A/N: This is what happens when I try to distract myself from studying. I'll be so very, very happy tonight, when my last exam's over. My brain's about to go boom. For evidence, see below.
Warning: Some explicit ugliness as people die.
After they go for Darius in his church, there can be no doubt that they will come for her. For real watchers she is the holy grail, for rogue watchers the antichrist. Oh, the thin line of religious metaphors. Unlike Methos she has never bothered to erase her steps, content to let mortal men dog her steps and try to figure her out, knowing they never would get to the core of her secrets.
Five thousand years later they still have not found out her true name, never mind her origins. But they come for her despite all that, because
of it. If they kill her, they break the backbone of the immortal collective, of those that have banded together in peace instead of war.
Together, immortals are a formidable enemy, as five riders in the desert once proved beyond a shadow of a doubt. But a single immortal, no matter how terrifying, can be brought down. If they bring her down, the rest will scatter.
That is what they think.
They also think they are subtle, but they are not. The boy who trails her is green and still wet behind the ears, filled with zeal and hate, but not patience. He comes too close, hurries whenever she rounds a corner and twitches when she looks his way.
He is so pathetic that she finds herself hoping for this to be a trap. Anything else she might have to take as an insult.
She wanders aimlessly for almost three hours - because she is most certainly not
going home with the boy still sticking to her tail – when something finally happens.
A van, screeching tires, traptraptrap, they pull her inside, knock her out and take off, leaving rubber.
She wakes soon, too soon, judging by the fact that there are no bullet holes in her body and her head is still attached. But then she counted on that, always counts on being faster, stronger, better. One day, that arrogance will probably get her killed.
But not today.
Today the ones that will die are the ones that tried to kill Darius, that went after Duncan and Fitz, slaughtered so many of her friend, so many of those who wanted peace instead of a game. It’s always the wrong people who have to die when people go mad.
She tests the chains that hold her and strains against them, feeling the links give and the metal scream in silent agony. Longest living slayer, older than the sand in the desert, and still strong. So strong. The chains snap not quite like thread but almost and the sound of it draws attention from one, two, three, four men who stare at her as if they’ve seen the devil.
Antichrist indeed, mother of those that do not die, queen of the desert, Sun of the end of all things. They know none of those titles but they feel them, taste them at the back of their throats, as mortals sometimes do in the presence of something far, far beyond their comprehension.
She smiles at them, quips in a cheery voice – her tribute to a girl long dead and a life almost forgotten – and swings the broken chain dangling from her left wrist to shatter a jaw.
He goes down like a collapsing building while the others go for their guns. Cowards. Rule breakers. Oath breakers. The second falls to a broken nose and shattered bone shoved into his brain. The third gives off a shot that gets her in the shoulder and she grits her teeth as she brings him down, too.
The boy, the one that missed his tailing-people-without-being-painfully-obvious-about-it class. His gun wavers even as his eyes burn and she takes his legs out from under him, kicks his weapon out of reach and watches him scramble backwards.
She could let him live. She could say something meaningful and foreboding. Something about hunting all his friends down, about how there will be no place where they can hide from her. Something profound about the nature of beats and immortals and how she’s not the unnatural freak here.
But she won’t.
She still lives by one rule and one rule only and that rule has annexes and addendums and one of them says never leave a zealot at your back because he will kill you with his teeth and nails if he has to.
So she grabs him by the ears, hauls him up and says, “Stupid boy.”
His neck breaks and she lets his body drop. The silence afterward is deafening, echoing. It always is. She has gotten used to it.
She kneels and starts frisking the men, memorizing their names so she can have Methos check the watcher’s employee list for known associates and whatnot. She finds the keys to the sad remains of the chains that didn’t hold her – could never have held her – and unlocks the cuffs, rubbing her wrists briefly. It’s more out of habit than actual pain because she heals faster than evil vampires in bad movies these days.
She stays that way, on her knees, rubbing her wrists, staring blindly at the four men she just killed.
Then, eventually, she moves, siphons the gas out of the car and uses it to douse the bodies, grabs her sword, flicks a lighter she took off the boy, and walks out of the old warehouse as the smell of burning flesh starts to permeate the air.
Outside she tucks away her sword, makes sure she looks presentable and then starts walking. Maybe she can find a taxi a few blocks away, out of the warehouse district. It shouldn’t be too far. She thinks she’s been here before, on a walk on a restless night.
She meanders slowly down the sidewalk, in no great hurry and never looking back. There was no doubt they would come after her. Not after they went after Darius and she ruined their plans for the priest.
No doubt they would try to kill her.
But she still hoped they wouldn’t.