Chapter Two
It was around one in the morning when Buffy woke up in a puddle of congealing blood and thought: 'Shit'.
Blinking, she glanced left and right, drawing a liquid breath that was surprisingly painless. Her nostrils flared as she sniffed the air, inhaling the familiar copper tang of open injuries and the earthy scent of freshly tilled soil. Her first instinct was to defend herself; her second was to come to the attack. But instead of leaping to her feet or throwing punches, she lay prone, confusion spinning her thoughts.
Buffy felt bizarre, off. She raised a hand and made a small waving motion, watching mesmerised as the air around her changed. Like dropping stones in a lake, it rippled from the disturbance, dips and peaks forming and flattening in the wind. More than that, it felt electric. Everything buzzed, hummed, fizzed; the sky popped like a fireplace ember, and moreso when she moved.
She could've lay like that for hours, watching with wonder as she transformed the atmosphere around her, if not for the worried cry that drew her from her stupor.
"Buffy!"
Xander was calling out to her, October leaves crunching underfoot as he wandered the cemetery grounds. Unthinking, she rose, pushing herself to her knees and standing slowly. Wobbling to her feet, a shudder crept through her body and suddenly, confusingly, she hurt. Her skin was on fire, burning and itching, and Buffy rubbed at her arms furiously to quiet the sensation. The crackling of fall leaves grew louder as Xander approached.
"Hey, Buffy, where are you hiding?"
He weaved through the tombstones, pushing through the bushes that surrounded the grassy clearing where she stood. Buffy smiled at him wearily as he walked towards her, still pressing her palms against her flesh to soothe the firey bites that made her quiver where she stood. She cleared her throat, feigned nonchalence for her friend's benefit, hoped that under the pale yellow light of the full moon that he wouldn't notice the blood that matted her hair.
Xander's head swiveled left and right worriedly and, surprisingly, ignoring Buffy, his gaze settled behind her. Eyes widening, the natural, healthy California glow that he sported paled to a sickly shade as the blood drained from his face.
"Oh, God . . ."
Features crumpling to disgust and horror, he turned and abruptly vomited into the rusting foliage that littered the terrain.
Buffy, however, didn't notice this. She didn't notice that her skin had stopped burning, or that she couldn't feel the wind that gusted through the clear night; how she couldn't feel anything at all.
Instead, all she saw was the figure laying sprawled a few feet from her, limbs twisted at inhuman angles. All she saw was herself, eyes wide and unblinking, as she bled into the soft grass of the cemetery floor.
Buffy shivered once, drew a quick breath, and abruptly passed out.
It was around one in the morning when Buffy woke up in a puddle of congealing blood and thought: 'Shit'.
Blinking, she glanced left and right, drawing a liquid breath that was surprisingly painless. Her nostrils flared as she sniffed the air, inhaling the familiar copper tang of open injuries and the earthy scent of freshly tilled soil. Her first instinct was to defend herself; her second was to come to the attack. But instead of leaping to her feet or throwing punches, she lay prone, confusion spinning her thoughts.
Buffy felt bizarre, off. She raised a hand and made a small waving motion, watching mesmerised as the air around her changed. Like dropping stones in a lake, it rippled from the disturbance, dips and peaks forming and flattening in the wind. More than that, it felt electric. Everything buzzed, hummed, fizzed; the sky popped like a fireplace ember, and moreso when she moved.
She could've lay like that for hours, watching with wonder as she transformed the atmosphere around her, if not for the worried cry that drew her from her stupor.
"Buffy!"
Xander was calling out to her, October leaves crunching underfoot as he wandered the cemetery grounds. Unthinking, she rose, pushing herself to her knees and standing slowly. Wobbling to her feet, a shudder crept through her body and suddenly, confusingly, she hurt. Her skin was on fire, burning and itching, and Buffy rubbed at her arms furiously to quiet the sensation. The crackling of fall leaves grew louder as Xander approached.
"Hey, Buffy, where are you hiding?"
He weaved through the tombstones, pushing through the bushes that surrounded the grassy clearing where she stood. Buffy smiled at him wearily as he walked towards her, still pressing her palms against her flesh to soothe the firey bites that made her quiver where she stood. She cleared her throat, feigned nonchalence for her friend's benefit, hoped that under the pale yellow light of the full moon that he wouldn't notice the blood that matted her hair.
Xander's head swiveled left and right worriedly and, surprisingly, ignoring Buffy, his gaze settled behind her. Eyes widening, the natural, healthy California glow that he sported paled to a sickly shade as the blood drained from his face.
"Oh, God . . ."
Features crumpling to disgust and horror, he turned and abruptly vomited into the rusting foliage that littered the terrain.
Buffy, however, didn't notice this. She didn't notice that her skin had stopped burning, or that she couldn't feel the wind that gusted through the clear night; how she couldn't feel anything at all.
Instead, all she saw was the figure laying sprawled a few feet from her, limbs twisted at inhuman angles. All she saw was herself, eyes wide and unblinking, as she bled into the soft grass of the cemetery floor.
Buffy shivered once, drew a quick breath, and abruptly passed out.