Fic: Delicate Cruelty (2/?)

[Erin <erin@xxxxxxxxxxx>]

Chapter 2

It hadn't taken as long as Buffy had feared to move everything over
from her dorm room to her mother's house. Only a couple of hours work
and all the boxes, suitcases, trunks and cartons containing most of
the Slayer's worldly possessions lay in a disorganized mess on her
bedroom floor. As soon as the last box had been carried up to her old
room, Buffy had rushed out of the house with a shouted, "Bye, Mom! Be
back later!" 

Her mother, Joyce, was in the kitchen when she heard Buffy's quick,
noisy exit. She looked down at the counter where she had been busy
making sandwiches for their lunch, and with a resigned expression
began putting the cold cuts and other foodstuffs back in the
refrigerator.

Buffy walked down the bright, busy street humming to herself
cheerfully while keeping a sharp eye out for street addresses. She
occasionally consulted a piece of paper she held, upon which was
printed in a strong, steady hand:

314 Wilson Street, #8

Buffy found the address without much difficulty; it was an older
apartment complex, probably built during the late 60's or early 70's
in the Spanish style that was so popular in Southern California. Huge
palm trees flanked the shaded walkway leading into the middle of the
complex, which was a large common area with a pool and several tables
and chairs. A strong, cool breeze ruffled both the large fronds of
the trees and the blue waters of the deep, inviting pool. Buffy
smiled at this, and after a few minutes of looking around, finally
spotted apartment number eight on the second floor.

The Slayer jogged easily up the stairs and knocked on the front door.
After a moment the door opened, and Buffy's face lit up as soon as
Riley appeared at the entryway.

"Buffy! Hi, c'mon in." He stepped back and waved his arm, proudly
presenting his new home. "What do you think?"

"Wow, this is a great place you've got here," Buffy said, looking
around the disorderly apartment, packed boxes still laying strewn
about the floor. "Kinda like living in Melrose Place, without all the
husband and boyfriend stealing...You don't have boyfriend stealing
around here, do you?" she asked, her face suddenly drawn with mock
concern.

Riley grinned at Buffy and wrapped her in a big hug, kissing her
enthusiastically. "Nope, not so far, at least."

"Good thing." Buffy nodded emphatically. "So, do I get the nickel
tour?"

"You're my girlfriend, I'll give you the quarter tour," Riley replied,
taking Buffy's hand and leading her around. "Over here's the
kitchen--"

"And just why did you show me that first, hmm?" Buffy asked, raising
an eyebrow.

"Uh, well, I thought it was in better taste than showing you the
bedroom first. But since you asked, here's the bedroom," he pointed
to a large bedroom with an adjoining bathroom, "and here's the extra
room that I kinda converted into a workout room." This room was
across the short hallway from the bedroom and already held some small
training mats and a Nautilus machine.

"Very nice," Buffy said, impressed by Riley's new apartment, and
feeling just a bit jealous. "And just how are you able to afford all
this?"

"Well, for a secret, evil, government organization, the Initiative
paid pretty well. It probably had something to do with the nightly
putting your life on the line thing."

"Must be nice to get paid for that," Buffy said, wistfully.

Riley smiled down at the young blonde and hugged her close. "Hey, if
you want I can pop some microwave popcorn and we can watch videos.
Just give me a minute to get the TV set up." Buffy watched as he
walked over to the makeshift entertainment center -- in reality some
pine boards and cinderblocks -- and began setting up the VCR.

She sat down on the couch with a contented sigh. A boyfriend who
wasn't a vampire, videos to watch, and microwave popcorn. Her life
was starting to really look good, and best of all, it was starting to
look blissfully _normal_.

* * *

Faith stumbled along hot, stinking L.A. streets, not knowing or caring
where she was headed. She had been walking, just walking, ever since
the police released her the previous night.

Her only chance for peace, her only hope for restitution had been
denied. Jail -- the word had been like a beacon to Faith ever since
Buffy had spoken it with such insistence in Angel's apartment.
Finally there was something she could do, something clear-cut and
simple that would enable her to pay for her crimes and move on. Only
thing was, she wasn't allowed to do even that.

Way to go, Faith, she thought with disgust. Can't even get sent to
prison without fucking it all up.

Maybe it was fate. The public defender had said that someone "up
there" liked her, but what if it was someone "down there" instead?
Maybe she really was meant to be evil, heart and soul, and this was
just someone's way of telling her, "Hey, wake up, dumbass. You used
to have a good thing going."

Faith swallowed hard, wanting to believe it, willing herself to
believe it. She still felt the deeply buried pain twisting her gut;
it flared up relentlessly whenever she thought of any of the things
she had done in the past. She was sick to death of the torment, sick
of the fact that it hurt so much and she couldn't get it to stop. Her
brow ached, and she realized with dull surprise that it was because
her face reflected a perpetual wince that had nothing to do with the
bright sunlight.

She took shelter in a shadowed alleyway, sinking down against the cool
brick wall and holding her head with trembling hands. Faith didn't
know how long she sat there, she was just trying desperately to shut
out everything -- the memories, the denials, the wrong decisions, the
missed opportunities.

Finally, the empty gnawing of her stomach could no longer be ignored.
This is just perfect, she thought with despair. It's bad enough I'm
miserable, do I have to be broke and starving too?

She had almost forgotten what it was like to be hungry and not have
any money to buy food. When Faith worked for the Mayor, he always
made sure she had plenty of both; and after he was gone she just took
what she needed. She'd wait in a dark corner somewhere until an easy
mark came by, and then she'd jump him. Faith figured the world owed
her that much at least; after all, she didn't have any money and they
always had more than enough. If she got a little carried away and
sent someone to the hospital, or the morgue, well, at least she always
got what she wanted.

At least she was never hungry.

Faith clenched her jaw, forcing herself to stand up. I'll be damned,
she thought, if I let myself starve because of a few regrets. I've
got to do it. I got no choice. It's just the way I am.

Faith waited there in the alley, the shadows lengthening with each
passing minute. She felt that never-ending remorse flare up in her
gut like a black wave, but the dark Slayer clamped down on it hard,
willing herself to ignore it with the iron discipline that came from
years of hard-earned survival. Finally, she saw him: the perfect
mark. He was some young Yuppie type, walking around in a full suit
even though the temperature couldn't have been less than 85 degrees.
He was chatting breezily on a cell phone about some hi-tech stock
deal, not even noticing that his route took him a little too close to
that shadowed alley.

Okay, Faith, she thought to herself. No problem. You've done this
dozens of times before. Her hands clenched and unclenched as she
heard his footsteps getting closer and closer.

Faith hauled the man into the alley with strong hands and threw him
against a brick wall with brutal force, causing his cell phone to fly
out of his grasp. She held him against the wall with a grip of iron,
solid and immovable. The man struggled briefly, and Faith could see
shock written on his face, an incomprehension that such a young,
strong man was unable to budge a single inch from a girl whose
strength was clearly something other than natural and who looked at
him with desperate eyes which seemed to chill him to the bone.

She cocked a fist back, ready to slam it into his face and silence any
possible cries for help. "P-please," he begged, looking at her
wildly, sweat standing out on his forehead. "I've got money. Take
the money, just don't hurt me!"

Faith looked up into his eyes and stopped short. She saw fear -- no,
_terror_ -- appear in those wildly darting eyes and the Slayer knew
she was the one who had put it there. Faith knew that look all too
well; she'd used to love seeing it, she thought it was her way of
striking back at the world, of telling it, "Fuck you, you can't beat
me."

She had seen the same look of terror in the eyes of the Deputy Mayor,
the professor, and countless other victims. _Her_ victims, carefully
cultivated with blood and sweat and razor-sharp steel, and savagely
reaped as a sacrifice to the god of her hate.

Something occurred to her then, as she looked into the eyes of her
prey; it slid into Faith's mind like quicksilver inspiration.  

She didn't hurt people to strike back against the world, against the
lousy hand that fate had dealt her. She hurt people because she
_liked_ it. It was power. It was control. It was pain, and it was
murder.

And she needed it.

Faith fell back with a sob, dropping the man to the ground. All the
agony and suffering threatened to overwhelm her; the faces of her
victims lodged firmly in her mind, staring at her with shocked,
terrified eyes, each look an accusation, a condemnation. She turned
and ran; she didn't even see where. She didn't care.

* * *

Faith didn't know how long she had been running, it was all just a
huge blur. People, cars, street signs, it all became one large,
indistinguishable mass as the dark Slayer sprinted through the city at
speeds of which mere humans could only dream. When she was finally
forced to stop, her mind barely registered that it was nighttime; the
sodium vapor streetlight she was leaning on cast a sickly yellow pall
on the surrounding area.

Exhaustion and nausea both fought to overwhelm her; nausea won, and
Faith doubled over, one hand on her stomach, the other wrapped around
the lamppost, clutching at it to try to stay on her feet. Over and
over again she vomited up the only thing in her stomach, dark bile,
until that was eventually exhausted too. She crouched there for
almost a full minute, dry-heaving and gasping for breath, fresh tears
springing to her eyes.

Finally the nausea subsided, and Faith wiped an unsteady hand across
her face. She looked around, and with bleary eyes took notice of
exactly where her feet had carried her.

It was Angel's place, but the windows had been boarded up, and the
scorch marks and huge pieces of missing concrete gave mute testimony
that no one was working or living there anymore.

That realization barely had a chance to sink in when Faith heard a
low, soft voice behind her.

"Faith."

She turned around slowly, one arm still wrapped around the lamppost in
a feeble attempt at stability. "Angel."

The vampire stepped out of the shadows near the building where his
black clothing had rendered him nearly invisible. He looked at Faith,
his eyes regarding her sweat-stained clothing and generally filthy
appearance. His face softened in sympathy. "I heard you got out.
I've been waiting here, last night and tonight, hoping you'd show up."

Faith laughed weakly. "Yeah, well, coming here wasn't exactly the
plan." What had brought her to Angel's? Coincidence, or maybe
instinct? Do Slayers home, like pigeons, Faith wondered irrationally.
She glanced up at the burned-out building. "What happened?"

Angel followed her glance with his eyes. "Wolfram and Hart. Wesley
was hurt, but he's better now." He took a step toward the Slayer, and
Faith felt herself flinch away when he did so.

She looked up at him, unable to meet his gaze for more than a second.
"Angel, I..." She stopped and licked dry lips, feeling her tenuous
self-control slipping away. "I-I tried, Angel, I really did..." Her
vision blurred with tears and she let go of the light pole, feeling
her knees finally give way.

The vampire stepped forward, gathering the crying girl into his arms
before she could slump to the ground. "I know you did," he said,
smoothing the young girl's hair while great sobs racked her slender
frame. "I know."

* * *

In life, John Coleman had been a bully. He had skated through High
School and junior college primarily on his twin abilities to
intimidate others and destroy quarterbacks. He had encountered very
few problems that couldn't be solved by the judicious application of
either one or the other. Little had he known that once he had tried
to find an actual job neither one of those skills would help him in
the least, and he had been stuck flipping burgers for ten cents above
minimum wage.

So it was with great happiness last year that he had found himself
turned into a vampire by one of the Mayor's henchmen who was on a
recruiting kick and liked John's attitude. After the Slayer was done
at Graduation, of course, the Mayor had been turned into popcorn
shrimp and most of the vamps had been dusted by Sunnydale High's Class
of '99. But not John.

He was one of the few vamps who bothered to step into the power vacuum
left by the Mayor's untimely incineration. John had gathered a few
vampires that he felt could be distrusted a little less than the
others, chosen a new name for himself that he considered immensely
cool -- but most everyone else thought was lame and pretentious -- and
Diablo's Nighthunters were born.

"Diablo" did pretty well for himself and his gang; mainly because he
avoided any area that he thought would be patrolled by the Slayer.
When asked, he huffily explained that it wasn't because he was
_scared_ of the little blonde Slayer, it was because he didn't feel
the need to prove anything. Then he would promptly stake the
questioner. Diablo didn't like being challenged.

So when he and his "Nighthunters", all six of them, returned to their
home crypt that evening, they were a little surprised to see two
people already there, a young brunette woman and a middle-aged priest,
sitting around like they owned the place.

"Just who the fuck are you?" Diablo snarled, stepping toward the
couple with fists clenched. He always thought it was good policy to
start any conversation with a show of force, if only to bring things
into the arena where he was strongest -- physical violence.

The priest just shook his head with mock regret. "Such language does
not befit a civilized man. I suggest you apologize to the lady." He
inclined his head toward the young brunette.

"Apologize my ass," Diablo growled, and leaped forward, aiming a punch
right for the priest's face.

A punch which, surprisingly enough, never landed. His fist was halted
in mid-air as the young woman, her movements a blur, reached up and
grabbed Diablo's heavily muscled forearm in a solid grip, stopping it
dead just inches from the priest's face. Before the vampire realized
what was happening, the girl wrenched his arm behind his back and
shoved him face-down onto a nearby stone slab.

Diablo struggled, flexing his muscles to try to break the girl's grip,
but without success. They had never failed him before, either on or
off the football field, but they failed him now. In desperation, he
shot a glance at his Nighthunters, none of whom would meet his gaze.

The priest never lost his smile, never blinked during the whole
confrontation. "I believe I asked you to apologize."

"Fuck you!"

The priest shook his head sadly. "You don't seem to realize that you
no longer hold the power here." He glanced over at the Nighthunters,
all of whom were staring at the priest in fear. "I trust this is a
lesson I will not have to teach anyone else."

He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a pair of pliers and a
slim-bladed stiletto. Diablo's eyes widened at the sight, and for the
first time he felt real, honest-to-God terror. Handing the pliers to
the young woman, the priest intoned, "And the Lord God said, 'If your
eye causes you to sin, pluck it out; it is better for you to enter the
kingdom of God with one eye than with two eyes be thrown into Hell.'"

The young girl forced Diablo's mouth open, catching his tongue
painfully in the grip of the pliers. The priest advanced with the
stiletto and admonished, "Trinity, make sure you pull the tongue far
enough out this time. You know how I detest needing to make more than
one cut."

END chapter 2
-- 
"Eliza. Does she not in fact rock the very world? Yes."
-- Joss Whedon, Exec. Producer, BtVS
*email: erin@xxxxxxxxxxx
*web: http://www.heckman.net/erin