A new beginning, or possibly the end.
Buffy exited the last cemetery of her patrol and headed for home. She had gone about half a block when a loud bang drew her eyes to the side of the road. The noise had come from a man standing in front of a battered mailbox. He had both clenched fists resting on top of the box, and he was muttering to himself. He pushed away with more violence than necessary and kicked the box, leaving it with a brand new dent.
Buffy’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. Not many people in Sunnydale would be wandering around in the middle of the night just to mail a letter. Even fewer would be able to dent a metal mailbox with only their foot.
“Hey!” She shouted.
The man spun around angrily. He began to say something that Buffy was sure would be uncomplimentary when he stopped and an expression of . . . anticipation settled onto his face.
“You’re her, aren’t you?”
“Maybe, who’s ‘her’?”
Spike’s lips eased into a lazy and slightly predatory smile. “The Slayer. I heard that she was small and blond, but I didn’t expect you to look like a bloody cheerleader.”
“I’m getting comments on my appearance from some Billy Idol wannabe? Why don’t you take a look in the mirror sometime?”
Spike folded his arms across his chest and lifted one eyebrow in a silent critique of her intelligence.
“Oh, right . . .” Buffy let out a huff of annoyance. She was ticked that he’d been able to fluster her. “Look, it’s been a long night, and the world will be better off without that hair, so let’s suspend the rest of the witty repartee and get down to the ‘me killing you’ part.”
Spike gave her a mock bow and stalked toward her. He blocked her first few punches, and then stepped into her swing. He let the momentum of the blow turn his body as he pivoted and planted his boot squarely on her chest. She flew backwards, hit the ground hard, and then flipped to her feet before her could get to her.
“Not bad.” He commented, “But not good enough.”
Buffy pulled a stake out of her back pocket. She cocked her head and spoke with biting sarcasm. “Oh really? A few hundred other vamps have thought so, but I suppose you’re special.”
“That’s right. I’ve already killed two Slayers. You’ll be number three. The one in China, mmmmm,” Spike closed his eyes for a moment in a parody of ecstasy before taunting her. “I wonder, do you think your blood will taste as sweet?”
Buffy rushed him. The fight was brutal and quick. Spike enjoyed himself immensely, and the Slayer pushed herself to the limit.
Finally, the vampire managed to knock her stake out of her hand. He grabbed her by the throat and lifted her off of the ground. Her hands slapped at his wrist, but he just squeezed harder. A fierce light of exultation shone in his eyes. He envisioned choking this bothersome chit into unconsciousness, binding her in some very sturdy chains, and keeping her in a suitably clichéd dungeon. Yet, his celebration was a bit premature. He was jolted from his reverie as Buffy’s right hand reached into her left sleeve.
She turned the stake toward his chest and thrust with all her strength in the same moment that he tightened his grip on her neck with spine-crushing intensity.
Death descended on the streets of Sunnydale.