Date: Tuesday, January 28, 2003 12:56 AMTitle: It's Not Author: s.a. Rating: PG. Pairing: N/A. Fandom: Buffy. Disclaimer: Other people's gardens. I just like to play in them. Spoilers: Nothing really--at least, not recent. AU's, after all. But see if you can pick out the ep-related ones. Feedback: It's the best kind of crack. email: firstname.lastname@example.org Distribution: Hole in the Ground, http://fubos.bluezfire.org/hole; List archives. Just ask. Author's Notes: For Kita's Five Things That Never Happened Challenge. Writing Buffy is like breathing. Summary: Evil sophisticate, alone. The end. Wrong.
The detective draws her gun, eyes focused on the slightly-moving shadow in the far right corner. She nods to her partner, and they exhange a series of nonverbal movements that indicate the directions they'll take to surround the perp. One, two, three, and it's "Freeze!" and "Put your hands in the air!" and "You have the right to remain silent" as the cuffs are snapped on.
It's just a kid, no more than fifteen, but he's shaking, he's so scared. Her partner clicks on the handcuffs, and starts muttering to her about how glad he'll be to get the fuck outta here today. She's nodding at what he's saying, 'cause she feels it too: that feel like the world just got a little bit grimier and she was there to witness it.
She pushes the kid's head down to get him into the back and his eyes catch hers. God, he's such a fucking kid. But this kid popped one on the storeowner down on Fifth, and now he's heading straight for a holding cell before jail, do not pass Go and don't collect your two hundred bucks.
She shoves his head down and cracks her neck. She's seen a dozen of him, and she knows she'll see a dozen more.
She takes a seat in the sitting room, her eyes passing over the expensive furniture and antiques, suppressing a sigh. Another day, another lost little socialite from Bumblefuck, California. Perhaps this could count as her good deed of the year.
The woman walks in, long brown hair falling over her pale blue suit. Her eyes flick down; last year's shoes. Tsk, tsk. Her vision travels upward, over the knockoff suit--good knockoff, but still--to a face broadcasting an artificial, cheerleader's smile. She knows it; she's done it. She still does it. In fact, she gives it now, and she can see in this woman's eyes that their mutual deception is known, if not acknowledged.
She stands and glides across the floor with moves it took eighteen years of dance classes and etiquette training to perfect. Her hands move upward in an open position, perfect for a pleasant greeting she doesn't really mean. She wonders if there is still a bottle of brandy in the cabinet.
"Ms. Chase," she begins warmly, "So lovely to meet you."
"Hi Mom. How are you?"
"Things are good, they're...good. How's the museum collection doing?"
"Oh, yeah. An Egyptian exhibit sounds great. Is it a big deal?"
"Oh. I didn't realize it was that important."
"Sure, sure. Let me talk to him."
"Yeah, things are going fine."
"Yes, I doublechecked the security around the house."
"Well, it's not as if I live in a particularly bad neighboorhood, and I can defend--"
"Yeah. The car's fine too."
"No, I haven't really talked to many people yet."
"Does it really matter?"
"Yeah, let me talk to Mom again."
"Uh-huh. Has Dawn heard from any of the colleges yet?"
"She got in? That's wonderful."
"Is she excited?"
"Good. I'm really glad to hear that. Is she around?"
"Oh, no, I understand. It was the same way with me when I was in high school."
"The job's fine. Boring but fine."
"No, it's okay. I'll talk to you later.
"I love you too."
She stares at the phone in her hand for a long, long time, before she realizes that she can never go home again. She sits in her chair, in her quiet apartment, until unconsciousness takes her away.
iv. the end
She is happy, at peace.
She knows, somehow, that everyone she cares about is all right.
She is warm.
She is loved.
She is finished.
Her body moves with the same strong confidence it had before. Nothing has changed, really; she is still the hunter, still the destroyer.
She still fights, as smoothly and cleanly as before.
The world has often wondered what would happen to one of her kind if she were turned. The answer is suprising.
Nothing, really. She's just on the other side of the battle now.
Or rather, massacre.
When she feeds, her secondary face slides on like a perfectly released crossbow, and her teeth sink into supple flesh with the precision of the sharpest, most accurate stake. She drinks deeply, pulling every bit of life from her victims as if they'd break apart into a cloud of dust if she did so, rather than falling down in a still-warm lump at her feet.
She turns humans sparingly, bringing over only those she trusts, odd concept that it is. Usually they are humans who just won't go away, and something in her makes her want to keep them close, turn them rather than kill them. So she takes them aside, kisses them softly, and pulls the life from them just as she pulls their loyalty to her. Undying, as it were.
And when she feasts, her eyes go bright and feral; her dead heart warms from the blood that runs at her feet and a thrill runs through her body, coursing through like a cold fire and settling low in her belly, making her smile curve low and seductive. Her master lovingly presents her with gifts of the flesh that she takes with the respect due her sire. Dozens pass her sight, and she toasts their reign over this world even as her attention turns to they other enjoyments of her existence.
She hunts and feeds, kills and turns, and nothing has changed at all.
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