Author's note: This is a sequel to "Chaos, Panic, Pandemonium -- My Work Here is Done," which featured Fate personified toying with Xander. This time, Death has come to Sunnydale to collect a Scoobie. (And no, it's not Joyce ... an hour worth of bawling during "The Body" and you expect me to relive that trauma? Please.)
by Troll Princess
Oh, bloody hell. Bloody, bloody hell.
I figure I asked for it, getting pissed when I knew I had Sunnydale duty the very next day. Then again, that's probably why I got pissed. Gettin' yourself properly sloshed for a trip t'the Hellmouth is highly recommended.
Although not by me. Because contrary t'popular belief, Death can have hangovers.
Ow. Several at a time, apparently.
Oh, don't get that look on your face, all teeth-chatterin' an' knee-knockin'. Yes, I'm Death. It don't mean I'm here for you, though, so you can just get stuffed.
No, like I said, I'm on Sunnydale patrol. Which usually means a run-in with the Scooby Squad, or whatever the little brats are calling themselves these days. They always seem t'be on the receiving end of some quality deaths, they do, an' frankly, I'm sick o'dealing with 'em.
But deal with 'em, I must, 'cause one o' 'em is on the list for a quick and painless death.
Well, they don't call it Sunnydale for nothing.
I slip on the shades more out o'habit than anythin' else ... not like I need t'be worried 'bout the glare. I'm more bothered by the lack o'halfway decent pubs around these parts. An' besides, sunset ain't that far off.
I can't resist bein' seen for a little while, walkin' the streets an' starin' down the natives. Gets 'em all edgy an' whatnot. Not that they can see the cloak an' scythe -- luggin' that stupid thing around is a right bother, an' the cloak is bleeding hot, it is. But I love the look the meat puppets get in their eyes, like they just took a look-see into their own graves. Then again, in this town, I wouldn't be surprised if they 'ad.
I have until midnight, so I 'ear. And I'm visible, so I stroll the streets, hands in pockets, casual-like. Tryin' to blend in, and knowin' full well I blend in 'bout as much as elephants on parade.
Sunnydale ain't my thing. Personally, I like the L.A. crowd better. Bigger city, more interesting deaths. Not that Sunnydale doesn't try for one-uppin' 'em, but L.A.'s got a bigger gang. As much as she might hate t'admit it, Sunnydale's more Fate's cup o'tea. She's got a thing for the Slayer's pal, the one what attracts demons like flies.
Apparently, he also sucks up Incarnations like a bloody vacuum cleaner, too. From what I 'eard, Nature thinks the bastard's the dog's bollocks, too. Fate versus Nature. Huh. If anyone wants tickets t'that catfight, I'm havin' 'em printed up, so save your pennies.
You'd be amazed how many times we've got t'show up in this hellhole, though. The Incarnations, that is. Usually for these prats, 'course. And we've all got our favorites. Can't say it's by choice. We 'ad any choice in the matter, we'd never see these buggers for the rest o'their bloody lives.
Me ... I like the little redhead. I suppose I could make some nasty comment 'bout her whole girlfriend situation. But 'tain't my place. Besides, two consentin' adults can do wha'ever the 'ell they want, in my honest opinion, so long as no one gets hurt.
'Course, someone's goin' to get hurt tonight. 'S why I'm 'ere.
Not that it's their fault. Far as I know, my job is just show up, take the soul, an' leave. Piece o'cake.
I wander the streets for a good 'alf hour before the sun sets, and that's when people start goin' home and lockin' their doors. Right smart of 'em, it is. I spent far too many years in this town organizin' friggin' tour buses full o' souls, and I'm right glad t'be done with it.
I don't even notice the git walkin' towards me until we bump into one another.
Aw, hell. The vampire.
We stare at each other for what seems like an eternity. We take in our identical black jeans, black coats, and pale, pale skin. We both notice the stench o'death reeking from both o'us, the bottles o' J.D. in our pockets and the cigarettes tucked away in our coats.
Then, with a pair o'curt nods, we walk right past each other, silently vowing with our eyes never, ever t'speak o'this again.
Not that we're goin' t'speak t'one another. Um ... yeah, right. Wha'ever.
I show up at the dorm room at 'bout ten t'eleven, for lack o'anythin' better t'do. Aside from the demons an' vampires an' horrible creatures what live in these parts, Sunnydale's a pit. Ain't nothin' t'do around 'ere that don't involve massive amounts o'some coffee derivitive and throbbin' dance music, neither o'which I'm into.
An' besides, someone's scheduled t'die in this 'ere room at midnight. That's always more fun than cappucino and Fatboy Slim. Leastwise, as far as I can tell.
The room's empty at the moment, but I s'pose it's better that way. Like I said, I tend t'creep people out. Don't need the mortal types gettin' edgy and leavin'. They're s'posed t'be in the room for this.
Hmm ... it's nice in 'ere. Smells right good in 'ere. What's that? Sandalwood, then? It's divine. I wonder how often those two are settin' off incense in 'ere. Sets the mood, it does.
They're not 'ere right now, like I said, but they'll be comin' 'ere any minute now. Not because I know they'll be comin' -- even if I do -- but because I just lit up a cig, an' Murphy's Law and Death go hand in hand. Fault of the job, it is.
I flip through one o'those magic books of theirs, bored out o'my -- Hey! I've been lookin' for this book everywhere! I lost my copy ages ago. Maybe I'll just take a little souvenir ... for the bother o'the trip, like ...
"Well, if isn't Little Black Riding Hood."
Oh, hell. Don't let that be who I think it is.
I turn 'round, hoping it won't be her. I can't say I don't like the bird. She's got her moments, most o'which involve her crossin' her legs just the right way or lickin' her fingers after inhalin' a bag o'Cheetos.
But it is her. Fate herself. Which means my job just got that much harder.
D'you know how Death works? No, probably no'. The higher-ups tend t'discourage that sort o' thing out o'you mortals. See, I'm Death. An' there are somethin' like a hundred thousand more gits just like me who go out an' collect souls from the dead. But see, we're all the same guy.
Don't get it? Here, I'll talk slower. Death is basically the Borg, but with better outfits an' a much stranger job description. A hundred thousand buggers dressed all in black wanderin' 'round gatherin' up souls, an' we all know what the others are doin'. Makes datin' a hassle.
So, then, there's Fate.
If you're a lucky sod, you never 'ave t'deal with 'er. Not that she's dangerous or nothin'. Well, she is, but that's no' my point. She gets 'er hooks in you, she'll toy with you for as long as you're interestin'.
Most Deaths don't see 'er that much. Me, I see 'er all the bloody time. Comes with West Coast duty. Between L.A. and Sunnydale, the two of us might as well shack up an' get it over with.
This time, she's lookin' ... brunette. She's a bloody brunette. Usually, she's blond. I 'aven't seen 'er brunette in somethin' like ten years. Must be a special occasion, then.
She sidles up to me, leans up an' gives me a peck on the cheek. Ooo, goodies galore this trip. "Hey, Death. You're looking pale and sickly."
Thanks, love. You're lookin' right good yourself.
She frowns at me, but then, she hates the way I talk. Talk ... huh. I can't 'elp the way my voice comes out. Death doesn't talk. Death just is.
And I'll talk 'bout myself in the third person as much as I damn well please. So there.
Then again, lookin' into 'er eyes, that isn't what's irritatin' the bird. She leans up against one o'the desks and shakes 'er head. "You sound like you fell out of the British tree, hit every branch on the way down, and landed face-first in a vat of Guinness."
I'll take that as a compliment.
"Please don't. I was going for so insulting, you'd go back to the Australian accent. Which was oh-so knee-rattling." She leans forward and whispers, conspiratorial-like, "Dollface, you're not British."
See, that, I take offense to. I can be if I want t'. I can do anythin' I want t'. I'm Death.
"You're a freaking stereotype!" she yelps. "Death is always British. Couldn't you have lived on the edge a little and tried Swahili?"
I go stand beside 'er and elbow 'er in the side before addin', You're no' thinkin' o' Death. You're thinkin' o' Satan. Satan is always British. Death is always very pale and dresses like a wheat farmer going t' Grandmother's house.
"God, don't you watch movies or television at all? Ian McKellen in "Last Action Hero--"
Elizabeth Hurley in "Bedazzled" --
"Methos on "Highlander" --"
Peter Cook in the other "Bedazzled" --
"Brad Pitt --"
Hey, Brad Pitt was no' British in "Meet Joe Black."
She groans and shakes her head. "We need to get you watching better movies, Scythe Boy."
That's right 'bout the time when the witch patrol shows.
We watch 'em for a while, the blond and the redhead, gettin' themselves ready for bed, washin' up, changin' their clothes, sayin' their goodni--
Bloody hell, are they makin' out?
Hey! Stop it! If you don't get your bleedin' hands off my eyes, they will be when I'm done with 'em!
Aw, blast. I missed it.
Fate's smilin' at me, that annoyin', creepy, sickin'ly sweet smile that says, "You have a job to do which does not involved watching real-life lesbian porn."
Which is a crime, it is. But unfortunately, she's got a point.
I wait until I get the urge, the power strainin' at me, that part o' me that wants t'take a soul so much I burn inside. It don't hurt. It actually tingles a little, like dandruff shampoo or whatnot. Death's not a bad job ... anyone ever offers you the position, I'd say give 'em a big thumbs up an' fill out an application right quick.
Just a warning, though ... sometimes, you're goin' t'have t'do somethin' you regret. Like now. I start walkin' towards the bed, ready t'take the soul I've come for, then swerve and head directly for the cage.
Her brown eyes stare up at me, confused, shocked, frightened by what's goin' t'happen. I know she's got a human soul, but I know I'm goin' t'get teased mercilessly by the rest o'my lot for this.
I shake my head as I bend over the cage and say ... sort of, I can't believe I'm here for a rat.
Mortals sleep too bloody long.
D'you have any idea how long the two of us had t'wait for those little witches t'wake up? Eight hours! Eight bleedin' hours durin' which Fate an' I had t'kill time 'cause the Big Guy said so. Eight bleedin' hours worth o'readin' their books an' diggin' through their drawers an' findin' out more 'bout their sex lives than I'd 'ave thought I'd want t'from a couple of lesbians.
Don't know why the Big Guy decided I had t'hang out and wait 'round. Usually, if Death has t'stay, it's 'cause someone isn't goin' t'take the news well and I have t'wait for a bloody hangin'. The last time I was 'ere, all of a week an' a half ago, I was there an' gone like the north wind.
But this time, the Big Guy wants me t'observe. Don't know why, like I said, but when you're Death, you do what you're told.
I'm in the middle of a right nasty romance novel and Fate is paintin' her toenails bright purple when the girls come to. The redhead first, perky little tart that she is. She bounds out o'bed like a bloody kangaroo, and damn it if she doesn't head right for the cage.
The denial comes first. "Hi, Amy. Wake up. It's morning. Time for breakfasty food."
The waking up, that comes second. "Amy?"
The realization, that's next. "Oh, my God." That's really soft, like. Quiet. Whispered. "Amy?" That one's chokin' back the tears, tryin' t'keep from cryin'.
Fate an' I exchange a look. 'Tain't fun, watchin' mortals suffer. An' wha'ever this means t'the redhead, it can't be good. No' if Fate's here.
This is a lifechanger. There's nothin' I can do for that.
So, 'ere we are. In the Magic Box. Gang's all 'ere, I see. With the exception of the vampire, but all I can say on that account is good riddance. I don't like the nasty little bugger.
Most everyone is at the big table, comfortin' the redhead, who can't seem t'calm down. Poor pet. Meanwhile, that ex-demon bird an' the kid sister are behind the counter, watchin', not knowin' what t'do. I don't blame 'em. I'm rather confused myself.
At least Fate doesn't have that problem. She's busy droolin' all over Sidekick Boy. She sits on the edge o'the table, next t'him, absently strokin' his hair. Bloody tart thinks he's a pussycat.
"I should have done something," the redhead says. She can't stop crying. Her gaze won't leave the box sittin' in the middle o'the table.
"There's nothing you could have done, Will," the boy says. He wraps an arm 'round her, gives her a good squeeze. He an' the blond girlfriend are doin' a good job in bein' there for 'er, I'll give 'em that.
"Yes, there is!" she yelps. "I was so preoccupied with helping you guys that I just kept putting off trying to change Amy back. And I should have put more time into it. She deserved to be human again."
The girlfriend leans in, nuzzles her cheek an' gives 'er a buss right on the lips. "Baby, it's all right. Shh." She smooths her hand over the redhead's back, an' the girl calms instantly. Huh. All mortals should have someone like that in their lives. Too bad 'tain't so.
The Watcher sits on the other side o'the table, right next t'where I stand. He's the rock in these situations, I've seen 'im. I'm guessin' he's the type what holds it all in, then hides in his bedroom an' cries where no one's lookin'. "Willow, listen to me. You tried your hardest. That's all anyone can ask of you."
She nods. No' to agree, just 'cause they expect it, I figure. "The vet said she died of old age. I just ... I thought she'd still have a human lifespan, that's all."
The blond at 'er side stroked 'er arm, a soft touch meant t'calm her down again. Like I said, lucky Red.
I want t'touch 'er, I do. I won't bite back an' deny it. When I said Red's my favorite, that wasn't bull. If I thought my puttin' my hand on 'er arm would make 'er feel better, I would. But I'm Death. Death doesn't feel good t'the livin'. If I touch 'er arm, she probably won't stop bawlin' until they sedate 'er.
I casually ignore the expression on Fate's face. She's lovin' the look in my eyes. I can tell.
"What are we supposed to do?" the girlfriend says, all quiet-like.
"Bury her, I guess," the Slayer says. She's tryin', she really is. But she's off. I see it. This whole let's-treat-the-dead-rat-like-a-human still isn't sinkin' in. Nice to see I'm no' the only one. "We could have a little ceremony at the graveyard. With, you know, flowers and some cheese. Or something."
Red sniffles an' nods again, an' the boy leans over an' gives 'er a good one-armed hug. Fate's dark eyes narrow. I'm guessin' she likes 'im more than she lets on.
Stop it.
Her gaze shoots over t'me, an' it goes hard an' steely as soon as she notices my expression. "Stop what? I didn't do anything."
I believe I 'eard somethin' about throwin' yourself at the bloke an' makin' it all better.
Fate winces, but refuses t'acknowledge it. "Stop reading my mind," she says.
I wasn't, but I ain't stupid enough t'say it out loud.
I look 'round at the crowd, all these weekday mourners gettin' all weepy over a dead rat, an' I can't help but wonder what in the bloody hell it's got t'do with me and Fate. Why are we still 'ere? Fate stares at me, studies my expression for a sec, an' I get really uncomfortable all of a sudden. Shouldn't we be gone now?
She shrugs, gets up an' gives the boy one final look before pacing in front o'the counter. "You should. Maybe. I dunno." She watches me, almost as if she expects me t'flit away like a flipping fairy. "I mean, usually when the Big Guy says to stay right here and watch the festivities, it's 'cause you'll need the info later on, right?"
Right. I was guessin', though. Death's a little different than the other Incarnations. 'Tain't somethin' you need to know the "after" to. The body dies, you take the soul, end of story. I hardly ever 'ave t'stay behind and look after the lot what's left behind.
No' that I'm goin' t'fight it.
But it still makes me wonder what Fate's doin' 'ere, stuck in this room with these annoyin' gits I think we're both gettin' a little sick o'seein'. So then what are you doing here? I ask, not really knowin' why I'm botherin'.
She shrugs an' toys with the bracelet on 'er wrist as she glances over at the little one sittin' behind the counter, doing 'er homework. "I'm here for the kidlet, actually."
I glance over at the princess, curious why Fate's got t'visit 'er. She looks harmless enough. Fairly uncomfortable an' vaguely intense at the moment, but still harmless. Why? What's 'er deal?
Fate smiles. It's no' creepy or annoying this time. It's soft an' warm-hearted. Bleeding Christ, I didn't know she 'ad it in 'er t'look that kind. "She's keeping a secret," she says, 'er hand reachin' out an' lightin' on the girl's. Fate's head tilts slightly t'the side as the girl visibly relaxes under Fate's touch. "Ain't told anyone she's the new Slayer."
Oh ... well, that's worth a bloody hell in my book. What's that got to do with the rat?
Fate takes her eyes off the girl, an' watches me as she walks towards me. "Don't you get it?" she says, although she can bloody well tell that no, I don't get it, wha'ever it is. "Last week, the rugrat loses her mother. This week, you and me, we bump off the rat girl." She turns to the counter, stares at the girl, 'er heart in 'er eyes for me to see. "I think it's finally starting to hit her that maybe she should come out of the vampire-slaying closet."
I take another look at the girl, try t'see what she's thinkin' just by lookin' at 'er. She wants t'cry, I can tell. Her fingers flex 'round the pencil in 'er hand, makin' an' loosenin' a fist. Even from that little bit o'pressure, tiny pinprick cracks shoot across the yellow paint.
She feels helpless. Like she should 'ave done somethin'. Don't need no telepathy t'tell me that.
Good. It's when Slayers feel that way that we get the best out of 'em.
Y'know, you've got a lot o'balls.
Quit lookin' at me like that. Really. Stop it. It's annoyin', it is.
If it makes you feel any better, Amy's in a better place right now. We should all be so lucky. I took a human soul, so she's in a human afterlife. Lots o'junk food you can't get fat off o' and people so nice it'd make your teeth rot.
Wha'ever made the boss tell me t'stay had t'do with that new Slayer. That girl with her soft brown hair and tough interior. I might not 'ave known it then, but I've got it now. Somethin's goin' t'happen. Someone's goin' t'die. I don't know if it's 'er, or one o'those other bloody Scoobs.
But if the Big Guy made me stay for it, it won't be pretty.
It's goin' t'hurt. An' there's nothin' they can do 'bout it.