Faith No More
I do not own Supernatural or Buffy, or any element related to either amazing shows. I am merely using their backstory and other characters purely from my imagination, and for my own amusement and hopefully yours.
Faith no more. You are no more.
"You are nothing," she said to herself. Raising the glass, she tipped it toward herself in a mock salute. There was a slight hesitation as she caught herself and hadn’t meant to really look. Looking too deep and too hard ended up in her trying to figure herself out, and it was best to be the machine and to not think too long. Machines do not think; they carry out their orders. They carry out their one purpose and function in life. Her function was a simple one, always had been. That was the beauty of it.
She tossed the drink back, felt the burning live-wire slide down, her insides on fire and that blaze coiling into the empty black pit of her stomach. It was like drinking from the waters of hell itself. Her eyes flicked down, away just briefly, and the first instance of an old shame, ageless, long harbored and kept up like a smoldering flame began to awaken. She slammed down the rising tides, and pretended she was nothing, felt nothing. Yes, she thought, there was nothing there. Then her gaze went back to the mirror slowly, reluctantly but she needed to just look.
The mirror behind the great wood bar had a crack, a long one that created other minor lines of breakage like a spider’s web, like a wayward branch of a tree with its thin, spindly fingers crawling outward, trying to break out into the real world. The cracked mirror fractured her image and it seemed fitting that it was as imperfect as she was, inside out, outside completely in.
In the mirror was a woman, young, dark-haired and attractive. Big brown eyes that could be played down, or played up, depending on the game. There, in that mirror, was a woman in disguise. A woman in a red dress, red lips, lush and full. Skin pale like ivory and hair in long waves at her back. She set her face to pleasant and blandly neutral, but the lifelessness in her eyes was harder to mask, so she kept her gaze down, hooded and her mouth partly opened.
She turned her head slightly, feeling the air, tasting the saltiness and the smoke. She felt...not a wind but a touch of something bright, hot, and yet cool and whisper soft brushing up against her senses. She shivered and got off the stool, lady-like but with a show of no affectation on the length of skin exposed as the hem of her dress hitched up an inch, than another. The prowling, many-wandering eyes of those near the bar watched avidly or discreetly avid. Be at first visible, then disappear completely.
She stood up, rolled her neck, exposing her throat and looked around the room through the cracked mirror. There, along the way sitting with his friends was a man, his tongue licking the upper part of his lip. Over there, another man, running his tongue over his teeth, imagining bite after bite, of devouring her skin under his teeth, not in pain or threat, but pure pleasure and sensation.
After a moment, she turned around facing out and looking back at the faces without connecting with them, at least not eye to eye. Eye to eye meant invitation and she didn't want just any one person. She was used to being watched when it was necessary, and not, when it wasn’t. And her eyes could see the tell-tell signs, lines of tension, fingers twitching, hands curling and waiting. Her inhale and intake of the bar with its smoky and lingering scents of bodies and liquor. She smelled sex, and animosity. She smelled yearning, and disgust, disapproval and veiled rage coated with a veneer of self righteousness and need to believe in their own goodness.
They were all rotten to the core, man and woman, men and their women. Most of them, in whatever combinations. Humankind was poison. Except for some, of course; some were chosen and blessed. Or cursed. But here, tonight, this night, there was only one man that was as pure as any Angel the Lord God could want, or breed. And he was the reason she was here.
She pushed away from the old weathered bar, and didn’t look at herself again as she moved away. Her heels made soft clicking sounds, heel to toe, one foot in front of the other. She prowled, hips swaying, dress clinging to her angles and curves. Eyes watched, mouths breathed out the air and sucked it back in, men’s hearts raged with a burning fire and the women’s with something else. She didn’t understand women, but she did know men.
No, she said to herself. Not that one. No. Not him either.
She was here for one purpose. In search of just the right man but she couldn’t feel him, she couldn’t feel his goodness that some saw instantly and easily. So she had to find him, search him out. See him. And know.
Face after face, and nothing still but she was patient. She had to be and had learned to be patient.
She was here to do what she was born to do, and that was to kill, destroy and make dead that which had no right to be alive. She was death, walking upon this earth, reaping and sowing. That was her way in the world. Her machine: that heart, body, soul and mind that culminated into her being: she was a tool, a secret weapon. She only ever had one purpose. To do that which no one else could do. Be death. Be a killer, and be not gentle, do not go oh-so softly, nor kind but unimaginable. It was who she was. Is. And would always will be.
To hate what she was, to hate what she is, was to hate whatever thing had created her.
And that was why she hated God.
She scanned the packed room, its noises she did not, could not, she dare not ignore but instead, she set one layer aside, then another, remembering and picking out the ones deemed relevant to her sense of survival. One by one, she dismissed the chatter, the tones, the sharp or bark of laughter. Her gaze fell on faces, noted that man, this man was not the man she was looking for and moved on, slinking her way through the masses. She accepted and didn’t care about the appreciative looks, the sneers, the curl of the upper lips, but she did notice all the hungry, wanting, whimsical sighs and the beating of hearts boom-boom-booming in her ears, competing with her own heart beat, melding inside her chest. The heart she didn’t have and only imagined she had.
‘Where are you, oh little, little mouse,’ she murmured to herself, moving from the back of the modest bar toward the front, looking left and right, scanning the rooms and the nooks, the niches and the alcoves hiding bodies and faces. These shadows and sounds, hiding her man, her target; hiding the beating of his steady, pacing heart. She made herself small and insignificant, made herself invisible and after awhile, her slow moves made her disappear, even in that red, blood-colored dress.
In, out. Breathe out, then in. One, click; two, click; three, boom.
Boom, Boom, BOOM!
Of course, she thought. Away from the din and the clatter. His back to her, the back of his neck, the line of his spine taut and straining. She moved until she had a clear view of his profile. He was alone, an island, one man against the whole world. Or just this packed room this night. She watched, waited; she watched him sit there, alone and drinking from his glass. She saw his nerves, the tie at the throat undone, askew, the tails tossed over his left arm; and the top button undone; his breathing coming undone as he waited, waited for her.
She walked up to the lone man, in his dandified business suit. She stood before him, hand on the back of the empty chair and she peered down at the man. Eye to eye, looking into each other.
"Hello," she said softly, smiling slowly, almost dazzling.
The man blinked, and stood up awkwardly. "Hello," he said, voice gravely but equally soft and steady; so steady, and watching her. He was waiting, and only for her. She could feel it. She could feel him.
"I’m thirsty," she said, staring into his eyes. "May have I drink?"
He swallowed hard, nodding and gestured for her to sit down. "Please, if you will."
She sat, crossed one leg over the other. The sides of the glass were moist, the glass sweating in the tepid air. He sat back down, this respectful way about him. He breathed shallowly, brows furrowed and he licked his dry lips while the rest of him tried to discover her by watching her. His wonder and curiosity was disarming. He did not fear her—not yet.
She drank from the glass, choosing the spot where his mouth had touched the lip of that glass. In a way, she kissed him, and as she would be his last kiss, she thought that fitting as well. She drank again, the liquid cooling her insides. It was nothing but water but it tasted so delicious.
"You know who I am," she said, setting the glass down.
He nodded. "Yes. I know," he said, in that same voice. He truly was a man of conviction. "I know…and I am ready."
She smiled, bitter and morosely, but under his gaze, the armor was also fractured. "You seem to be a kind man," she finally said, oddly interested in this man. Why him, she wondered. What was so special about him? "Tell me. How’s your faith these days?"
There was no immediate answer but a careful, thoughtful intensity lit his eyes, and the grim seriousness of his beliefs showed through. It poured out of him, in waves, out of his pours, his very soul that was his being, his identity. God owned him, all of him. He was a true believer. He had faith while she had nothing but despair and nothing to believe in. She was nothing because she believed in nothing. It was that simple, and that ugly.
Her breath caught, her mind turning. She shivered, not in awe of this mortal being, but because of a small pin prick of dread. Passion of any kind was a dangerous thing. But the passion of absolute belief was the greatest power there was, and difficult to break. It was why people always died for it, no matter if it was all a web of lies, smoke and mirrors.
"My…faith…is…as it’s always been," he eventually said, not blinking and staring into her eyes. He wanted her to believe him. And for a moment, she, the woman and only just a mortal woman, almost believed he knew she was nothing. "And that is to have love and trust in the Lord my God."
She smiled, drinking from his cup. She drained it, leaving none for him, not one single drop. He licked his lips again, watching her, but not in lust, not in anything but expectation of some further, more complete message given to him in his dreams. Instructions. He waited for deliverance; he was waiting for his prayers to be answered.
It was just too bad he believed in God, when there was no God. It was just too bad that she was here to kill him, and he had no idea. And the Angels didn’t either.
Too bad; too bad.
"I like your eyes," she said, without meaning to, and before she could snatch them back and devour them into non-existence. "They seem honest, true…they…see me."
He smiled, very faintly, but that same light lit his eyes. He had such beautiful eyes. "I do see you," he said. "I do. Believe that."
But she didn't, and she wanted to. And that wanting twisted inside her gut, like a knife, cutting her through and through. She fought that sense of helplessness, of feeling something and the vulnerability that emotions always brought. Weakness. Self-destruction. She'd seen it. Oh, had she see it!
And the world still fell away. No noise, no prying eyes, nothing. Just them.
There was him. There was her. There was this man, and this woman. There was herself, the killer. And then there was James Novak, the vessel.
And tonight, was his last night on earth.
Tonight, there was only death.
The one they called the Slayer.
Her, the one they called the bad seed.
The one they called Faith Lehane.