'I … break down and cease all feeling,
Burn now, what once was breathing,
Reach out, and you may take my heart away.'
It was a blur; floating, fuzzy, a kind of dream with too bright lights. They wore white, bright like the light, like the tile walls and the tile floor, like the glass and the pain that tore through him. There was no sound, only a disorientating numbness, a lack of awareness, a lack of memory and scent. There was only the white. He wanted to speak, but there was cotton in his mouth and his tongue had swelled up like a dying man's. They poked him when he struggled, their metal needles armed with green liquid erasing his motor control, leaving him a vegetable on a plate as they cut, cut, cut, in places he couldn't see. Their hands were warm on his cold skin through the silicone gloves and he knew it wasn't right. Warmth didn't belong in a place like this. They should only be cold, cold, cold; like the grave, like him. He closed his eyes and sank into darkness.
In a way, she was luckier. The only thing that greeted her was silence, darkness, the loss of self. She floated, weightless and wanton, traversing the mazes of her mind, delving deeper and deeper into the things that were hidden there. She slid into memory like a dream. This one with the red headed girl; that one with the aging man with his cultured accent and tweed suits. There was one with a boy with floppy black hair and brown eyes that sparked another, older, thought of the one who stood alone. The one who left. Well they all did didn't they? She liked the ones with him, with his hair like light and his artist's fingers, the best. He was cool, solid. He made her feel and it was okay that he hurt her, okay that she hurt him because it was all worth it for the pleasure. All worth it for the pain. All worth it for the three words that reverberated in her brain as she sunk deeper and deeper into oblivion.
* * *
"Well done, Finn," MacGruder acknowledged with a small tilt of his head.
Riley smiled thinly as he stared down at the containing rooms from the glass cell in the ceiling above, "They've only just begun to pay."
MacGruder paused, studying the hash profile of the young man before him. Once, that face had possessed the softness of youth an innocence, a remnant and reminder of his days on the farm on Iowa before Sunnydale and the Initiative and Buffy Summers betrayed him and took it all away. There was little left of the boy he had been in the man he was becoming. MacGruder shrugged and turned to face the glass, observing Riley out of the corer of his eye as he half-watched the two inert figures in their cells, "Don't worry, son. It's only just begun."
It was too bad, really, what he would have to do.
Riley smiled, grimaced really, "Good. I want them to hurt. I want dying to be a blessing to them."
* * *
Soldier 18769 watched the General and Riley carefully out of the corner of his eyes. He knew exactly what they were seeing in the cells below them, the death-like form of Hostile 17 and beautiful, bruised figure of his consort; the Slayer, a woman, daughter, friend, human; and he was responsible for putting her there. The thought made him want to retch.
This wasn't what he'd thought he'd be doing when he first joined the Initiative. He'd signed on for the chance to serve his country, humanity -- to protect those like Buffy Summers. It didn't matter what Riley had told the group as they'd left to take them in, he hadn't been convinced then and he wasn't now. As far as he knew, she'd never killed anybody in cold blood, but Riley had. It's made him more than a little happy to see her kick his ass. He'd almost hoped that they'd win, only the knowledge that the vampire wouldn't hesitate to kill him if they didn't subdue the pair had stopped him from leaving the scene.
Still, he thought, as he watched MacGruder and Riley walk off together down the long corridor, perhaps there's some way to make up for what he'd done.
* * *
Buffy awoke slowly, blinking in the bright light that shone unceasingly don on her. She let out a weak groan, the left side of her face feeling swollen and sore. Her lips were dry and chapped. Weakly, she struggled to rise off her position on the floor, her arms shook as she pushed herself into a sitting position, her legs lay sprawled and numb before her. At least she still had her own clothes, she noted derisively, it was a shred of dignity but at least it gave her something to cling to, some sort of pale hope.
She had to find a way out of here before they took even that from her too. But first, Spike.
Ignoring her protesting limbs she pushed herself to her feet and balancing against the padded wall, willed her eyes to adjust quickly to the blinding light. Finally, when she felt that she could stand on her own without toppling to the floor she turned slowly around, examining the six by six containment cell that she was held in. Two of the walls were covered in the thick padded material that she balanced against now, below her the floor was also padded. Like being in a psych ward, she thought, it just reeks of Maggie Walsh.
What caught her attention were the other two walls, both of which were constructed of large panes of glass. One peered out into a long gray corridor, illuminated by fluorescent lighting. She quickly disregarded that, her attention quickly riveted to the other wall and the small cell that it revealed. The room was also filled with the harsh bright light but she ignored it, her eyes drawn to the slumped figure that lay in a small heap on the floor. Spike. Her heart gave a sharp jolt as the realization hit her. Quickly she pushed away from the wall, her legs shaking as she made the trek over to the pane of glass.
She pressed her hands against the glass, her eyes roving over his unconscious form desperately, looking for any signs of abuse. His shirt was ripped and torn, the skin beneath the tears, was red and angry, the scars healing up even as she watched. His complexion was a deadly pale, his eyes hollow and sunken in. His mouth, normally so sensual, was split in two, the lips white and, like hers, dry and chapped. Blood, she thought frantically, he needs blood.
She pounded on the glass, noting it's thickness as she called out his name, praying he would hear her. He stirred the third time she did, rolling onto his back as she called out again, his eyes fluttering open cautiously. "Buffy?" He questioned turning to face her, his face hardening as he took in the battered side of her face and the plate of glass that separated them from each other. She nodded as he cussed under his breath and began his way over to her. Gently, despite the weariness that engulfed him, he pressed his hand to the glass, "What did they do to you?"
She managed a weak smile, "You don't look so hot yourself, mister." Her eyes though were serious as they met his, her teeth sucking nervously on her bottom lip, "We have to find a way out of here, Spike. Before they -- before they do whatever it is they've got planned to do."
He nodded, cursing the glass which kept him from clutching her to him reassuringly, "Don't worry, love. We'll find a way."
"Yea", a familiar voice piped in from the doorway, "You'll go in a dustpan and she'll go in a body bag."
'Break down, and cease all feeling,
Burn now, what once was breathing,
Reach out, and you may take my heart away,
Heart away'
Burn now, what once was breathing,
Reach out, and you may take my heart away.'
It was a blur; floating, fuzzy, a kind of dream with too bright lights. They wore white, bright like the light, like the tile walls and the tile floor, like the glass and the pain that tore through him. There was no sound, only a disorientating numbness, a lack of awareness, a lack of memory and scent. There was only the white. He wanted to speak, but there was cotton in his mouth and his tongue had swelled up like a dying man's. They poked him when he struggled, their metal needles armed with green liquid erasing his motor control, leaving him a vegetable on a plate as they cut, cut, cut, in places he couldn't see. Their hands were warm on his cold skin through the silicone gloves and he knew it wasn't right. Warmth didn't belong in a place like this. They should only be cold, cold, cold; like the grave, like him. He closed his eyes and sank into darkness.
In a way, she was luckier. The only thing that greeted her was silence, darkness, the loss of self. She floated, weightless and wanton, traversing the mazes of her mind, delving deeper and deeper into the things that were hidden there. She slid into memory like a dream. This one with the red headed girl; that one with the aging man with his cultured accent and tweed suits. There was one with a boy with floppy black hair and brown eyes that sparked another, older, thought of the one who stood alone. The one who left. Well they all did didn't they? She liked the ones with him, with his hair like light and his artist's fingers, the best. He was cool, solid. He made her feel and it was okay that he hurt her, okay that she hurt him because it was all worth it for the pleasure. All worth it for the pain. All worth it for the three words that reverberated in her brain as she sunk deeper and deeper into oblivion.
* * *
"Well done, Finn," MacGruder acknowledged with a small tilt of his head.
Riley smiled thinly as he stared down at the containing rooms from the glass cell in the ceiling above, "They've only just begun to pay."
MacGruder paused, studying the hash profile of the young man before him. Once, that face had possessed the softness of youth an innocence, a remnant and reminder of his days on the farm on Iowa before Sunnydale and the Initiative and Buffy Summers betrayed him and took it all away. There was little left of the boy he had been in the man he was becoming. MacGruder shrugged and turned to face the glass, observing Riley out of the corer of his eye as he half-watched the two inert figures in their cells, "Don't worry, son. It's only just begun."
It was too bad, really, what he would have to do.
Riley smiled, grimaced really, "Good. I want them to hurt. I want dying to be a blessing to them."
* * *
Soldier 18769 watched the General and Riley carefully out of the corner of his eyes. He knew exactly what they were seeing in the cells below them, the death-like form of Hostile 17 and beautiful, bruised figure of his consort; the Slayer, a woman, daughter, friend, human; and he was responsible for putting her there. The thought made him want to retch.
This wasn't what he'd thought he'd be doing when he first joined the Initiative. He'd signed on for the chance to serve his country, humanity -- to protect those like Buffy Summers. It didn't matter what Riley had told the group as they'd left to take them in, he hadn't been convinced then and he wasn't now. As far as he knew, she'd never killed anybody in cold blood, but Riley had. It's made him more than a little happy to see her kick his ass. He'd almost hoped that they'd win, only the knowledge that the vampire wouldn't hesitate to kill him if they didn't subdue the pair had stopped him from leaving the scene.
Still, he thought, as he watched MacGruder and Riley walk off together down the long corridor, perhaps there's some way to make up for what he'd done.
* * *
Buffy awoke slowly, blinking in the bright light that shone unceasingly don on her. She let out a weak groan, the left side of her face feeling swollen and sore. Her lips were dry and chapped. Weakly, she struggled to rise off her position on the floor, her arms shook as she pushed herself into a sitting position, her legs lay sprawled and numb before her. At least she still had her own clothes, she noted derisively, it was a shred of dignity but at least it gave her something to cling to, some sort of pale hope.
She had to find a way out of here before they took even that from her too. But first, Spike.
Ignoring her protesting limbs she pushed herself to her feet and balancing against the padded wall, willed her eyes to adjust quickly to the blinding light. Finally, when she felt that she could stand on her own without toppling to the floor she turned slowly around, examining the six by six containment cell that she was held in. Two of the walls were covered in the thick padded material that she balanced against now, below her the floor was also padded. Like being in a psych ward, she thought, it just reeks of Maggie Walsh.
What caught her attention were the other two walls, both of which were constructed of large panes of glass. One peered out into a long gray corridor, illuminated by fluorescent lighting. She quickly disregarded that, her attention quickly riveted to the other wall and the small cell that it revealed. The room was also filled with the harsh bright light but she ignored it, her eyes drawn to the slumped figure that lay in a small heap on the floor. Spike. Her heart gave a sharp jolt as the realization hit her. Quickly she pushed away from the wall, her legs shaking as she made the trek over to the pane of glass.
She pressed her hands against the glass, her eyes roving over his unconscious form desperately, looking for any signs of abuse. His shirt was ripped and torn, the skin beneath the tears, was red and angry, the scars healing up even as she watched. His complexion was a deadly pale, his eyes hollow and sunken in. His mouth, normally so sensual, was split in two, the lips white and, like hers, dry and chapped. Blood, she thought frantically, he needs blood.
She pounded on the glass, noting it's thickness as she called out his name, praying he would hear her. He stirred the third time she did, rolling onto his back as she called out again, his eyes fluttering open cautiously. "Buffy?" He questioned turning to face her, his face hardening as he took in the battered side of her face and the plate of glass that separated them from each other. She nodded as he cussed under his breath and began his way over to her. Gently, despite the weariness that engulfed him, he pressed his hand to the glass, "What did they do to you?"
She managed a weak smile, "You don't look so hot yourself, mister." Her eyes though were serious as they met his, her teeth sucking nervously on her bottom lip, "We have to find a way out of here, Spike. Before they -- before they do whatever it is they've got planned to do."
He nodded, cursing the glass which kept him from clutching her to him reassuringly, "Don't worry, love. We'll find a way."
"Yea", a familiar voice piped in from the doorway, "You'll go in a dustpan and she'll go in a body bag."
'Break down, and cease all feeling,
Burn now, what once was breathing,
Reach out, and you may take my heart away,
Heart away'