Twist of Fate: Chapter 18
by Lisette
Legalese: See Chapter 1 for disclaimers and ratings.
The Centre was a tall and imposing building - more of a modern-day fortress than a company headquarters, its wide structure impressive to the eye. And unfortunately, it was the only home that Jarod could ever remember having. While only just a small child he had arrived at the Centre for the first time, a hood blinding him to his first view of the place that he would call home for decades to come.. home and then his prison. During his second return to the Centre, only a few short months ago, he had returned unwillingly as Lyle's prisoner, drugged to prevent any sort of an escape attempt. Yet this time, on his third return to the Centre to be its prisoner once more, was the first that he entered the Centre as its hostage, using its own front door. And it was an experience that he hoped to never again repeat.
During the short flight from Michigan to Delaware, Buffy never once regained consciousness - and Jarod never once left her side. Oddly enough, Lyle allowed him this small comfort, and when it came time to leave the town car's spacious confines, he once more had the Slayer cradled in his arms. As the sweepers formed a tight circle around him, he found his head arching back, his eyes tracing the imposing and hard lines of the Centre as they slowly moved up the walk. And as they entered the grand marble foyer, Miss Parker and Mr. Lyle in the lead, a hush fell upon the odd scattering of Centre employees. As though they were on display, Lyle led them in the most absurd route, parading them past employees and offices alike, losing Miss Parker somewhere along the circuitous route until they finally arrived at the elevators that would bring them down into the dark belly of the Centre.
"Take them down," Mr. Lyle ordered, his eyes lingering briefly on Buffy's limp form before he turned and started away from their small group. "I have to make a call to the Triumvirate," he finished, his eyes sparkling and he swaggered away.
Silently, Jarod watched this display before allowing himself to be herded into the spacious lift. It was apparent that Lyle had no fear of Jarod making an escape attempt yet - and to be honest, the thought hadn't even crossed his mind. Not yet. How could he with Buffy still unconscious and cradled in his arms? Instead, Jarod followed his sweeper escort down, and further down, deep below the earth to one of the lowest sublevels that could be found. And there, he was led down a dank, concrete hallway and to a single door that stood at the end of the long hallway's length. As the door groaned open on wet and rusted hinges, Jarod couldn't help the small shudder that ran through his body. Eyes straining to adjust to the dim lighting, he found himself frozen just outside the door, taking in the dark hole that lay before him.
"Get in," Willie ordered, nudging Jarod forward with the cold muzzle of the gun pressed against his back - insulated by his thick winter jacket which had been returned by Miss Parker while in the van.
Nodding, Jarod silently crossed the threshold, his eyes alighting on the wide bench that ran across the opposite wall - the sole furnishing to the small tomb. Shuffling forward, he moved across the small space and gently lowered Buffy onto the hard surface, tenderly brushing a strand of blonde from her pale face. But instead of hearing the door slam behind him, leaving him alone with the single bulb in his prison, he heard footsteps follow them in, sounding like a muffled thump on the damp concrete floor. Sighing heavily, noting his breath leave his lips in a white plume, Jarod turned inquisitive eyes to the man behind him.
"Now give me your jacket," Willie ordered, his dark eyes betraying his obvious enjoyment over his orders.
Biting his lip, Jarod considered arguing for the briefest of moments before he slowly nodded his acquiescence. Without a word, he unzipped the heavily insulated jacket and shrugged out of it, already missing the warm material before tossing it over to the sweeper. Shaking his head, he was about to turn away when the black man spoke once more.
"Now toss over your shirt, shoes, and socks," he added, a smile lifting his full lips as he tossed the coat to another sweeper.
His eyes narrowing, Jarod curtly shook his head. "It can't be more than fifty degrees in here," he said, the first words he had spoken since leaving Michigan. "I doubt the Triumvirate would find much value in a frozen Pretender," he argued, only to still as Willie's grin widened.
"Mr. Lyle's orders. Now are you going to hand 'em over or do I have to send someone over there to help you out?"
Sighing, Jarod briefly considered arguing, fighting even, but one glance at the girl lying unconscious behind him and Jarod knew his answer. Frowning, he slowly began working at the buttons of his shirt, undoing them one by one before slipping the long-sleeved garment from his arms, leaving him in nothing but a thin, cotton tank. Instantly a wave of goose bumps prickled his skin at the contact with the cold air as he bent down and undid his boots, balancing on one foot as he peeled off one sock and then the other, tossing the remaining clothing to the other sweeper that had joined them in the room. "There, happy?" he asked, standing tall and refusing to show how his feet were already beginning to ache from the numbing contact with the cold floor.
"And now the girl's," Willie ordered, nodding to Buffy over Jarod's shoulder.
For perhaps the first time, Jarod felt his face crease into a hard line of anger as his eyes narrowed on the tall man. "No," he growled, moving back until he was standing protectively in front of her inert form. "It's too-"
"Do it now or I get someone else to help," he murmured, cocking the gun in Jarod's direction while he shifted his gaze to the slender girl lying behind him, his slight smile conveying a lewd undertone to the threat.
Given his alternatives, Jarod knew that he had no choice and slowly turned his back on the two. With a heavy sigh he settled on his knees on the ground before Buffy, hoping that she would forgive him later. Gently he reached out and undid the zipper of her down vest, his strong arms easily supporting her as he slid her from its confines, leaving her clothed in the tight black shirt. Stilling, he slowly reached a hand forward and tugged at the hem of the shirt, relieved to find a thin black tank beneath. Minutes later he slowly laid her back on the cold bench, clothed only in her loose pants and the thin tank top. Turning, he quickly stood to his full height and tossed the garments at the waiting man, his eyes never once leaving Willie's.
For once, Jarod was grateful for Willie's silence as the man nodded once in his direction and then backed from the room, the thunderous sound of the door closing and locking tightly behind them reverberating in their small confines. Sighing, Jarod finally released a breath that he hadn't realized he had been holding, his eyes quickly scanning over their prison for the first time - and coming up empty. It was small, no more than seven wide by ten feet long - the bench that took up the opposite wall just long enough to hold his tall frame and almost completely dwarfing Buffy's petite form. Otherwise, the room was devoid of everything, with not even a camera to break up the monotony. No camera, no air vent, no nothing. Just the bench and the single door set opposite it.
Sighing wearily, Jarod crossed his arms and ran his hands over his pimpled flesh, trying to ignore the cold as he began pacing the length of the room. He had no way to foretell what Lyle had in store for them, but from past experience, Jarod knew that it couldn't be good. And while they had allowed Buffy and Jarod to remain together for now, he knew that all too soon they would be separated, and then it would be a cold day in hell until he heard word of her condition. No, if possible, he needed to find an escape for them, and the sooner the better. Yet any plan of action, of escape, was quickly being dwarfed by the question of how they had managed to get into this predicament in the first place. More importantly, how Buffy Summers had managed to be drawn into this all.
But at the sound of the small whimper from behind him, all of Jarod's thoughts and worries were forgotten as he hurried to Buffy's side, gently kneeling down beside the bench. Gently, he reached out and laid a hand against her smooth cheek, dismayed by how cold her skin was already growing. Concerned, he quickly lifted his hand and laid it against her bared forearm, finding the skin as cold as ice as she began to tremble from the cold. Sighing, he chewed his lip as he considered his options, desperately searching his mind for a way to keep them both warm and prevent the onset of hypothermia. In the end, there really was only one solution.
"I just hope you ask questions before beating me to pulp later," he muttered, his voice sounding hollow in the small room as he gently climbed onto the bench, crawling over her small form so that his back was to the wall. Tentatively he drew her small body against his, one arm cradling her head, her back pressed against his chest and his other arm draped over her waist and pulling her close - effectively spooning on the wide bench. Almost instantly her shaking began to subside as their shared body heat began to warm the two. Sighing, Jarod slowly laid down his weary head, burying his face in her golden tresses, and allowed her even breathing him to lull him into a restless sleep.
Confused, Buffy slowly blinked in the bright light, lifting an arm and shielding her eyes from the glare. "What's going on?" she murmured, slowly lowering her arm and taking in her surroundings. She didn't know what she had been expecting, but it certainly hadn't been this. Turning, she took in the small apartment, bright sunlight warming the room as she took in the soft floral dress that she wore.
"You know, B," a familiar voice spoke from behind her, causing Buffy to turn quickly, her eyes alighting on the dark-haired young woman who sat on the bed behind her, "I heard talk once of a legend."
"What legend, Faith?" Buffy asked, slowly moving forward until she was settled beside the girl.
"A legend about a bird-"
"A bird," Buffy murmured, a small smile lifting her lips as she took in the other girl. She looked good, her dark hair long and shining over her pale shoulders, her tank and pants tight and revealing, but not overly.
"Yeah, one that sings just once in its life, better than any other anywhere," Faith continued, her painted lips lifting in a small smile. "From the moment it leaves the nest it searches for a thorn tree, never resting until it's found one. Then, singing among the branches it impales itself upon the longest, sharpest spine," Faith continued, her smile turning sad as she let her eyes fall to her hands, resting in her lap. "Dying, it rises above its own agony to out sing the lark and the nightingale one beautiful song, existence the price. But you know what, B?" she asked, her eyes skipping back to the Slayer's. "In that moment, the whole damn world stills to listen, and the Powers above smile 'cause they know that the best is only bought at the cost of great pain."
"Pain?" Buffy murmured, her brow creasing as she slowly stood, her eyes sweeping over the room once again, a vague memory of another visit, and another talk, plaguing her mind. "This is a dream, isn't it? I'm asleep..."
"Miles to go before we sleep, B... miles to go," Faith responded, slowly standing and facing her sister slayer.
"But this is a dream, isn't it?" she persisted, trying to fight the fog that invaded her every thought.
"Hey, in the real world as in dreams, nothing's quite what it seems," Faith responded with a shrug, turning away and moving towards the large window. "And you know what? You can kill the dreamer, but you can't kill the dream."
"I think that was supposed to be about Martin Luther King, Jr.," Buffy responded wryly as she joined the girl at the window, her eyes seeing nothing. Confused, she quickly turned back to the other slayer. "But you're not... dead, are you?" she asked, unable to mask the worry in her voice.
As if pondering this question, Faith looked down at the hands that she cradled before her. "Everyone knows theyre going to die... but nobody believes it," she said softly, her gaze slowly lifting. "If we did, we would do things differently."
"Like stop playing games?" Buffy asked, arching a thin eyebrow at the young woman. "I don't understand what you're trying to tell me."
For a second, a small grin lifted Faith's lips. "Me neither," she admitted with a shrug. "But I know that in a world that I seldom understand, there are winds of destiny that blow when we least expect them," she continued, her eyes focusing on something just past Buffy's shoulder. "Sometimes they gust with the fury of a hurricane while other times they barely fan a girl's cheek. But the winds can't be denied, B, bringing as they often do a future that's impossible to ignore."
"O...kay," Buffy murmured, her expression puzzled as she tried to work through Faith's words. "So what's coming?"
"We cannot set the rules of the game, but we can choose the arena," Faith responded evenly, slowly turning away and approaching the bed once more.
"What arena? What game?" Buffy asked, shaking her head quickly. "I don't want to play any games!"
"Dead men, naked they shall be, one with the moon in the west wind and the spring rain," Faith continued as though Buffy hadn't said a word. "When the bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone, they shall have stars at elbow and foot. Though they go mad they shall be sane; though they sink through the sea they shall rise again; though lovers be lost, love shall not and death shall have no dominion-"
"I. Don't. Understand," Buffy said slowly as a wry chuckle escaped her tormentor's lips. "Faith, this isn't funny!" she protested, her lips set in a hard frown.
"Life is an unrelenting comedy. Therein lies the tragedy of it," Faith responded, a smirk lifting her lips, almost as if she was enjoying Buffy's torment.
"I'll show you tragedy," Buffy growled, unable to stop herself as she took a threatening step forward, her patience finally reaching its end.
"You already have," Faith murmured, so quietly that at first Buffy had thought that she had heard wrong.
"But..." Buffy murmured, her eyes drawn to the hands that continued to cup around Faith's torso. Concerned, Buffy watched as a stream of red seeped through Faith's tightly clasped fingers, slowly dripping down to stain the carpeting below. "Faith, I-"
"You know what I've learned from all this, B?" she interrupted, a slight grimace pulling at her lips as she slowly sagged onto the bed behind her. "Life's a gift that's gotta be given back, and you gotta take joy from its possession... it's too fucking short," she murmured, her eyes locked on the blood that seeped between her fingers, "and that's a fact. It's hard to accept and this earthly procession to final darkness is a journey done, circle completed, work of art sublime, a sweet melodic rhyme, a battle won."
"Faith," Buffy began uncertainly as tears burned at her eyes. "I.. I'm so sorry..."
"For what?" Faith asked, her eyes finally meeting Buffy's once more.
"You're bleeding-"
"It's not important. Not anymore," Faith sighed, brushing away her concern as she lifted one bloodstained hand and inspected it under the light. "You know what? It isn't the blood you share with each other that makes you family," she murmured, her hand slowly twisting as the blood dropped down to the floor. "Rather it's the blood you shed for one another that makes you family... B, they're trying to make us family," she murmured, the first sparkling of fear showing in the girl's dark eyes. "I don't want this kind of family - not for my blood."
"Your blood?" Buffy murmured.
"Maybe death is the great equalizer, the one big thing that can finally make strangers shed a tear for one another," Faith continued, as though Buffy hadn't spoken. "But I don't want strangers to shed tears for me."
As something clicked for Buffy, she looked at her sister slayer in dawning horror. "Someone's coming for you. To kill you," she murmured, finally understanding her message.
"They say that God's subtle but not malicious... maybe, but they're malicious."
"Who's malicious?" Buffy demanded, reaching out to grip Faith firmly by each arm. "Who's coming for you?" she asked, her eyes blinking as an image of Faith, deathly pale, unconscious, and in a hospital bed flashed before her.
"For something to live, something must be sacrificed," Faith murmured, her voice so soft... so lost. "B, we've both sacrificed so much. I don't want to be sacrificed - please don't let them sacrifice me. I can't fight them, B, not like this," she murmured as her image flickered once again.
"The Council," Buffy murmured, realization dawning as she tried to maintain her hold on her sister slayer. "I'm not there and they need a Slayer... they're going to kill you to call the next Slayer," she murmured, her voice shaking as Faith slowly lifted her eyes to meet hers one last time.
"Don't let them sacrifice me," she murmured, "you at least owe me that. Please..." she whispered as everything faded away.