Twist of Fate: Chapter 15
by Lisette

Legalese: See Chapter 1 for disclaimers and ratings.

Wincing as Willow adjusted the homemade sling around his shoulder, Xander raised his weary eyes as the sound of the phone being slammed onto its receiver echoed in the small apartment. Sighing, he gently pushed his friend away as he watched Giles join them in the living room, the man running a tired hand through his thinning hair. "What did they say?" he asked, knowing too soon the answer that he would receive.

"The same," Giles sighed in response, his eyes meeting those of the younger man, taking in the dark rings that lined all of their eyes. "They continue to refuse to send aid," he muttered, shaking his head briefly as he took in the others in the room.

The Scoobies, as they fondly referred to themselves, looked as ragged and beaten down as they felt. It had been two months since Joyce had been killed and Buffy had disappeared: two months of fighting the Hellmouth's evil and trying to cover for its lack of a Slayer. But one mediocre witch, a werewolf, a teenager, and an old watcher had nothing on the forces of evil. Not really. Word had spread too quickly that the Slayer was gone and soon the town found itself overrun with evil that was just itching to have a go at the infamous Hellmouth. He had overheard the others talking once - commenting on how this was worse than ever before. The death count was doubling and the nights were no longer safe to venture into - not even for them.

Shaking his head, Giles took in their appearance, biting back a sigh of frustration. These children these children didn't deserve the life that fate had thrown at them. They weren't meant to be out night after night, attempting to keep the evil forces at bay. That was the Slayer's job. But in her absence, someone had to make a go of it. Yet their side was beginning to show the toll of that effort. The bruising on Xander's face was becoming hard to distinguish from his normal skin tone - he was finding it hard to remind himself that the teen's skin had at one point been any other color than dark, mottled purple. The old bruises didn't even have time to heal and fade away before new ones took their place. Currently the lanky teen was sporting a dislocated shoulder, a nasty gash that marred his forehead, and a few broken ribs - injuries that he refused to keep him from joining them on their nightly patrols. Oz and Willow sported similar injuries, yet with the same resolve, but if Giles was truly honest with himself they had been lucky. Very, very lucky that none of them had been killed.

"What is their deal?" Xander muttered, his eyes flashing under the dim lighting as he tried to settle himself comfortably on Giles's worn couch. "Don't they understand the meaning of Hellmouth lacking a Slayer?"

"Well, yes, yes, I'm sure they do," Giles stuttered, ignoring his own body's screams of aches and pains. "But they're just too large. The organization can't move this fast can't make a decision this quickly. They're still in deliberations over what to do."

"Here's a genius idea," Xander cut in, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "why don't they get their tweed covered bottoms out here and help us out! We're dying out here!"

"Xander," Willow admonished, lighting kicking her friend's knee as she stepped over his long legs. But everyone could see that the action was more out of reflex than anything else. Sighing, the redhead settled herself beside her best friend, supporting her sprained wrist gingerly against her. "You know that-"

"Dont," Xander interrupted, surprising her as he angrily cut her off. "Don't defend them, Willow. Not now," he added, his dark eyes avoiding everyone's gaze. "Their Slayer disappears and this is the best" he trailed off, a thick silence falling over the group.

"We're going to find her," Oz supplied, his words more to fill the void than to act as a source of reassurance. To be honest, they were all beyond the point of such simple platitudes. Far beyond them. How could anything ever be alright again? Without Buffy? And how were they supposed to find Buffy when they didn't even have time to really look for her. The group was so busy trying to save the world, prevent apocalypses, and prevent the citizens of Sunnydale from dying needless deaths to do much else, no matter how important the task.

Wearily, Xander lifted his eyes and met the drummer's steely gaze. "Maybe we could... if only we had time to do anything else but fight," he countered, as though he had read Oz's mind, his voice now beginning to edge with a hopeless sort of desperation that they were all beginning to feel.

Closing his eyes against the sight, Giles slowly settled himself into an old armchair, the wood creaking around his tall frame. The sight of Buffy's friends, so tired and defeated so hurt. It was almost too much to bear. And yet it wasn't enough, as his thoughts inevitably returned to his Slayer. The hopes and fears that surrounded her very name flooded his weary mind as Giles focused on one sole thought. "Oh God, Buffy, where are you?"

As the kicks and punches rained down upon her small form, Buffy refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing her pain of hearing her screams of agony. Instead, Buffy curled into a tighter ball, doing her best to shield her face from the blows.

It was another day at the Centre, and it seemed that this one would be another of what she soon learned to be Lyle's favorite game: the Beat Buffy Senseless game. And to be honest, he was quite good at it. First would come the water that would pound into her body, slamming her back against the wall as its icy anger stole the very breath from her body. Then, before she could fully recover her senses the goons, or sweepers as they liked to call themselves, would be upon her.

It wasn't as though Buffy ever went down without a fight. No, some days she would lie awake all night, just so she could be ready for her morning wake up call, prepared for the rush of the men. But in the end, no matter how many broken noses and dislocated limbs she gave, there always seemed to be too many. Somehow someone would always break through and then the needle would be jammed home, the drugs burning through her veins. And then, they would step back and merely smile as Buffy felt her strength leaving her leaving her defenseless against their brutality.

Yet the men never dug right in and got to the torture. Instead, they always stood back and waited, ensuring that the drug was fully into her system before Lyle finally make his appearance. For some reason, he always needed to be the first to deliver her almost-daily punishment. The sole surprise would be in what manner he would deliver his greeting. Sometimes it would be a kick to the ribs, or a punch against her jaw. One time he got creative and used a walking stick against the small of her back. Regardless of the manner, he was always the first to begin the torture. When he tired of the game, it was then time for the others to take over for the winded man, making sure that there wasn't a spot on Buffy's small frame that didn't receive some sort of punishment.

One time she had made the mistake of talking back to him during his morning beating. As she had laid bruised, bloody, and beaten on the floor at his feet, she had weakly lifted her pounding head and spit a mouthful of foamy blood at his highly polished shoes. "Bastard," she had whispered, her voice hoarse and airy. "Big man," she had continued, her breath coming in wheezing gasps from her obviously broken ribs. "Try me without drugs we'll see who's.. big man."

Another of his kicks had sent her flying back against the wall. But that wasn't enough to shut her mouth. Oh no, Giles had always warned her that her mouth would one day land her in trouble she had never imagined how right he was. Before she could stop herself, a high, almost maniacal-sounding laugh escaped her lips, her eyes sparking with heat as she looked down her nose at him at least as much as she could from her unglorified position on the floor. "What can't find your own girl to beat on?" she mocked, her eyes narrowing into slits.

"You should just be thankful that I prefer my women a touch more exotic than you," Lyle finally replied, his eyes dark and unreadable. "Although, if it would help you to learn your position" he trailed off, his meaning clear as his eyes slowly trailed over Buffy's every bruised curve.

But that comment had only served to infuriate her more as she had allowed a look of understanding to cross her bloodied features. "Ah Jarod still giving you the runaround."

And then, it was as though Buffy had finally found his button but not in a very good way. Soon she had found heavy manacles closed painfully around her wrists, thick chains pulling her from the floor until her feet barely grazed the speckled concrete. Wincing as the metal bit into her skin, Buffy had stared defiantly at Lyle through a trickle of blood, idly wondering what new mode of torture she had pushed him to. But she had found out soon enough.

"Jarod was particularly fond of this," he continued, his eyes wide and innocent as a new wave of freezing water crashed over her skin, soaking her to the bone in seconds.

Confused, Buffy had blinked away the water, weakly shaking heavy tendrils of hair from her vision as Lyle slowly stepped away. And then, as he returned to her side, Buffy understood his new form of torture too well. This time Buffy had been unable to hold back her screams of agony as Lyle had touched the prongs to her skin, wave after unbelievable wave of electricity tearing through her body from the small car battery at his side.

It was that day that Buffy had finally learned the valuable lesson of keeping her thoughts to herself.

Grunting, Buffy's thoughts quickly scattered as another boot found a way through her arms and connected solidly with her midsection. Biting her lip so hard that her teeth tore through the delicate skin, she was barely able to restrain her hiss of pain as the wet sound of cracking bones echoed in the small room. Vision swam at the corners of her teared eyes, but Buffy knew that such an escape would be too lucky for her. Despite the drugs, her Slayer-enhanced body was able to take far more of a beating before she was allowed such a luxury as unconsciousness such an escape from the pain. And after only a few days, her tormentors had quickly learned just how far they could push her before she was given that escape.

Gasping, Buffy forced herself to breathe around the pain that encircled her chest like a ring of fire, trying to tune out the sound of male laughter that echoed in the small room. She had had many broken ribs in the time that she had been imprisoned in the hellish room, and she knew that there would be many more to come before she either died or but even now her mind refused to lock around the thought that there could be any escape from this Hell. For that was surely where she was. For the first time, Buffy thought she understood what Angel had experienced when she had sent her lover to Hell the year before. And maybe this was her punishment.

"Okay boys," Lyle called out, his voice ringing out over the others and cutting through Buffy's pain. "It's about that time."

Fighting tears of pain, Buffy slowly allowed her body to uncurl from its tightly wrapped position, daring to lift her pale face and watch as the men emptied from the room. "Why are you doing this?" she murmured, not even realizing that she was thinking the question before it had escaped her lips.

Obviously surprised, Lyle stopped by the door and settled his dark gaze upon her. "Well, at first we needed to see how quickly you heal," he explained, a small smile pulling at his lips as he slowly stepped back into the room, his eyes falling on the girl. "And we obviously couldn't see that without first giving you something to heal from. And now..." he trailed off, a bright grin lifting his lips even more. "Why Slayer, what couldn't I deny a pretty face like yours?"

"But why," she persisted, her green eyes hazed with pain and betraying nothing but confusion as he slowly knelt down, inches from her prone body.

"You have your purpose," he replied simply, shrugging his shoulders almost casually before quickly reaching out and tangling his hand within her blonde masses. "And all will be revealed soon enough," he continued as he roughly lifted her head from the ground and then smashed it back to the concrete with a sick smile.

As the Slayer went limp, Lyle slowly stood, whistling softly as he took one last look at her battered frame before slipping from her prison. As the door slammed shut behind him, the room fell under a thick silence, broken only by Buffy's wet and ragged breaths. But then, that silence, too, was broken as the large air vent slowly grated out and then crashed to the floor below. Seconds later, sneaker-clad tennis shoes and long legs followed the grate, lean arms lowering a man with wild brown hair to the floor.

Pausing only briefly, the man shuffled over to Buffy, slowly kneeling down until he was replicating Lyle's stance of only a few minutes prior. "Poor Warrior," he whispered, his voice flat as he gently reached out and smoothed away a sweat-soaked strand of hair. "Warrior need help. Need Friend. Angelo get help," he continued before slowly standing and shuffling back to the grate. "Angelo get Daughter."