Chapter Three
First Move

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Regan muttered. The Van Gogh "Starry Night" recreation she had purchased had once again slumped to the right on the wall. This was the third time she had caught the discrepancy, and, for some reason, the sight of an uneven portrait was more irritating than usual.

She untangled herself from the myriad of cords she was swamped with and walked over to the wall. She grasped the edges of the picture and forced it back into its correct position. Once satisfied it was level and would not drive her crazy, she ambled back over to her current nearly impossible task: hooking up her entertainment system on her own. Electronics and the intricate manner in which they functioned had never been Regan's forte. She was determined to figure it out though, even if it took her all damn night.

"Okay, red cord goes in the hole with the red circle around it…check. And this cord…what the hell is this one? Christ, it's like trying to deactivate a bomb or something," she grumbled churlishly.

For the past week, "moving in" had been her chief activity. She had not even gone patrolling yet, although she had finally introduced herself to the base commander and all the rest of the chiefs here in New York. Since she technically outranked even the highest-ranking Slayer on this base, she was basically given free reign. Her position here was primarily as an independent, but, if she so chose, she could go out with a squad. As of right now, however, slaying was far from her thoughts. All she could focus on now was hooking up her damn DVD player so she could watch a movie or two.

Another task she had been shamefully putting off was going to see her brother. Ever since that disaster of a phone-call where she had been too cowardly to even say hello, she had decided it was safe to say a face-to-face meeting was not something she was quite ready for. This was going to be a lot harder than she had previously predicted. Therefore, in the absence of chopping off the heads of the undead and meeting up with estranged relatives, she had been busy turning her living space into a home. This was also turning out to be more difficult than she thought.

Go fucking figure, she mused ironically to herself.

Regan almost jumped out of her skin when the sounds of Led Zeppelin's "Stairway to Heaven" pierced the silence. She smacked herself on the head when she realized it was her cell phone. She pulled herself upright and (while nearly tripping over a cord), stumbled over to the table.

When she saw the caller ID, she sighed and flipped open the top.

"I'm not home, Ariana" she greeted sarcastically.

"Sounds like someone's in a pissy mood," an equally sardonic voice drawled on the other end.

"Yeah, well, this someone's been messing with wires and crooked pictures all day. How would you be?" she shot back.

"Eh. I just shoved my hand into a demon's chest and ripped its heart out. Got smelly goo all over myself. I think I win the 'suckiest day' contest today."

Regan snorted, her green eyes drifting over to the pile of cords and wires. Her gaze wandered back to the Van Gogh picture, which had yet again slumped to the right side. She narrowed her eyes into an irate glare.

"I'd rather be ripping out demon hearts. It just looks so much simpler," she replied flatly.

The voice on the other end chuckled in amusement. Regan shook her head and slowly sank into a chair. She rested her head on her hand, pressing her small phone up to her ear with the other. She had the feeling, all of a sudden, that there was such a weight pressing down on her, a weight too great for even a Slayer to handle. It sounded so great to hear a familiar voice; it made Regan wish that perhaps she had not made this decision. She was still unsure as to whether it was the right one.

"I didn't go through with it yet if that's why you're calling," Regan reported glumly.

There was a deep sigh that followed Regan's confession. When Ariana began to speak again, there was a definite change of tone than from a few moments before. "It's gonna take some time, Regan. You really didn't think you were going to be capable of just walking right up to him as soon as you got to New York. It's been three years."

"I know," Regan sighed dolefully. "A part of me doesn't ever want to do this because I'm so fucking afraid of what will happen…and another part of me is just dying to get this done and over with."

"You do miss him though. I know you do. You miss all of them," her friend remarked sagely.

Regan smiled faintly, she closed her eyes and gave a tired heave of breath. "Yeah. I do miss them. I miss them all so much it hurts…but…Ari…it's just so hard. After all this time, what will they think of me? Disappearing with no trace and never once sending them word that I'm okay. Roger will be so angry."

"From what you've told me, it sounds like most of the apologizing that needs to be done ought to come from him. Do you think he's stopped using by now?" Ariana asked levelly.

Regan grimaced from the memories that flared up. She pushed them away, for she was in no mood to go down those particularly lanes tonight. "I don't know. I hope so. Mark and the rest of them probably forced him into rehab. At least I know he's still alive. I called a few days ago."

"You called? What the fuck? Why didn't you tell me? I thought you said you weren't ready to go through all that shit. If he already knows—" Ariana began to spout out.

"He doesn't," Regan sheepishly interjected. "I froze when I heard his voice. After he said hello a couple of times I hung up. I mean, come on, I can't tell my big brother that I'm in town after having gone AWOL for three years by phone. I mean, that is just so…lame. It has to be in person."

"Wow. You actually called the first day you got there. Didn't think you had it in you, Davis," Ariana remarked in awe.

"Yeah, well, it was actually more of a way to see if he was still living in Alphabet City. I had kind of been hoping he had moved from there. I wonder if Benny, Mark, Tom, and Maureen are still living with him. All I heard was his voice, I didn't hear anyone in the background," Regan recounted thoughtfully.

"Only one way to find out, Regan," Ariana reminded her.

"Okay, I get it. But I need to adjust to being back home first. I mean, I've got to finish my apartment so I can watch my movies and keep up with House and Grey's Anatomy. I'm thinking of getting a tivo. Oh, and I do need to get a car," Regan said.

"You do know you're doing your avoiding thing here, don't you? Chica, am I going to have to come up there and hog-tie you and then drag your skinny white ass to your brother's place? Cuz don't think I won't," Ariana threatened in exasperation.

Regan laughed at the picture of her intimidating squad-mate actually following through on her threat—which was a distinct possibility. ArianaCartez was known for being rather unpredictable in her actions. Aside from that, she was an excellent fighter, one of the very best underneath Buffy and Faith. Like Regan, she had received no formal training from a watcher before coming to Sunnydale, but she had grown up in a rough environment not all that different from the East Village setting Regan had lived in. Learning to subsist on nearly nothing while simultaneously learning to protect yourself and what little you possessed had been the guiding force in both these Slayers' lives. It was no wonder they had become close friends over the course of the last three years.

"I don't think it will come to that, Ari. But you should come visit. Maybe if all goes well you can meet the family, in a manner of speaking. Roger's the only blood relative I have left, as far as I know anyway," Regan told her.

Suddenly, a strange thought occurred to Regan and her green eyes widened considerably. "Oh my God, Ari…"

"What?"

"What if Roger isn't the only blood relative I have left? What if he has a kid? Oh dear God, I hope he didn't knock April up. I don't want a niece or nephew descended from her," Regan whined, her mind automatically leaping from one disturbing conclusion to another.

"Uh, so what? Isn't much you can do about that, chica," Ariana said sensibly. "Besides, what was so wrong with this April chick anyway?"

Regan brooded and scoffed much in the same way she might have four years ago when asked that question. She could not for certain say there was any one specific thing that bothered her when it came to her brother's girlfriend. Right from the start, Regan just outright did not like her. She had actually tried to get to know April and establish some sort of neutral feelings for her in the absence of any congenial feelings, but she could never get beyond childish resentment and dislike.

If she were willing to admit it to herself (which she was not), she would have known most of her hatred stemmed from jealousy. She had been the only girl in her brother's life for such a long time. She had held the spotlight even when he had started to accumulate a number of slack-jawed groupies during his music career. She knew he had entertained some flings now and again, but none of these flings ever turned out to be anything serious. Until April, that is.

To Regan, April had not looked, thought, or acted any different from the rest of the punk-rock groupies that had worshipped her brother. When her brother had stayed after a gig to have a cup of coffee with her, Regan had figured he was just wooing another potential fling, albeit from a different angle than he usually used. Perhaps Regan should have taken that as a warning sign that April would not turn out be a "fling".

Unfortunately, she had been left to being just as shocked as everyone else when Roger took her to the loft and formally introduced her. He never did that with common flings. Sometimes Regan even doubted her brother knew the names of half of his flings. This was when the light bulb had finally flared to life above her fifteen-year-old head. He had acknowledged this busty, heavily made-up, and rather scantily clad woman in front of them all. This upgraded the situation between the two from fling to relationship.

April certainly had been pretty; Regan could at least give her that. Even in the early mornings when she had not yet applied her mountain of make-up, she had still looked lovely. The same could not have been said for Regan at the time. Puberty had decided to rear its ugly head a bit later than the other girls at school so that at fifteen, when she should have started to roll down from the peak, she was just starting to climb the hill. She had hit a growth spurt of only about three inches, which brought her up to the average height for women. Her breasts, at that age, had been those paltry "mosquito bites", the bane of every teenage girl's existence whenever she is bombarded with all those pictures of famous women with gigantic mounds on their chests. Her body had not yet formed the modest curves she sported today. She had always been on the thin, fine-boned side, cementing her outward appearance as being delicate, which was definitely far from the truth. Her face at fifteen had been a monstrosity of blackheads and zits, nowhere near the relatively clear, pale complexion she had today. Her acne probably would not have been so bad if they could have afforded good acne medication; but of course they weren't able to.

Sometimes Regan wished she had some pictures of herself as a teenager just to show all her friends how much she had changed by nature alone. Her breasts had thankfully grown into healthy C-cup sizes, her curves finally appeared, her acne mostly disappeared, and she even added an inch or two to her height, bringing her up to the respectable level of five feet and seven inches.

As belated as her physical development was, she could not say she was displeased with the outcome. She liked to equate herself to the ugly ducking who grew up to be a swan. She was not so vain to believe there was that remarkable of a difference between herself at twenty and herself at fifteen. But she could safely say she was far easier on the eyes, even going so far to say that, with the right lighting and clothes, she could be beautiful. One could also not forget that she had gone through intense physical training on top of all that late development, which had streamlined her physique into that of an athlete—a gymnast to be specific.

So, perhaps it was jealousy that had ruled most of Regan's feelings towards April. April had been beautiful with and without make-up so that every guy turned his neck to edge in a second glance. April had stolen away her brother's affection so that most of his time had been spent with her. Of course, Regan could not say she could blame Roger. Who wants to hang around with a gawky little sister when you have a cute girlfriend?

However, jealousy was cut out of the picture the day Regan's eyes were finally opened to how Roger and April spent most of their time together. It had not been that long after her sixteenth birthday, only a few weeks at the most. New York City was being inundated with an ice storm so bad that schools had been called off for almost two weeks.

She remembered how she had spent most of her time off school: wandering around the streets of Alphabet City. Normally, Roger would have scolded her senseless about wandering around alone at her age. The rest of the gang probably would have as well, but she was quite adept at sneaking away without anyone's notice. It was usually hours before one of them—Benny, Mark, Collins, Maureen, Angel, or Roger—noticed she was gone. And that was usually when she returned.

When Regan looked back on it now, she was amazed she had never been injured severely, abducted by some psycho, or even killed by some psycho because of her brazen nature. She had been jumped a few times, but she always had managed to escape relatively unscathed and she rarely went wandering around at night. (Then she might have been a snack for a vampire, though she had not believed in their existence at the time.) She had learned which streets were the safest and which she should never walk upon day or night without one of the guys with her. It wasn't like she just went curiously searching out every dank back alley she passed. She hadn't been entirely bold; she had known her limits.

That day off of school, though, she had wandered down the wrong back alley. She had only briefly looked up from watching her feet crunch the ice when she thought she saw her brother and April slink away behind a building. Against her better judgment, her curiosity instigated her into following them.

Regan had gone through all the drug lessons at school and outside of it. She had personally decided marijuana was relatively harmless, although she did not smoke it. She drank a little beer and wine every now and then (if it were available), and she even smoked a few cigarettes now and again. But she knew better than to get involved with the heavy drugs such as cocaine, LSD, heroin, and speed. Those drugs were dangerous, and they could lead to even worse consequences than jail.

She had watched in shock intermingled with horror as her brother tied a tourniquet around his arm and stuck a needle in his vein. Before she could watch April do the same, she had backed away and run all the way home. The days following that, while school had still been out, she had remained shut up in her room, barely speaking to anyone. It had taken a lot of time for her to grasp the concept of her brother actually doing drugs. Honestly, though, it really should not have come as such a surprise. Roger had been a small-scale rock singer, and he did live in the East Village—living as a bohemian no less. It really was nothing rare for drugs to enter the picture.

Although she knew perfectly well that Roger had been fully capable of making his own decisions about what he put in his body, Regan still felt, on some subliminal level, that April was the reason he started using. She was certain he had not been doing smack before April came into their lives. Whatever redeeming qualities April could have made for herself in Regan's eyes were completely gone once Regan realized the full extent of their habits. To this day, Regan still could not find it within her to forgive April, though it was no concrete fact she was the one who brought Roger into that world. It was the drugs, after all, that had fueled that horrible clash between she and her brother over three years ago.

God, I really hope Roger got help. He sounded okay on the phone, which is a good sign. He must have stopped using to sound so good after all this time. And maybe he's dumped April by now.

"Regan? Are you there?" Ariana asked in concern.

"Huh? Oh, Ari…sorry, I drifted off for a moment," Regan explained in a dazed way.

"Yeah, no shit. Listen, chica, I gotta go. We're gonna be heading out soon, but I expect you to update me a lot about this. Don't even think about pulling the same stunt you pulled with your brother on me. I have the means to find you and kick your ass if you do," Ariana warned in a serious tone.

Regan rolled her eyes. "Don't worry, Ari. I'm not gonna go AWOL on everyone. Jeez, what do you take me for?"

Ariana did not seem to find this funny at all. In fact, she was being downright serious. "I mean it, Regan. You worry me sometimes. And not just me. The rest of the girls worry, too. Are you sure you're all right?"

Regan smiled weakly, her eyes resting upon the waiting pile of cords she had yet to sort out. "I'm fine. Don't worry so much."

Morning sunlight streamed through the windows that had yet to be furnished with curtains and blinds. Regan was sleeping restlessly on the sofa, tossing around and moaning in the throes of an intense dream. She had drifted off not long after starting a movie in her now successfully hooked up DVD player. Sleeping on the sofa was never very comfortable for anyone, but Regan had become accustomed to sleeping in unorthodox places whether they were comfortable or not. The only problem with sleeping on the sofa for her was when a nightmare occurred she tended to move around a lot. And since a sofa is typically rather narrow…

"Ah!" Regan shrieked when her head bounced off the floor. She shot up into a sitting position; her breaths were short and rapid. Her system was saturated with nightmare-induced adrenaline, and she was soaked with cold sweat. Strands of her dark brown hair were plastered to her forehead.

Regan let out a sigh of relief when she recognized her surroundings. She closed her eyes and laid a hand on her forehead for a moment before pulling herself to her feet. The digital clock she had just bought yesterday was set on an end table. She glanced at it to see that the time was 8:34. This was normally the time she awoke, even when she had been a child (if it had been a weekend). Sleeping late into the morning had been a rare pastime for her.

She dragged herself to the bathroom and turned on the faucet. She cupped her hands under the cool cascade of water and splashed it over her face, letting the liquid soothe away the tension for a few moments. After a few moments of just leaning over the sink, Regan glanced at her reflection in the mirror and winced. Her hair was a greasy, tangled, dark mass on her head and her skin was virtually colorless. What little make-up that had not worn away with the hours was smeared now and she could detect a faint odor emanating from herself. She really needed to shower.

Setting the water as hot as she could possibly stand, she doffed her clothes and stepped under the steaming spray. She didn't even scrub for a few minutes, but merely allowed the pressure of the water massage her aching muscles, which had become cramped over the night from sleeping on the small sofa.

A half-hour later she emerged from the shower and wrapped a towel round her body. She walked up to the mirror and wiped away the foggy moisture that had accumulated, satisfied to see her reflection looking much improved. She noticed in particular how much brighter her eyes appeared. Throughout her childhood, her one saving grace in physical looks had been those two emerald eyes perched beneath her dark brows. She and her brother had both inherited them from their father; quite possibly the only good thing they had gotten from him.

Roger.

How long was she going to avoid the inevitable? How long was she going to allow her resolve to continue to waver until she ended up making a mistake during some random patrol and got herself killed? She knew that this entire debacle was weighing on her and sooner or later it would begin to affect her work. That was usually how things progressed with Regan unless she acted before it was too late.

She came to New York City for a reason, and yet, here she was, not fulfilling the reason, the promise she had made to herself. The promise that, one day, she would find her brother and make things right again before she really did get killed in battle. She did not want to die without ever having told her brother she loved him, without ever having apologized, or without ever having told him she had forgiven him.

Some would consider Regan's thinking rather pessimistic, but active duty Slayers, especially those on hellmouths know that, even with the strength in numbers, their jobs were still very dangerous. One little mistake, one lapse in judgment, could spell death for an entire crew of Slayers. She knew her odds well, and she was not willing to gamble with her regrets and transgressions. Regan was determined to die with at least a clearer conscience, if not a clear one. There were simpler reasons for her return to New York, however; six of them in fact.

Roger.

Mark.

Benny.

Collins.

Maureen.

Angel.

Oh, how she missed them all. She longed to hear their voices again. She longed to know that they were all right, that they were happy, that they were doing well. Years had been spent wondering over the fate of her bohemian family, but fear had always held her back from finding the truth on her own. But Regan had decided it was time for fear to be kicked off its throne. She needed initiative to lead her life now.

"Just do it, Regan," she ordered herself. She forced her face into an expression of calm determination. Her hands clenched the porcelain sides of the sink tightly.

"Stop thinking all those bleak thoughts about death and go see your brother, God damn it! You've squared off with Turok-Hans with next to no experience and lived to tell the tale, you can do this!" she encouraged herself. "You lived on the fucking streets for a month and a half at the age of sixteen because you were a stubborn brat! Stop over-complicating this. Just go right up to the door, knock, and say 'hello'. If he's not home, you wait or try again. You've been over this."

Regan had to be grateful she did not have a roommate because talking to herself in the mirror was certain to have raised quite a few eyebrows. Actually, she was not even talking to herself. It was more akin to screaming at herself like she was a boot camp cadet and the drill sergeant all wrapped up in one package.

So it was that the young Slayer found herself twenty minutes later dry, dressed, and with her make-up on and hair pulled back in a loose pony-tail striding purposefully towards her rental car. Before pulling out of the lot, she checked to make sure she had all her essentials with her such as her emergency make-up, her hairbrush, her wallet with her license, cash, and credit cards, her keys, her cell phone, her pager (recently issued by the base in case there was an emergency she had to cater to), a Swiss army knife, a dagger, a stake, hand lotion, holy water, and, of course, chap stick. Underneath her seat was a bag of extra weapons in case of an emergency, but she never went out without at least something sharp on her person (even a nail file could suffice).

She also had a strange little device that acted as a sort of distress call in the event she found herself in trouble. It doubled as a homing device as well, so that when she activated the distress alarm, help could be dispatched to easily find her. Every Slayer base harbored them and just about every Slayer was required to carry one with her when she went out on patrol. Had she known she had it with her, she probably would have left in the apartment. She really saw no need for it if she was just going to visit family.

Actually, considering the circumstances, this little bugger might just come in handy.

Regan took a deep breath to steady her chaotic nerves. Her hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly, had she exerted just a little bit more pressure she could have crushed it. She then turned the key in the ignition and eased out of the parking lot.

The entire way to the East Village she kept her mind focused only on the road. She was grateful for the distraction, for if she had stopped to actually think she might very well have lost what little nerve she had garnered and turned right around. She knew automatically when she had entered East Village territory, for the buildings suddenly became more noticeably ramshackle and there were legions of people walking the sidewalks in tattered clothes; some of these people were even sleeping against walls, on benches, or right on the ground. A few had actual sleeping bags, while others were reduced to using old, dirty newspapers or nothing at all. All of New York City had this problem, but the shiny modern buildings of the parts of the city tourists usually kept to distracted from the obvious contrast between the rich and the poor.

It reminded her of one particular class in high school where they had discussed the wealth of New York compared with other states. If one took the average income of a New Yorker, it would be much higher than most of the United States. But, if one were to take the median income, New York would have a higher poverty rate than many states in the South. New York was a state of extremes on both ends. There were incredibly rich people—billionaires—practically living right next door to people who had nothing to their names. It was one of America's darkest secrets.

She glanced at the graffiti splayed across the brick and cement walls, not even bothering to try and decipher the multitude of words and phrases. She smiled humorlessly when she noticed people dressed in extremely outrageous, expressive clothing dancing around with tambourines, drumming on plastic buckets, or playing on old, most likely out-of-tune, guitars.

Ah, Alphabet City…the home of the starving artist…La Vie Boheme, she mused to herself sardonically.

She had been raised by a bunch of starving artists, in a manner of speaking. Roger with his guitar and his ambition, though he could never seem to write a song he was ever completely satisfied with. Mark with that old camera of his and those endless stacks of rejected screenplays and scripts. Maureen, a true performer to the end, though by no means cut out for the mainstream. She had been a tightly packed ball of vibrant energy, the life of the party. Her extroverted, impulsive (and sometimes rather childish) nature had brought cheer to more than one dark, depressing night at the loft.

Angel, of course, had been a piece of art unto herself. Though she technically was not a woman, she had been more beautiful, more creative, and definitely more expressive than most women Regan had met in her life. Collins had been the eldest of them all. Though she could not specifically cast him as any type of "artist", he had been truly wise and insightful. She knew Collins had dreamt of becoming a teacher. Regan hoped he eventually got to see his dream come true. He certainly deserved it.

Would they all still be there? Or was it just Roger living all alone, with no one there to listen to him strum out his half-written tunes on his guitar? How much had things changed in three years? How much had she missed out on? Were Mark and Maureen still together? Were Collins and Angel still together? Moreover, what did they think happened to her? Did they believe she was dead, or just missing? It was hard to tell what they might think after so much time. How would they react to seeing her now, alive and actually successful in life?

More importantly, how precisely do I explain my success? I can't just tell them I'm a Vampire Slayer working for an international supernatural organization right from the beginning. They'd think I was nuts. No, that has to come sometime later. They did teach me a lot about how to survive on the streets, so maybe I can just let them fill in the gaps themselves and wait to tell them the entire truth…Christ, why didn't I think about this part earlier?

Right as she parked across the street from the loft where she had spent half her teenage years, the issue of explaining where she had been and why she had stayed away so long (not to mention why she never sent any word) was pressing down upon her. Regan sat in the car for a full five minutes before finally deciding on an amorphous course of action. Normally, she was competent at telling little white lies or running off random explanations to explain simple events to strangers. But it would take a lot more than a white lie to explain where she had been for three years to her bohemian family. It would take a hell of a lot more. And to top it off, there were other dimensions to the story that went beyond the where factor. She did not even plan on lying to them for long, if ever. What she had decided to do was glaze over the story—half-ass it, in the typical American fashion to stall for time. She couldn't just dump the truth on them right now, not until they had time to adjust to her return.

Well, look at it this way, Regan, she told herself as she walked across the street, at least if they don't want to see you again you won't have to bother with a half-assed explanation.

Her heart began to race as she approached the steps leading up to the green double-door entrance. She stopped mid-stride when she realized this was the first time she had laid eyes on this building, on those doors, on those steps, on the whole damn street in a little over three years. It felt so incredibly surreal to stand there at that moment. She felt a sudden upwelling of nostalgia manifest. She swallowed and wiped at her eyes. She definitely did not want her brother to see her for the first time in over three years looking like she had just watched Moulin Rouge alone.

While she was standing there trying to overcome her emotions, one of the green doors started to open. She gasped, for she thought it might be Roger. She might have been going to see him, but she wanted to be fully prepared and more or less in control of when she saw him. This could not be how they reunited after so long. This was not on her terms, here!

Luckily for Regan, it was not Roger who came out the door. She sighed in relief, relaxing her suddenly ramrod stiff stance. However, when she looked back towards the person who had come out the door, she gasped in surprise coupled with recognition.

Oh my God…Benny?

Ah, my wonderful reviewers. You gems really brighten my day. I know some of you were skeptical of this story, firstly for crossing such distinctly different worlds and the main character being original. Rest assured I have a pretty good track record with creating original characters. Just ask at least two of my reviewers (Jellyfish72 and Saxifrage) who are fans of other works of mine. I have never, at least in my opinion, created a"Mary-Sue" as some people on this site like to call them.

But, for the ones who admitted being skeptical, I thank you profusely for taking a chance on this starving artist. I would love to reply to everyone's reviews, but I am incredibly busy with my senior year of high school. I'm a class officer for one thing and I'm stuck with arranging all these things for my class, I work, I've got my drama club rehearsals,and I've got about fifty different scholarship essays to write up since I am poor. However, when I find the time, I would love to reply and answer any questions you ask since the site no longer allows review replies.

Until the next update!

By the way, if you're looking for another good RENT/BtVS crossover, Ilse M Jupnur hasa lovely piece called "Chance Meeting". For those who have not already, go check it out.