit, and two more each apparently costumed as a cowboy and a samurai warrior. It was a strange collection, to be sure, but faint memories tickling the back of her mind reminded Anya of an almost forgotten picture. A damp, molding magazine from her years in the abandoner publishing company south of town. An advertisement for cryogenics.
"Anya, what are you doing?" Xander asked as she began searching around the chamber for some way to deactivate the system. Frowning down a large, squarish console in the room's center, she answered, "I am looking for some sort of release mechanism so these strange men can help up turn on the transporter." There was a large, red button that looked promising, but Xander caught her wrist before she could bring her hand down on it.
"Don't touch that," he hissed. "You don't know what it will do, and I really don't feel like getting sucked out into space today."
"We have to do something," she snapped as she shook him off. "I don't know about you, but I don't want to spend the rest of my life running and hiding like a mole rat in the sewers! They smell terrible and are an unimaginable nuisance when one lives underground." He had turned his back on her before she even finished speaking. She threw her arms up in frustration.
"What do you want me to do, Xander? Join you in directionless panic until we both pass out from exhaustion and are recaptured?" He stopped in his tracks at that, his shoulders visibly tense even under his heavy jacket. She flinched when he turned around, prepared for another angry diatribe, but was thrown off her guard by his expression.
Xander was very pale, the stubble on his chin standing out starkly black against the ashy dampness of the cold sweat clinging his skin. His hair was slicked back from his face, disheveled from the uncountable times he passed his hands through it. His eyes reminded her of a cornered animal, wide and glassy and hovering between wild terror and blank acceptance. He was frightened, she realized disjointedly. Almost to the point of paralysis.
"I don't, I…I just," he stammered, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he scrubbed a hand over his face. "Just give me a minute to think." He leaned his back against the nearest wall, sliding down it until he was sitting. She walked over and sat down next to him, waiting in expectant silence for the requested minute.
"How are you not scared of all this?" he asked in a small voice. She shrugged. "When you get right down to it, this is just as alien to me as the Wasteland. Until you and Tara stormed into my lair, my world was only what I made it be. Everything out there already existed and has done so for a considerable amount of time, I assume. When your colony inducted me, I was forced to adapt in order to survive. I just did the same this here."
"Were you scared of us?" Xander lifted his head slightly, turned to look at her as he spoke. "Initially, I was," she confirmed. "I had not been in the company of humans for longer than I could remember. I could tell that you and Buffy and Willow found me…trying to be around. Tara was more understanding, but I even frustrated her sometimes. There were moments when I felt so isolated that I considered leaving and returning to the ants, but I knew it was unlikely that I could find my way back to town and protect myself from raiders, so I adapted to better integrate myself into the new colony."
Xander's expression was apologetic before he looked away, staring off at one of the cylinders. "Adapt," he murmured to himself, pushing a little straighter against the wall. "I'm scared now," Anya found herself saying, her chest tight with apprehension at the confession she seemed unable to contain. "But I'm more scared of never being able to leave here. I miss Tara, and Willow, and Buffy. And caps. And mashed potatoes." She swallowed hard and continued, "I won't ever see any of those things again if we don't get back to the Wasteland."
A hand covered one of her own. When she looked over, Xander's eyes had lost the animal panic.
"What were you able to figure out from the plans?" he asked calmly. The shift in tone surprised Anya so much that it took a long moment for her to compose an answer. "If we can divert the output of the generators on this level to one place, it should be enough to power the big teleporter. At least, that's what Sally said; I could follow the lines but I didn't really know what they meant."
"So the question is really how do we get the power from one place to the other." Xander pushed himself to his feet as he continued, "We need to run a line between the two, but the nearest generator is still a good hundred meters from the transporter, and Captain Big, Gray and Ugly will know enough to cut anything he finds." He looked thoughtfully up at the ceiling for a moment before scrambling on top of a storage container pressed against the opposite wall.
"What are you doing?" Anya yelped. Xander pushed up against the ceiling, dislodging a panel and sticking his head into the hole he created. His reply echoed in the metal.
"The air ducts are out best option. Either that or run the line across the outside of the ship. Go ahead and try to wake the popsicles up, we're gonna need help." Anya watched in disbelief as the rest of Xander's body disappeared into the ceiling. There was a single, pressing question on her mind.
"What the hell do you mean, 'outside'?"
The pack clattered loudly on the metal grating as it landed. Buffy hopped down after it, staying crouched and ready to move in case the racket alerted anything to her presence. Over the last few weeks she had found that nothing really ventured this close to the foundry, but she wasn't about to take any chances. The ravaged industrial park outside the steel mill, widely known as the Yard among the people of the Pitt, was the domain of those too wretched to even live among the slaves. Creatures that were once men and women, minds rotted and skin grotesquely blistered by the unnamed plague, left to skulk in the nightmarish shadows cast upon the smog by the smelting fires.
It took a quick hand and a good eye to parse out the valuable ingots of metal littered throughout the hellscape, a task for which Buffy was well suited. Her time in the Yard had not only yielded a respectable haul of metal, but, piece by piece, the armor and weaponry of the guards stupid enough to wander away from the safety of the foundry. After today's trip she would finally be able to assemble some respectable gauntlets and stockpile another handful of ten millimeter shells. When a second moment of thick silence passed, she slung the pack over her shoulder and headed into the soot-blackened building.
"Here you go, boss," she chimed cheerfully as she entered the haphazard commissary that backed into the passage to the Yard. The nameless raider, grizzled and already showing signs of scarring from the disease that took master and slave alike, pawed through the pack with a grudgingly appreciative grunt. "Not bad, Summers," he admitted, turning to grab two cans from the shelf behind him. He slid them across the counter towards her. "Think you earned a little extra today. Might earn a little more if you finally gave it up," he said with a leer. She just smiled sweetly at him and replied, "But then I'd have to break your other arm, and I bet you'd look pretty silly trying to explain to your boss how a little girl got the drop on you, again." She smirked at him as she scooped the grimy cans off the counter and sauntered out into the foundry.
By the time she pushed through the door that lead out to the slaves' shantytown she found herself accompanied by a small horde of scruffy children. "You came back again, Bee!" one of them cried as he flung himself at her leg. She laughed can continued on, carrying the child's weight on her booted foot. "Don't I always, squirt? I even have a treat today." She stopped after turning the last corner before the shack, pulling one of the cans from her jacket and dramatically declaring, "I give unto you…tuna, I think." The children oohed and ahhed, beginning and incomprehensible chorus of questions only to be silenced by a sharp command from a nearby voice.
Buffy frowned as the children slunk back to their parents, unsettled by the distrust and suspicion written clearly across their haggard faces. She was just trying to be nice, for god's sake, she grumbled to herself as she made her way towards her own home. Post had been virtually silent since their arrival, and left without direction Buffy thought the best course of action was to gain the trust of the community by helping where she could; a difficult path when the majority of the population refused to so much as meet her eyes. Even more disconcerting were the whispered conversations that cut off abruptly whenever she wandered into earshot, the furtive glares and muted hostility cast upon her at the slightest expression of interest. It all left a sour taste at the back of her throat.
"So, how many times did you have to fuck him to get those," a voice muttered beside her, causing Buffy to start violently. "Jesus, Faith," she hissed, whipping around to glare at her. "What the hell kind of thing is that to say? I doubled the quota again, he was feeling generous. And exactly how many more times do I have to detail the whole arm-breaking incident?" Faith shrugged impassively, anger still glinting dangerously in her eyes as she turned her back on Buffy. Buffy stared after her, frustration roiling in her stomach. Over the weeks Faith had grown steadily more withdrawn; every night pressed a little father against wall, if she even came home at all. She was heated and defensive in equal measures, quicker to anger and slower to calm with each passing day. Buffy wasn't stupid. She could tell something was happening around her, and she was being purposefully kept in the dark.
Questioning her fidelity was the last straw. She stormed after Faith and roughly grabbed a handful of her shirt. "Goddammit, will you stop for a second?" she asked furiously. Faith wrenched her shoulder away and continued briskly down the alley, turning into a throng of workers leaving their shifts at the mill. Buffy barely fought down the urge to scream, slamming her fist against the crumbling brick as she lost sight of Faith.
"Buffy?" a voice said uncertainly behind her. Jonathan shrunk away from her furious gaze as she whipped around, apologizing again and again before finally saying, "We have to go the square. They're taking names for the Hole."
"The what?" Buffy asked as she followed him through the muck-caked pathways that snaked between the factories. "It's an arena, one of two I guess but the Hollow is on the other side of town. Every now and then Travers lets workers volunteer to fight in a tournament, and if you win you get to meet him. And then he lets you go free." Buffy's mind was already whirring with possibilities. This was her chance, it had to be. She could take down half these raider assholes with one hand tied behind her back. She could steal the cure out from under Travers' nose and force him to share his knowledge of the Enclave in one fell swoop.
Their path widened into the main square just as a far away figure finished a dramatic sounding speech over a loudspeaker. "Do we have any volunteers?" the voice boomed. Before Buffy could draw in enough air to call out, a sharp, familiar voice responded for her. "I volunteer Worker Summers." Buffy picked out Post's angular face from the mob, met her narrowed eyes, and saw her nod as iron hands clamped around her upper arms. As she was dragged past Post she could swear she saw the woman smirk. She felt a sickening rush of doubt sour the certainty she had built.
She was taken to the main foundry and pulled down a set of stairs to a dank sub-basement before she was released. The rules were explained; take in what you want, take out what you win. She was also entitled to a dose of anti-radiation medicine after each successful round, the reasoning for which became clear as the gate to the arena was opened with a grating snarl. The dirt floor held at least a dozen orange barrels, rusted and leaking green-brown sludge around the edges. The heat was unbelievable, the smell of blood and rot and stringent chemical waste only buoyed by the undertone of sweat and stale alcohol that pushed down from the crowd gathered around the arena's caged ceiling. They howled when Buffy came into view. They roared for her well-armed opponent.
Calm descended over her as the man stepped into an offensive position. She rolled her shoulders and allowed the dark instinct to swell and wash over her skin. It took twenty-seven seconds to disarm him, another two to crush his skull beneath the gun's stock. The three rounds that followed took less than five minutes added together. The energy of the crowd built into an unending, unearthly roar.
"Victory once again belongs to Worker Summers," the hysterically excited voice of the announcer penetrated the itching stillness after the last body was dragged away. Buffy paced, hovering on the edge of control. She tried to calm her bloody urges, to recall the fragile happiness of wandering the Wasteland with Faith. Awareness of the outside needled through the darkness.
"We have a treat for you today, friends," the announcer crowed. "For the first time ever, by order of our Lord Travers himself, the victors of the Hole and the Hollow will face off right here, right now! Let's see what sorry bastard those Southies are gonna feed our bitch!" Dread throbbed in Buffy's arms at the thought of fighting another slave. She flicked on the safety of the rifle she held and tossed it back towards behind one of the radioactive barrels, drawing her knife and praying that her opponent would be up for throwing the fight and playing dead. The world slowed to a sickening crawl when the opposing gate rose for the last time.
"Well alright then," Faith sneered as she stepped into the arena, her eyes black with bloodlust, her face streaked with red-brown grime, her smile full of malice. Buffy felt the knife slip out of her numbed grip as Faith sank back into an attack stance.
"Give us a kiss."
In a single, terrifying second, Tara knew she was dying. Her feet slipped in the grey-brown mud, sending her crashing to her knees with a thick squelch. She clawed at her own throat, a mindless, animal reaction to the tearing pain of swallowing the seeds. Even as the bitter, woody pellets hit her tongue, she somehow knew this would happen. That this whole expedition into the farthest, most overgrown, most isolated section of the swamp was just an elaborate ploy by the wild inhabitants of the old cathedral to send her to her death. She should have seen in their conflicting behavior, the refusal to let her in to speak to their leader until she preformed this ridiculous spirit quest, insisted that their 'goddess' would know if she had eaten the sacred seeds or not.
Her blood was on fire, burning her up from the inside out. Her head was swimming with a crushing pain. Her very bones seemed to be screaming with it. This was really how it was going to end. Her whole struggle to escape this evil place was utterly in vain. The last thing she said Willow was spoken in anger. Faith would never know what happened to her. Willow would be alone in this place. She would never see the sky again. Never see Willow's eyes not darkened with confusion and rage. Never find out what really happened. Never explain to Willow.
An eternity of agony passed, and slowly, so slowly, the pain began to recede. Within a few minutes she could breathe again; great, sobbing gasps for air. A few more and she could feel the cold muck on her skin. Eventually, inevitably, it stopped altogether. She lay for a moment more, raw and trembling, but steadfastly clinging to her life. This was another chance, likely the last one. She just had to pull herself up and fight her way back out of this miserable place. Find Willow again. Right her wrongs. She opened her eyes.
Her heart sank to the pit of her stomach.
The whole world had turned a murky, flickering shade of purple. It replaced the graying greens and browns of the great, rotting plant that had brought her so much pain, the murky water and vile-smelling mud, everything. A voice seemed to laugh from all around her.
"Good morning, sleepyhead," it said cheerfully, the words somehow muffled. Garbled. She pushed herself to her knees shakily, looking around for the source of the sound. "Who are you?" she asked, her throat stinging from the effort of speaking. She was answered with a chuckle. "I have a lot of names, when you get right down to it. The Beast. That Which Cannot Be Named. The Sweaty-Naughty-Feelings-Causing One; that's one of my favorites." She could hear footsteps approaching her lightly, but see nothing through the violet mist. "It's only fair, you see, because I am great and I am beautiful. And when I walk into a room all eyes turn to me, for mine is a holy name." A figure hazed into being before Tara, the outline of a woman with long, curling hair.
"You can call me Glory, sweet cheeks."
Tara squinted to try and focus her eyes and was rewarded only with a slicing pain in her head. "Can you help me?" she asked hoarsely. "I th-think I'm really hurt. I need to get home." Arms slid under her own, pulling her to her feet. It felt…wrong.
"Of course I'll help you," Glory cooed, pulling Tara's arm up over a narrow set of shoulders, sliding her own arm around Tara's waist. "We'll get you home to your little redheaded whore in no time. Right after you help me with a little something." She leaned over and pressed her nose into Tara's hair, inhaling deeply. "Mmm, how we've missed you here. Poor little Ben was inconsolable when you left us."
"Wh-what?" A ball of ice began to form in Tara's stomach as she tried feebly to pull away. Glory simply tightened her hold to the point of pain. "Shh, shh, shh. Don't worry your pretty little head about it. Just look out into the swamp and tell me what you see."
They shuffled forward into the violet fog, and the shapes of ghosts began to appear. Wild creatures lumbering after a frightened young woman. She clutched at her swollen belly, screaming soundlessly for help that would never come. Fumbling for a rusty pistol, she fired frantically over her shoulder as she ran. The monsters fell as the gun exploded in her hand, burning a line of gunpowder deep into the woman's cheek. It was a wound familiar to Tara, the healed, black line marring a perfect, loving face.
"Mama?" she whispered in disbelief. Glory crowed with delight. "That's right, Blondie. You were born in the patch of mud over there. Right here in the holiest of holies. You've been destined for greatness since you first tore out of your mother's womb." Tara reached for the vision, but it evaporated before her eyes. Glory dragged them ever forward.
"I'm sure you remember what happens next. Your time with the tribals until they tried to sacrifice you to their ridiculous brain-in-a-jar god; bet you're glad I took that freak out before you came home. Your great escape into the wilderness, only to be caught by those inbred hillbilly swamp-folk. Your poor, poor Mama's descent into madness and her tragic passing. We were so happy when you freed yourself from those heathens, you know. Benny insisted you were the one long before then, of course, but your getaway was what really proved it to me."
"I-I," Tara stammered, squinting at the fog as another vision began to form. "Then you had to go completely off the reservation in the Capital Wastes. You were never supposed to stay there, you know. Just go through enough to scare you home to us. That bitch ruined everything," Glory growled.
This scene was a memory, Tara realized distantly. She could see her shadow self being beaten by the men who enslaved her. As she hit the ground and two of them knelt on her wrists another figure flew into her field of vision, young and scrawny and wild-eyed. Faith leapt on the ringleader's back, reaching under his chin with one hand and snapping his neck. The others were stunned long enough for her to empty their leader's clip into them. Faith stood for a long moment, spattered with blood, before dropping the smoking gun and sitting down hard next to Tara. She gathered Tara into her arms and rocked her as she came down from that first high. Tara could remember the feel of Faith's shoulder as she sobbed into it, the bone and muscle shuddering beneath the blood and dirt and tears.
"Faith," she called out weakly, reaching once again for her constant protector. "Ah, ah," Glory chided as the vision faded, "She can't stop us now, baby girl. She won't ever stop us again, not even through that little harlot she brought you."
"N-no," Tara breathed, already dreading the picture the swells and eddies of mist were building in the haze. Glory ignored her, pressing on, "What the hell kind of name is Willow anyways? There hasn't been a damn tree on this side of the country in, like, two hundred years! And what a temper on that one. Not to even mention the rest her fucked up family. You really have awful taste in women, honey. But don't you worry about it; we'll take care of everything for you."
With no preamble, no pretense, Willow appeared. She lay in the knee-deep water, staring up at the gnarled canopy with empty eyes. There was a jagged hole over her heart, a deep, dark stain in the cloth of her shirt around it. Her body was limp. Lifeless.
"God, please, no," Tara tried to yank her arm away, to break out of this nightmare. Glory laughed with genuine delight. "Not god, sweetie. Us. When will you see that we're all you ever needed? That we're perfect together?"
They passed through some sort of door, into a beam of light that cut a stripe of grey reality through the nauseating purple fog. Glory made a disapproving sound and lowered Tara to the ground. "Well, poop. Looks like we're running out of time. We'll just have to make the best of things and do it here." Tara's limbs felt leaden. She could barely summon the energy to breathe, let alone make a run for it. There were quiet, metallic noises hovering about the hum of the swamp, then a strange, distorted pain against her skull.
"I've waited so long for this," Glory whispered reverently as the pain deepened; twisting, piercing. "Practiced on so many of those idiot savages so I could get it right for you. So I could finally have that beautiful mind." The pain ceased with a thick, sucking pop, leaving only the uncomfortable pressure she could not quite process. Then there was a sharp tug, and the world went sideways.
It began a slow, sticky descent into a blackness that seemed to writhe around her, pinching and crawling. A low, steady roar began to build in her ears. A few sounds of the real world forced their way through; the crack and whistle of bullets from a rifle, a confused screech of pain, the frantic pounding of feet on the dirt. Arms slid under her shoulders, soft and strong. Her head fell against a shoulder she knew, against skin that smelled of dust and sweat and home.
"You found me," she murmured to the ghost.
"Always," Willow whispered fiercely as the darkness broke over their heads.
"I will always find you."
The endless, screaming blackness of space should have been cold, but Xander instead found himself hotter and more uncomfortable than he had ever been in his life. The suit barely fit him in the first place, the stiff leg joints pinching the inside of his legs with every step. The metallic insulation that pressed against his skin radiated his own body heat back in an endless, sweaty cycle. Even the recycled air he breathed was growing damp and rank.
The muffled sound of the drill in his hand changed in pitch, flicking from the low hum of productivity t the high whine of resistance. He stood with a grunt, glancing back over at the thick, insulated wire he had fastened down over the hull of the ship. For all the effort it had taken, he was pleased with his decision to take the less predictable route. They only needed a short burst of power, but god only knows what would happen if someone was halfway caught in the device if the power died.
He slipped the hand drill into the rope belt he had hastily fashioned before his exit, pulling his feet free of the magnetic pull of the metal beneath them, beginning a jerky walk over to the airlock nearest to the transporter. Each step was a trial in and of itself, and Xander was beyond exhausted. It was impossible to tell how long they had been stuck in this surreal nightmare, but he felt as if he hadn't slept in days. The spool of wire trailed behind him, floating limply where it was not pinned down. He felt the longing to lie down physically tug at his limbs.
"Maybe just a minute," he murmured to himself. Shifting his weight clumsily, relaxing his legs so that he might fall back on his hands. Instead he floated there, as if in water, anchored to the ship by the boots of the suit. "Huh. I guess this'll work, too." The sense of weightlessness was eerie. Coupled with the sloping metal that curved out of his field of view no more than a few feet ahead and the distant Earth hanging above his head, for a cold moment it felt as if he were truly alone with the universe.
It came with a strange clarity he had not been seeking.
He had felt echoes of this feeling since the moment Giles went still on the floor of the project stage. In the pit of his stomach he knew Buffy would be broken beyond hope by the loss, that even Willow, for all her beloved rationality, would be crushed beneath the weight of it. For all his self-important designation as their protector, he had let these things come to pass. Stood meekly by as Buffy left to destroy herself. Turned his back on Willow when she lashed out at him in grief. He had withdrawn. He had given up. For, without Giles to unite them, what family was there left to protect?
In this moment of absolute stillness, he finally understood the depth of his own grief. The loss of not only the man who had been a father to him, or the girl he always thought may one day be his own, or the oldest, dearest friend who had seen him though every other crushing low. Beneath all these things, he had lost his sense of direction. His life before that terrible moment had been a long line of actions carried out for someone else. Keep Dad away from the booze, make sure the girls are safe and happy, find Giles again and make him proud. These tasks, these people had defined him. And now they were gone.
What was there for him now? The question should have sparked blinding fear deep within his chest, but he found he could reach for the answer easily. There were problems to be solved. There was a bizarre, beautiful woman to be kept safe. There were things to be fixed. Alone with the sound of his own breathing, the beat of his own heart, Xander at last understood.
He was a repairman. He could take that which was broken by time and abuse and put it back together. Almost more importantly, he did not have to attempt these feats in a vacuum. He had resources; strange, bossy resources who were currently ordering around a collection of men from across time as if it were as natural to her as breathing. With Anya's help they would find a way home, and they would find a way to bring their family back together.
With unexpected fervor, Xander methodically tightened the muscles of his legs and back until he was again upright. Before he could continue on his path to the airlock, movement from the blackness drew his eye. Around the glowing surface of the Earth, a dark shape was drifting silently forward. Its true sized diminished by distance, it glinted dully in the reflected light, bulbous and metallic and…familiar.
"Jesus Christ, another one?" he breathed in disbelief. After a long moment following its progress he realized it was not only another alien ship clearly similar to the one on which he stood, but it was a much, much larger one as well. He swore to himself and ripped his body back around, heading towards the airlock with as much speed as he could muster.
The heavy door opened easily. He felt the muted thunk of metal landing on metal as he slammed it shut, turning the stiff wheel in its center to create a seal as fast as he could. When it refused to be moved further he pulled himself across the room to the translucent panel that pulsed a dull, red light. He brought his fist down on the flat, triangular button that looked most like the one he had pressed in the opposing airlock. There was no sound, but the pulsing light grew still and bright in response.
The world returned in a slow, steady gust. When the sensation of air jetting against the arms of his suit cut off suddenly with a muted, discordant chime, he reached behind his neck to pull the bulky helmet from his head.
From the other side of the door he heard the roar of movement and violence.
Somewhere underneath the black haze of death, Faith recoiled at the absolute fucked-up-ness of the corner she had backed herself into. Post had been prepping her for the fights at the Hollow for weeks, but at the last minute she insisted on 'enhancing' the surety of her victory. Faith hadn't touched Psycho since she had a really sick trip in the frantic rush to experience everything after she and Tara got away from the slavers, but Post was insistent that no chance could be taken in the ring. This was her only shot, after all. To get the cure, to get the intel, to get herself and Buffy the fuck away from this hellhole. Once they were out of here and Faith knew she could finally breathe again, maybe she could finally calm down and stop being such a raging bitch.
The vision that greeted her in the Hole was only a little unsettling. Psycho had a weird way of projecting your shit on other people. Her first fight of the day had been the man who enslaved her. The last one was her mother. It only made sense that it would be Buffy in the grand finale. She felt so fucking guilty for keeping her out of the loop, so angry and afraid of her deception being exposed that she had honestly been expecting the vision earlier.
It was saying something frantically, some manner of inconsequentially pleading. Faith tore into action, knowing by now that her own sick subconscious would only stop this shit once the poor bastard was dead. The thought of killing another slave stung, but Post was right. Change wasn't built by clean hands.
The ribs made a satisfying crack when she sunk her fist into its chest. Like snapping kindling. A memory swelled up violently at the sound and the world disappeared in smoke. Their first night outside the city. It was wet and cold, but she had found some dry wood. As she broke it down into kindling a sliver of wood pierced under the skin of her thumb. It hurt. She swore. Buffy teased her, caught the injured hand between her own and pinched the splinter out. She pressed her lips to the torn skin. Smiled. Laughed. It was the first time since that horrible day outside the compound.
The world surged back a quickly as it had vanished. Her body had kept on moving in her absence, kept on beating the lookalike bloody. It would be easier soon. The memories meant she was coming down. She relaxed a little, let that fucked up little voice at the back of her mind out to play, and waited for the drugged vision to fade into reality. One more hit should do it. Or two. Or three.
By the fifth swing Faith began to realize that something was very wrong. The world was sharp again, the pain real, and the figure still looked like Buffy. Still moved like her. Still had those gorgeous eyes, hazed over and blank like they did when she gave into her own little voice. This was wrong.
This was really Buffy.
She ducked under a punch she knew, a punch she taught her. Fuck, this was really happening. A solid left hook caught Faith under the chin, sent her flying to the dirt. In the scramble to get back to her feet she glanced up at the crowd above them and saw someone out of the corner of her eye. Post. Grinning like someone who just won a round of fucking checkers.
The entire scenario revealed itself in a blinding moment of clarity. This had been arranged from the start. Post had known the extraordinary circumstances of the fight and volunteered them both without the other knowing. She doped Faith to mask the grim reality for as long as possible. Buffy should have been scared and confused enough to throw her off balance, and Faith could have killed her easily. When she came down, there would be nothing left for her to live for. Nothing but getting the damn cure.
She had been fucking played.
It was becoming hard to keep Buffy back. She dropped down and swept Buffy's legs out from under her, desperate for a minute to fucking think. She couldn't see a way out this time. Buffy was too far gone to stop. There were too many guards, too many spectators to fight their way out together, let alone with Faith carrying Buffy out. The only way this was going to stop was if somebody won.
When Buffy regained her footing she was holding a knife Faith knew. "That's mine," she murmured to herself, remembering the night she gave the blade that had saved her life so many times to the only girl she had ever fallen for. To keep her safe. It wasn't unpoetic.
Faith drew herself to her full height. She opened her stance. Drew back her arm. When Buffy entered her reach, she swung. Wide. There wasn't much left that she could do, but she could do this.
She could bleed.
Author's Note: Well, that certainly took longer than I expected. Running three parallel plot lines takes a lot out of a girl. I really appreciate your continued patience and assure you that I will almost definitely post the next chapter sooner this time around.