Chapter 6: Mad World
Her room was a sad, bleak affair with four plain white walls, a bed and a small table making up the furniture count. Someone had brought her belongings to the room, the pink top and the sweatpants lying neatly folded upon the bed sheets. Buffy locked the door after her before sinking down on the bed.
She was exhausted, the psychological strain of dealing with the changes and her mental uproar taking its toll on her body. And yet she was tense and alert, the slayer inside of her preventing any form of rest from reaching her soul.
Uninviting and without any kind of consolation, Buffy cared very little for her new home. Even the covers and duvet were dressed in the same hospital-white as covered the plain walls; it was very quickly making her ill with claustrophobia.
Only the single window in the back wall had potential. It was still pitch black outside but Buffy suspected that during the day she would be able to look down into the courtyard where the trees were watching their leaves fall rapidly under the influence of the approaching winter.
At least that would give her some colour to add to her black and white existence.
Buffy saw neither Famke nor any of the others slayers as she made her way to the library at noon. She had woken after five hours of sleep, and though she knew she had dreamt Buffy could not recall any of it. Breakfast in the shape of fruit, bread and juice had waited patiently on a tray outside her door as Mark had told her it would, and though Buffy had toyed with the idea of displaying her discontent by starving herself, her body had argued otherwise and her attempt at enforced anorexia lasted about five minutes.
The sound of her feet against the marble floors echoed loudly through the empty library as she stepped through the oak doors. It was quiet, the tall bookshelves seemingly watching with observant eyes as she walked among them, causing the hair at the back of her neck to stand on end. She did not know where to look but she was not too eager to ask Mark or any other Watcher for assistance either.
Famke had said that the library housed as good as every Watcher's Diary that had ever been written, and Buffy had concluded that there was no harm done in ensuring that the active Slayer in 1999 had not been a Buffy Summers under Rupert Giles. Knowing for certain that Mark was telling the truth, that she was living the truth, would perhaps make it easier for her to accept the ways of the world as it was.
She found them along the far wall, stacked into a corner. They were black and bound in leather, some seeming practically unused, whilst others looked as though the end of the world had become a rather personal experience for them.
Buffy squatted down to run her finger along them, tracing the dates backwards in time. The earliest was dated 2068; the Slayer who died to trigger the calling of Famke. Then 2063, 2062, 2059 and 2056 which had seen the death of four slayers.
Yet the dates stopped with 2006. An American girl. Faith. Buffy searched the row again but was not surprised when the result remained the same. She nearly kicked the shelf in frustration.
It told her nothing. It did not confirm Mark's words. It did not confirm her doubt. For a moment Buffy stared at the row of black books while her stomach twisted in disappointment and uncertainty. It had seemed such a good plan that it had never occurred to her that there would not be any sort of hint as to what she should do. Either they would have had the details on her or they would have had them on another. Yet they did neither.
She spun on her feet and started for the exit, feeling suddenly torn and hesitant. She could hear the rain drumming against the arched ceiling above, the dull, irregular rhythm resonating between the walls and the bookshelves until she could not hear where the sound ended and the echo began. Some of the tables she passed were now occupied by Watchers who were all busy with their own Slayer's apocalypse, and they did not warrant her a glance as she walked past.
The cobbled square before the Council had been transformed. Where it the night before had been occupied by nothing but the odd vehicle and plastic bag, it was suddenly teeming with life. Despite the lashing rain, people were hurrying to and fro between the shops whose windows and facades were decorated with flowing garments, fruit, books, meat, jewellery; voices melting into one swaying ocean of sound.
Though it was only late afternoon the sky had clouded over to a deep leaden black and thunder rolled in the distance. The rain was soaking her jacket and miniature torrents ran down the locks of hair that fell across her face. She walked past the shops, staring leniently at the displays, a desolate sense of reminiscence welling up inside her chest. Endless hours of window shopping with her mom, Willow, her dad – memories playing just out of reach and yet they felt so close as they formed a cloak of darkness that pulled tighter and tighter around her throat, feeling as though to strangle her.
Someone ran straight into her from behind and she stumbled before instinctively spinning around.
'Hey! Watch where -'
The glaring mark on the cheek burned into her and her reprimand died in her throat. The Pet seemed to sink before her eyes, its gaze dropping swiftly to a spot between its feet. Its clothing had been drenched by the rain too, clinging to its starved form so Buffy could count the ribs as they protruded from the chest.
She watched it uncertainly, shifting her weight awkwardly from one foot to the other. 'Uhm – well, maybe I should look where I go as well,' she tried, not knowing whether to stare or look away.
'You're a Slayer with the Council,' it stated quietly and recognition struck Buffy as a hammer to the gut. It was the young male from the Branding.
'Sometimes,' she blurted out. The Pet slowly raised its eyes. 'Or I guess I am from your kinda view…' she trailed off. 'Why?'
'You're also different,' it said, head lowering once more.
Water was running down her back. 'Thanks?' Buffy tried hesitantly, trying to ignore the evil glares she received from passers-by.
Eyes darting anxiously, the Pet took a step closer. 'There's trouble,' it whispered confidentially. 'They will kill us all but most of us are innocent of this crime. They won't care.'
Buffy blinked in confusion. 'What's going on?'
The Pet's angst-filled face was raised so it was level with her own. 'He attacked one of them,' it whispered fearfully. 'They will kill him. And us as well.'
Buffy tried not to think about the river of rainwater that was currently making its way down her back. 'Who? Where - wh-when? Now?'
The Pet looked utterly perplexed. 'If you tell them, they will kill me too.'
'I won't tell,' Buffy promised, the bewilderment she felt tingeing her voice.
'At the Public gallery. We – those like me aren't allowed in there. There were guards and he knew but he didn't care.' Its voice became shrill and the pupils dilated in fear. 'I think he wants to die.'
'Probably,' Buffy concurred absent-mindedly. 'The Art Gallery?' It nodded. 'At Winston Street? I'll take care of it.'
The rain-strewn wind lashed against her face and the water blinded her as it struck her eyes. Though she followed the main street of the city, the area rapidly became less and less populated as she increased the distance between her and the Council.
So the City did not really have any cars, nor did they seem to be big on electricity but they did have a public Art Gallery. Buffy wondered whether that was pathetic or just comical in a really-not-very-amusing way.
'I think he wants to die.'
Following what she had seen of the Council's attitude towards the Pets, Buffy could hardly blame 'him'. Using vampires for manual labour – good idea. Hiring witches to plunk a soul into said vampires – good idea if you cannot stake them. But treating souled demons like filth, like 'things' and not living beings – not a good idea. It was just bound to end in trouble at some point or another.
Buffy was aware that she was purposely working herself into a rage, but she needed the drive, the fire to spur her. The Slayer inside of her soul had dulled to a dim glow, her disgust and antipathy to the Council's ways drowning her instincts, but she needed that now. She needed the will to win, the belief that she was fighting for the right reason.
Otherwise she could just as well go back to the Council and read up on her demon lore.
The Gallery was a flat, rectangular building like all the others only five times as large. Smooth steps led to what had once been a double door. Now it was a hole in a wall and the door was lying in the street. And in the hole in the wall lay the body of a man, his neck twisted grotesquely to the side.
Buffy jumped past him, struggling to repress the intense desire to retch at the sight that met her. Blood was pooling on the floor around the bodies that lay scattered throughout the reception hall. One had been spiked by a statue of a roman holding a spear and at his feet a radio was buzzing angrily, an anxious voice coming through the static hustle, and Buffy knew the Council was on its way. She had to find the Pet. An alarm had been set off and red light flashed along the walls, its hysteric beeping falling into rhythm with her racing heart.
Grabbing the radio in one hand and reaching for a stake with the other she crossed the hall in a run, pausing briefly as the corridors split left and right but then the distant sound of struggle and human screams reached her ears and Buffy headed down the left passage.
Blood was surging in her ears and her heart was hammering painfully against her skull. Now she knew what the team leader had meant by a 'Rogue', and to her horror she realised that he was probably right. It would have to be killed.
Clutching the stake firmly in her hand, Buffy crept closer to the spot where the corridor panned out to form what appeared to be a large circular room. The sound of struggling had died, all noise dulled to a faint ruffling sound she could not identify. Back pressed firmly against the wall Buffy tried to peer around the corner without moving her head. Thunder rolled overhead, silencing the alarm, and the lighting spluttered and died. Buffy swallowed, her fingers tightening to the verge of pain around the smooth weapon in her hand. Fortunately she was more than capable of seeing in the dark, courtesy of many years practice, and the windows along the far wall allowed tiny spectres of greying light to creep into the room.
Three fallen Council soldiers lay sprawled on the ground but Buffy looked beyond them to the dark form of the vampire a good ten paces away. Its ragged breathing was loud in the small room, and as she watched it took a staggering step backward before reeling over and collapsing against the wall.
A trembling hand reached up and closed around the tip of the arrow that protruded from its neck and yanked it free, its cry of pain swallowed by another clap of thunder. It leant its head back against the wall while the arms rested limply against floor, its shoulders sagging in exhaustion and pain. Its chest was rising and falling frantically as the hoarse breaths left its throat.
Buffy licked her lips in determination and stepped into the room.
The head whipped around to her as she stood silhouetted by the light of the storm outside, and in the split of a second it was back on its feet, moving stiffly and laboriously though with briskness that was, taking its condition into consideration, quite remarkable. It shuffled away from her, its shoulders slightly hunched and favouring its right side.
The light from one of the windows passed over its face and Buffy froze.
It felt as though someone had chucked ice down her back, and pulled her throat so tight she could not breathe. The face was pale, worn and bloodied, the body clad in the incessant grey rags and the skin was pearly white against the dark fabric, but it did not matter. The stake clattered uselessly from her hand and she felt as though she was drowning, falling, suddenly blinded and yet somehow she managed to whisper his name.
'Angel?'
