~Star Mouse
@ @ @
Shit.
She saw the searchlights falling at her feet.
Shitshit.
At least they were still behind her. She tried not to concentrate on the horribly loud clacking of chains on cement as she sprinted down the sidewalk. The manacals weighted her ankles and wrists. As her arms swung, the chains whipped her forearms, stinging, surely leaving welts.
Damn, but it was loud. Those cheery chshinkschink noises, her own ragged breaths, her panicking, adrenaline~hyped heart, a car alarm in the distance. And engines at her rear.
With a nearly animalistic growl, she veered into an alley.
That ended fenced and dead.
Pure terror. The terror that makes a cornered housecat attack a pack of coyote. It suddenly shot through her system, leaving a feeling all too familiar for her liking.
Not this time, dammit. No heroic last stands.
No matter how fun they are.
She ran dead at the chainlink fence, veered, kicked off the wall with a rubberband twang in her legs, and hit the ground running on the other side.
Without anything beyond the most cursory of glances at her surroundings, she ran to the left.
If there was one thing she'd learned by now, it was to never look back. Just run. And she'd been running a long time.
That was another thing. Whatever happens, don't stop.
Never. . . Stop . . . Running.
She heard a siren to her left.
She could run a little further.
Her legs burned. She couldn't f'ing give up now. Her chest burned too. There was a stitch in her side and a catch in her shoulder. Her saliva seemed too thick. She hocked a wad into the street, never pausing. As fast as her tired, pumping, chain~weighted legs could carry her, she ran.
Clear out of the commercial district. Sidestreets and alleys no sane person would still remember this clearly. Into the 'burbs. 'Course, in a town this small, it wasn't as far between the two as it could have been.
She was all too aware that she sounded like a damn percussion section jogging down the sidewalk of the quiet street, clanging cheerfully past a row of darkened houses. How late was it, anyway? Even the streetlights were gone. Maybe she was safe~. But she didn't look behind her, just kept on, occasionally checking the addresses on the mailboxes.
1608. . .
She wiped her palms on the pants of her awful, state~issue ensemble. What she wouldn't give for something not orange~~ but later.
1612 . . . Right now she just had to concentrate on the numbers. Let small goals pull her ever forward.
1618 . . . She had to be here. This God~forsaken place was calling her blood, like some mystical pull. Also, there was a coded letter tucked into her bra strap. She liked that better. More real. There was nothing specific in it. Just the address and a due~by date. All she knew for sure was that something bad was going down. It would have to be, for them to call her for help.
1624. . . it was close. And so was she, to passing out from exhaustion. She'd never done that before. But the interstate had been hell on her bare feet.
. . .
...She stared blankly at the incoming mailbox, images of a small, blonde, and all~too~prudish warrior flashing through her mind. Don't think about that.
Just get up the damn driveway.
She lurched up the steps to the porch like the walking dead, tripping over
her chains and her own f'ing feet. The panic returned, domesticated and
shrill. She~ she had to wait. She couldn't do this now. Go get some sleep
and a shower and some leather. Come back tomorrow~ Even as her head
screamed at her to turn back now, she stumbled across the porch, falling
over the welcome mat-- which, she might've noticed at some other time,
didn't actually say welcome.
She fell against the door, elbow braced against the push button of the bell. Through walls and the pounding in her head, she heard the faint, oh~so~irritating buzzing of the doorbell within the house. Then-- footsteps.
She squeezed her eyes shut. She looked like shit and knew it. Prison drag, no make~up, eau de Olympic runner . Not exactly the way she'd planned her second first impression, but it couldn't be helped.
Oh, shit.
The door swung out from under her. She didn't even try to catch herself as she fell against the floor within the threshold. She looked blearily up at a shocked~looking guy with white~blonde hair. Who the hell?
She prayed to God that B hadn't moved. 'Course she hadn't, you idiot. No one's allowed to move on with their lives, are they? Girl'd probably married the whitebread farmboy and gone off to live in Idaho, or whatever podunk potato state he came from... Dead end. Now what, then?
But yes! There was Willow, coming up behind blondie, who was starting to look a little familiar. Willow the smart and geeky, and for some reason holding a table phone in both hands. Oh well. I'm safe. Do~goodies will make everything okay... She purposely didn't think about their last meeting.
She smiled loopily, in the mad grin of the very tired, and felt the walls closing in.
"Safe..." she whispered, and slapped the floor like a kid playing tag would after reaching base. The doors in her brain slammed shut.
Spike stared down at the young woman collapsed dead away halfway through the door. His senses were screaming Slayer, and he, if anyone, knew a Slayer when he smelled her. "What the 'ell--?" He cocked his head at the witch behind him. "Slayer?" he asked.
"Faith," Willow offered coldly, setting the phone down reluctantly. She edged around him and grabbed the girl under the arms, showing very little compassion at all as she yanked her in the foyer so Spike could close the door.
"I'm really not sure if this is a good thing or not," she said. "Jeez! Look at this!" The redhead shook one of the unconscious Faith's hand by the wrist, the handcuff chain rattling merrily. "She looks like she just escaped from jail!"
Spike's superman hearing picked up sirens in the distance as he bent to study the snapped ends of the chains. They were the long kind, longer than you get upon arrest. These looked like the ones they cops used when they needed you to be able to walk and piss on your own, but not get far. Made ya' shuffle around. They'd all been snapped through.
The scent of blood caught his attention, and he followed his nose to her. . . bare. . . feet. Blood and tar there. Oil. Dirt. The deep, unfathomly ancient scent of Slayer's blood mingled with the pollutants, darkened and defiled in the worst way.
There were cuffs on her ankles, also snapped. There were angry red marks on her soles, from stepping down on the hanging chains, and welts on the insteps, from the links whipping round.
She'd run in the streets. Long enough to tear her feet to ribbons.
"Looks like that's exactly what she did, ducks," he answered. "Was she in the slammer?"
Willow nodded. "In LA, the past few years."
LA. Surely she didn't... What was he saying? She was an f'in' Slayer. Of
course she did.
"We need to get 'er off the floor, Red." He worked an arm under her thighs, and wove another through the sweaty dark hair under her neck. "And someone should probably do something about those feet, before infection sets in."
Willow glanced at Faith's feet as Spike lifted her into his arms, and gasped at the raw, black~stained flesh. "Oh, shit..." she breathed.
It was hard to be really bitchy about stuff that had happened five years ago faced with that. Willow's worldview quietly skewed a bit, to allow for a Faith in need of help, and she nodded. "I'll nurse. You should probably do some criminal~type handcuff removal."
Spike snorted, starting up the stairs with his orange bundle. If these people were good at one thing, it was working through pain. They all functioned better with distractions.
Willow went off to the kitchen for the most complete first aid kit. Under her breath she muttered, "Why on this green earth would she come here?"
@ @ @
"Esae lo mivent pau sich. Selvent le esae sichea. Paulan lo siche. Esae..."
As the Watcher chanted, Birdie watched the candle closely, throwing a
pinch of whatever the orange powder she'd been handed was on it
whenever the flames showed a hint of green flame. She'd done this
before, a little. Her employers were not against magics. Too bad Sanna
wasn't here. He could probably be helping somehow. She glanced at
Petchra, who was standing on the edge of the circle, frowning into the
fire. Every now and then, her gaze would flicker to Chanting Giles, before
coasting back to the flame.
Just as the Thai woman turned her eyes to the Watcher, the flames flickered green again. Birdie fumbled for the powder, but stopped when the flames suddenly shifted back to orange. She looked up at Petchra, who was staring intently at the little fire. As Birdie watched, Petchra looked over at Giles, and the flames changed green again.
Birdie frowned. I wonder what that's about.
Just then, Giles' chanting got louder. The flame shot up, bright green.
In a panic, Birdie dumped the rest of her powder on at once, quenching it as Giles shouted the last word of the spell.
@ @ @
Buffy sighed. "You know, it's no fun when you pass out. The screams are the best part..."
She pulled her hand back to bitchslap the Watcher back into consciousness, but then the ropes went slack. She narrowed her eyes, staring into the piece of space that Marion had just recently vacated.
She quickly recovered from the shock, and stabbed the chair with her knife, to make sure it wasn't invisibility. The blade hit the wood and drove two inches through.
"What the hell is going on here?" she growled.
@ @ @
*Ding ding*
Grumbling, Spike got up to answer the door.
"Hey, Evil Dead! Guess who's back!" Xander grinned widely.
"Faith?" Spike deadpanned.
"Huh?"
"Faith, the Until Recently Incarcerated Vampire Slayer. She's asleep upstairs."
Xander's face fell. "Huh. Way to steal my thunder."
Spike smirked. "Don't be ridiculous. I don't want your thunder. Where's the bird? Leave her overseas?"
"Anya headed over to the Magic Box to go interrogate that new Slayer you guys illegally hired. She told me to head over here, 'cause she knew I would anyway, and she'd meet me in a few hours."
@ @ @
Faith woke slowly, trying to remember when she'd fallen asleep. Why the bed was so soft. Why her feet hurt like a bitch...
Her eyes snapped open.
The room was in pastels. Said soft bedding was in a feminine floral pattern. The events of the previous days hit Faith like a mac truck.
She was staring at the pile of stuffed animals assembled on the weapons chest in the corner when Willow came in.
"Thanks," she said immediately, to get it out of the way.
Willow set the tray of juice and bandages down on the bedside table. "It's okay. Helping's what we do."
"Yeah."
There followed a few moments of silence, then:
"Did you break out of jail?"
Faith smiled, remembering. "Yeah. Told them all I needed was a reason. Chains," she sneered. "Idiots." A bit of the old Faith showed in the sneer, and Willow could imagine the eyeshadow and leather that wasn't really there.
"What was your reason?"
Faith didn't answer immediately. After another lengthy pause, she said simply, "I was chosen. Again. Summoned. Called out of reserve." She kept staring at the weapons chest covered in plush toys as she fished around in her shirt. She passed the folded note off to Willow.
The witch gingerly unfolded the sweaty piece of paper and scanned the contents. "'1630 Revello Drive' and ...Friday's date. Huh. Talk about your leap of faith..."
Faith shot her a look, but realized the redhead hadn't even noticed the pun. She turned her head back to the weapons chest, and directed her own question to it.
"Where is she?"
Willow sighed. "There are some things that you should know..."
@ @ @
"... And I'll need your visas and passport, for the records. I can't have an illegal working here. They make things difficult. Have they given you a salary?"
Petchra shook her head mutely, looking to Birdie for help. The scarred Slayer backed away, hands in front of her, ostensibly headed for the phone. Behind her, Giles was checking the pulse rate of a beaten Marion.
This strange blonde woman didn't seem to care about the bruised and bloody body on the research table, though, and continued without encouragement.
"Well, I'm willing to negotiate on account of your likelihood of saving the world, beginning of course at minimum wage. From what I understand, your room and board is being taken care of..."
"Yes, I'm staying with the Summers'..." Petchra put in.
"Of course you are," Anya said offhandedly. "Now, if you want pay, I expect you to be here from four pm until whenever you patrol each weekday. Saturdays and Sunday you can..."
@ @ @
*Ringringringring*
Willow jumped up from the bed, leaving the slightly shell-shocked Faith behind.
"I have to get this!" She dashed out of the room.
"Who are you talking to, Will?" Dawn, in a lovely coordinating sling, cast and collarbone brace set wandered into Buffy's doorway. Her eyebrows shot up.
"Faith?"
Faith waved awkwardly. "Uh, hey. You are?"
Dawn waited a beat. Recognition accosted the Slayer's face.
"Dawn! Sorry, just a brain belch, there. ...Uh, how are you?"
Dawn offered a small smile. "I'm fine."
Willow appeared in the hall behind her. She was gripping her car keys with nearly enough force to bend metal.
"I have to go. I'm going now. It's Marion. Giles got her. It's-- I have to go."
And she went.
@ @ @ @ @ @
I desperately need plot-guidance on Of Blondes that Bite and Stab. Seriously, I have no real idea where it's going. I'm not going to update
any more until I think of something, because it's silly to just write
nonsense that has nothing to do with the plot-- oh, wait.
Also, I've put a couple sketches of my original characters up at my website. It's one of those just-learning-HTML spazoids, but... Actually, there's no 'but.' It's plain weird-looking. But you can find those sketches there (with more to come very shortly, because two isn't a very good selection), as well as a picture of my cool new hair. It's not brown anymore.
~Star Mouse