Adult-FanFiction.org : Buffy

Red	By : Prophecy Category: -Buffy the Vampire Slayer > General Views: 5553 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Buffy the Vampire Slayer, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 2
- 3
- 4
Interlude: Present Time

Her eyes blinked open slowly after awhile, and she stared blankly at the faces around her. Large hands gripped her and eased her off the bed into a wheelchair. She sat staring dully ahead as they went slowly down the hallway. A thin string of drool stretched from her lips to her lap and her hands jerked every so often.

The man pushing the wheelchair stopped it after awhile and easily lifted her up into another bed. The welts on her back and the backs of her thighs stung as he laid her down, but the pain was a friendly thing now—it reminded her that she was still alive, although she couldn’t remember why that was important. The man with the big hands pressed a straw to her mouth and slowly her mouth remembered how to drink and she guzzled the water desperately until he pulled it away. A small pinch in her arm, a cool rush beneath her skin that made everything heavy.

Slowly, she ran her tongue over her cracked lips, wetting them and continuing to stare glassily at the stone walls that formed her cell. She knew she was supposed to remember something, but she couldn’t remember what she couldn’t remember, and whatever the man with the big hands had given her in that needle made everything feel friendly and slow and a little sleepy. Her eyelids were really heavy and the pillow was so soft, like a cloud. Maybe if she let herself float away on it, she’d remember what she forgot. She gave in, letting the softness carry her into a dreamless sleep.

Chapter Three: Primer

Night fell, and shadows danced on the walls as the wind howled and shook the trees to their very roots. I dig my toes into the soft plushy carpet, curling them and releasing them slowly, over and over. My fingernails are ragged from ripping them apart with my teeth and my arms are covered in bruises from being grabbed and yanked around. Looking around the room, I mentally make a note of where every item that could be a weapon is. Fire poker, glass bottle, katana on the wall. Chair legs are always good, but I doubt I’ll have time to snap one off before there are hands around my neck.

I sit quietly and go over each and every day of my captivity in my head. I’ve been biting myself until the blood comes, marking my time on the wall of my cell, but I can’t see it right now so I can’t know for sure. It makes me anxious, not knowing, not being able to see my wall. My blood, counting out the days of my life. Wondering how many are left. The constant threat of pain and death ahead of me. The pain doesn’t bother me anymore, at least. Truth be told, it never bothered me that much to begin with—a little pain is a good thing, reminds you that you’re alive when you think you might be dead. So am I alive? Or am I dead?

“Look at all those thoughts floating around inside that pretty little head. I can practically see the hamster running on its wheel.” Quentin Travers sits in the armchair opposite me and pours two glasses of whiskey, offering one to me. “Take it.” I take the glass, but hold it on my lap. I need to be clear, I need to pay attention. “It’s Johnnie Walker Blue,” he says. “Roughly $300 a bottle. You really shouldn’t waste it. If I wanted you dead, you would be dead.”

He does have a good point, and the smell of the alcohol is a huge improvement over the stench of my unwashed body. I lift the glass and take a sip, closing my eyes briefly as it warms my insides on the way down. It suddenly strikes me how ridiculous this entire situation is. Me, covered in blood and dirt and god only knows what else, sitting in this overstuffed armchair in an actual sitting room, fire roaring beneath the hearth, swallowing a 50$ sip of whiskey.

“You have to be wondering why you’re here.”

I let myself have one more sip before setting the glass down. Clear, I have to be clear. I have to be alert and look for an opening. I judge the space between myself and the fire poker, but I won’t make it in time. I scan the room for better options as he continues talking. “We don’t wish to hurt you, Faith.”

For the first time, I meet his eyes—cold and dead, stony and hollow—and a hard laugh escapes my lips. “Really? I must’ve gotten the wrong impression when you strapped me down and electrocuted me. When you sent your goddamn dogs after me, when you shot me.”

He waves his hand dismissively while sipping from his glass. “Means to an end, Faith. We need your cooperation. It will be easier for everyone if you give it voluntarily, but we will have it regardless.” His voice is so calm that it sets me on edge. I know this game, know he’s trying to put me at ease. Come off like the friendly grandfather doing something for my own good. I want to launch out of the chair and claw at him until his face comes off in shreds beneath my nails, but the whiskey is hitting me and I feel heavy and soft.

“Good,” he says softly, watching me. “Let the anger go. Give in, let yourself relax a little.” His voice starts to lull me and I really wish I hadn’t accepted the glass. My mind is growing fuzzy.

“What do you want with me? Why am I here? We both know you’re not interested in ‘rehabilitating’ me. You want to get to Buffy, you shoulda taken just about anyone in the world except me. I’m the one person she won’t miss, won’t look for.” It hurts to say those words, but it’s the truth. Not after what I did to her, what I said to her. The way I threw her away like a piece of trash.

“Is this what you believe, truly?” He sounds like a snake now, his voice low and hissing. A smirk behind that relaxed face. He’s drunk, but not on his stupid three hundred dollar whiskey. No, he’s drunk on power. I recognize it like a junkie recognizes heroin.

“Yeah,” I say, my voice catching in my throat. “Yeah, it is.”

He nods a little. “Tell me what you remember, Faith.”

My eyes go to the fire poker again, and I allow myself a minute to fantasize. I’d pick it up, crack it across the side of his head like a home run. Stand over his body on the floor as I drive the sharp end into his chest, over and over again. Feeling and hearing his ribs as they snap, standing in my bare feet as his blood pools around me. Fuck you, I would breathe to his dying body. Bang! I’d be the one drunk on power then. I’d be the one capable of causing such enormous pain.

“Faith.”

I close my eyes for a minute and when I open them, the world is a little softer around me. The alcohol is really taking hold, plus whatever the fuck they’ve been injecting into me. I don’t even want to fight anymore. The poker taunts me from the corner, mocking me for being too weak and tired and soft to grab it. I hear it whisper in my head, you are weak; you are nothing. You deserve this. Every bit of it. You made your own bed, psycho bitch. Loser. Slut. Murderer. Trash.

He raps his hand on the side table and I snap my vision back to him. “Tell me what you remember.”

“About what?” I don’t know what he wants. Why the fuck am I here.

“About Sunnydale. Tell me about Sunnydale.”

I feel my body relax against the chair. The comfort and warmth of the chair, the booze, this room, his voice. I fade a little. “I.. I ran away after Diana died.” The name of my Watcher feels strange on my tongue. I haven’t spoken of her in years and years. I tried so hard to forget. Just another failure. More evidence that my calling was a wrong number.

“No, you stupid girl,” Quentin snaps, putting his glass down hard and leaning forward a little bit. “Tell me about the final battle. The potentials, the First. Tell me what happened, how you did it.”

My head swims and I try to remember. All I can pull up are bits and pieces mixed with memories of my body seizing beneath the lights. “There was.. a weapon, of some kind. A big.. axe thing.”

“The scythe.” He’s relaxed again now that I’m cooperating.

“Yeah. We.. found it. Somewhere. Beneath the ground. I—I don’t remember. Buffy found it, brought it home, showed it to me.”

“Because you were injured, yes? An explosion of some kind.”

I nod slowly. I think that’s right. “Willow did something the day we went into the.. uh.. the.. the hole in the ground..”

“The seal,” he prompts me gently.

“The seal. We went in it, and Willow did something with the scythe, and.. everyone.. turned into slayers.” I shake my head a little, trying to remember. It’s all patchwork, half-frayed memories stitched together, mismatched and full of holes. Things are missing and I don’t know why.

He’s impatient now, fingers drumming the arm of his chair. “What did Willow do with the scythe?”

I shake my head. I don’t know. I never knew, really. Of all the weird shit in the world, witchcraft was the thing I knew the least about. “A spell of some kind.”

He leans forward again, his cold dead eyes burning into mine. “You’re going to have to do better than that.”

“I can’t. I don’t know what she did, how it worked. Sh-she did a spell with the scythe, and the power, the Slayer power, it went through us. All of us. I felt it. We shared the power somehow.”

Quentin gets up and starts pacing. He’s agitated, a tiger in a cage. I don’t know what he wants, just that I haven’t given it to him. I can’t give it to him, and I’ve still got my wits about me enough to be happy about it. No matter what they do to me, I can’t tell them what they want to know. Now I can see his mind working and spinning, trying to figure me out. Trying to decide if I’m lying, if I’m screwing with him. Now I’m agitated. I bounce my good leg up and down nervously and against my better judgement, I take another sip from the glass. Watching him pace is sending my anxiety through the roof. I feel like I’m going to jump out of my skin.

I snap. “Look, I don’t know what the fuck you want from me, but I was too busy killin’ uber vamps to worry about what the fuck Willow and Kennedy were doing. I wasn’t there.”

He stops. Looks at me.

“The witch wasn’t alone?”

It hits me slowly, but in one sucker-punch. He didn’t know. He didn’t know. They wouldn’t be stupid enough to try to capture one of the strongest witches to ever live. But a second-string Slayer? If they caught me, Kennedy would be no problem. And now I’ve served Buffy and every one of the girls up to the council on a silver platter.

I can see the bloodlust in his eyes. I just gave him what he wanted. An opening, a path. I couldn’t tell him what he wanted to know, but Kennedy can. And after they’ve held a blowtorch to her eyeball a few times, she definitely will.

A smile spreads over his face and he motions to the men sitting on a couch in the corner. They rise immediately and move towards me. My entire body freezes up as they grab me, ignoring my pulling and pushing. I can’t help it; I start screaming. They keep going anyway, carrying me out of the room. They drag me backwards and I stop twisting in their grasp long enough to watch Quentin watching me, his face hungry with power, a wicked grin stretched across his lips. I keep screaming as the doors shut and I am dragged away, beating the floor with my heels. I try desperately, jerking and twisting away from them until I hear the sickening pop as my shoulder comes out of the socket. The pain blinds me momentarily and the men carrying me laugh as I cry.

There’s no reason to keep me alive now. They will kill me; of this I’m certain. I’m useless to them now. They’ll get rid of me, and they’ll capture Kennedy and they’ll find out what they need to know, and then Buffy and the school will fall, crumbling like a demolished building before the Council swoops in to build over it.

And it will all be my fault.

What have I done?
- 2
- 3
- 4
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Red