FIC: Whither Thou Goest... Part 19/?

[PB <pbnj@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>]

Title: Whither Thou Goest...
Author: Pink Rabbit Productions
Archive: Pink Rabbit, A Slayer/A Hacker
Author's Notes: This is the latest sequel to Spin, Spinning, Spun Out, It
All Depends On Your Timing, and Interludis Neanderthalensis. It's not
finished, but I'm going to start posting in segments since it's getting
close to the end (probably).
Disclaimer: The characters and show all belong to Joss Whedon, Fox, Mutant
Enemy, Kuzui, and God only knows who else. This particular arrangement of
words in cyberspace belongs to me, however. Btw, it contains love between
two women, so if such things offend you, are illegal where you live or
somesuch, kindly don't read it and upset yourself, 'kay. It'll just make
life easier on all of us.
Spoilers: Random Season 5 stuff
Rating: soft R -- for cursing, some violence, and such
Part: 19/? (yeah, I know the parts and the chapter numbers don't match
up--and they never will bwahahahahaha)

Whither Thou Goest...
Chapter Thirteen

Nanking, China-- 1842 -- The Last Days of the Heavenly Middle Kingdom

Outside the darkness of the rented crib, the world was coming to an end;
greedy men destroying underarmed soldiers led by corrupted generals, while
a hopelessly addicted populace looked on in helpless horror. Inside the
small room none of it mattered to the girl who carefully cooked a small
ball of white material, her hands trembling only slightly with nervous
tension. She was perhaps fifteen, with gentle features, her long dark hair
glossy where it hung down her slender back. Despite her youth, she'd done
this a thousand different times for a thousand different men. Such was he
fate of a peasant girl sold into slavery by a family with too many
daughters and too few sons. As she finished preparing the opium, she looked
up from under thick lashes at the woman who stood in the shadows a few feet
away, tamping down her instinctive fear. She'd dealt with a thousand men,
but this was the first woman...and the first person in the combination
whorehouse and opium den to treat her with anything approaching kindness.

"It is ready," she said softly, her lower-class Cantonese accent dulling
the high vowels of her Mandarin, marking her for a peasant to anyone with
the ear to hear the differences in the dialects. She started to repeat the
words in achingly learned English--almost none of the foreign savages spoke
even the most common dialects--but the woman only waved her silent,
responding in softly accented Mandarin that very nearly mastered the
lyrical quality of the language.

"It's yours," she said gently.

The girl frowned, not quite understanding. She was an addict of course,
like a horrifying percentage of her fellow countrymen, but with war raging
around them, the prices were rising on the drug imported from the poppy
fields of India. For a foreigner, even a rich one, to give such a thing to
a prostitute was unheard of. Fear glittered in her eyes alongside a
perverse sort of gratitude as she stared at the westerner. At some level,
she knew the kindness was no kindness and that it would cost her, but she
was no more able to resist the siren's song than any other addicted child
with no comfort but the drug they've learned to both love and hate.

She inhaled deeply from the pipe, shuddering ever so slightly as she felt
the first wave of numbing haze wash over her. She inhaled again and felt
the familiar pull of the sky as gravity released her body from the earth.

Soft hands cupped her face, then slid down the graceful length of her neck
before parting the front of her gown, while lips as fine as the Emperor's
silk delicately teased her mouth. She'd heard of men wanting women to
perform such perversities for their pleasure, but it had never occurred to
her that they might do such things for their own pleasure. Another lungful
of smoke had her floating, clinging to the arms that held her and arching
against the caressing lips that slid down and over her bared torso.

Such sweet pleasure; almost as addictive as the thick narcotic smoke making
its way through her bloodstream. She cried out, nails digging into her
strange lover's shoulders, body trembling with need, confused by the alien
sensations of pleasure rippling through her nerve endings, but helpless to
resist them. And when lips and fingers touched all the places in her body
she'd learned to hate, she sobbed with pleasure for the first time in her
young life.

Fingers digging into silky blond hair, she held on tightly as her lover
slid back up the length of her body, begging and praying for the beauty to
last the rest of her life.

"It will...I promise...." The softly accented voice wrapped around her,
soothing any fears.

And then sharp teeth tore into the soft flesh of her throat.

Pleasure and pain coalesced into one entity as the girl experienced the
first and last orgasm of her pain-filled life, dying far more sweetly than
she'd lived.

Powerful hands slid through fine black silk hair as the vampire drunk
deeply from the peasant girl's throat, the thick narcotic of her blood
flowing through long-dead veins, until the figure in her arms was little
more than a dried out husk. She rose slowly, the girl's body still draped
across her forearm, and wavered on suddenly unsteady feet as the familiar
feeling of the drug washed through her. She tipped her head back, eyes
sliding closed as she felt her body grow lighter with every passing second.
At times like this, with the hunger sated and the mind dulled, the beast
could almost forget the agony of its existence. Still holding the dead
child like a cherished lover, she awaited the familiar brush of pleasurable
nothingness.

But then instead of the familiar pleasure, there was pain, agonizing,
bitter pain. She screamed, green eyes snapping open and clumsily threw an
arm across her face, roaring as sunlight poured across her face. She dodged
into the shadows, snarling in hate, but another hole appeared in the
ceiling blocking off that escape route, knocked in the slat and plaster by
a heavy sledge hammer. She tried to duck again, and again a hole was
drilled from above to allow sunlight through, forming a cage of light
around the roaring, raging beast.

She spun unsteadily as the door to the crypt-like interior of the crib was
pushed open, lips drawing back from sharp canines in a feral snarl.

The men who entered were well armed, and they quickly spread out, ready to
deal with any resistance she might offer. "Who dares?" she growled in
barely comprehensible Mandarin.
The response came in an ear-piercing wail in a language she didn't
recognize, though with hundreds of dialects on the Chinese continent, that
wasn't that unusual. The priests entered then, Shaolin, Shinto, Taoist, and
a Buddhist monk, all praying, their whining drone painful to her ears.

"Hitting all the low points," she sneered, panic and inebriation driving
her to slip into her native French, while the world tipped back and forth
beneath her feet, threatening to toss her to the floor. And what an
embarrassing way to die that would be. They lit incense wrapped in paper
covered with delicately written prayers and pleadings to long dead
ancestors, chanting and praying, while she snarled and tried to lunge
forward, only to be forced back by the sharp beams of sunlight cutting
through the smoky air.

And then the soldiers parted, making way for the slender figure that
entered between them, her carriage erect and graceful, her gold silk robe
embroidered in entwined patterns of dragons, and phoenixes, with black
cuffs edged by images of bats and clouds.

The vampire's eyes lifted, meeting the newcomer's black gaze and nearly
losing herself in the obsidian depths. The Chinese woman was young and
beautiful, her black hair swept back from smooth features, but the vampire
cared nothing for that, only for the threat she sensed in her cool
confidence. Uncertain now, she bared her teeth like any cornered animal.

A wry smile twisted strawberry kissed lips and the Chinese woman spoke with
the clear and perfect accent befitting any member of the Emperor's court.
"Did you think the sacred ancestors of my people would simply allow you to
slaughter at will, beast?"

The creature allowed herself a small sneer, reminding herself of her
essential superiority. "Since they haven't seen fit to do much to stop the
British from killing far more than I ever thought of, I don't suppose I
ever considered the problem."

Black eyes narrowed and the woman straightened if struck. "Such arrogance
from a thing that cannot have the one thing it desires."

Hatred glittered in the creature's eyes for the truth behind the words.
"You know nothing."

"It is you who know nothing. You could steal the artist's hands, but not
the heart, her eyes, but not her soul. All of the alcohol and opium in the
universe will never change that."

The vampire roared in fury then, all control lost, lunging for her throat,
then fell back screaming as a priest flicked yellow silk in her path, and
it touched her skin, licking burns across her flesh like the caress of a
Christian cross.

"Faith controls you. Faith can destroy you...."

She fell back, gagging and clawing at her face and arms as the smoke from
the burning incense touched her skin. Above her, wooden javelins were ready
to thrust down through the holes in the ceiling and send her back to dust.
"Do it," she growled, almost welcoming the death to come. Too long had she
lingered in this mortal world, unable to touch the one thing she had come
for. Leaving would be a kind of peace. "End it." She fell to the dirt
floor, an arm still around the dead prostitute, slender fingers clawing
into the cool earth as she tried to escape the burning fingers of their
faith floating around her.

"Or faith can create you," a soft voice whispered near her ear, the tone
silky, promising a kind of peace she had no right to. "Surrender to me, and
I can show you how to attain the one thing you long for."

"Meat puppet, you can show me nothing," she snarled, and suddenly found
herself face to face with the dead child. A trembling hand lifted to brush
soft hair from the delicate face. "I was made before your world was even a
flickering ball of matter in the heavens. What can mere mortal flesh ever
show me?"

"Mere mortal flesh can create a painting with a soul...while you can create
nothing more than a dead likeness on canvas."

The vampire roared, a feral sound that echoed off the walls, but didn't
look up to face her enemy.

A hand dug into her hair, dragging her head back when she would have
fought. "I know what you are," her tormentor hissed. "What you have
been...and what you can become...I can give you what you long for...but
only if you surrender to me."

A long moment passed, the air thick with smoke; silent, except for the
occasional rustle of bamboo armor. The vampire had no fear of death.
Whether it was an ending or simply a return to the Abyss, she didn't know,
but either way, it was barely mattered. Nothing had mattered for more
millennia than she cared to count. Her very existence was cursed by God.
Perhaps that meant that nothing at all mattered in the end.

And yet, there stood her strange captor, holding out the promise of some
measure of peace...some small bit of fulfillment.

Or a swift death.

It wasn't such a hard choice in the end.

"Yes," she whispered after another beat. Almost instantly, the hold on her
hair gentled, becoming almost tender, rewarding her for her submission.

"And it begins."

"What begins?"

"Everything...."

The sweet voice muted and melded into another, speaking English now as
Delaine struggled up through the enveloping haze surrounding her.

"...eyes rolled back in her head and she just pitched forward." It was the
old Chinese woman's voice...sort of--but not exactly-- because her English
perfect and unaccented now.

A hand landed on her upper arm, breaking in on her addled musing. "Miss?"

"Damn junkies, you'd think they could find somebody else's place of
business to die in."

She blinked back to full consciousness, suddenly becoming aware of the feel
of cold cement under her cheek.

"Better call this one in." A cop, and then she heard the staticky sound of
a radio.

"No, it's...it's all right," she mumbled and pushed upright, staring around
herself in confusion as she realized she was on the floor of the Chinese
woman's tiny shop, though the trigrams of the I-Ching were no longer in
evidence. An officer, younger and less jaded looking than most was crouched
down next to her, his expression worried. "I...I just slipped and fell."
She reached up and massaged her temple as if it throbbed, trying not to
tremble in the aftermath of the visions despite their probable meaning.
"Must have hit my head."

The cop's eyes lifted to the fortune teller. "Really?" he questioned. "She
said you mumbled something and passed out."

Green eyes lifted, finding the fortune teller, and then she blinked in
momentary surprise. This one was younger--a lot younger--and the scrying
stone was gone, though the gaudy jewelry remained. Her hair was cut short
and modern, the Suzy Wong sheath dress made taut by overfull curves, while
the embroidery was still expansive, but with the machine styled perfection
of mass production. "No," she said softly, leaning on the hand he offered
as she climbed to her feet. He had the look of a man protective of women
and she flashed an appreciative smile. "Just slipped and fell."

His eyes turned suspiciously toward the fortune teller. They'd had
complaints before.

"I'm fine...really. She was facing the other way when it happened. Probably
didn't realize what happened." She heard her own voice, sounding confident
despite the quavering in her stomach.

The fortune teller was scared now. She already had enough trouble keeping
her business license. The last thing she needed was some hotheaded young
cop deciding she'd endangered a customer. "Yeah...I guess I just didn't see
as much as I thought."

The vampire heard her own voice, her normally almost nonexistent French
accent far more pronounced than usual as she assured him, "Really, I'm
fine. It was just a little accident." She straightened her coat, trying to
look more respectable than the form-fitting leather she was wearing under
the trenchcoat would have indicated. "I-I need to go."

The officer's hand caught her back. He still wasn't convinced what had
happened. "Maybe you should go to the hospital." She tried to pull her arm
back, but he insisted on holding on.

In that instant, she almost killed him, almost turned back and devoured him
before he knew what hit him. "No," she gasped instead and yanked her arm
loose to flee into the night. She turned herself free then, letting go all
of the self-control she maintained to maneuver unseen and unnoticed among
humans, moving as only she could, fast and high, dancing along rooftops and
treelimbs with the ease and grace of a wraith. In the distance, she could
hear the officer calling after her, but he was long gone and she simply was
what she was.

* * * * * *
Buffy did a slow pivot in the interior of her mother's shop, willing her
heart to slow its hammering beat against the inside of her ribcage. She
drew a deep breath and exhaled heavily in a futile attempt to release the
stress gathered in the pit of her stomach.

"You're ready," she whispered to herself. "You can do this." She fisted her
hands at her sides, silently reviewing where she'd stashed the weapons. As
she ran through the mental checklist, she tried not to think of Willow and
the way she'd been forced to leave her.

No, best not to think about that. Willow would be okay. She would see to it
even if it cost her everything.

There was no way in hell she was going to let any goddamn demon--ex-Slayer,
or not--hurt the woman she-- the people-- she loved, she silently amended.

She was ready. She was prepared. She was psyched.

And hopefully, she wasn't doomed.

* * * * * *

Tara stood outside Willow's dorm room, her expression a mixture of guilt
and uncertainty. She couldn't believe what she was contemplating doing;
sneaking into the pretty redhead's room just to see where she lived, and
perhaps feel a little closer to her, even if only for a brief moment. She'd
known from the first brief meeting at the Wiccan gathering that the other
girl was special, sensing the power hiding just beneath her quiet surface,
but she'd held back, too shy to do more than introduce herself--and barely
able to even do that much--thrilled to simply be in the other girl's
presence. When she'd heard that Willow had been caught in the violence at
the Twenty-Four/Seven, she'd almost passed out with sheer terror. Tara had
it bad and she knew she had it bad.

Which was why she was standing outside the other girl's dorm room, striving
to ignore the bad music blasting from the rooms up and down the hall,
slipping the key into the lock, and trying desperately to pretend she was
just doing this for the sake of Willow's fish. After all, while they might
like the punk music Buffy had left playing (being fish, they probably
didn't have the most highly developed music taste in the world), but even
the most forgiving of fishy tastes couldn't be enjoying the cacophony that
was blaring through the building until the foundations were probably
starting to crumble.

Okay, so even Tara wasn't buying that mental argument, but it was all she
had, so she clung to it fervently as she turned the key, and pushed the
door open. She stepped through quickly--the flickering fear of being caught
in the potentially embarrassing, if not exactly compromising position
adding speed to her movements--turned, pausing momentarily as her eyes
adjusted to the relative darkness of the room.

And froze, mouth dropping open as she stared at the scene before her in
abject horror. "Oh, my God...Willow..." she exhaled and rushed forward,
reaching for the cuffs latched over Willow's head.

The redhead shook her head violently, shouting hoarsely to make herself
heard above the music. "THE KEYS ARE IN THE TOP DESK DRAWER!" She'd begun
her captivity by straining against the handcuffs, but after it quickly
became apparent that technique was doomed to failure, she'd calmed herself
and worked on levitating the drawer open, something she'd managed with
relative ease. Unfortunately, the iron in the steel alloy keys had proven
as resistant to magical powers as the legends said, and they had sat
unmoving in the open drawer, despite her best efforts.

Unable to quickly spot the volume control on the radio, Tara yanked the
cord out of the wall, lowering the sound level in the room to a dull,
undirected roar, then scrambled after the keys. "What happened?" she
stammered quickly. "We should call the police...my God, are you hurt?" Her
hands were shaking so badly, she could barely get the key in the handcuff
lock and finally, Willow took over, freeing herself. Tara pushed to her
feet, adrenaline making her jittery. "We've got to call 911." And then her
eyes darted around the room, shoulders straightening as she summoned
something deep inside herself. "Is there any chance whoever did this is
still here?" The questions came so fast and furious, stuttery though they
were, that Willow had no chance to answer until that point.

"No," Willow said sharply, her tone forestalling Tara's move toward the
phone. "It's not what you think. It wasn't an...intruder...it was Buffy...."

Tara's eyes went wide. "You...your roommate?"
Forcing Willow to quickly amend, "It's not like that either. She did it to
protect me--the boneheaded idiot." Tara was still staring at her like she'd
lost her mind as Willow tossed the cuffs aside and leaned down to free her
ankles. Luckily, those restraints were just latched with velcro, so she was
free in moments. "It's complicated." The hacker pushed to her feet,
grabbing for the phone and dialing as she snagged her shoes and socks and
began yanking them on.

"Um...what are you..." Tara stuttered uneasily. "W-Willow--"

"Really complicated," Willow added, then muttered to herself, "Dammit,
Giles, pick up." Finally, when it was clear no one was going to answer, she
slammed the phone down, finished tying off her track shoes, and scrambled
first to the closet where she grabbed a lightweight jacket of the Slayer's
that was blessed with a myriad of pockets, then over to the bed. "I'm
sorry, but I don't have time to explain." She yanked Buffy's weapon's box
out from under the bed, grabbing for a crossbow pistol the Slayer had
apparently deemed too small to be effective. She grabbed a handful of short
wooden bolts and shoved them in her pocket, then reached for the couple of
stakes still remaining in the box. They were less than ideally sharp, but
all that she had. Willow looked up as she heard Tara's soft gasp.

"Vampires," the blond exhaled heavily, her expressive eyes going wide with
fright.

Willow stared at the other girl in shock. "You know?" she breathed.

"I-I've heard rumors...but...I never...I...y-you can't go out there if--"

"I don't have a choice," Willow said as she rose again. "I can't let Buffy
face her alone."

"H-her? I don't understand."

"I know and I don't have time to explain." Willow grabbed a sheet of
scratchpaper off the desk, quickly scrawling a phone number across the top.
"But I need you to do me a favor." She turned a pleading look Tara's way
and the blond felt her heart melt even as she realized that any fantasies
she had about Willow were doomed to remain nothing more than fantasies. The
hacker was in love--real love--it burned in her aura like a living flame.

"A-anything," Tara whispered.

"Thanks..." Willow jotted a couple of words on the paper, then handed it to
Tara. "I need you to keep trying this number. If someone picks up, ask for
Giles, tell him that Buffy has gone to Joyce's gallery to face
DuCourvallier. He needs to come loaded for bear. Same message if he calls
here. 'Kay?"

Tara nodded. "I'll tell him," she promised. "But, Willow--"

"I have to go now," the hacker said as she pocketed her keys and headed
toward the door.
"Willow," Tara spoke sharply, her voice edged in desperation.

The hacker turned back.

"Be careful."

A hint of a smile graced Willow's lips. "If I were careful, I probably
wouldn't be going...but thanks." And then she slipped out, pulling the door
closed in her wake, and leaving Tara alone in the darkened room.

"Gaia, protect them," the girl whispered, then picked up the phone and
began dialing.

* * * * * *
TBC

--"If I was all that fond of real life, I would never have majored in theater"

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