Hey again. Welcome to another chapter of my little story. This ones more of a reflective chapter, rather than trying to move the story along. There is still some plot development, but the next chapter will be amazing, even if I do say so myself. Seriously. If you like this story, I got a feeling the next chapter will be great for you guys. I've also decided that this story is going to be the first of Three dealing with the Apocalypse. i got all the parts worked out, and this one ends at chapter 15. Thanks for reading, and as always review and rate me, other wise I'll never learn. Peace out...
Chapter Eight: A Darker Day
L.A.
Buffy hated the jackass.
He was always doing his own thing. For once couldn't he have stuck around for the sake of everyone else?
Of course he couldn't. Stupid, arrogant, pig-headed Spike. The man Buffy had cried over for half a year. The man Buffy had just about gotten over. The man that no one had bothered to inform her was actually alive and not a pile of ashes several miles under California.
Buffy sighed.
She hated L.A. as it always reminded her of everything wrong in the world. It was like New York, the people were pushy, the roads busy, the shop assistants rude, but no one questioned it because it was sunny. It reminded her of Sunnydale; the public ignored the truth because the illusion was better.
Connor had been carrying this guy around for about an hour.
The annoying thing about his jumbled memories was that he couldn't remember his way around anymore.
He was looking for the Hyperion hotel, but at this rate he couldn't find needle in a needle stack.
The young man sighed.
Then it clicked in his mind.
"I got vampire senses..." he almost cringed as he said it.
How could he have forgotten something so basic, so simple and obvious?
He sighed, and breathed in the air. He could taste something.
Power. Strength. Like the Faith chick he met a year earlier.
Although there was lots of them. Hundreds maybe.
He didn't understand it, but he knew that his father would be with them. If he was alive.
Then it dawned on him. He actually thought of Angel as his father. For a brief second.
He shook it off.
An accident.
He moved in the direction his senses told him too, keeping to the shadows, avoiding any of the fights or demons that were all over the street.
Reilly Finn was in an alley.
He learned against the wall, both hands supporting him.
His wife was dead.
Gone.
Taken from him.
By that creature, that thing.
He felt strange.
He puffed his cheeks, and started having a spasm. He puked onto the wall.
Wiping his mouth he stood up.
None of his soldiers were there.
He guessed they hadn't made it.
He was going to be sick again, at least his body wanted to be.
Reilly looked round the corner of the alley.
Nothing.
The streets were bare.
No people.
No demons.
It was like one of those films. 28 days later maybe. Only this was reality.
Reilly peered again to double check the area. With no demons in his sites Reilly continued his way to the hotel. If he were going to take out that thing he'd need help.
Illyria was curious.
The older man acted like Wesley. He had the same strange defined accent as him also. And she found him attractive in the same way she remembered Fred finding Wesley attractive.
The old one was confused by these mortal feelings. She was above them after all.
Or at least she was meant to be.
And yet she couldn't shake the feeling of needing someone, a body to lie with in these troubling days.
It was the half-breeds fault that she felt this way.
If they hadn't shot her with that device she would be able to ignore the shell's needs.
She was weak. And that was the worst feeling of all to her.
Angel stood over the desk, looking down at a prophecy.
His prophecy.
Well was his prophecy.
He had signed it away for good now.
It didn't matter any way.
The important thing was the fight. And saving the world. Not destroying the enemy.
That was impossible. You couldn't defeat evil. You could only piss it off and hold it back.
And Angel intended to learn the best way of doing this.
And to do that he would have to go to the deeper well.
And to do that he needed Giles to make a break through on the incantation he was working on. The longer they were here the more time Draven gained.
Giles didn't like this at all.
Incantations he could deal with.
A demon goddess staring at him as if she was interested was another thing entirely.
Rupert Giles, despite belief to the contrary, had been quite the ladies man when he was younger.
And he could recognise when someone was interested, even if they were an ancient demon queen.
Giles sighed and looked back to the map of England Angel had given him. Working out the exact co-ordinates of the Deeper well was rather annoying.
Giles thought of the dead in this fight. Slayers and friends. Or comrades at the least. Wesley.
He looked into space as the thought came to him. Unfortunately that space contained Illyria.
Giles quickly returned to his work. If she weren't a demon, then Giles would have been interested...
Rome
Willow sat next to the bed she had made, where Wilkins laid.
She wondered where Kennedy was. Dawn. God, she wanted to know if Andrew was ok.
She looked around the apartment.
She kept looking back at the scorch marks. She wanted to know how they were made. Wilkins would wake soon. Hopefully he could help.
The spell hadn't taken nearly as long as it had when Willow used it.
And she was sure it wasn't as painful, although the soldier had grimaced a couple of times during the casting stages.
Willow looked around once more and wondered for the first time in eight years if she would see her friends again...
The Deeper Well
The figure looked on at the unravelling scene beneath him.
The coffin was moving. Or being moved. Either way, it was bad.
The man pulled his sword from its sheath and jumped down in to the deeper well.
As he fell he braced himself for the landing.
As he hit the coffin, a demon jumped out and clawed at the guy.
Raising his sword, the figure managed to block the attack. He could not however block the second.
And the claws jarred into his side. He had never been good with swords particularly. He had always preferred guns.
He rolled himself off the coffin and onto one several feet below. As he hit the coffin, he started thinking maybe his life could get worse...
L.A.
Buffy had decided to go looking for Spike about a half an hour ago.
Angel had argued.
But Buffy didn't care.
There was no way he was going to win this one.
If it was their last argument before what looked to be the final fight, then she would tell him exactly how she felt.
She looked around the streets. She couldn't really make out much. It was too dark. The lights were still out. Only moonlight lit up the odd bit of pavement.
Buffy heard a noise behind her, and turned quickly.
She could see movement in the shadows. It looked to be heading back to the hotel.
And it was obviously trying to avoid her. Buffy turned towards the movement and walked towards it. Her pace was such that she made little sound but was able to catch up with the movement easily.
Connor looked over his shoulder to see a fist hit him on the nose.
He hit the deck before he could react.
As he tried to stand up his vision cleared and he could see a girl.
Short, blonde hair, and extremely attractive. Connor liked her.
"Why the hell did you do that?" he demanded.
"Excuse me pip-squeak, I ask the questions. And first is what the hell are you doing with that corpse??" Buffy replied to the kid.
Connor sized her up. "A slayer, huh?"
Buffy was slightly surprised but not entirely. "Who are you then?" she asked. "You working for the bad guys?"
Connor smirked. "I'm Angel's son. Whatever side he's on."
Buffy looked with widened eyes. He was shorter than she expected. She didn't know why, he just was.
P.S. Becasue of over whelming demand, i will be returning to Spike. I got an idea, but it will probably happen in the second story. not long to go now guys. keep reviewing...