re: ::Buffy*Loves*Willow:: FIC; The Chosen: Where Do We Go From Here? (1/3)

[Kirayoshi@xxxxxxxxxx]

Shazbot!

A big chunk of my story was cut from the post! Must have been too big. Okay, we'll try it this way!

Disclaimers; Joss gave us the lemons; I'm just making the lemonade. And don't worry, I'm using sugar.

Spoilers; through the series finale, "Chosen". Keep in mind that I'm basing this on spoiler reports, not the actual episodes, so I may be wrong on some points.

Rating; PG-13. Warning; there are some ugly descriptions of an ugly act at the beginning of this story. Sad to say, sometimes humanity trumps the Hellmouth for sheer evil.

Author's Note; This is my pilot for a virtual Buffy-spinoff. Someone's gotta be first, right? Better me than some B/S-er!

Pairing; None yet, but knowing me, Buffy and Willow are gonna start noticing each other at some point...

Feedback; Please do. Flames will be subject to brief scorn, then deleted without ceremony.

Summary; Buffy Summers, for the first time in her life, is free of her calling as the Slayer. But there is still evil in the world. Was 'Chosen' the end, or a new beginning?

The Chosen
Created by Kirayoshi

Episode 1.1
Where Do We Go From Here?


"The battle's done,
We kind of won,
So we sound our victory cheer-
Tell me,
Where do we go from here?"
--From 'Once More with Feeling'

"Well, we know where we're going,
But we don't know where we've been,
And we know what we're knowing
But we can't say what we've seen,
And we're not little children
And we know what we want
And the future is certain;
Give us time to work it out."
--Talking Heads
"Road to Nowhere"


Prologue;
Fargo, North Dakota
June 10, 2003

She stood by the Subway sandwich shop, counting her small change. Only two bucks and a handful of pennies. Not enough for a decent meal. She prowled away from the Subway, glancing furtively at the faces that passed her on the sidewalk. She drew the hood of her sweatshirt down around her ears to ward off the chill wind that had sliced at her face like knives. She clutched at her suitcase, a battered brown nylon-shelled case that contained three sweatshirts, six t-shirts, three pairs of blue jeans, three pairs of pantyhose, assorted white cotton undergarments, a few meager toiletries and her long-time companion and protector, a plush purple dragon named Smokey. 

In short, everything she had time to throw into the case before her mother called the cops.

Everything she had left in the world.

She had only two dollars left out of the hundred she had stolen from her mother's purse(No, not my mother, she mentally scolded herself, not after she stood by and let that--that monster--) two weeks ago. She splurged the other day and ran her clothes through a public laundry somewhere in Butte, Montana, just a few days after finally getting out of Boise. She wasn't sure if the cops were still tailing her or not. They probably weren't, but she couldn't afford to take any chances. Keep moving; that was her only choice. But she simply couldn't live with the reek coming out of her clothes after a week on the road, mostly by foot. So she ran two washing machines at the Laundromat, while sneaking into a nearby YWCA for a quick shower, praying that no one got a clear shot of her face.

After all, she mused, it wouldn't do any good to get caught by the cops in her birthday suit. She could see the headlines now; MURDER SUSPECT APPREHENDED IN THE BUFF	.

It wasn't murder. That was the only thing about that horrible day two weeks ago that she knew with absolute certainty. After all, that sleaze had it coming. Chuck, that was his name, had been dating her mother for a few months, and at first he seemed to be okay. Two weeks ago, he took her to the State Fair and let her ride on the Tilt-A-Whirl and bought her cotton candy and even won her a giant stuffed panda in the ring-toss. She figured this was his way of proving to her mother that he was good husband material, by looking after her daughter.

She was smiling hugely as he brought her back home, carrying the panda for her, and she couldn't contain the excitement in her voice as she described what they did and saw at the fair. Her mother smiled at her, and then flashed a grateful smile at Chuck before she ambled to the kitchen to make dinner.

Later that evening, as she put on her pajamas and jumped into her bed, she heard a knock at the door. "Honey," the gruff but sweet voice called quietly, "it's me. Chuck."

"Oh, come in," she answered innocently enough. The door opened and Chuck staggered in. His eyes seemed glazed, and she wrinkled her nose in distaste at the foul liquor smell that was coming off of his breath. He leaned in toward her, asking, "Say, darlin', how old are you?"

"Uh," she gulped slightly, wondering what had happened to that sweet teddy-bear of a man who took her to the fair earlier. "Sixteen."

"Close enough," he growled.

Then he was on top of her. His hands mauled her breasts. His hot breath stung her cheek as his body pinned her to the mattress. All she felt was pain, terror, humiliation at this sudden violation. She cried, she screamed, she struggled. All she wanted was for the nightmare to end.

A blur of memories followed. The weight of Chuck's body suddenly flying off of her, the smacking sounds of her fists on his cheeks and jaw, the pair of scissors that somehow found their way into her hand, the warm wetness that stained her carpet red.

Her next fully cognizant moment consisted of her mother screaming over Chuck's corpse, then turning toward her. "I'll see you rot in jail, you tramp!" she snarled, a white-hot rage twisting her once-pleasing features into an ogre's mask, a mask of pure hatred. She turned toward the door, leaving her desperate daughter with one choice; survival at all costs.

Two minutes later, suitcase in hand, she stepped over the unconscious body of her mother and rushed out of the house where she had called a sanctuary all of her life only to become hell. She bought the cheapest Greyhound ticket she could find to anywhere east, and sat alone in the back of the bus, crying.

That was two weeks ago. Now, she was drifting from town to town, homeless shelter to homeless shelter, fearing every face that she saw. Each day she asked herself, would the cops finally catch me? Would they drag me back to Boise, to jail? Would they-

"Hey, Sophie," a calm voice chirped behind her. "What's the up?"

She gulped hard at the sound of someone saying her name, and bolted. She almost knocked down an elderly woman dragging a grocery cart along the sidewalk in making her escape, before ducking inside a nearby alleyway. She crouched against the cold brick wall at her back, her head pulled in between her arms, her heart hammering in her chest, her breathing ragged. Busted, she cringed, I am so busted, no way I'm gonna get outta here-

"Relax, Soph," that voice announced again. "I'm not with the cops. And they're not looking for you anyway." Sophie tried to back away, skittering sideways against the wall before trying to lift herself back up to her feet. A gentle hand rested against her shoulder, and she flinched as though touched by a low-voltage surge. "Look at me, Soph," the voice insisted, both gentle and commanding. Finally, the weakened young girl lifted her head and looked at the person who had addressed her.

A young woman, nineteen or twenty by her looks, looked back at her with sparkling blue eyes. Black hair spilled wildly around her head, framing a face that seemed impossibly old, as though this woman had lived ten lives before this one and remembered them all. Her posture was guarded, knowing, her arms hanging tensely at her sides, but the lopsided smile on her face seemed strangely comforting. She wore gray cargo pants, thigh-high black leather boots and a white t-shirt which bore the slogan; "Babe In Total Control of Herself".

She continued to speak, almost casually; "Like I said, Soph, you're not in trouble. At least not with the Boise cops. Chuck Maltese's death was labeled self-defense. I mean, you find a dead middle-aged man in a girl's bedroom with his pants down around his ankles, a pair of scissors slammed in his chest and a blood alcohol level that's off the charts, the math practically does itself. Your mom's in therapy, BTW. She's still not ready to see you, but she's coping with what that sleaze tried to do to you. Give her time."

Sophie stared hard at the woman and inhaled deeply before attempting to speak; "Wha-what happened? To Chuck, I mean. Did I kill him?"

"Yeah, that'd be my guess," the woman answered. "And good job to you. Didn't know your own strength, huh?"

Sophie lowered her head miserably. "I didn't mean to kill him," she muttered, half to herself, "I just wanted him to stop..." She sank back to a crouched posture, her shoulders sagging under an enormous weight.

"I know, sweetheart," the woman knelt before her, a calming hand gently touching Sophie's cheek. "I know you didn't mean to. But you gotta remember something; Chuck did mean to rape you. He would have succeeded if you didn't stop him. You're not in the wrong here. He was. Just keep a stranglehold on that and you'll be okay."

"B-but h-how..." Sophie stuttered, swallowed hard, and tried again. "How did I kill him? I mean, he was so bulked up, he lifted weights regularly, how could I do that to him?"

The other woman smiled. The question she was waiting for. "Well, Soph, y'know them news reports about mothers who find their babies pinned under cars, and their adrenalin kicks in and they can lift the car to save their babies?" Sophie nodded. "Well, that isn't the case here. You, Sophie Myers, are different from all the other girls. You've got a weird gift. You're what's called a potential."

Sophie knitted her eyebrows as she digested what the older woman was saying. "Is that like a mutant? Like the X-Men or something?"

The older woman chuckled slightly. "Not quite. This is gonna take a while to explain. Hey, when's the last time you ate?"

"Two days ago," Sophie admitted.

"I saw a Subway sandwich shop a block and a half back, what say I take you there, buy you a foot-long pastrami and a large Pepsi, and I'll call a friend of mine to meet us there. He can explain this better than I can. He wears tweed and uses more aftershave than he should, IMO, but he's cool. You'll like him. He can tell you what's happening to you."

"How do I know he's not gonna try and rape me like Chuck did?" Sophie challenged. The older woman was taken aback slightly. She knew that the kid would have trust issues after what that monster did to her, but the vehemence of her outburst did surprise her.

After a moment's thought, she asked Sophie, "When Chuck tried to force you, did you feel something? Sort of a buzzing in the back of your head?" Sophie glared at the sidewalk for a second, then nodded. "Kinda like what you think Spider-Man's Spider sense feels like to him?" Sophie nodded again. "Well, that's just what you felt, your own Spider sense. It comes with being a potential, you can sense when someone's good or evil. Now then, look at me and tell me whether you feel that buzzing or not."

Sophie lifted her head and examined the face before her with a gimlet eye. After a few moments, she shook her head. The older woman smiled. "See, you know you can trust me. I'm on your side here. I just want to help you, Sophie. But it's your call to make. We're not gonna make you do anything you don't want to do. Way I figure, you got plenty of that from Chuck." She offered a hand to Sophie. "Whaddya say?"

Sophie looked at the woman's outstretched hand, then grasped it in her own. "Can I have smoked turkey?"

"You got it," the older woman smiled. She stood up, lifting Sophie to her feet, and pulled out a Kleenex to wipe the tears and grime from Sophie's cheeks.

"Oh, I forgot," the older woman added. "My name's Faith."

========

Seattle, Washington
November 18, 2003

"Buffy," Dawn shouted as she entered the apartment she shared with her older sister. "Letter for you. Looks like the UW." Buffy rushed out of kitchen and snatched the letter from Dawn's hand. She opened the envelope with trembling hands, and withdrew the papers inside. The clean white stationary of the cover letter bore a pale purple silhouette of a husky dog at the top. "Dear Miss Summers," she read half-aloud, "we are pleased to inform you-"

"You got in!" Dawn smiled. "I told you!"

Buffy glared at her sister. "I didn't even get to that part yet!"

"Trust me," Dawn observed, "if it were a rejection, they wouldn't be 'pleased' to inform you, they'd 'regret' to inform you."

"Ahem," Buffy cleared her throat dramatically. "We are pleased to inform you," she continued reading, "that your application to attend the University of Washington for the 2004-2005 academic year has been accepted-okay, Dawn, you were right."

"Toldya," Dawn smiled impishly, raising a fist in the air. "Go Huskies!" 

Buffy scowled briefly, before melting into a happy grin as she thumbed through the additional papers in the letter. "The letter also comes with brochures for campus housing, information on scholarships and grants, maps of the campus and the like."

"See, I knew you got in before you opened the letter," Dawn commented. "They wouldn't have added those brochures if they were turning you down."

"Good point," Buffy answered as she lowered herself to the sofa and relaxed. She reached for the remote control, and turned on the television.

"[click]-Wolfram and Hart representative Charles Gunn announced that the firm would continue to aid relief efforts for Los Angeles. The city is still recovering from massive riots that broke out after a local detective firm revealed that the mysterious and charismatic cult leader known only as Jasmine was a fraud," the immaculately coiffed news-anchor announced. "In other news, Federal officials have announced that they've closed their investigation regarding the destruction of Sunnydale, California earlier in May. A spokesman for the FBI has stated, 'It is our opinion that the disappearance of Sunnydale was not a terrorist act, but a natural disaster.' The most unusual aspect of Sunnydale's downfall was that most of the city's residents had left the doomed city shortly before its final fall, resulting miraculously in very few fatalities. The governor of California has stated that there are no plans to rebuild the city. As an anonymous high-ranking official at the Bureau was quoted as saying, 'it was a miracle that any city lasted as long as Sunnydale did, under the circumstances. If there is a less-hospitable region in the country to build a city, I can't imagine such a place.' The city's former site has been cordoned off by the state government, and it is expected that the region will remain vacant indefinitely. To quote one military observer, 'if there is a true Hell on Earth, it is here'-[click] "'Shoot him now, shoot him now.' 'You keep out of this, he doesn't have to shoot you now.' 'That's it, hold it right there! Pronoun trouble-'"

Buffy sagged back in the sofa cushions, watching as Bugs Bunny bamboozled Elmer Fudd into shooting Daffy Duck's beak off yet again, and groaning as the stab wound in her gut twinged. A souvenir of her final battle as the Slayer. Dawn glanced at her sister, amazed at how easily Buffy's mood changed from elation to despair. She placed her hand on Buffy's arm, offering what support she could. "You saved the world, Buffy. Xander, Willow, Giles, Kennedy, Faith, thanks to you, they're all alive. We all got a second chance now, Buffy."

Yeah, the former Slayer reflected sullenly without speaking. All it cost me is my home and every real friend I ever had. Buffy gave Dawn a faint half-smile. She glanced back at the clock before lifting herself out of her seat. "And I gotta head for work," she announced, "if I want to afford my tuition. And you got homework to do," she added, winning a scowl from Dawn.

Buffy gathered her sister into a generous hug. "Love ya, Dawnie," she whispered.

"Love ya back, Buffy," Dawn answered. After disengaging the hug, Buffy grabbed her purse and jacket and headed out the door. Yeah, she realized, Dawn was right. I got a second chance now. A chance for a fresh start. A chance to become something new.

And a chance to forget who I was.

======== 

For once in Seattle, the skies didn't threaten rain. Stratus clouds streaked the western skies, their undersides tinged with vibrant reds and oranges by the huge setting sun as it reflected off the waters of Puget Sound. 

And for the first time in a long time, she didn't fear the sunset as she made her way through downtown Seattle.

It took her more than an hour to navigate around the Pike Place Market, especially after the contradictory directions she received from the clerks at the local 7-11. She didn't know the address she was looking for, she only knew the name of the club. She was told to look for the club around Post Alley, near the Market. Giving a resigned sigh, she soldiered on; passing the carts of fresh fish and stands of fruits and vegetables that lined the entrance of the Market.

Taking a few sharp turns at random, she found herself walking down a narrow alley, lined on either side with restaurant and bar signs. To her left she saw a neatly lettered sign for 'Kell's Irish Pub'. She smiled; she had found Post Alley.

Walking slowly and discreetly glancing left and right, she scanned the signs around her, not certain where exactly she was going. She soaked in the sounds, the colors, the sensations. A group of young men, white, black, and one Asian, rapped to hip-hop beat handclaps and mouth sounds, while a nubile Latino girl (she can't be any older than Dawn, she thought), spun on her head like a top. Three mimes fascinated, charmed, and in some cases annoyed a crowd of the curious with their silent gestures. A middle-aged man ran a popcorn kettle, vending slightly sweet and salty snacks to eager customers. A painter had set up an easel by one storefront, and was sketching the details of the alley to capture in her oils.

As she admired the hustle and activity around her, she happened to glance upward, over the head of the aspiring painter, where she found the object of her search. A hand-hammered metal sign mounted over the door and lit by three bright floodlights, with six stenciled cookie-cutout letters forming a single word;

BRONZE.

She smiled. This was the place. She pushed aside the front door, admiring the leaded glass window, and approached the bar.



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