Ten Thousand
by wisteria

11. Berlin



The shift from third world to first was nearly tangible. Spike walked the streets an hour after sunset, and stores were still open. Large stores, too, full of posh things he wanted to buy. Strange experience for him, but just one of a long line of oddnesses. Since when was he in the mood to buy things?

He told himself it was because nicking stuff was such a hassle. At the very least, if he got caught he'd have to deal with the police and deportation and all that shit. Long way from Sunnydale now, after all. The coppers here didn't turn a blind eye to demons and vampires. No, they either ran, screamed and shot, or else created one hell of a mess during the interrogation.

He remembered getting stuck at the Magic Box one day last summer. Couldn't remember exactly why he'd been there overnight, but the sun rose and he was stuck there with Anya. Yeah, he could've just headed home through the sewers, but home meant staring at blank walls and thinking about death – Buffy's own, and the one he was craving for himself.

At least Anya was a good conversationalist, and hanging out at the shop had kept his mind off things. After listening to her rattle on about capitalism for an hour, he'd finally started channeling Marx, just to get her riled up and have a bit of fun. The debate had descended into flag-waving jingoism and "Go back to England, then, if you're so fond of socialism!" before they were interrupted by the first customers of the day.

Anya would love Berlin. He could just see her traipsing down the streets of the East, going up to strangers and chirping, "Congratulations for rejecting outdated socialist dogma! May you enjoy the benefits of the democratic way of life!" Hell, she'd probably hand them a little American flag.

Spike wandered into a bookstore and browsed around for a bit. He'd made it through four of Lucy's novels, then tossed them all. Bland self-conscious rubbish. Another good thing about Berlin was that the bookstore had a decent selection of English-language science fiction. He loaded up on a half-dozen, then he grabbed a copy of The Communist Manifesto for Anya, on a lark. Never would give it to her, he suspected, but just imagining the look on her face made him laugh.

He went to the counter and handed over his credit card. This, too, was strange. He was damned good at stealing. Probably could've slipped all the books in his backpack without anyone noticing. Then he shrugged, remembering the whole police thing. Easier to just pay and be done with it. When he was at the hotel earlier, he'd made a call to Visa and learned that he still had a little over $9,000 on the card.

Time to have some fun. Berlin was up late, and so were many of the shops on the Ku'damm. In search of creature comforts, he went to a music store and splashed out on a CD player and some discs. At least the blasted train rides would be more pleasant now. Just before it closed for the evening, he slipped into a camera shop and stared at all the options. He thought about replacing the Polaroid in his bag, but something about the battered shell appealed to him. But oh, the digital cameras were intriguing. When the shopkeeper demonstrated the video screen and how to save the pictures to a disk, Spike was entranced. There went another chunk of money off the card, but who cared?

Walking down the street with his back nearly bowed from the weight of the purchases, Spike felt pumped up. He grinned, not even caring that he must look like an insane git.

As he stared at the people milling about outside, he thought again about how strange this feeling was. All the times he'd traveled before, he took what he wanted and if the humans didn't like it, he would just snap their necks. Everything had been so secretive, and he'd loved the skulking and danger of it all.

Now, though? Well, it was different. Didn't know how or why, but it was. He still had to do a certain amount of lurking, what with the sunlight problem and all, but tonight he felt more free than he had in ages, maybe even since the chip.

He walked over to a large fountain. Oh, yes. Perfect photo-op. Two women walked by and he called over to them, "Take my picture?" Holding up the old Polaroid, he was damned grateful he still remembered plenty of German.

The two young ladies looked at him then each other, and grins spread over their faces. As one approached him, he handed over the camera and asked, "What's your name, love?"

She blushed and said, "Anna." Spike didn't care to go home with either of them, but it was nice to have a woman eating out of his palm for a change.

He backed up to the fountain and gave his biggest smile. Though he was used to it by now, the flash still nearly blinded him. He began to step forward to get the camera back, but Anna pulled out the photo and held up a hand for him to stop. She turned to her friend and said, "Kirsten?" The other girl nodded enthusiastically. Before Spike knew it, Anna was taking a second photo.

"Whatever," he muttered under his breath and went back up to retrieve his stuff.

Anna only handed over one photo, slipping the other in her pocket. When he raised an eyebrow in question, she chirped, "For us."

Well, that was a good ego boost. He blew them an air kiss then sauntered away.

Yeah, Berlin was bloody brilliant.




The UBahn station was shabby but well-lit. Spike finished off the last of the blood in his flask while he waited for a train. Best thing about a posh hotel with a concierge was that if you threw enough money at her, she'd find a way to track down plenty of blood bags and even have it delivered right to your room. It'd be nice to get back to Sunnydale and its butchers when he finally did, though. The human stuff just didn't taste right.

When the subway car pulled up, Spike was relieved to see that it was mostly empty. Just three other blokes who didn't warrant a second look. He found a seat near the corner and slouched down, liking the way the train rocked under him as it sped away. Hadn't been to the eastern half of the city since before the Wall. Should be fun. It had always been the most crazed part of the city.

Before he heard the scream, he knew something was wrong. Eyes wide open, he jolted upright and saw two vampires advancing on a tweedy older man whose newspaper fluttered to the floor. Looked to be vicious bastards too. None of the fun of the game in the set of their shoulders, the look in their eyes. Spike knew just what they were out for – the quick kill and drain.

Without a second thought, Spike stalked over and yelled the German equivalent of "Bugger off, half-wits!"

God, it'd been too long since he had a spot of violence. The human was an afterthought; right now he wanted a good fight. With a flick of his wrist, he palmed the old pencil in his backpack and shoved it under the cuff of his sleeve.

Vamp 1 circled around Spike, who stayed in human face. Let 'em think they're gonna have seconds. More fun that way.

Quick as lighting, Spike spun around and shoved the wood in the first vamp's chest before he even knew what hit him. Damn, these vampires were idiots. He hoped Vamp 2 was better at it than his dearly departed friend. Time for some one-on-one action, just the way he liked it.

Spike squared his shoulders and danced from foot-to-foot. When Vamp 2 let out a Cro-Magnon growl, Spike laughed right in his face. He feinted left, then right, and the other matched the moves like a pro. Aha, a slightly more worthy adversary.

One punch, then another, and suddenly the other vampire lashed out with little finesse but a hell of a lot of blind rage. Spike's roundhouse kick jammed the guy in the back, but it also made contact with the metal pole. Hurt like a bitch, but he swallowed the wince and started advancing again. Another punch, and Vamp 2 was flat on his back.

Spike rolled his eyes. Way too easy. He stood over the vampire and braced himself, lest the target try anything stupid. Power flowed through him as he slammed the pencil in the vamp's chest.

In the split-second before Vamp 2 turned to dust, Spike blinked and suddenly saw a very different face below him.
Vamp 2 moved in for the kill.

Ebony eyes and skin, a dandelion-shock of hair. Eyes pleading, "No, don't kill me. You're the one who's supposed to die."

He froze, eyes closed and blood ice-cold in his still veins.

When he opened his eyes, dust littered the floor of the subway car.

Spike fell to his knees, thinking, "Oh, God, what the fuck was that?"

Dazed and discombobulated, he glanced around the car. It shuddered to a stop, but he didn't move. Then he saw the victim, shivering in horror against the back wall.

Spike stood up and shook himself lucid again, wanting to yell at the man, "What the hell are you looking at?" But his throat was dry and the words wouldn't come.

The doors opened and the man staggered toward the exit, still staring at Spike with horror. He ran out into the station, and Spike just stood there.

When he pressed his palm to his forehead to get rid of the sudden non-chip headache, he felt bumps and ridges. Game-faced now, and he hadn't even realized it. Spike grit his teeth and shifted back to human again.

He stumbled over to where his backpack lay in a heap on the floor. Some more people entered the other end of the car, but Spike hardly noticed. He slumped back in his seat and shut his eyes. His body kept shivering.





As he walked down Unter den Linden a half-hour later, his legs still wobbled a bit. He tried to focus on the bland Communist buildings and the Reichstag in the distance, but his brain persisted in a mental slideshow he did not want to see.

A Chinese face melted into a New Yorker's and then into Buffy's.

Every Slayer has a death wish, even you.

And he was the badass vampire who had killed the first two and spent two years trying to kill the third.

Badass vampires didn't walk down Berlin boulevards, their backpacks full of electronics and purloined blood. They didn't dust other vampires in a subway car and all over the streets of Sunnydale. And they damned well didn't fall in love with Slayers.

God, he was a sorry excuse for a badass.

"Fuck all!" he shouted, and he didn't care who heard him.

He scrubbed at his face. It was nearly enough to wipe away the mental slideshow. He pumped up his strength and got rid of the rest. He was supposed to be all pumped up with the thrill of capitalism, right? No point in getting all worked up over who killed who.

A bright light and small crowd of people caught his attention as he walked past some university buildings. Spike ventured over there, hoping for a good distraction. When he got there, the sight wasn't what he expected at all.

A large panel of glass covered a stark white room below, consisting of four walls of what looked like empty bookshelves. Spike stepped back a few paces to read the plaque. It told of the Nazi book burnings in 1933, and the memorial warned that when books are burned, free thought dies.

Spike pondered that, grateful that it was a distraction from the earlier mess. Intolerance? Yeah, he knew all about that. The man on the UBahn had fled in terror at the sight of Spike's fangs. He remembered Aziz back in Cairo – the bloke who'd had to give up his girlfriend because she couldn't deal with his nationality. Hell, that was the story of his life back in Sunnydale, right? Maybe things would've been different with Buffy if she'd just dealt with the fact that she was screwing a vampire and maybe even falling in love with one.

He joined the dozen or so others clustered around the memorial. Everyone looked down into the empty space, the glow from within lighting them in an unearthly glow. When he refocused his eyes, what Spike saw – or didn't see – made him shiver.

Twelve faces reflected in the glass. One was missing: his.

Reflections didn't lie, did they?

He didn't exist.




As the sun rose over Berlin, Spike sat on the bed of his hotel room. Twenty-three photographs were spread on the coverlet.

He picked them up, one-by-one, and stared at the images of himself.

Standing in front of the castle in Prague.
Leaning against a train window on the way to Berlin.
Sitting on a bench when the train stopped in Dresden.


He was smiling in each one of them, but it looked forced and hollow. Not real. Just a show to put on for whomever he'd grabbed to take the snapshot. Something to prove to Buffy that he wasn't evil, that he was real.

Each time he finished looking at the set of photographs, he would come back to the first shot in Prague. The others made him look lousy at smiling, but he could convince himself it was just surface.

That first photo, though... it felt real.

Which image was the true Spike? A forced smile or a startled face bathed in harsh light?

He stacked the photos and went through them yet again, one by one, looking for the real him.




END, Chapter Eleven