Title: Rest Not the Weary
Disclamer: Mutant Enemy, Fox and all those network honchos and writers own all, I own nothing, don't sue.
Synopsis: Buffy and her life post Gift and before OMWF. Kind of bleak.
Spoilers: Not much just hints at the Gift.
Feedback: Yes! I crave feedback. It is good food for the writer soul. Constructive feedback is also good if you’ve got any, always looking forward to improving my writing. Thanks!
The air hangs heavy with the scent of death as the Slayer stalks moonlight under darkened shadows and abandoned gravestones. She hunts without care and kills without thought. Prey. Location. Target. Dust. Repeat. Simple objectives built into the system of cogs that is the make up of her machine. The well-oiled hinges of her forearms do not squeak, the steadiness of her movements do not hitch, even as she raises and lowers the stake over and over and over. The rhythm of it is familiar, safe, detached. There are no longer wasteful movements of muscle made to form smiles, or needless expulsions of air to produce quips. There is only the Slayer and the Hunt.
Her gaze moves in constant motion, sweeping Restfield cemetery, noting potential hideouts, useful weaponry. A soft growl to her right has her running towards her newest objective. There are five of them, and she formulates a battle plan even as her fist rears into the first vampire. They are nothing but fledglings, no more than a few weeks old. As she pushes her stake through the second one’s heart, a distant part of her wonders what foolish, human act brought them to their demise. She notes that one still has on his Sunnydale High gym shirt. She makes quick work of that one.
As she fights, she notices other things as well. She notes, but can’t seem to care that the crypt she leaps off of is the very crypt where she’d once saved Xander, befriended Willow. Notes the emptiness of the abandoned pumpkin patch across the street where she’d fought Spike. Notes, and pushes away the distant remembrance of stolen kisses, redemption, and her very own Angel. None of it exists in her world anymore. All she knows now is that she was buried here. Unearthed here. Damned here.
She slams another fledgling into a row of neat concrete headstones. His yell of pain mixes in with the muted sound of crumbling granite. She grabs him before he can get up, and drives her knee into his stomach. He stumbles backwards, landing heavily on a yet to be buried coffin. The wood shatters under the weight of his fall, and he just sits there, puking up stolen blood. Her body moves in for the kill, but her mind is no longer present. It is too busy forcing her to remember another time when the crack of wood sounded just so. She remembers every splinter that became trapped underneath her clawing fingernails. Every bit of finely powdered dust that stung her eyes and kept her blind. Every clump of soil that silenced her ability to breathe. To scream. With more force than necessary, Buffy wrenches the head off of the last vampire. As if the action might clear the relentless static in her head.
Death is all she remembers anymore.
The dust settles and the night is quiet now. There is no loud complaint about the ruin of yet another shirt. No exclamation over the foul scent of demonic blood seeping into the ratty tangle of post-slayage hair. The only sign of movement is the quick rise and fall of a petite blonde’s chest as she scans the cemetery for more foes. A moment passes, and then another. Her heart rate slows and drawing one last breath, she relaxes from her combative stance.
Tucking her forgotten stake into a torn sleeve, she makes her way back to the house on Revello Dr. The front door (which Xander keeps forgetting to fix), creeks as she opens it, loud and dissonant, like the echo of her bones when she lies down to sleep.