Author's Foreword: 'Fast' is based roughly on the Buffyverse created by Joss Whedon. More specifically, it is based on the Buffyverse created by 'Mad Minute' in his excellent story 'Matryoshka'. However, both have little bearing, as there are only vague references to the worlds created by these two fiction geniuses.
Italics are to denote either flashbacks, dreams or sequences which don't take place in the story's present. /"…"/ is used for thoughts.
All original characters are owned by yours truly.
After years in this goddamn job, the man known as Tsaf would never get used to shadows. Small shadows, large shadows…it just so happened that dimly lit parking areas with rows upon rows of muddy cars happened to have lots of those. Still, Tsaf reminded himself, shadows were where predators lurked. And he was a predator.
It was this thought that kept the former Brazilian mercenary's eyes alert, but it was the reassuring weight of the big SIG-Sauer P220 .45 caliber pistol tucked uncomfortably into his hip holster that held his blonde-haired head up high.
The sound of a car door whooshing open instinctively sent Tsaf's fingers darting for the pistol. Beneath the black-tinted shooter's shades glared a set of sharp gray eyes, and the mercenary forced himself to relax.
/Don't be a coward./
It was a nice looking Dodge Stratus that had caused him to tense…to betray his taboo many called fear.
Tsaf could just imagine his colleagues snickering at him one level below.
"Whoa shit." Came the slightly slurred voice of the driver as he climbed out of the car. "Do I gotta take me a piss."
Tsaf gave the driver yet another glance, frowning in annoyance as the sound of a zipper echoed in the confines of the parking lot.
Disgust aside, there was a much more practical reason for his disapproval of the driver. Contact was to be made in – according to his fake Rolex still set for Mountain Time - less than five minutes.
"Man…fuck the piss."
With that, the driver slumped noisily against the hood of the Dodge, his snores grating Tsaf's already frayed nerves.
"Merda!"
The mercenary strode forward as he tugged an expandable ASP baton from its shoulder scabbard. There was no time to try to coerce the drunk to leave. A few taps on the head…an uncomfortable drag into the trunk and voila. Problem solved.
The driver's head was angled away, but Tsaf could make out the muscled, athletic body beneath the drab brown jacket. Sober, the drunk could have proved to be a problem. He wasn't sober.
/This is for being a danger to the roads./ Thought Tsaf as he roughly brought the baton down against the drunk's head.
A satisfying crunch rang out. It took the mercenary a moment to realize that it wasn't the head that had crunched…no, that head had suddenly dodged out of the way.
A pair of strong arms suddenly curled around his head in a boxing-type clinch, a knee slamming into his kidney in the same instant.
The baton clattered noisily against the concrete as an elbow slammed into the side of his neck.
Even through the pain, Tsaf could feel despair as his star-filled eyes registered the shape of a stubby little suppressed pistol.
/Glock 26. 9-millimeter. Gemtech Aurora suppressor…the sound'll be about the same as a .22 caliber rimfire…/ Reciting what he knew about his attacker's pistol was the only way he could stave off the utter terror and horror at knowing his death was only a second away.
He was still trying to figure out with whether those were Trijicon night sights on the pistol when the bullet cored through his head.
*
Darkness. No…darkness was an understatement. It was pitch black. Heavy, inky, suffocating…black.
There was pain. It had started off nearly unbearable. He had screamed, but he hadn't passed out. How? He knew his thresholds and he had since passed it hours ago. But the pain hadn't tapered off. No, he had become part of it.
The sound of his heart thumping crazily filled his ears. It brought back memories…the sand of the Caribbean beach…the makeshift bonfire raging from the premium oil they had stolen from the nearby gas station…the group of young men sitting in a circle…hands beating down on drum skin.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
A small streak of light filtered into the room. A door had been opened…or maybe it was just the window. A figure stepped into the light and he could make out the silhouette of…what was it?
Still, one thing was evident. It was the figure that was inciting the rapidly mounting fear.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
With a slight gasp, the pair of bright opaline eyes flashed open. The gasp quickly escalated into a pained groan as the cracked ribs quickly fired up from the intake.
She slowly rolled over onto her belly and began inching painfully off the floor. However, the cool linoleum tiles of her kitchen floor was strangely comforting, and Lisa Sars instead relaxed.
The pain only reminded her again of the dream she had just awoken from. But the overwhelming pain and terror had felt all too real. Instinctively, the girl rubbed her hands against her wrists…the ones in which her dream body – which had been a man (an interesting experience) – had been lashed tightly with strong cords. A look of unease overcame her eyes as she stared at the fiery red marks dotting the area.
The events of last night hadn't been forgotten. Even so, it was more than a little unsettling to stare at the marks. It felt almost as if the dream had been…a prophecy.
Gingerly, Lisa pulled herself to her feet…just in time to hear the annoying sound of her alarm clock ringing in her room.
Christ…she hadn't even made it to her own bed before collapsing.
Hopefully she would have time to get in a quick shower before Professor Donalds (who, while incredibly bland, still had one hell of an ass) began his incredibly bland rant on the 'science of economics'.
"Goals…" Donalds had muttered into the microphone a week before. "Goals are what creates an accomplished businessman. Goals are what gets you through life. Without goals, you're just a waste of air. A waste of this earth's resources. What are your goals?"
Three years ago, Lisa Sars had had one goal. As one in a dozen many liked to call a 'Potential', she had been determined to become the deadliest Slayer in history.
But the gifts of the Slayer – which happened to include accelerated healing – had passed her by. So now, her goal was reaching the bottle of prescription painkillers and the compact of make-up in her washroom.
*
It was a real testament to the roughness of this job, thought Detective Ramon 'Monday' Stanton, that this caffeine saturated crap the patrolmen tried to pass off as coffee didn't even make his blood level rise.
After nearly a decade on the force, his slim wiry body had somehow gotten used to it.
With a mournful nod of his head, Stanton tossed the half-filled Styrofoam cup into the nearby garbage can before slipping into the cordoned parkade.
"Monday!" Came the cheery voice of Detective Sam Fullerton. "You, my half Hispanic friend, owe me twenty of these." With an gleeful smirk, Fullerton rubbed his index finger and thumb together in the universal sign of money.
"It's that new goddamn coach," Muttered Ramon with another mournful shake of his head. "I swear, it was an act of the devil that made the Rams get such a horrible new coach."
"You know what? I love that new goddamn coach."
Stanton's only reply was a finger. With another smirk, Fullerton turned back around and led his partner to the crime scene.
The gray Chevy Venture sat in what would have been a unnoticeable part of the parkade. But with a team of forensics specialists crawling over every inch, not noticing it would have been difficult.
"Jonny's gotta be pissed…missing his morning doughnuts." Quipped Ramon, referring to the head of the day shift at the forensics department.
"Not Jonny…they brought in Quint and his boys."
"Quint?" Asked Ramon with a frown. "He's night shift."
"He's been on the job twice as long as Jonny. The chief wanted him on this."
"Wanted him? Why?"
"Christ Monday, you can be real dense. Twice the time…twice the experience."
"Why the hell would you need 'twice the experience' for a robbery gone bad?"
Sam winced, his unease clear. "A robbery?"
Ramon abruptly stopped, spinning to face his partner.
"What's going on?"
"You'll find out in a second."
Sam continued walking, but a fingers clamped around his arm in an almost painful grip.
"I don't want a surprise."
With an exasperated sigh, Fullerton attempted to shrug off the hand.
"What do you know about this?"
"Lyndon told me that it was an armed robbery…and a few guys ended up dead. Now why would the chief specifically ask for all of this?"
"An armed robbery…" Repeated Sam, his humor all but vanished in an instant. "If these are the new punkasses who rob then I tell ya, I'm quittin' the force and taking Marie and the kids…somewhere. Anywhere but here."
Ramon stared at his friend. Before coming to homicide, Fullerton had been an undercover narcotics officer. He wasn't one to scare easily.
"What do you know?" Monday asked again.
"No fingerprints…no shell casings, no identification on the victims. The only thing we know is a little tattoo that says 'Semper Fi' on each of their right biceps."
"Marines…"
"Yeah. I just got here myself but from what Quint told me…there were four victims. Doubletap for each one…Three of'em got it right here," Informed Sam, his scarred hand slapping his heart. "The other one…well, the brain foundation sure won't be askin' for a donation. But you know what's really freakin' me out? Quint tells me that all this was done with a pistol…presumably a silenced forty-five."
"Suppressed." Ramon automatically corrected.
"Suppre…whatever. Silenced…suppressed. The same fucking thing. But the thing is, it was done with one pistol. The same pistol."
"Jesus…" Muttered Monday, his hazel eyes staring in shock. "Against Marines…where's Quint?"
"At the second scene."
"The second? What second?"
"They just found it, a level up. One guy dead…same deal, no fingerprints, no identification…only this time the tattoo seems to indicate Projecto Talon – Brazilian Special Forces. Right now, they can't tell if he died from the broken neck or the two 9-millimeters to the head."
"So there were at least two guys…"
"Right. One who beat and shot up a former Brazilian soldier, and the other one murdered four former Marines like they were little kids."
"What the hell…Sam, what the hell do we have here?"
"I don't know…but I hope it's not the new breed of punkass robbers."
*
To the less observant, Stephan Saunders could be branded as being diminutive. But it was an undisputable fact that intensity oozed from his every pore.
No, he wasn't diminutive. He just wasn't all that noticeable.
As a former soldier in the Australian Special Air Service, this hadn't been much of a problem. But he found that, as a Watcher to a fiery young woman, looking like the generic 'Grandpa Bob' was a bit of a disadvantage.
Still, the Watcher didn't seem to notice just how much this physical feature accented his concern for his young charge.
In a proud, fatherly way, Stephan did notice just how beautiful Lisa was. But the good looks on the attractive 19-year-old were hidden by the bruises dotting her face.
"Last night was reckless." Stephan observed, his voice oddly devoid of any disapproval. "If the car had been going any faster, I dare say that you wouldn't have dodged it."
"But I got them." Lisa muttered, wincing as she gingerly massaged her ribs. "I killed both of the Vampires."
The Watcher again sighed as he poured a shot of vodka for the girl. "You have to understand. You're not the Slayer."
"I could have been!" Spat Lisa, her voice betraying the bitterness at not having been chosen. "I was a potential slayer…the one with the most potential. You said it yourself. I could have lived up to Zyrianova…I could have surpassed her. Instead, they chose some blonde bimbo!"
A small smirk lifted up the lips of Saunders as he glanced at Lisa's own cherry blonde locks, inciting an embarrassed blush.
"But you weren't chosen. That is the point."
With an expression halfway between concern and constrained anger, Stephan placed the vodka onto the table.
No, the girl from the non-descript middle-class family hadn't become the Slayer. Some of his colleagues had voiced their downright amazement at the fanatic zeal the pretty-looking girl had taken to hunting down Vampires. Even with only the basic instincts granted to Potential Slayers, she had returned almost every night with a kill.
But it wasn't hard to see where that fanatic zeal came from. After her life had been shattered, her 'good Catholic family' had turned their backs on her – branding her a slut. Slaying was what she had built her new life around
Nothing else mattered. Nothing would keep her from becoming the Slayer. Except one little aspect called fate.
"I'm out of the painkillers," said Lisa weakly. "I'll need some for tonight."
"Tonight?"
Blinking her eyes, the former Potential stared at her Watcher. Of course tonight. Like every other night, where I'll go kill and kill and kill.
"No," Replied Saunders quietly, his voice automatically reverting back to his 'Drill Sergeant tone'. "You're going to go to sleep tonight…early. And you'll rest at home until you can walk normally."
"But…" She nearly told him of the dream she had had this morning. But no…only Slayers had prophecies. Not failures like her.
"Listen to what I say. How many demons will you be able to kill when you're dead?" With a sad shake of his head, Stephan rinsed out the shot glass. "I'll talk to Professor Donalds…tell him that you're deathly ill. God knows I won't have to lie to him this time."
Lisa again gingerly felt her cracked ribs. Stephan was right. No matter how much she wanted to roam the streets, she did need the rest. And Liddell wouldn't exactly go to hell if she took a weeklong break.
Both Watcher and fighter had both noticed the decrease of Vampire activity in the past few months. In a town like Sunnydale, this would have been cause for concern. But this definitely wasn't Sunnydale.
With a sigh, Lisa struggled to pull herself from the overly plush reclining chair. She was, however, reluctant to give up the comfort the chair gave.
"I'll be out for the rest of the day," Called our Stephan as he slipped on a battered bomber jacket. "Make yourself at home…but try not to destroy anything."
With another much more contented sigh, Lisa relaxed back against the chair.
*
"They're gonna make contact again tonight." Muttered the first man quietly.
The members of the bustling crowd wandering around the mall took no notice to the hunched over figure sipping a cup of coffee. Even so, he only talked while shielding his lips from view. After all, a guy who seemed to be talking to himself did attract attention.
"They really want to get rid of the cargo."
"No…they really want to make good money while getting rid of the cargo."
"Christ. They already fucked those poor people over. They really are bastards."
"Maybe we should give them a taste of the shit they try to pass off as humanity."
"Just what I was thinking."
"Call the cops to take care of the cargo?"
"Yeah. The ones here aren't too incompetent."
"Has Headquarters reported any…"
"They haven't moved yet. Their base of ops is still the same."
"Good. Go in hard?"
"Hard and fast. They won't know what hit'em.
When the settlers came, they found a long series of caves that suspiciously resembled a man-made tunnel. But they quickly dismissed that idea, attributing it to some freak natural phenomenon. The tunnel had been put to good use in everything from a drop point for smugglers during the Renaissance Period to a hidden base during the War of 1812.
But no records of this place were ever created… or they just didn't last. Knowledge of the location was passed out by mouth. And that information had been passed out to a certain former Captain in the United States Marine Corps.
It was large and spacious, providing ample room for both the 'cargo' at one end of the caves and the thirteen soldiers scattered throughout.
A hungry sob echoed from the end of the caves, followed by a tense "shut-up!"
"Wo de bao bei hao…!"
"I said shut-up!"
After last night's massacre, all thirteen knew that they had turned from the hunter to the hunted. Nobody wanted to die, and all they wanted was to get out of this godforsaken city. But they needed to sell the cargo before doing so.
With an annoyed sigh, one of the soldiers shot a scathing glare at the cargo…nearly three dozen illegal immigrants from China.
In the first week, the immigrants had been told that they had to hide out while their fake papers were put into place. But now no one bothered trying to hide the fact that all three dozen were prisoners.
/"Six O'clock"/ Thought one of the soldiers, flipping a nervous glance at his Timex watch. /"Only Six O'clock…why can't time go…?/
The caves were suddenly plunged into darkness, an anonymous plunk in the sandy ground reaching his ears in the same instant. The soldier's first thought was 'goddamn power company', before he remembered that all power was supplied through the gas generator fitted at one end of the caves. Then he realized that it was an attack.
The hunter had become the hunted.
After years in this goddamn job, the man known as Tsaf would never get used to shadows. Small shadows, large shadows…it just so happened that dimly lit parking areas with rows upon rows of muddy cars happened to have lots of those. Still, Tsaf reminded himself, shadows were where predators lurked. And he was a predator.
It was this thought that kept the former Brazilian mercenary's eyes alert, but it was the reassuring weight of the big SIG-Sauer P220 .45 caliber pistol tucked uncomfortably into his hip holster that held his blonde-haired head up high.
The sound of a car door whooshing open instinctively sent Tsaf's fingers darting for the pistol. Beneath the black-tinted shooter's shades glared a set of sharp gray eyes, and the mercenary forced himself to relax.
/Don't be a coward./
It was a nice looking Dodge Stratus that had caused him to tense…to betray his taboo many called fear.
Tsaf could just imagine his colleagues snickering at him one level below.
"Whoa shit." Came the slightly slurred voice of the driver as he climbed out of the car. "Do I gotta take me a piss."
Tsaf gave the driver yet another glance, frowning in annoyance as the sound of a zipper echoed in the confines of the parking lot.
Disgust aside, there was a much more practical reason for his disapproval of the driver. Contact was to be made in – according to his fake Rolex still set for Mountain Time - less than five minutes.
"Man…fuck the piss."
With that, the driver slumped noisily against the hood of the Dodge, his snores grating Tsaf's already frayed nerves.
"Merda!"
The mercenary strode forward as he tugged an expandable ASP baton from its shoulder scabbard. There was no time to try to coerce the drunk to leave. A few taps on the head…an uncomfortable drag into the trunk and voila. Problem solved.
The driver's head was angled away, but Tsaf could make out the muscled, athletic body beneath the drab brown jacket. Sober, the drunk could have proved to be a problem. He wasn't sober.
/This is for being a danger to the roads./ Thought Tsaf as he roughly brought the baton down against the drunk's head.
A satisfying crunch rang out. It took the mercenary a moment to realize that it wasn't the head that had crunched…no, that head had suddenly dodged out of the way.
A pair of strong arms suddenly curled around his head in a boxing-type clinch, a knee slamming into his kidney in the same instant.
The baton clattered noisily against the concrete as an elbow slammed into the side of his neck.
Even through the pain, Tsaf could feel despair as his star-filled eyes registered the shape of a stubby little suppressed pistol.
/Glock 26. 9-millimeter. Gemtech Aurora suppressor…the sound'll be about the same as a .22 caliber rimfire…/ Reciting what he knew about his attacker's pistol was the only way he could stave off the utter terror and horror at knowing his death was only a second away.
He was still trying to figure out with whether those were Trijicon night sights on the pistol when the bullet cored through his head.
*
Darkness. No…darkness was an understatement. It was pitch black. Heavy, inky, suffocating…black.
There was pain. It had started off nearly unbearable. He had screamed, but he hadn't passed out. How? He knew his thresholds and he had since passed it hours ago. But the pain hadn't tapered off. No, he had become part of it.
The sound of his heart thumping crazily filled his ears. It brought back memories…the sand of the Caribbean beach…the makeshift bonfire raging from the premium oil they had stolen from the nearby gas station…the group of young men sitting in a circle…hands beating down on drum skin.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
A small streak of light filtered into the room. A door had been opened…or maybe it was just the window. A figure stepped into the light and he could make out the silhouette of…what was it?
Still, one thing was evident. It was the figure that was inciting the rapidly mounting fear.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
With a slight gasp, the pair of bright opaline eyes flashed open. The gasp quickly escalated into a pained groan as the cracked ribs quickly fired up from the intake.
She slowly rolled over onto her belly and began inching painfully off the floor. However, the cool linoleum tiles of her kitchen floor was strangely comforting, and Lisa Sars instead relaxed.
The pain only reminded her again of the dream she had just awoken from. But the overwhelming pain and terror had felt all too real. Instinctively, the girl rubbed her hands against her wrists…the ones in which her dream body – which had been a man (an interesting experience) – had been lashed tightly with strong cords. A look of unease overcame her eyes as she stared at the fiery red marks dotting the area.
The events of last night hadn't been forgotten. Even so, it was more than a little unsettling to stare at the marks. It felt almost as if the dream had been…a prophecy.
Gingerly, Lisa pulled herself to her feet…just in time to hear the annoying sound of her alarm clock ringing in her room.
Christ…she hadn't even made it to her own bed before collapsing.
Hopefully she would have time to get in a quick shower before Professor Donalds (who, while incredibly bland, still had one hell of an ass) began his incredibly bland rant on the 'science of economics'.
"Goals…" Donalds had muttered into the microphone a week before. "Goals are what creates an accomplished businessman. Goals are what gets you through life. Without goals, you're just a waste of air. A waste of this earth's resources. What are your goals?"
Three years ago, Lisa Sars had had one goal. As one in a dozen many liked to call a 'Potential', she had been determined to become the deadliest Slayer in history.
But the gifts of the Slayer – which happened to include accelerated healing – had passed her by. So now, her goal was reaching the bottle of prescription painkillers and the compact of make-up in her washroom.
*
It was a real testament to the roughness of this job, thought Detective Ramon 'Monday' Stanton, that this caffeine saturated crap the patrolmen tried to pass off as coffee didn't even make his blood level rise.
After nearly a decade on the force, his slim wiry body had somehow gotten used to it.
With a mournful nod of his head, Stanton tossed the half-filled Styrofoam cup into the nearby garbage can before slipping into the cordoned parkade.
"Monday!" Came the cheery voice of Detective Sam Fullerton. "You, my half Hispanic friend, owe me twenty of these." With an gleeful smirk, Fullerton rubbed his index finger and thumb together in the universal sign of money.
"It's that new goddamn coach," Muttered Ramon with another mournful shake of his head. "I swear, it was an act of the devil that made the Rams get such a horrible new coach."
"You know what? I love that new goddamn coach."
Stanton's only reply was a finger. With another smirk, Fullerton turned back around and led his partner to the crime scene.
The gray Chevy Venture sat in what would have been a unnoticeable part of the parkade. But with a team of forensics specialists crawling over every inch, not noticing it would have been difficult.
"Jonny's gotta be pissed…missing his morning doughnuts." Quipped Ramon, referring to the head of the day shift at the forensics department.
"Not Jonny…they brought in Quint and his boys."
"Quint?" Asked Ramon with a frown. "He's night shift."
"He's been on the job twice as long as Jonny. The chief wanted him on this."
"Wanted him? Why?"
"Christ Monday, you can be real dense. Twice the time…twice the experience."
"Why the hell would you need 'twice the experience' for a robbery gone bad?"
Sam winced, his unease clear. "A robbery?"
Ramon abruptly stopped, spinning to face his partner.
"What's going on?"
"You'll find out in a second."
Sam continued walking, but a fingers clamped around his arm in an almost painful grip.
"I don't want a surprise."
With an exasperated sigh, Fullerton attempted to shrug off the hand.
"What do you know about this?"
"Lyndon told me that it was an armed robbery…and a few guys ended up dead. Now why would the chief specifically ask for all of this?"
"An armed robbery…" Repeated Sam, his humor all but vanished in an instant. "If these are the new punkasses who rob then I tell ya, I'm quittin' the force and taking Marie and the kids…somewhere. Anywhere but here."
Ramon stared at his friend. Before coming to homicide, Fullerton had been an undercover narcotics officer. He wasn't one to scare easily.
"What do you know?" Monday asked again.
"No fingerprints…no shell casings, no identification on the victims. The only thing we know is a little tattoo that says 'Semper Fi' on each of their right biceps."
"Marines…"
"Yeah. I just got here myself but from what Quint told me…there were four victims. Doubletap for each one…Three of'em got it right here," Informed Sam, his scarred hand slapping his heart. "The other one…well, the brain foundation sure won't be askin' for a donation. But you know what's really freakin' me out? Quint tells me that all this was done with a pistol…presumably a silenced forty-five."
"Suppressed." Ramon automatically corrected.
"Suppre…whatever. Silenced…suppressed. The same fucking thing. But the thing is, it was done with one pistol. The same pistol."
"Jesus…" Muttered Monday, his hazel eyes staring in shock. "Against Marines…where's Quint?"
"At the second scene."
"The second? What second?"
"They just found it, a level up. One guy dead…same deal, no fingerprints, no identification…only this time the tattoo seems to indicate Projecto Talon – Brazilian Special Forces. Right now, they can't tell if he died from the broken neck or the two 9-millimeters to the head."
"So there were at least two guys…"
"Right. One who beat and shot up a former Brazilian soldier, and the other one murdered four former Marines like they were little kids."
"What the hell…Sam, what the hell do we have here?"
"I don't know…but I hope it's not the new breed of punkass robbers."
*
To the less observant, Stephan Saunders could be branded as being diminutive. But it was an undisputable fact that intensity oozed from his every pore.
No, he wasn't diminutive. He just wasn't all that noticeable.
As a former soldier in the Australian Special Air Service, this hadn't been much of a problem. But he found that, as a Watcher to a fiery young woman, looking like the generic 'Grandpa Bob' was a bit of a disadvantage.
Still, the Watcher didn't seem to notice just how much this physical feature accented his concern for his young charge.
In a proud, fatherly way, Stephan did notice just how beautiful Lisa was. But the good looks on the attractive 19-year-old were hidden by the bruises dotting her face.
"Last night was reckless." Stephan observed, his voice oddly devoid of any disapproval. "If the car had been going any faster, I dare say that you wouldn't have dodged it."
"But I got them." Lisa muttered, wincing as she gingerly massaged her ribs. "I killed both of the Vampires."
The Watcher again sighed as he poured a shot of vodka for the girl. "You have to understand. You're not the Slayer."
"I could have been!" Spat Lisa, her voice betraying the bitterness at not having been chosen. "I was a potential slayer…the one with the most potential. You said it yourself. I could have lived up to Zyrianova…I could have surpassed her. Instead, they chose some blonde bimbo!"
A small smirk lifted up the lips of Saunders as he glanced at Lisa's own cherry blonde locks, inciting an embarrassed blush.
"But you weren't chosen. That is the point."
With an expression halfway between concern and constrained anger, Stephan placed the vodka onto the table.
No, the girl from the non-descript middle-class family hadn't become the Slayer. Some of his colleagues had voiced their downright amazement at the fanatic zeal the pretty-looking girl had taken to hunting down Vampires. Even with only the basic instincts granted to Potential Slayers, she had returned almost every night with a kill.
But it wasn't hard to see where that fanatic zeal came from. After her life had been shattered, her 'good Catholic family' had turned their backs on her – branding her a slut. Slaying was what she had built her new life around
Nothing else mattered. Nothing would keep her from becoming the Slayer. Except one little aspect called fate.
"I'm out of the painkillers," said Lisa weakly. "I'll need some for tonight."
"Tonight?"
Blinking her eyes, the former Potential stared at her Watcher. Of course tonight. Like every other night, where I'll go kill and kill and kill.
"No," Replied Saunders quietly, his voice automatically reverting back to his 'Drill Sergeant tone'. "You're going to go to sleep tonight…early. And you'll rest at home until you can walk normally."
"But…" She nearly told him of the dream she had had this morning. But no…only Slayers had prophecies. Not failures like her.
"Listen to what I say. How many demons will you be able to kill when you're dead?" With a sad shake of his head, Stephan rinsed out the shot glass. "I'll talk to Professor Donalds…tell him that you're deathly ill. God knows I won't have to lie to him this time."
Lisa again gingerly felt her cracked ribs. Stephan was right. No matter how much she wanted to roam the streets, she did need the rest. And Liddell wouldn't exactly go to hell if she took a weeklong break.
Both Watcher and fighter had both noticed the decrease of Vampire activity in the past few months. In a town like Sunnydale, this would have been cause for concern. But this definitely wasn't Sunnydale.
With a sigh, Lisa struggled to pull herself from the overly plush reclining chair. She was, however, reluctant to give up the comfort the chair gave.
"I'll be out for the rest of the day," Called our Stephan as he slipped on a battered bomber jacket. "Make yourself at home…but try not to destroy anything."
With another much more contented sigh, Lisa relaxed back against the chair.
*
"They're gonna make contact again tonight." Muttered the first man quietly.
The members of the bustling crowd wandering around the mall took no notice to the hunched over figure sipping a cup of coffee. Even so, he only talked while shielding his lips from view. After all, a guy who seemed to be talking to himself did attract attention.
"They really want to get rid of the cargo."
"No…they really want to make good money while getting rid of the cargo."
"Christ. They already fucked those poor people over. They really are bastards."
"Maybe we should give them a taste of the shit they try to pass off as humanity."
"Just what I was thinking."
"Call the cops to take care of the cargo?"
"Yeah. The ones here aren't too incompetent."
"Has Headquarters reported any…"
"They haven't moved yet. Their base of ops is still the same."
"Good. Go in hard?"
"Hard and fast. They won't know what hit'em.
When the settlers came, they found a long series of caves that suspiciously resembled a man-made tunnel. But they quickly dismissed that idea, attributing it to some freak natural phenomenon. The tunnel had been put to good use in everything from a drop point for smugglers during the Renaissance Period to a hidden base during the War of 1812.
But no records of this place were ever created… or they just didn't last. Knowledge of the location was passed out by mouth. And that information had been passed out to a certain former Captain in the United States Marine Corps.
It was large and spacious, providing ample room for both the 'cargo' at one end of the caves and the thirteen soldiers scattered throughout.
A hungry sob echoed from the end of the caves, followed by a tense "shut-up!"
"Wo de bao bei hao…!"
"I said shut-up!"
After last night's massacre, all thirteen knew that they had turned from the hunter to the hunted. Nobody wanted to die, and all they wanted was to get out of this godforsaken city. But they needed to sell the cargo before doing so.
With an annoyed sigh, one of the soldiers shot a scathing glare at the cargo…nearly three dozen illegal immigrants from China.
In the first week, the immigrants had been told that they had to hide out while their fake papers were put into place. But now no one bothered trying to hide the fact that all three dozen were prisoners.
/"Six O'clock"/ Thought one of the soldiers, flipping a nervous glance at his Timex watch. /"Only Six O'clock…why can't time go…?/
The caves were suddenly plunged into darkness, an anonymous plunk in the sandy ground reaching his ears in the same instant. The soldier's first thought was 'goddamn power company', before he remembered that all power was supplied through the gas generator fitted at one end of the caves. Then he realized that it was an attack.
The hunter had become the hunted.