Chapter 2
Disclaimer: Don't own either Buffy or Dark Angel characters.
Buffy Summers wasn't lying when she'd told Xander and Willow that she was tired. Nor was it untrue what Willow had said about make-up. But after the night she'd had, sticking on globs of powder and liquid foundation to camouflage the evidence of her weariness was just too much effort.
Camouflage, Buffy's lips twisted in a half-sneer of distaste with the images that came to mind and were attached to that word.
Last night's patrol was fun-filled with vampire appointments, the bloodsucking suckers were out in an unusual show of force, and by sunrise she'd almost staked fifteen vamps. Almost staked were the key words; the fifteenth vamp she'd sort of accidentally on purpose managed to set on fire. She had to say one thing, once a vampire was lit, they turned back to dust almost as soon as the fire touched undead skin.
But vampire steak and barbecue wasn't all that happened, all of which contributed to this downright peachy mood.
Buffy sat in one of her classes, listening with half an ear as the teacher prattled on about some important literary figure or some sort, while the larger portion kept coming back to the nightmare from last night.
The nightmare started out like many of those she received every time she killed vampires or other preternatural heebie jeebies.
She was in the cemetery –big shocker there- which one wasn't important. Cemetery, night, unnatural stillness, a petite blond high school age girl- all a bad recipe waiting to be served.
Suddenly a gang of vampires jumped her unaware. That, for one, was a major clue that something wasn't right. She would never be unaware of her surroundings, or the distinctive tingle of Slayer-sense that told her specifically vampires were around and how many, or the unique scent they gave off.
She fought against this nest in the cemetery, slamming into gravestones, tripping over graves, leaping over those stupid iron picket fences that people seem to think need to belong in a graveyard. Eventually, after a brutal fight –it was an entire nest against one Slayer after all- she succeeded in staking the last of the Undead.
Exhausted, seriously drained, she fell to her knees beside one of the lucky gravestones to escape the brawl unscathed, leaning against it for support. The action stirred the misty fog that seemed to have developed sometime within those last few moments.
Not really curious, her gaze was drawn downward of it's own accord, fog swirling and allowing Buffy a glimpse of what had been etched into the stone, surprised and more than a little disconcerted that no words were written.
No words.
Only a barcode.
This was the first time in over six years that she'd had that particular nightmare, the first since becoming a Slayer a little over a year ago that it was incorporated with a Slayer dream, made all the more frightening and disturbing by the fact that these nightmare had a basis in reality. A reality Buffy wanted very much to forget ever existed. But what had woken her from the nightmare scared her just as much.
She'd awoke, covered in sweat, and body shaking. Not just I've-been-awakened-by-my-worst-nightmare-type shaking, but a harsh, jerking that took her by surprise. She'd never been one of those who had had the bad shakes; she could control hers to an extent, and she hadn't experienced anything but the occasional twitch every now and then. This was the full blown dealio that had filled her and her siblings with dread, the prelude to one of them being taken away and never to return.
The remaining few hours before she had to 'wake up' for school was spent in her bathroom, grateful in a new way that she had her own bathroom, as the shakes that had so scared her as a child came to hit her full force, spasming and arching her body with ruthless efficiency. The bottle of all-important Tryptophan stood like a silent, grim spectator, some of its contents strewn about the countertop, a few dotting the floor beside where her head lay quivering, praying to the Blue Lady or whatever deity that this would pass soon.
By the time Joyce Summers had arisen to start the coffee and her day, Buffy had managed to get herself reasonably under control, getting dressed, feeling like an old crone as she shook slightly and ached all over while pulling on whatever clothes were handy. She didn't waste time with make-up, just splashed water on her face, pinched her cheeks, and hoped her mother wouldn't ask too many questions. Let her think it was just a restless night, run a brush through her hair, clean her teeth after a pseudo-breakfast of a large glass of milk and a slice of toast her stomach protested against, and hit the road for school.