Disclaimer: I do not own Buffy. Joss Whedon owns Buffy. And UPN owns Buffy. Happy? I'm not. Because FX, of all the stupid channels, does NOT own Buffy. Or at least, not the end of season 6. WHICH I HAVEN'T SEEN YET!!! BECAUSE FX WON'T SHOW IT!!! GARRRRGGHHHH! Okay... calming down... *deep breaths*

A/N: This started out as the prologue to a longer fic, but that one didn't work out. Still, I liked the prologue a lot, and it works by itself, so... here you go!

Most of the italic text in the prologue is dialogue from the episode Fool for Love' (episode 7, season 5). It's from a conversation between Spike and Buffy, after Buffy demands to know how Spike killed two Slayers. Only one line is from Buffy (You think we're dancing?'); all the others are Spike speaking.

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Out, Brief Candle
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Okay, then. Went like this.

Brief flare of pain as the fist connected, like a candle flame sputtering against her hand...

She was cunning, resourceful... oh, did I mention? Hot. I could have danced all night with that one.

Stomach went behind her on the ground as she leapt into the air, delivering a sharp roundhouse to the face --

You think we're dancing?

That's all we've ever done.

Head swimming, heart pounding, cold sweat standing out on burning skin --

And the thing about the dance is, you never get to stop.

Dark hair, glossy with chemicals, artificially curled, flying like a whirlwind; her hand went backwards, to the side, to her pocket in seconds --

Every day you wake up, it's the same bloody question that haunts you: is today the day I die?

Rough wood drove splinters into her slippery hand; she thrust and whirled in a fluent motion; one down; but --

Another, and another... coming... coming for her...

Death is on your heels, baby, and sooner or later it's gonna catch you.

The thrill of it had never been the same, the gut-churning experience of fighting a few fast vamps, that fight that was so very close to a challenge but was not quite a real one. It had been fast, free, furious -- fun. But now; now...

And part of you wants it... not only to stop the fear and uncertainty, but because you're just a little bit in love with it.

Grinning fangs flashed in harsh yellow of the guttering streetlight; the creature's eyes seemed, almost, to glow with the rage and freedom and exhilaration that she had always used to feel in this same situation. But now that was gone; she wanted it over; she wanted it done.

Death is your art. You make it with your hands, day after day.

Her hands flew in the practiced motions, retaining force, skill, dexterity -- but losing enthusiasm, losing determination. She fought like a textbook, willing only to go on instinct rather than emotion.

Fear, and anger.

She'd lost both. Now all she felt was confusion. Sorrow. Regret. Things she couldn't explain. Things she hated; things she never wanted to feel again.

That final gasp. That look of peace. Part of you is desperate to know: What's it like? Where does it lead you?

Tears streaked and flew from the corners of her eyes; she whipped along in a toneless pace, kicking, punching, flailing about, her teeth bared with the pain.

And now you see, that's the secret. Not the punch you didn't throw or the kicks you didn't land.

And in one second, a single punch didn't go where it should have; it went to the vamp in front of her instead of the one stumbling up behind, heavy, deadly length of steel pipe in hand, yellow eyes gleaming with glee.

It wasn't that she was tired, or at all inexperienced. It wasn't that he was particularly strong or brave or vicious. It wasn't that she hadn't felt him coming, because she had: with that tingling, nagging siren screeching out its warning of danger! danger! in the back of her mind; the sort of sixth sense that she had; the special sense. The sense that all Slayers possessed.

She'd known he was coming. And with hardly a nanosecond to process the thought, her mind snapped into place; and she delivered her final punch to the wrong vampire.

Every Slayer... has a death wish.

The metal pipe connected with the side of her head with a sickening crunch. She could all but feel the bones of her skull cracking, slipping apart like the earth's tectonic plates. Blood, warm, wet, tasting tangy and metallic like copper, flowed freely down her cheek. Her brain, underprotected, exposed to the oxygen and the poisonous city smog, gave a mighty gasping struggle, like a fish out of water. The pain was instantly unbearable, and as she was flung into the wall with the force of the well-placed blow, she blacked out.

Even you.

The vampires who had killed her were probably surprised, if only briefly, to see the faint smile gracing Faith's grimy, blood-stained features in her final fleeting moments.
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A/N: Oh, and also -- it was a long time after I wrote this when I discovered that Faith actually showed up on Angel (which I don't watch, so sue me), and was redeemed or some whatnot. I don't know. But for the sake of this fic, we're going to assume that she didn't and she wasn't, and all is well.