Chapter 17
The Evil that Men Do
Cold.
Faith could feel the chill creeping in from the tube in her arm. The chill of death was slowly seeping through her body. She tried once again to move. Her toe refused to wiggle. Her nose refused to twitch. Her eyelid refused to open.
She screamed. No sound came out. Her lips didn't move. Her mouth didn't open. Her lungs didn't expend any more volume than the precise, measured pace of her involuntary reflexes. The incessant beep-beep of the heart monitor set a rhythm with her breathing against her will.
The drug the Doctor had given her had suspended all voluntary muscle control. She hadn't known that when he'd given it to her. He'd told her it was simply something to make her drowsy. But she wasn't asleep. She was wide awake, and completely aware of everything that was happening to her.
Worse than that, she was aware of exactly what was going to happen.
The Doctor had told her while he worked. He'd kept his voice low so the other soldier couldn't hear him. She wasn't supposed to be awake for this – aware. But the good doctor was interested in what she would perceive. He wanted her aware for the process so that later they could review the experience. She would tell him everything that happened to her.
He was insistent on that. She would tell him everything. She would recall every feeling – physical and emotional. She would recall every thought she had. She would recall every sensation, sight, sound, and taste. He wanted to catalog it all.
He wanted her to be very much awake for her own death.
He'd told her that, too. He'd told her about all he would do. The tubes would pump cold saline into her body, slowly lowering the temperature. When she was critically low, he would add drugs that would slow her heart and lungs. He would electrically stimulate her brain in order to keep it active while the body died. Possibly only a minute or two, but it was important that the brain not be allowed to die for too long.
Eventually, her heart would stop.
Soon after, all brain activity would cease.
That's when the new Slayer would be called. That's also when her spirit would attempt to enter the afterlife. That's when she would be dead.
He had arrangements for all of it. The tubes would begin sending through warm saline to raise her body temperature almost immediately. When it had reached a reasonable level, say three or four minutes after she had died, the electrodes would begin stimulating her brain. It would be random signals at first. Nothing much to it, other than stimulating the neural pathways for her return to life.
That would be accomplished by shocking her heart back into rhythm. The electrodes were already in place. They would restart her heart, and her spirit would return to her body, and then there'd be three Slayers.
She wasn't so sure about her spirit returning. Life here was pretty crappy, and she figured she'd take just about any excuse possible to get out of it. She was pretty sure that once her spirit was set free, it was taking the express train out without even leaving a note. She'd hoped that would be the case, anyway.
It wasn't so much that she wanted to die – well, she did, but that wasn't it entirely. She wanted to screw this sick bastard. He wanted her to remember it all, to recite it all back to him when she returned. He wanted to have his voyeuristic little adventure through her life and afterlife. Well screw him, she said to herself. She'd let herself die just to make sure he didn't get what he wanted.
But these were the Watchers. They had anticipated that contingency. Not so much her desire to leave, but the chance that they might lose track of the spirit. That it might go wandering and decide not to return. So there were provisions for that as well.
The bed she lay on was in the center of a pentagram inscribed on the floor. Black candles burned at each of the points. In the center, below the bed, was an anchor – a literal anchor, taken from a small boat. Around it was woven a braid of her hair. It would anchor her within the sphere cast by the spell. There was no escape for her.
Stones and crystals had also been placed at each of her charkras: amethyst, onyx, garnet, quartz, diamond, emerald and ruby. They focused her power inward. She radiated power, he had explained to her. A Slayer's aura could be blinding to the right seer. They dare not let that power expend. They must focus it into her, preserve it. It should also protect her from the effects of what was to happen. It would keep her from becoming too damaged while she was dead.
He chuckled at that. You're frickin' damaged, Faith had thought at him. But of course, she couldn't say anything. She couldn't move her mouth or tongue or teeth. She was mute in the face of sadism at its worst.
He had talked to her the entire time. While getting her ready, while laying out the spells and hooking up the machinery. He had mumbled and muttered through every stage of the operation. He had told her everything about what was to happen. He had told her all about what had been happening as well.
That's how she knew about the amulet.
All those thoughts in her head, all those times she trusted in them, they had all been lies. The amulet had manipulated her, and she hadn't even realized it. Neither would the others: the Slayers to come after her. It would tell them who they could trust, and it would be the wrong people.
She was sickened by that amulet, by what it had done to her. She was no goody two shoes, that's for sure. Plenty of people had used her body – she'd even done her fair share of that. But no one had ever used her soul. It had violated her there, deep inside. It had lied to her about who she was.
Not even the Mayor had done that. In fact, the Mayor had done the opposite. He'd been completely honest with her. He'd told her the truth – about himself, and about herself as well. He was a creature of evil, dedicated to perverse demonic gods. He had made Sunnydale into a haven, a feeding ground for them. And in return, he would be made one of them. He'd be a demon god on Earth.
He also told Faith what she was. She was a creature of power. Right and wrong didn't matter to her. Only the exercise of power was important. He was right. She didn't care – she hadn't, then. He'd loved her. She was his dark princess. He was family to her. Or at least the closest thing she'd ever had to a family.
That was all a long time ago, though. She'd attempted to kill Angel for him. She shot him with a poisoned arrow, and only the blood of a Slayer could cure him. Buffy had come after her. If the blood of a Slayer was required to heal him, then it would be Faith's blood that did the healing. It hadn't worked out that way. Faith had ended up in a coma, and Buffy had killed the Mayor. Compared to this, the coma had been a vacation.
Faith hadn't cared about good and evil then. But evil had cared about her, and she had clung to it. He had even made arrangements to care for her after his death. Since then, only one person had cared about her: Angel. He had cared about her, and so she cared about good. A little. A very little.
But she wasn't about to let that amulet touch her again. Not if she could help it. Of course the Doctor had pointed out that she couldn't. She had no control over her voluntary muscle actions. She would die by his hand, be revived by his hand, and have the amulet placed back around her neck by his hand.
He laughed at that. He knew she was revulsed by the thought even though she could make no facial expressions. He knew, and he laughed. The irony of it, according to him, was that she would be the one to place the amulet around the neck of the next Slayer. She wouldn't remember by then. She would only trust what it said, and her hands would poison the next Slayer with the thing she herself loathed.
Faith's mind twisted at that image. She wanted to block it out, to squeeze her eyes shut and bury her face in her hands to make it go away. Just like she had buried her face in Michael Johnson's chest.
The thought of that brought a fresh wave of confusion over her. Angel wasn't the only person to care for her, but Michael didn't know what she was. He didn't know what kind of person she was, the things she'd done. If he knew, would he still love her? Would it matter?
She didn't want to think about it, but she couldn't help herself. He probably had visions of her, too. Unlike the Doctor's, though, they were of happiness and children and crap like that. She didn't get to have that kind of life. She'd never had a life like that. Not as a child, and certainly not as an adult. She'd never get to simply live and love someone. That wasn't in her cards. She was a Slayer, and Slayer's weren't allowed to love.
Buffy had been proof enough of that. Everything, everyone that she touched went up in flames. She was a walking demolition team – a natural disaster with super powers. It was the same with Faith. It came from being a Slayer. It came from being a killer.
She'd need to let him down. She could simply run – that's what she normally did. She could simply tell him he wasn't good enough. That would be cruel, but it would do the trick. It had worked with Xander Harris. She could tell him the truth: that she didn't deserve his or anyone else's love. He'd just argue with her over that, though. She really didn't want to have an argument over it. She didn't want to have any sort of discussion over it. But she couldn't let it go on, either.
Of course, that would all depend on her getting out of the situation she was in. That didn't seem very likely. There was nothing she could do. Nothing but feel the cold seep into her body, and listen to the steady beep-beep of the heart monitor.
And wait for death.
* * *
Angel and Mac dropped to the floor of the warehouse, silent but instantly on guard. No gunshots came from the shadows. Mac checked the command module, noting the supposed locations of the other soldiers. Angel used his own senses to scan the area around them. They were clear.
Angel unwrapped his favorite broadsword from sheet of black felt he'd carried it in. It wasn't necessarily the best weapon in this circumstance, but he'd never really learned to handle a gun. Besides, he really liked Betsy. She had good balance, was finely shaped, and could sing when he needed her to. She was the finest weapon he owned, and he felt comfortable with her.
"Ready to go, Betsy?" he whispered to the sword.
"Betsy?" Mac asked, looking over at him. The big Scott had put away the portable command module and was rechecking his pistols. He wore two strapped across his body, one in the small of his back, one in his boot. On his right thigh he carried what could only be described as a small cannon.
Angel looked over, slightly embarrassed that he'd been overheard. MacKenzie was eyeing him with a grin. Angel shrugged uncomfortably. "Yeah," he said lamely. "Named after a barmaid I knew."
"Well Betsy," Mac addressed the sword and pulled out his hip cannon, "I'd like you to meet Imogene."
The two men headed quickly towards the North wall of the building, where the medical facility would be located. They were only a few steps towards it when they heard shots. A flurry of gunfire just off to their left. Mac backed up past one stack of crates and began making his way towards where the sound.
He peeked around the corner quickly, just a quick glance. Seeing no identifiable threats, he moved out into the area and looked around the next corner. That's where he saw Johnson's body.
He glanced over his shoulder to make sure Angel was covering, and then went over to the body. The angle he was twisted at could only mean death. Mac knelt next to him and felt for a pulse. He wasn't surprised to find none. Mac's head fell forward, suddenly overcome with grief.
"After all the years, all the missions," he said huskily, "why'd you have to end up this way?" He wiped a tear from his eye, and then stretched forth his hand to close Johnson's. He wanted to leave him in peace.
He got up and headed back towards Angel, pulling out the portable command module and checking it. The signal for Sheffield was heading away from them at a dead run. It was no question, then, who had killed Johnson.
"Now I'm really pissed," Mac muttered as he passed Angel. He moved at steady pace, not a run, keeping his eye on the command module. They had only minutes to rescue Faith, but they didn't need to blunder into a trap. They had plenty of time to get where they needed to go and do what they needed to do.
* * *
Sheffield darted into the infirmary. "What's the status?" he demanded.
"Everything is going according to schedule," the Doctor said. "A few more minutes at most."
"Hurry it up!" he ordered. He turned on Jessup. "I think Johnson let out our location. We should expect company."
"I'll go get the men up and ready," Jessup replied.
"My command module's in my desk," Sheffield said. "Get it first, then get the men, and then get back here." Jessup saluted and turned to leave. "Leave me your rifle," he said. "I'll hold this point."
"Yes sir," Jessup replied and handed the rifle over. "Should I worry about Johnson?"
"No," Sheffield replied. "I eliminated him."
Faith couldn't believe the words she was hearing. Johnson, dead. It couldn't be. But she knew it was. He had probably died believing that he loved her. He'd died that way, and it was all her fault. No – it was all Sheffield's fault.
White hot rage welled up in her soul. It fed her Slayer metabolism, which was already eating its way through the drugs the Doctor had given her at an amazing rate. It still wouldn't have been enough had it not been for the crystals. All her aura – her power – was focused inwards. And it was attacking the foreign substances in her body, eating away at them like white blood cells on overdrive.
The heart monitor skipped a beat.
* * *
Mac waved Angel to duck behind a crate. Ahead of them steps echoed at a run. Mac checked the command module and could see Jessup's icon heading right for them. He waited, looking for the exact moment.
Jessup was headed full tilt down between two rows of crates, heedless of nothing but the upcoming danger. Had he known that the invaders were already there, he would've been much more careful. He wouldn't get much of a chance to regret the mistake. Just as he was running by a crate, Mac's right hand shot out in front of him, and Jessup's lips kissed Imogene's butt at full speed.
Jessup catapulted up and out, landing in a heap. There was no need to even bother checking – he'd be out for week, and eating through a tube for much longer. Angel and Mac resumed their stalk towards the infirmary.
* * *
Sheffield checked the load on the rifle he held, chambered a round, and set it to full automatic. He wasn't taking any chances on someone coming in and disrupting the experiment. He needn't have worried about someone coming in.
The white hot fury of Faith's rage, combined with the intense focus of her own aura, burned every last bit of the muscle control drug from her system in seconds. The Doctor was just turning around as alarms began to sound on the equipment when Faith's arm jerkily tore one of the tubes out.
Sheffield spun around and saw the unbelievable site. The supposedly nearly dead Slayer was trying to get out of the bed. "Too bad for you," he said, "but they're getting a new Slayer." He lifted his gun and aimed at Faith.
Mac didn't have a clean shot at Sheffield. He could only see the muzzle of the rifle rising through the doorway. He raised his hand cannon and took aim, adjusting to the left of the doorway. Let's hope the walls are thin, he thought as he squeezed the trigger.
The wall of the infirmary was, indeed, thin. Nothing more than a single sheet of plasterboard that disintegrated into a shower of rock chips and choking dust. Mac's bullet itself missed, but the explosion spoiled Sheffield's shot, which was rushed at it was. Before the Major could recover, Mac fired again, and again.
Faith's jerky movements, and the shock of the gun blasts, took her over the edge of the bed. Sheffield lost site of her, and was himself under fire. He spun and fired on full automatic through the doorway, chewing up the walls and crates. Both Angel and Mac dove for cover.
The rifle expended its load in seconds, and Sheffield knew he had to get to a more secure position. He couldn't, however, leave loose ends lying around. He had no angle on Faith, and that angered him. But there were other pieces of this to be taken care of. As he made his retreat through the side door of the room, he drew his pistol and put three large holes in the Doctor. Sheffield then turned and ran for the stairs.
* * *
Mr. Gray seemed distracted for a moment, reading something out of the air. He was, in fact, observing the balance of the universe, the threads of good and evil, order and chaos, all stretched out before him. He watched the gross distortion he'd been sent to repair right itself. The deed, then, was done. Faith was safe.
He turned his attention back on Wesley and Kate. "The agreement between us was until the threat to Faith was eliminated."
Just then, the door slammed open and Lilah stalked in, furious.
Mr. Gray lookedat her, then continued. "The other conditions which Lilah placed on you are none of my concern."
Lilah began to protest, but Kate grabbed another Ming Dynasty vase and cracked her over the head with it. Lilah collapsed into an undignified heap.
And with that, Mr. Gray disappeared.