Big, awe inspiring, empty places are supposed to be good places to think, but thinking wasn't anything I'd ever done well here; it's like I'm impaired or have a learning disability or something in this town - or at least what's left of it, with my legs dangling over the edge of the crater walls and all... It's a big, imposing vista, yo. Should be great for collecting my troubled thoughts - and coming up with a new way to fuck things up. Should've gone somewhere else if I really wanted to make things right. Boston had worked real well though.
Then again, my thinking sucks wherever I am, so this is as good a place as any.
If I was the kind of chick to pay attention to this sort of shit, I'd be making a big stink about it being the one year anniversary of my glorious (yeah, right) return to Sunnydale. Instead I'll give not a flying fuck about it at all, no siree.
One year since I met Robin fucking Wood. I chuck a stone into the crater, listen to the satisfying plunk! as it plunges into the water. A storm had breeched the seawall, allowing the Pacific to come flowing in. Now the water was up to about two-thirds of the way, almost a pretty lagoon, and would make a killer condo community if people weren't so scared about more of the underground cave system giving way - not that there actually was one, but whatever.
One of the things I learned in the slammer, not that there was anything particularly important about it, was that the Pacific was named by Magellan - the first guy who circumnavigated the Earth but didn't because he was killed part way through - and means "peaceful" not because it was calm, but because they wanted it to be. I get the feeling that my mom was thinking along the same lines when she named me. I lost faith in everything pretty early: family, friends, God, the government of the U.S. of A... cheering for the Sox wasn't helping any either.
I'm good at procrastinating. I'm supposed to be thinking about Robin.
I think I'll go for a walk.
Ah... the docks. On the outskirts of town, they managed to avoid most of the cluster-fuck that swallowed up the rest of Sunnydale. It's really no surprise that I ended up here at the end of my long walk. No one else may have any memories attached to this place, but I've got a shit-load, so naturally my feet take me here. Also, there's no other place left. Some parts of the beach, maybe, but I've never been there, so why start now? I'm in a nostalgic mood, dammit.
Hope no one steals my bike while I'm out here.
I pick my way through the rusted cargo containers that the shipping companies just left on the pier; easier for them to call it a write off than to retrieve the goods. I think this spot here is where I saved B from Trick, but my mind may be playing tricks on me (ha, ha) and could just be making shit up again. Probably not, though, since I recognize the warehouse over here... hey wait! There's tracks leading into that building. I look around and pick out telltale signs of human(oid) habitation, and that's enough to send my spidey-sense (yes, I read comics) tingling. Not vamp - I could tell if it was - but someone or something right behind the door, and it doesn't feel kosher. I pull out the knife from my back pocket and crash through the door, slamming into the inhabitant and instantly putting the knife to his throat. Just as I'm about to slit it wide open my brain kickstarts and I realize to my horror that he's human. But only just.
"Willy! What the fuck are you doing here?" I holler as I get myself off the snitch as quickly as superhumanly possible. I really don't want him to get any ideas while I'm on top of him. That's just icky.
Willy, for his part, pulls off a pretty convincing impression of nonchalance as he brushes himself off. "Nice to see you too, Slayer." He checks his neck for blood. There's some, but not much. If it was anyone else I'd feel bad for doing that.
"You living in a warehouse now? I thought you would have had more connections or a place to go."
"Yeah, woulda thunk so too. It turns out that there are quite a few people and not-people who, for some mysterious reason, don't seem to like me so much." No duh. "And so I've decided to hunker down for a bit, wait until some of the heat cools off a bit, and I can go on with my life." Willy looks around at his current squalor, "Such as it is. What about you? Would of thought that you of all people would be like 'voom'! out of here."
Nothing special. Just Robin and I are going through one helluva rocky patch right now - that's probably my fault. I don't really want to go into it. "It's complicated," is all I say, and hope the little maggot drops it.
"Is it one of those Slayer dream dealies?" Willy asks. "Not some other apocalypse I hope. I'd rather not lose my - ah, what the fuck. Go ahead and blow up everything again. See if I care." Willy slumps himself down in a battered old office chair and pulls a flask from his jacket.
"How do you know about Slayer dreams?"
To that, the snitch just shrugs. "I hear things, you know? Well, used to hear things. Now I might as well have my eardrums ripped out - don't get any ideas. The only demons I get around here are the sightseeing kind. I sell t-shirts." He holds up a sloppily done up shirt that reads 'I visited the Hellmouth and all I got was this lousy t-shirt.'
"Man, that's so lame."
Willy scoffs. "Like you could do better with factory second shirts and a magic marker? So, is it one of those prophetic dreams? Y'know, I think I had one of those a while back. I dreamt that I was rummaging through my desk drawers and I found this old pastrami sandwich wrapped in tinfoil. I was hungry so I ate it, and when I woke up I had explosive diarrhea. I think I may have said too much. So, briskly changing the subject before you dwell too much on the explosive diarrhea, what does bring you here?"
I try, I really try to get the explosive diarrhea out of my head, but it's burned in there with a laser and no amount of scrubbing can ever wash it clean. "I'm the sightseeing kind," I say, but what I'm thinking is 'eww' followed by the uplifting knowledge that Willow is supposed to be pretty good with mind wiping spells.
"Oh. You want a t-shirt? Slayer special, 50 off, for you, sixty."
"I think I'll pass, thanks."
"Your loss. So, how's life treating you?" he asks.
I try to answer without really saying anything. "I'm five by five. Nice to be out of jail. Doing good work. You?"
"My life's good. I can relax in the sun." He's still as pale as ever. "I visit the beach. I sell t-shirts to passing tourist demons. I fish. One time I caught this big fish monster thing, like the Creature from the Black Lagoon. It ate my pole. Now I need a new pole. But I can't complain. No one bothers me. I rarely have Slayers barging in here and breaking my nose. And I get all the sneakers I can wear from that crate over there. Hey, you want some sneakers? I'm sure I can set you up with your size."
"Nah. I'm not really a sneakers kind of gal." I point to my boots. "Unless you have something in a black leather."
"Sorry, Slayer. I can do you tennis shoes, basketball shoes, even bowling shoes, but nothing tasteful. Hey, does that goofy kid still hang around you guys? Least I can do for the $28 bucks he gave me."
"Wha?"
"Never mind."
"Well, it's been a hoot catching up. The gang will be thrilled to hear from you, but I'd better be going." We shake hands amicably, which is something I never thought I'd ever do with Willy. Some nagging insecurity is still bothering me though, and I feel stupid for asking but I really have to know. "Hey, how come you never asked me to do the tasteful artistic nude photography like the other girls?"
"I have this thing about living, in that I'd rather stay that way." Makes sense.
It's about four o'clock in the afternoon when I finally make my way back to where I started from. I'm so relieved that my bike is still there. It's a 1986 Harley-Davidson Lowrider, a bike I fell in love with when I was a kid but only now could afford (it's hard to find one you like to steal - and even tougher to keep it).
I haven't found the answers I came here for. That deserves a smoke, so I light up before getting ready to leave this hellhole. Hey, that's funny, because it is. "I'm a friggin' comedic genius," says I.
"No, you're not." The voice startles me, makes me nearly jump out of my skin. This is because I was so sure I was alone. Also because its Buffy's voice, and I know for a fact she's in Italy. This time I'm a little more clever than last. It's the First for sure, so I spit through her and, sure enough, this B hasn't kicked me into the gorge.
"Hey, good to see you!" I lie.
"Faith, you're missing a good opportunity here. There's this nice deep cliff right beside you for you to throw yourself off of. What are you waiting for?"
I smirk. "I was hoping for another rough and tumble with you, sweetie," I say while I give her my best sultry smile. "You caught me a little off my game last time, but now, if you're up for it, I can rock your world," I let out purr as I stretch out over my bike, letting the neckline of my shirt fall from my breasts and making sure she gets an eyefull and a half. "I've got a pretty good ride here, but maybe you'd like to provide a better one."
"You'll never change, Faith," taunts the First, "always thinking with your libido. No wonder Robin's leaving you."
"Nah. If anything he's only put up with my shit as long as he has because of the sexin'."
"I know you," Buffy purrs back at me, grazing her substanceless fingers across my face. "You're thinking that this would be your chance to fly to Italy and get your rocks off with her, now that your relationship is dead and Buffy is only dating a hulking slab of man-meat of ambiguous moral alignment whom you can't stand."
I smirk at her. "Unless you're here to warm me up for the actual game, you think you could vamoose?"
She abruptly pulls back from me, and I honestly miss the proximity. "Not this time. I'm here to make you realize the hopelessness of your life and to finally send you to hell where you belong."
"Huh? That's pretty blatant. Is this attached to any particular evil scheme of yours? You usually take a while to put these things together."
A slow smile crosses Buffy's lips. "Do I need a plan? I'm going to turn you against yourself and have you end your life here, at the edge of the mouth of hell."
"So this is just a revenge thing for you? That's petty."
"Maybe if I sit here, bleeding, and dying, you'd figure it out, Faith." Buffy's disappeared, and I look down to meet the eyes of the long dead deputy mayor Finch. "Maybe meeting again the first man you killed will convince you of your worthlessness," Finch gurgles, with the blood dribbling from his mouth, his eyes rolling up and staring glassy-eyed into mine.
"You know that I'll always feel bad about Finch, but it was an accident, pure and simple. Sure, I didn't do right in the follow up, what with trying to frame B and dumping the body, but he's not exactly a symbol of unredeemability for me. Hell, I didn't even know what he sounded like until right now, if you're not faking it, that is. If you're trying to get me to off myself, you've got it way wrong. I'd expect better from you."
The First appears next with a voice that I did have the chance to recognize. I didn't match it until I saw him though. Not Mr. Spock (note to self: kick Andrew's ass), but the old, lonely vulcanologist I murdered for the Boss.
"Was I an accident, Faith?" the old professor asks me. His puppy dog eyes are so sad, but it's just a trick. "Did you slip that knife into my chest thinking that I was a demon, bumping along in the night? How long will you continue to run away from your guilt, Faith? Will you finally surrender to the self-loathing that you deserve?"
And that bothers me. "For an all-seeing non-corporeal being, you sure miss the point a lot. I've spent a few years in prison. Not as many as I should have, but enough for me to dwell on my past deeds. I will always feel sad about what I did, but I've made peace with myself over it. Actually, I really must thank you. So, thanks, First."
His curiosity bells just went ding! He'll almost inevitably ask why - and he does. I answer. "Because if it wasn't for you I'd have had nothing to do after capturing Angel and I'd probably have gone back to jail and I wouldn't have reconciled with my ex-friends or met Robin. In fact, I've had a blast and I owe it all to you."
The First morphs into Angel. "Faith," he says, "I've always tried to help you get back on the good side, but I've always been disappointed in the way you turned out."
"Hey, that's pretty good," I say. "Except that you're not broody enough and it's daytime. But other than that, I'd say SNL quality - featured performer only. Not Darrell Hammond quality. Don't feel too bad, Firsty, nobody's perfect. I'm sure that in a few more hundred years you'll get that spot on. But I wouldn't try the whole world conquest thing until you've got that fixed up. You're just not very good at it."
That incites some quality anger from the First. "I have existed since before time began," she says, in full aristocratic uberbitch mode, "I have caused the rise and fall of civilizations, and I will continue to exist until the end of the universe. I shall prevail."
"Yeah? I've existed since 1982, and plan on existing for a few more years yet. And we kicked your ass last summer, so nya!"
"Now stop being so fucking childish, Faith. Won't you ever grow up, you stupid brat." Mom? Wow, I never expected to see her again, even in this way. That brings up vague memories, events that I know I was there for, that I do remember, but feel as if I had read them in a book; so much has happened since then, and I really can only think back to the last apocalypse or two. I want to feel something for her - I really expect to - but I get nothing. That chapter's closed. I let out a ponderous "huh," that interupts my mother's tirade of insults that I really haven't been paying attention to anyway.
"You have something to say to me, you little slut?"
I have nothing to say to the First. If it really was mom, I'd tell her that things have worked out okay, and I've forgiven her. But since it isn't, a scathing critique feels more in order.
"Yo, Firsty. As far as superpowers go, yours is pretty lame." That gets a rise out of 'er. Noncorporeal superbeings can get really ugly when they're pissed off. "I mean, seriously, you have all the power of a busker while not being able to collect the coins at the end of the show. We'd be really scared of you if you had a wicked cool superpower like, I don't know... maybe the Green Lantern or say... ME. But you don't, so..." I half turn, bend over and slap my ass. "Right here, bitch."
The First just scowls at me.
"Now do Richard Nixon."
"I'm the neverending source of all evil. I'm not Rich Little."
"Ooh! Do Rich Little!" I don't know who Rich Little is. I wonder if he's anything like Little Richard.
The First keeps scowling at me. "Rich Little is still alive."
But I keep talking without paying attention. "Hey, I always wanted to meet Babe Ruth. Can you do him? Or Gandhi. Or Colonel Sanders."
I smile as I watch the First do a passable imitation of Yosemite Sam shaking in rage, then disappears with an audible pop!into the air. Yeah, I've still got the quality bitch. And I keep smiling as I launch the bike back on the highway to civilization.
Maybe I have found my answers after all.
Author Notes: The pastrami sandwich dream thing happened to me. Somehow I don't think it makes me a precog, though. The second and third parts of this story don't quite live up to the first part, I know, but I hope I was able to bring something fresh to the table.