Sadistic was the only word that came to Buffy’s mind. She stood, her body rigid with tension as she watched the friends and family mourn.Challenge:
Prompt# 039 – Funeral. 1/100 for TtH100Spoilers:
Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all related characters are copyright of Joss Whedon & Mutant Enemy. CSI and all related characters are copyright of Anthony E. Zuiker, Jerry Bruckheimer Television & CBS.Distribution:
Not without permission from myself.AN:
Big thanks to Dani for taking the time out of her crazy hectic schedule to take a look at this piece. Sweetie, you are such an inspiration! To Ava for her always-able beta skills, not only are you one kick butt girl but you are one amazing writer. I’m honored. Thanks to Ponder for helping me to re-edit this piece.
Sadistic was the only word that came to Buffy’s mind. She stood, her body rigid with tension as she watched the friends and family mourn. The large Canyon Oak’s branches swayed with the gentle breeze, letting a few rays of sunshine break through the shade that she kept too. She didn’t deserve to be warmed by the sun; she deserved to be placed back into the darkness where she belonged.
A chorus of sobs filled the air while only a lonely Swallow dared to whistle a joyous tune. Buffy flinched with guilt as the widow’s anguished wail cut through the sobs as her weary legs gave out. She crumpled to the ground. It was Buffy’s job, duty, and destiny to protect people and she had failed.
Tucking her lower lip between her teeth she worried on it, stopping the telltale sign of her misery from showing.
It was as though failure was the only thing she had been good at for the last year or so. Every turn held a look of disappointment from those she cared for most. Discovering a life with not being The Chosen One but one of many
was more burdensome. Trying to carve out a new normal way of life was foreign. Buffy didn’t know how to spend her nights if she wasn’t patrolling, training or stopping the latest baddie from destroying the world.
After months of Giles and the others telling her it wasn’t her
job anymore, she attempted that normal girl life and sucked at it. Whatever road she took, her friends were second-guessing her decisions, reminding her of those last few painful months in Sunnydale.
Large alligator-sized tears welled, transforming her normal moss colored eyes to a clear emerald as the memories of her latest mistake flashed in her mind. “Big, dumb and green. Just the way I like my demons,” Buffy quipped as she executed a perfect roundhouse kick with enough force to knock the Polgara demon backwards. It snapped the wooden rail that framed the small footbridge. It would’ve toppled into the running stream if the rail had been a foot lower.
The demon’s roar sounded like that of a lion as it gained its footing, and straightened its back so it retook its natural height of six foot six. Green leathered-looking skin oozed with puss from various pores on its body and as the wind picked up, the smell hit Buffy’s nostrils. Her face scrunched in disgust.
A flick of the wrist and the demon had elongated the hidden skewer in its arm, lunging at her.
Slicing through the night air, the metal skewer reflected the moon’s glow. It forced Buffy to jump back, missing being hit by a few scant inches.
“Gods,” she huffed in frustration. Lifting her forearm she blocked a sequence of punches. “What’s with you demon types and long pokey things?”
Using her enhanced reflexes she ducked just as the demon’s bulky arm came swinging at her head and dented the trunk of the tree behind her. Crouched, Buffy swung her leg out to kick the back of its knee.
She rolled just as the demon pitched forward into the dirt and leaves. This time the demon didn’t stand as quickly and a feral smirk appeared on her lips as she rose. Moonlight cast her hair in a golden glow of fire.
“Let me guess: it’s a whole male metaphor for his…” Her voice trailed off as she watched in shock. The Polgara stood on shaky legs before it turned, running off in the opposite direction.
Catching up to the demon had taken longer than she had expected. It seemed that this particular Polgara had more intelligence than most.
Buffy entered a small clearing before she skidded to a stop, a scream on her lips.
The demon’s skewer slid through the man’s chest and into his heart, like butter. Dark chocolate eyes widened in shock and then pain before they rolled back. His torso slumped forward, the skewer the only thing keeping him from falling as scarlet blood spread across his chest.
Lips trembling, Buffy stood motionless. The skewer retracted, almost in slow motion before finally allowing the innocent male to crumple to the ground in a bloody heap.
She hadn’t killed the demon that night, didn’t even give chase when it snarled and gave her a gloating smirk before running into the night. Instead she had taken those few steps towards the body before falling to her knees. Shaky arms pulled the lifeless body onto her lap as her pants had soaked up the warm blood. Tears trickled down her cheeks and spilled onto his face.
Fumbling in her jacket pocket, she pulled out her cell phone. Her fingers moved automatically over the numbers as she dialed those three simple numbers and waited for the medics.
A car door slamming in the distance pulled her back to the present. Lifting her hand she swiped at the tears that were sliding down her cheeks. Her eyes focused and she was surprised to find that everyone had left and she was alone.
There in her unobstructed view was the tombstone that now marked her failure for all to see. The freshly polished marble glistened in the sun and momentarily blinded her. Squinting through the glare and tears her breath hitched. There, in the corner, cut in to the smooth white marble was a broken sword; the emblem for a life cut too short.
The sound of a twig snapped and Buffy turned to look behind her. Walking towards her was a man, five foot eleven, dressed in black slacks and some sort of a Kevlar vest. His dark brown hair was cut in a short buzz and a square jaw framed his face. Broad shoulders fit with the rest of his physic. A tan file folder dangled from his left hand.
Nick Stokes of the Las Vegas Police Department crime lab arrived at the cemetery almost too late to catch his witness, Buffy Summers. He found her still standing alone at the victim’s grave, after all the other funeral attendees had left.
“Ms. Summers?” Nick kept his tone gentle. This was a part of his job that he hated, but they needed to question Ms. Summers about the night that Mr. Carlson had died. She’d been the only witness and hopefully she could provide a lead for the crime scene investigation.
“Ma’am, I’m Nick Stokes from Las Vegas PD. I need to ask you a few questions.”~fin~
Completed: November 1, 2007
Revised: March 28, 2008