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Truth and Consequences

"Somebody skimmed the job description again then?"

Standing on the edge of the rooftop in central London the view was stunning in two ways; there was the skyline of one of the oldest cities on earth - a medley of grand architecture, history, cheap thrills, and a melding of cultures as far as the eye could see. You could even just make out the orange of the sun setting between the turrets of Tower Bridge if you looked hard enough through the fat sideways rain. Below, the scene was stunning in a far worse way.

From her vantage point on what she was beginning to think was one of the only flat roofs in England, the alleyway appeared as though it had been intentionally painted cherry red. Maybe to mark Chinese new year. Or Christmas. But anyone who'd seen as much as she'd seen in her life knew better. Describing it as bloody wouldn't have done it justice.

It was gore.

Passageways here were much narrower than back home and so the arterial spray had managed to coat both walls and the entire floor for a good ten feet or more. The brickwork was spattered with pieces. For a moment or two even her eyes wouldn't allow her to see the truth of it. But she persevered. She needed to see what had happened to be able to finish this.

Blinking, she adjusted the tilt of her head to fight against the stinging rain and there it was. An intestine flung carelessly around a lampost that had probably seen the Industrial Revolution. An eyeball pulped between the grating of a drain. And was that a piece of spine currently being stepped on by a careless police officer? From his immediate squeak of regret she assumed her guess had been correct.

It had taken her too long to get here. And three people going about their day had paid for it with a horrific and needless death. It was at times like this that her friends would remind her that this wasn't her fault. She couldn't have made it there any quicker. London was a labyrinth crammed full of people and with a transport system that both bewildered and enraged. This much she could agree on. But they were missing the point. The root cause of this incident and the three before it - as well as countless others across the globe - rested squarely on her shoulders.

It had taken a while for the consequences of her actions to catch up with her. Years, even. But when she looked back on the choice they had made all that time ago, she couldn't believe she ever thought it would turn out any differently. She, more than anyone, should have known the effect carrying this burden could have on a girl. At least she'd had the benefit of growing up an actual kid.

That's when it had started to go really wrong; when the next generation were born.

The Slayers who came into their power as adults had struggled with the transition, of course, but those who had never know anything else were the real test. And it was a test that had a small but significant - and deadly - failure rate. The world didn't know how to deal with hundreds of thousands of women who went from being the so-called 'fairer sex' to more powerful than the strongest of men. Hospitals were overwhelmed with those seeking a cure. Parents didn't know how to raise girls who could put them through a wall if they didn't get the right flavour of ice cream. Governments reacted by segregating Slayers; there were Slayer-only prisons, gyms, sports, and even schools.

At a crucial coming of age moment in their lives these girls learned they were different and needed to be put somewhere else.

In some ways, she didn't blame the reaction. Fear made sense. Slayers were strong. They were killers. The clue was in the job title.

It was six years after Sunnydale before the first reports of violent crimes committed reached her. Most of these started out as accidents. Young women who didn't know or understand their own strength. The ball really started rolling in the US when a fifteen year old from Wisconsin pushed her boyfriend in a playful fight. She broke three of his ribs from the force of the push and his spine when he hit the football field's goal post. The incident was captured on someone's phone. It went viral and that girl was now seven years into a twenty year prison sentence.

Initially, she'd discussed the cases with her friends and her sister. They'd all come to the conclusion it was inevitable that these things would happen. It was human nature stuff. Tale as old as time. She'd lied to herself that this was no different.

When a journalist uncovered a series of 'Wellness Centers' in rural Nebraska and broadcast the shaky camera footage of rows and rows of women in what amounted to cages the discourse changed. The Government were forced to admit such facilities existed in every state but, they had carefully explained, they were only for those who needed mental health "guidance."

She'd hadn't felt such rage in almost a decade. They marched on the streets, her and her friends along with thousands of others, they held placards and wrote their congress representatives. Looking back on it now it all seemed so farcical.

This was always going to be the consequence of unleashing an ancient primal power on those who could not understand it nor consent to it. She'd woken up in cold sweats for countless nights thinking about what she'd subjected these girls and women to.

Had the ends justified the means?

She was still trying to answer that all these years later. But the vision below her certainly wasn't helping to un-muddy those waters.

It had felt like a lifetime since the voice had asked her a glib question in the face of such horror. In reality it had been only a moment. Even only five years ago she would have been spinning around to confront her unexpected guest. But the scene below and the turmoil that felt ever-present in her mind would only allow her to turn slowly on her heel, rain hammering around them both, as she acknowledged the ghost who stood in front of her.

"Spike."

The corner of his mouth lifted just barely, "Buffy."