I’m pretty new at this site, if you couldn’t tell, so… be gentle in the criticism?
This is my first Buffy-fic, my first (published) Stargate-fic, same goes for Duke‘s. This’ll be a series of oneshot’s of varying lengths and in no particular order.
By the by, Buffy never went to heaven. Explanation on what happened is in this chapter.
Don’t own Buffy, that belongs to Joss Wedon (is that the right spelling?), Stargate I’m not actually sure who it belongs to, though I‘m pretty sure R.D. Anderson is one of the producers, but it’s not me, and the same goes for Duke’s.
Spin, flick, thrust, slash, splatter… (Is human limbs supposed to bend that way?)
Dodge, spin, kick, punch, swing, crack… (No, it most certainly is not.)
Scream, flinch, (one should not have an arrow there)
, duck, bend, (nor a sword there)
… Blood splattered (I‘ll never get the blue out of this skirt!)
, venom spat (It burns!)
, a back arching, an axe hitting the spine of a woman… (Well, that is the end for me! But I will take ‘em bastards with me!)
A woman, early to mid-thirties, spinning, kicking and slashing with an amazing ferocity, in the middle of a pack of lapis lazuli-blue demons… One by one, they fell, however not before inflicting considerable damage on her in turn. In the end, she went down, an axe to the back, the force enough the spin her around, the adrenaline still pumping enough to give her the ability to swing the magnificent red, silver and wood scythe hard enough to take the head of the last demon.
Prime Slayer Comma
The. Summers Comma
Buffy Anne. The best, strongest and longest living slayer, in the end went down by an axe to the spine, after fighting for almost an hour, went down with enough wounds to kill a whole regiment.
In another world, far away, 25-year-old Eliza Lehane-Duke woke up with tears streaming down her cheeks.
The void Buffy woke up in was very, very white. Extremely so, even. Of course, the annoying, bad-tidings-bringing human look-a-like demon in front of her kind of broke the theme.
“Slayer. Still short, I see.” Whistler greeted her.
“Whistler. Still in need of that ribcage?” aforementioned demon paled slightly and backed up a few feet.
“Now, now Slayer. No need for threats. I’m just here to inform you of what will happen, and of your new duty. No, no, no! Don’t take it that way!” Whistler hurried to explain, unless the murderous blonde actually carried out her threat and made his ribcage a hat. “Last time you ‘died’, you woke up in the body of Eliza Lehane-Duke, that ‘verse’s you. That will happen this time too, however, this time, you won’t get resurrected. I promise. As for your new ‘duty’, I regret to inform you that you have no duty. You shall get relaxation and do whatever the hell you damn well please, is what I was ordered to tell you.”
Buffy stared at him, and then, slowly, started to smile, smile like the cat that got canary marinated in cream served on a silver platter. “And my strength? The healing? The speed?”
Whistler shrugged. “What about it? It’s not, contrary to popular belief, tied to your body, it’s tied to your soul. Since your soul is also shared, to some extent, by Eliza, and the rest of it will follow you over the dimensional planes, you’ll still have the whole slayer-package.”
“Whistler? Ignore all threats I’ve made. You’ve redeemed yourself, without a doubt. However, if I against all assurances is pulled into something that I had no choice in, you shall find yourself short a ribcage, just so ya know.” Whistler paled and nodded quite frantically.