Ten Thousand
by wisteria

2. Kampala


Right. Airport. Just where he was supposed to be. Ditch the bike, buy a one-way ticket to L.A., connections in Cairo and Frankfurt. Home again. From zero to soul in 6.3 days flat.

That was the plan, at least.

Straddling the cycle, he stared at the direction signs in English, the electricity inside flickering like a crazed firefly. "Departures", "Parking", "City Centre." Spike turned to growl at the driver who swerved around him.

A huge bug divebombed his face, and Spike winced, doing a ridiculous fluttery dance to get rid of it. When it was finally gone, he found that he couldn't open his eyes again. Or maybe he just didn't want to.

His own personal penny arcade played over the backs of his eyelids. Buffy taunting him. Telling him to leave. Screaming that she could never love him. The images were Technicolor-bright, blinding him.

Spike blinked back the tears that were the curse of his existence. "Soggy fop," he berated himself. He looked up at the "Departures" sign, the words glowing fuzzy in his blurred vision. But he could still clearly see Buffy's face in her bathroom, hating him more than he ever thought possible. What kind of fool was he to think that he could just show up on her doorstep with a soul, and all would be right as rain?

No. Couldn't go home yet.

+++++

The "Welcome to Uganda" brochure he'd skimmed on the flight from Cairo said that the average June temperature was 25 Celsius, with a cool breeze coming off the mountains and Lake Victoria. Spike decided he would sue the Ugandan Tourist Board for false advertising.

Humanity seethed around him. People running hither and yon, shopping bags and baskets perched on their hips or over their heads. Some kids kicking a football in a dilapidated playground. A woman beating another damned drum. Hell, maybe it was the same woman from the village. Free exchange of goods, groceries, clothing. People going about their daily lives. Just another market evening in Africa.

And Spike had a plan.

He followed some white tourists across the square. Didn't know whether they were American or what, not that he much cared. Two women and a man, dressed in stereotypical safari khakis, their overladen backpacks nearly tipping them over. When he got closer, Spike saw "L.L. Bean" stamped over the luggage, and their dusty sandals were definitely expensive. Rich folks playing at the rustic life.

They didn't disappoint, though, leading him to just where he wanted to go: a stall decorated with multi-national flags and a computer-printed sign proclaiming, "Welcome, tourists!"

Spike lurked off to the side, eavesdropping as the Safari Folks surveyed the goods and asked the shopkeeper in condescending tones, "Do you have anything better?"

Spike rolled his eyes. Shopboy was far more polite, giving them a strained smile. He showed them nearly everything in his stall, devoting almost half an hour to them until the tourists finally meandered away, empty-handed of purchases. Shopboy stared after them then began to put away all the things he'd taken out to display.

"Bloody fucking bastards, toying with that man like that! May you rot in a hell dimension for fourteen millennia, until you're brought back to this one again, where I'll kick your ass to fucking Jupiter!"

Okay, yeah, maybe that was the soul.

Spike screamed this in Fyarl, not English. He didn't much want to be deported. Did get a few stares from some locals, who probably wondered why the hell this albino guy was growling and howling. He shrugged it off and approached Shopboy.

"Look, bloke, I need a backpack. Nothing big or fancy, just something sturdy I can use to haul stuff around. Maybe strap it to my motorcycle. Whatever."

Shopboy smiled, probably pleased to help someone who acted like a reasonable human instead of a... whoops, never mind.

The bag he produced for inspection was neon yellow, with blue trim and a metal skeleton along the back. The colors were loud enough to wake the dead, which was probably good because Spike would be traveling at night and couldn't afford to fall asleep on the road or anything. It reminded him of something, but he couldn't figure out what.

It was cheap, too. Spike handed over the equivalent of $6.50 in Ugandan Shillings, plus a few extra as a tip. Still felt sorry for the bloke.

Then he was on his way. Spike couldn't decide whether to sling the bag over his shoulder like a teenaged git or hold it in front of him like a nerdy git. So, he settled for tucking it under his left arm and holding his chin high. Only half-git that way.

As he crossed the square toward his next destination, he glanced down at the bag again, and it hit him why it seemed so familiar. Dawn had a backpack just like it, though he was sure hers had cost five times as much. He still remembered watching her set off to school last year, back bowed from the weight of the pack. Kept telling her not to carry so many books, or she'd get scoliosis. But she'd just grin back at him and call out, "Yeah, whatever, Spikey! See you when I get home."

Good times, those, at least when he wasn't thinking about Buffy.

He wondered what Dawn would carry this year, and if he'd be there when she got home every day.

+++++

While he stood in the alley behind the main hospital in Kampala, Spike debated whether to dye his hair. All that paleness shone like a 60-watt bulb there in Equatorial Africa, not that he wanted to blend in or anything, but it still made him feel odd. Besides, if he was supposed to be New-and-Improved, Souled Spike, why not go for broke and reinvent himself?

Problem was, he'd grown quite attached to the hair, and a big change like that wasn't one to be taken lightly, so to speak. He finally decided to think about it some more before he made any rash decisions. He was thinking of heading up to Europe soon, and the blond would fit right in when he got to Berlin.

Ah, Berlin. Loved that city.

God, his brain was going in a million different places at once. Maybe he had ADD or something like that. Or maybe he was just going divvy from the lack of blood. It'd been way too long since he'd had a good dose of A-positive, and even though Local Girl's cuppa had been decent, it wasn't enough to sustain him for very long.

So there he was, stuck in an alley by Kampala General, waiting for some corruptible-looking orderly to come out for a bribe.

By the second hour of lurking, Spike was damn near delirious. He'd never been good at this sort of thing, but he couldn't see many other options at present. Fortunately, a young guy came out just in the proverbial nick of time.

Spike beckoned him over and pulled the equivalent of two hundred bucks out of his pocket. "Speak English?"

Orderly Jr. nodded, and his eyes were already staring at the cash Spike was waving under his nose.

"Right. Here's what I need you to do. Listen carefully." Spike's voice was at its best menace. Felt rather good. "Take this bag and go inside to where the doctors keep the blood supply. Get me twenty bags - doesn't matter which type. When you bring them out, you get the cash."

The guy kept staring, transfixed, and Spike fought the urge to slap him to lucidity. As far as he could tell, the chip still worked.

Finally, he gave up and growled, "Toddle off, then. I'll be waiting."

Well, that worked quite well. Spike was irritated, though, to realize that he'd learned the bribery technique from a year of Buffy and Giles shoving money at him right and left. Ah, the good old days, when things were far less complicated.

Once Orderly Jr. was inside, Spike leaned back against the wall and started the waiting game again. Checking to make sure that nobody was watching, he pulled the wad of money out of his pocket and counted it. He still had about a thousand dollars in cash, both in dollars and shillings. The pre-paid Visa card had almost twelve thousand, after all he'd spent on the plane fare and the motorcycle.

It was all supposed to be for Buffy.

Fat lot of good the Suvolte mess did him. The demon had offered him $30,000 cash, half up front. Spike hadn't wanted to know where it had gotten the money; all he could think about at the time was that the cash would make Buffy's life so much easier. Even if she didn't like him any more than she already did - which wasn't saying much - it would at least save her having to slowly kill herself at the burger joint. He'd had it all planned out: stash the eggs in the crypt per the arrangement with the Suvolte, hand them over when finished, then find a way to get the money to Buffy without her knowing, because she'd never have taken it if she knew where and who it had come from.

Didn't she know that he'd do anything for her?

And what had he gotten out of the fiasco? Destroyed home, destroyed relationship and destroyed trust. Not that it was ever really a relationship, or that she'd ever really trusted him. Still hurt like hell. The demon was dead before it could make good on the rest of the deal, and since he couldn't very well give it back, Spike was stuck with $15,000 and everything he'd wanted it for gone.

At least it was enough to get him here. If he was careful, it'd be enough to get him home.

Back to the same world of destruction, this time with Buffy trusting him even less than she had the day she broke up with him.

Spike banged his head on the wall behind him, and he welcomed the pain. Why the hell had he even done all this? A bloody, buggering fool is what he was.

God, he needed that blood now. Maybe it would set his brain straight again.

After another twenty minutes of Spike's self-flagellation, Orderly Jr. finally reappeared.

"I was able to get your twenty bags, Sir," he said, thrusting the now-heavy backpack into Spike's arms. "Why do you want it?"

Spike muttered, "You don't want to know, mate." He opened the bag to check. Everything looked to be in order. He shoved the rest of the cash into the other man's hands, and started walking away into the darkness of the muggy Kampala night.

One more stop, then he could find a place to crash and wallow in his depression some more.

+++++

"Cheers, thanks," Spike told the maid who opened the front door and showed him inside. He still had the standing invite from when he'd first arrived in Kampala, at least.

The apartment was sparsely furnished, and Spike had to wonder why the guy even needed a maid. Guess that was how things went here.

When he walked into the living area, the occupant looked up and said, "Who are you?"

Spike narrowed his eyes. "It's Spike. Hello? I was just here two days ago."

"You sure about that? 'Cause you look totally different. And eeuw, don't tell me they're handing out dripping pustules and facial deformities with souls these days. If that's the case, my apologies."

As Spike's hands flew up to his face, the other guy burst out laughing. Between chuckles, he said, "Gotcha."

Spike growled and sat down, grabbing some peanuts from the bowl on the coffee table. "So what's with the maid, Whistler?"

He shrugged out of his coat and plopped down in the chair opposite. "Beats me. I saw her yesterday down at the market. She was looking all forlorn and such, so I thought I'd be a good guy and offer her a job."

"Haven't done much with the place, have you? Hell, I live in a crypt and I've done better than you have." Spike looked around the room. Totally bland and uncomfortable, but something told him that it fit.

Whistler held out his hands as if showing off. "Don't like it? But it's the latest in Martha Stewart's Safari '02 collection. Got it at the local K-Mart when I moved in."

"Yeah, you look like the K-Mart type. Is that where you got that godawful shirt?"

Whistler laughed, and Spike couldn't help but grin too. "Gee, thanks. You sound just like Angel."

That wiped Spike's grin away. "You know Angel?"

"Heck, yeah. He and I go way back. I weaned him off rats."

Last thing he wanted was to be sitting in this flat, talking about Angel, but now Spike was curious. "Sounds like good ol' Grandpa. Can't say I miss him much at all. In fact, I hate the bastard."

Whistler sat forward in his chair. "I thought you found out about me from Angel."

"No...?"

"Gotta love fate, then." Whistler tossed a peanut into his mouth, and Spike rather admired his technique. "Good ol' Powers that Be rang me up the other day and said there was a vamp who wanted a soul, and I should set him up with the local guy who does that sort of thing. When you showed up, I just figured it was Angel who told you where to find me, though I didn't know he knew I was doing the Africa thing now. So, where did you find out about me?"

All of this was confusing the hell out of Spike. He ran a hand through his hair, hoping to get rid of the headache it was inducing. "Friend of mine, Zanine demon by the name of Clem. You know him?"

"Nope, sorry."

"Well, anyway," Spike continued, "things were going to shit back at home, and I decided only way out was to get a soul. So Clem said that he knew of some guy in Kampala who could get me one. Gave me your address."

"Oh, CLEM!" Whistler laughed. "Yeah, I know him. Well, I don't know him, really. Knew his cousin though. Wow, what a mess that was."

Damned headache kept getting stronger. "So you knew all this was going to get fucked up, but you did it anyway?"

The maid entered the room, but Whistler smiled and waved her away. "Jump to conclusions, much? Look, I just do what The Powers that Be tell me to do. I don't know how they found out about you, but they told me that some vamp was heading over, and that they'd deemed him worthy of a soul. And then you showed up at my doorstep. Maybe they're also the ones who nudged Clem into telling you about me. Beats me. I've worked for those guys for two hundred years, and I still don't have a clue what's going on with them."

This was all too much. Spike got up and began pacing through the small room. "But this was MY decision!" He tapped his chest for emphasis, then winced again from the burn marks. "I'm the one who wanted to get a soul, not some buggering Gods!"

"Hey! Back off. It was your decision, but you've gotta know that Angel was supposed to be the only one. That's what all the Powers' handbooks say, and they're the ones who ultimately get to decide, not you. If they didn't want you to have one, things would've gotten really screwed up in that cave. So for them to decide you were worthy too - wow." Whistler chuckled in disbelief. "I have to hand it to you, Spike. You must've impressed the hell out of them."

Spike collapsed back into the chair. Too bad aspirin didn't work on vampires, because he could've used about a dozen right then. "Fine. Whatever. I'm worthy. Big sodding deal. It was still my decision to make."

"Now you're getting it," Whistler replied, a little too indulgently for Spike's tastes.

The room was quiet for a minute or so.

"So, how's the soul working out for you?"

Spike shrugged. "A waste so far. I haven't noticed anything different. Felt a bit guilty about some stuff, but I already did before I came here."

"Yeah, I heard that about you. Pretty empathetic guy, helping out others and so on. You even kill other vampires, just like Angel. I've gotta say, that whole resouling thing with him threw us for a loop."

"Stop bringing him up! Ponces, both of you." Spike growled for effect.

Whistler grinned again and made a show of backing up, hands raised in surrender. "Also heard you were really touchy, like a fifteen-year-old with PMS."

Given what he knew about fifteen-year-olds - Dawn, at least - Spike didn't take that as a compliment. "If you're just going to insult me, I'll leave."

"Then why are you here?"

"I want to know more about the soul. Figured you were the one to ask, since ol' Lurky wasn't forthcoming."

The other guy settled back in his chair. "I was waiting for you to bring him up. Judgment Demons are a nasty sort, and he loves playing games. I'm surprised you got out of it in one piece. I mean, the Powers knew you'd get the soul in the end, but I thought you'd be more messed up."

Spike held his chin high. "Passed every test, I did. Knew I could take him on."

"Martha?" He called out, and the maid appeared within seconds. "Go down to the market and get me some hors d'ouevres. We're gonna throw a party for our friend Spike, here."

"No," Spike ordered the maid, and to Whistler, he said, "Sod off."

Martha disappeared around the corner.

"Your choice," Whistler said with another of the grins that were becoming damned annoying. "You got the soul. Good for you. What else did you get?"

Spike did a double-take. "What do you mean, what else?"

"Well, that's the thing about Judgment Demons. They give you both what you wish for and what you fear."

That was news to Spike, and he didn't like the sound of it. "Huh? You didn't say nothing about that."

Whistler took another handful of peanuts, and Spike wondered how he could be so nonchalant when his words sounded so foreboding. "The demon didn't ask you. I'm not surprised - he never does. But he can figure those things out. So, what, you told him you wished for a soul. He gave you one."

"Right."

"Then there's the big question: was the soul what you wanted or what you feared?"

Spike squirmed in frustration. "It's what I wanted, you nit! Come on, I told you that when I was here the other day."

A look of intense wisdom passed over Whistler's face. "Then what do you fear?"

Good question. He thought about it for a moment, then finally said, "Not being good enough for her."

"Well, damn. I should've known this was all for a woman." Whistler got a look of conspiratorial interest, like the two of them were shooting the breeze at a pub. "So, she's worth the soul?"

That simple question made Spike melt into his memories. "Yeah. Bloody brilliant, she is, though she doesn't know it. Strong too. She can kick my ass from here to eternity, and when I'm holding her, it's like everything else melts away. But she's got it in her head that I'm worthless, that I can't be trusted. Says she can't love me because of that. I did something to her that was really awful, so I decided I had to get a soul to keep it from happening again."

"She sounds like a winner." Whistler cocked his head to the side. "I don't get it, though. She's a vampire, right? So what difference does a soul make?"

"She's human. They seem to think souls are important, for some stupid reason. It's all Buffy kept talking about."

Whistler's mouth formed a perfect 'O'. "No shit! You're in love with the Slayer? Whoa. The Powers that Be never told me that."

That got Spike's attention, snapping him out of his nostalgia-induced trance. "You know her?"

"Heck, yeah. I was there during the Acathla mess. Wait, now I get why you seemed familiar the other day." He sat back in his chair. "Wow, will wonders never cease. Thought I knew everything, but this is definitely a surprise."

Spike didn't know quite what to say; being at a loss for words was a new experience. He thought about asking Whistler to elaborate, but decided he just wasn't in the mood for it. The room was too hot and he was crawling out of his skin. Barely twenty-four hours had passed since the soul thing, and he was just plain exhausted.

Once the silence stretched to uncomfortable levels, Whistler finally said, "So, you did all this for Buffy, huh? Gotta say, you've got a tough job ahead of you."

"You think I don't know that?" Spike closed his eyes. "You think that if there was a way I could do this without having to get a fucking soul, I would've done it?"

Whistler didn't respond, and Spike ran a hand over his forehead; the headache was becoming unbearable, rivaling any he'd had when hitting a human. Finally, all he could say was, "Shit."

"Yeah."

Both of them just sat there again. For two people who talked so much, Spike was surprised how quiet they could be.

Then Whistler said, "What'd you do that was so bad that a soul isn't going to cut it?"

Spike opened his eyes, then grimaced at the bright lamplight. "Sorry, mate. Some topics are off-limits. And don't go askin' your Powers or whatever to find out for you."

"I got it. Won't go there." He reached over for the peanuts, but the bowl was empty. "You got your wish: the soul. The demon also gave you what you fear: that it won't make you good enough for her. I don't know what you did to give you that idea, but it must've been pretty terrible."

Again, all Spike could say was, "Yeah."

"Can't say I envy your future, William."

Spike almost butted in to ask how the guy knew his other name, but he just didn't feel like it. Probably more of that Powers that Be shit.

Whistler stood up. "Look, it's getting late and the sun'll be up before long. Crash here on my sofa. You can stay here until sunset tomorrow, and then you get to go off on your big quest." He hummed a few bars from Monty Python and the Holy Grail for good measure.

"Which is what, Brave, Brave Sir Robin?"

The demon reached down and picked up a pillow, tossing it toward Spike.

"You get to make yourself good enough for the Slayer."


END, Chapter Two.


wisteria@smyrnacable.net