Chapter Two

“Caught in the shin by a sneaky left, ouch”

Casually crunching into the apple, Jackson West leaned against the sleek metal siding, watching as his partners sparred viciously on the worn black mats of their personal training area. The female crouched and swung both legs out to knock the peroxide blond opponent crashing to the ground. Her smirk was vicious as she leapt to her feet with nimble agility. Growling, Spike pushed himself upwards, faced her once more. Dodging one lightning quick jab, he ducked low and caught her squarely in the kidney, knocking the wind out of her.

“Ohhh. . .low blow man.”

Recovering with unnatural speed, the female opponent cart wheeled forward, planted both hands firmly on the mats, and slammed her sneakers straight into Spikes infuriatingly cocky face. The vampire felt his nose break, and he fell back against the wall.

“Damn it Liz, You broke me fuckin’ nose again!!”

Tossing the chin length bob of a deep chestnut carelessly away from smooth,almond tanned flesh, she crossed her sweat sheened arms, the spandex tank curving snugly around her upper body revealing a clearly defined abdomen. She tugged up her sweat pants with irritating nonchalance, chiding easily “I *told* you not to spar me.”

Drops of blood dripping onto his muscle shirt, he stood and lunged for her. Swerving out of the way with feline grace, she retaliated with a sharp smack to his bruised bum that had him pushing off of the opposite wall. He growled. “I *told* you to stop doing that!”

Smirking wickedly, Liz shrugged. “Did you? Hm. . .must have missed the memo.”

“And we have our winner!” Grabbing up her wrapped hand, West (formally known as Pike) tossed it into the air in mocking celebration. Spike tossed a teeth-baring glare at the smirking mortal, growling menacingly “Keep it up, mate, and I’ll shove that apple down your throat.”

In response, West took another bit of the fruit, wiggling his eyebrows in invitation. Nudging West with a quelling glance, Liz stepped forward and held out a hand to help Spike up. Spike glared, reached up and yanked her down to the mat with a triumphant grin. She felt her lungs compress and she lay still for a moment, before levering herself up and slamming an elbow cleanly into his gut, leaving him writhing in agony.

Allowing West to help her up, she brushed her hands down her back, stepping over to Spike, who groaned from his place on the floor. Perching deceivingly fragile arms on her slim hips, she quirked an eyebrow. “You owe me fifty bucks.” Spike glared in annoyance, pushing himself to his feet as Liz stepped back. Ignoring the glare, she added simply “And I get the shower first.”

Heading towards the locker room, she rolled her eyes at West’s inviting gaze and pithy request. “Need some help with the hard to reach places?” She never even turned around, holding up a single, somewhat insulting finger before striding out the door.

The companionable three were playing poker at a worn wooden table in the basement that served as their make-shift headquarters/gym/veritable living space when the heavy metal door was swung open, slammed closed. They turned to study the newest arrival then simultaneously busied themselves with their dealt hands. Shitty cards were much better than dealing with -her- after a messy night. Spike’s gaze remained a bit longer however, a remnant, perhaps, from a time long gone when he’d though he’d loved her.

No. No, that was wrong. He *had* loved her. It’d taken him numerous coma’s over good old jack black and strong tequila to finally admit it. He’d loved her then, when her strength had come from the heart. When that sunlight she’d held had drawn his heavily masochistic side to burning. When she’d cared.

He didn’t love her now.

“ ’Ey” The greeting mild, somewhat disinterested, and vintage Spike, he tossed in another crumpled bill. “Raise ya’ fifty mate.” West, ever the pessimist, threw down his respectable hand and pushed back his chair. “Fold.” Eyes that, after many an hour of silent contemplation, he’d decided were a mucky gray slid towards the newcomer, known now only as Snake, rather tentatively.

“Bad night?”

The dusty trench coat of a cargo-green was tossed over a nearby folding chair, stake holsters, now empty, tugged off and tossed with a clang into a reinforced metal cabinet. Her eyes were cold, eyebrows drawn down in a permanent scowl, lips firmed in mask that could swing from malicious pleasure to burning hatred in a heartbeat. In that particular moment, it ran the edge of distilled disgust.

“No” A terse, shut-the-fuck-up reply that had West raising his brows and standing, heading towards the kitchen nook. “Beer?” At the nods of ascent from the two at the table, he sauntered off to get the cheap American brews. He didn’t even bother glancing back at Snake for her response.

A good thing to, as her mind was on the evening’s event and the question would have only been met with a scowl. With military efficiency, she tugged off black cargo pants that sagged heavily at slim, viciously toned hips. The simple white camisole that made her daily uniform followed soon after. Clad in only the athletic bra and underwear, meant for maximum movement in combat, not sexiness, she entered the bathroom, locked the door behind her.

Her eyes remained forward, habitually avoiding the medicine cabinet mirror as she shrugged out of the strips of fabric, turned on the shower till it battered down hot water in rapid succession. Cheap bar soap in hand, she began to scrub the grime and death from her flesh, eyes placid and cool. There was no pretty shower curtain, no feminine bottle of bubble bath propped in a corner, no uniquely scented shower gel suctioned beside a pale pink loofa to the bathroom tiles. All was Spartan, bought only to fulfill the barest basics of human hygiene. It was how she wanted it. It was how it was.

She shaved only to avoid abrasion, which could hinder movement, she washed her hair because it kept away unwanted entities and attention to do so, she scrubbed her flesh because it was necessary to avoid illness. All was done remotely, disinterestedly. Stepping out of the shower stall, she toweled off briskly and took the unscented lotion in hand. Smoothing it on quickly, not for aesthetic value, not for comfort, but because moisturized skin was less susceptible to injury, she set about to deal with the jagged gash running the width of her bicep.

Surely she’d have felt the pain, the sting of soap in a wound as she’d showered, but no motion had been had. Now, long after the demon had cut into her skin, long after the blood had slowed to a stop, was when she took the time to bandage it. She dumped antiseptic on it, her face glassy, unmoving, uncaring, and for all appearances, unfeeling. The machine-like mind of a soldier was wiped clean for the moment, focused on the task at hand. After all, why bother wasting time on one thought when another was more efficient? Finishing quickly, she turned her head away from the mirror as she exited the bathroom, entered her bedroom, and slammed the door resolutely behind her.

As she weaved pale brown hair, once a sun kissed (if artificial) blonde, into a heavy braid that brushed the small of her bare back, the intricate tribal serpent tattooed along the length of her spine flexed and undulated. Its jagged tail shifted on the curve of her left hip, its mouth open for a massive bite of her right shoulder. And running all along the deep black ink, was a scar. It was a vicious one, ugly in its permanence. Made by the scythe like claw of a merthra demon, it seemed to bubble white to the surface, a deep, inch width remembrance of a battle that had taken what was left of her heart.

The braid heavy against the calloused flesh, she strode naked to the bare cot, lifted the flimsy mattress and removed what seemed to be blue prints from the metal grating. Laying the sheets flat against the battered metal desk, she carefully studied the warehouse grounds, lifted a pencil to scribble random notations, decided that the perfect night for the sting would be the following. All was done in moments, experience warring with military precision.

In silence, always in silence, she lifted the worn t-shirt she slept in and tugged it on over her head, not out of any self consciousness, but because one must never be caught off guard.

A tentative knock on her door resounded against brick and stone.

“What.” No heat in the words, no curiosity, just directness, and a frightening cold.

“Um... Snake?”

Liz’s voice. Quirking a brow, she known as Snake turned, crossed slim arms, and waited with only vague impatience flitting against her features. “We, uh, me and the boys.” She cursed inwardly at the abject stuttering, firming her voice and straightening her shoulders. “We’re worried about that ambush on the nest off Wellington street. . .”

Again, only silence met the statement. Sighing, Liz tucked her hands uncomfortably into her pockets. “We don’t think we should go through with it. . .its to risky. . .any one of us could get hurt.”

The smaller woman listened, cocked her head, then gave Liz such an arctic stare it had her balancing on the balls of her feet nervously. Then, that voice, chilled and monotone.

“So don’t.”

That gave her pause. “Don’t as in. . .we’ll put it off for a while?” The hopeful comment was met with an unreadable stare.

“Don’t as in don’t go.”

Liz’s brows drew together, then her lips firmed in a frown. “You’d go alone.” A simple statement of fact.

"Yes."

Just as simple.

Shaking her head, the young woman crossed her arms, sighed heavily. "What time do you plan on leavin'?"

"6:25"

Sun down.

"We'll be ready."

Snake didn't bother to even turn around from the weapons cabinet she'd buried her head in, ignoring the sharp clang of metal as the door was slammed closed. The Old slayer, heart calloused from war, stared after the young woman- the new slayer- in cool, stone-like silence.

And from above, They known as the powers shook Their heads sadly, for the beacon of light that had once been Buffy had been doused by careless predecessors. This would have to be remedied. . .A murmur of agreement amongst the shadowy beings. . . Yes, she would have to be fixed, before the enemy saw her weakness and exploited it.

Before Buffy Summers. . .now known only as Snake. . .Became the very thing she fought.

The veritable army of vampires undulated like a sea as they crowded around the simple wooden podium. Behind it stood a man, rather handsome, if not a bit small. Tawny haired, slim, with the artistic face of a poet or musician. However the sheer charisma he exuded made him seem three times his size. The vampires surrounding him stared in awe and wonder as he spoke in cool, fluid tones his plans for dominating the world.

“The cattle. . .these *humans*” He spoke the word through lips pursed with distaste. “Will live in cages . . .bound. . .enslaved. . .Mass produced to feed our brethren!”

A roar of cheers lapped to existence then dwindled to silence as the speaker lifted a hand for quiet. “But first. . .But first, my friends. . .We must deal with our only threat. . .The ONLY obstacles that block us from out destiny. . . Our *destiny*. . .that we be GODS of this pathetic dimension!” Another cheer, followed by a smatter of murmurs. “We must destroy the only creatures who dare fight us! The slayers of our generation! THEY stand in our way, brothers, and they MUST BE DESTROYED!”

The screams of agreement, the roars of excitement poured through the warehouse’s fragile walls and startled the bedraggled creatures huddled around bon fires to eek away the cold. Inside the abandoned building, from the back where shadows slithered across the grounds, whimpers and cries and meek little sobs emanated. Humans, entrapped in rough crates, weak from loss of blood, huddled together against the growls their masters made. Enslaved... Hopeless . . .In the brilliance of flickering yellow bulbs, the dynamic speaker continued undaunted.

“First California!!. . . Then THE WORLD!”

“Well then, its a good thing I canceled my subscription to Vogue. Ugg, could you imagine the fashion advice? Maroon velvet and grunge rock is sooo passé. ”

Smirking as a nearby vampire fell to her almighty stake, Cordelia waved prettily before all hell broke loose.

From behind her Gunn and a number of his old group of amateur vampire hunters fanned out in a wave, separating the teeming mass of vampires into smaller, more manageable clumps. From the catwalk, Fred and Wesley fired off their crossbows in rapid succession, while Angel clawed his way through the throng to get at the leader. It was a fascinating example of teamwork and a well executed plan.

But not all that well researched.

From a nearby entrance poured another seventy of Arless’s faithful followers, overwhelming the small army of make-shift hunters. Angel, as the most experienced, took the brunt of the work, while Gunn and the stronger of his crew followed behind. They weren’t doing well, Angel could see that even as three more bloodsuckers fell to the sword clutched in his grip. Wesley and Fred were fending off their own welcoming party, and Cordelia was surrounded by a group of fledgling minions. From the podium, the leader, Arless, barked out orders like a drill sergeant.

Suddenly a flash of light, searing, burning light, and in defense, he ducked beneath the screaming vampires and shielded his flesh as best he could. In an instant, twenty vampires had been crispy crittered, their skin crumpling into dust.

Sunlight?? At Night??

Suddenly a man who seemed vaguely familiar slid down the rope slung across the catwalk and fell into a clump of vampires, toppling them like dominoes as he sprayed them with holy water with obvious glee.

“Aw come on guys, its just a little shower!”

“Just shut your hole and deal with them, will ya’ mate? And watch where your bloody pointing that thing!”

Spike. Angel’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the mayhem for the origin. Spike, in all his platinum haired glory, efficiently dispatched a trio of growling menaces while the other man shoved his boot into the water-scarred face of another burly minion. What the hell were they doing here??

“Ahhh. . .some help here!!!” Cordelia cried as four vampires closed in as one. Pushing back the interesting developments for the moment, Angel shoved his way to the crowd, but was beaten to the punch . A tall, chestnut bobbed young woman, not possibly more than nineteen, staked two rather quickly and, in an impressive show of strength, lifted another and snapped his spine cleanly over her knee. Her lean, angular face held vicious satisfaction.

“I -love- doing that.”

Cordelia simply screeched as the fourth vampire lunged for her throat, then blinked, shell shocked, as only dust met her. Liz smirked. “Woops. Almost forgot about that one.” She moved with the feline grace of a warrior, and Angel felt his blood boil instinctively as that familiar heat danced beneath his flesh. “A. . .slayer? Why the hell-”

But his train of thought was interrupted as Arless, recognizing defeat, growled angrily and darted from the stage. With clever, cunning eyes, the smaller man shoved open a cage teeming with undernourished mortals and yanked out a young woman, who screamed uncontrollably. A hostage.

“Clever son of a bitch.” Gunn muttered from beside him as the thirty something year old shoved away another minion. “He knows he’s the target and he plans on getting out intact.” Was Angel’s angry response. He couldn’t risk allowing Arless to leave. They’d gotten lucky, tracking him to the New York warehouse, but if they lost him now he’d disappear for another ten years. And likely rise up with an army they -couldn’t- stop.

But the gaunt girls trembling form stood in everyone's way of a clean shot. Arless began to make his way to the sewer tunnel entrance, six of his minions protecting him stoically. “Next time I’ll send you an invitation, Angelus!”

Laughing arrogantly, Arless kept the terrified woman firmly against his chest.

“No. You won’t.” A slow, unfeeling response that came from the entrance behind him. Three of the minions went up in screams and dust and Angel strained to see into the shadows. Arless turned, was sure to keep his back firmly to the wall and the girl firmly in the way of a clean shot. His gaze dawned with recognition.

“Well well well, if it isn’t the indomitable Snake. . . We haven’t had the pleasure of a formal greeting.”

Her face was cold, so cold, and grip firm and steady on the crossbow as it aimed for his heart, still shielded by the flesh and bone of another. Arless smirked. “Going to shoot me, Slayer?”

She said nothing. No pithy response, no smirk of satisfaction, no quick dart of a hazel gaze to gauge the situation. She simply stared silently. The silence shot dread into Arless unfeeling heart. “You wouldn’t shoot.” His voice held only a tiny waver of uncertainty. “Not when one of your precious humans was in the way.”

Again, only silence retorted. Snake stepped forward.

Angel fought his way through the crowd, and felt his skin grow hot, than cold, than stiff as marble. It couldn’t be. Not here. And her eyes. . . It couldn’t be her. It couldn’t be. Snake’s finger twitched on the crossbows trigger. “Buffy, NO” That voice sounded so familiar. . . her brows drew together as the memory of a life long ended quivered through her bloodlessly. Then, her face froze, unfeeling.

Buffy? Buffy was dead.

Snake never even glanced his way. If her flesh warmed, just for a second, at the sound of his voice, she told herself it was only annoyance. With military precision, she judged the weight of the choice at hand.

Was the girl an expendable loss?

Yes.

Suddenly her gaze caught Jackson’s, who clawed his way through the crowds, and held. He nodded slightly. Darting forward, he ducked his head and yanked the woman from Arless’s frigid grasp just as Snake pulled the trigger resolutely. Arless exploded with an undignified screech.

Without loyalty holding them there for slaughter, the minions straggled, scrambled and scurried from the warehouse in varying directions. With a nod from Angel, Gunn and his team moved to follow them. Beside him, Buffy reloaded her crossbow efficiently, aimed, demolished a vampire that zeroed into her vision, and began to reload once again.

He was afraid to touch her. Perhaps because a part of him, still trembling at the newest development, feared she would vanish.

No.

He was afraid he would kill her. So he focused the anger on the situation at hand.

The combined efforts of the ‘vigilante’s’ emptied the warehouse rather quickly, Gunn and his team chasing the escapees and cutting them down with experienced efficiency. Then, the battle over, the more pressing issues pushed to the front.

“WOULD YOU HAVE KILLED HER?”

Angel. His gaze was livid, a pale yellow from fury, as he stalked over to Buffy. . .Snake. . .Buffy damnit! The once blond, now brunette woman, as petite as she’d been ten years before, calmly gathered up the last of the wood-tipped metal stakes and dumped them into a duffel bag. Her eyes were frigid, as vicious as dry ice to warm skin as she cocked her head, studied him silently, then side stepped him and continued about her business.

“Um, Angel. . .”

Fred’s quiet voice, a light hand on his arm. She’d never met the woman Angel’s anger was directed toward, but the cold, unfeeling gaze had her worried for his safety. Furious, Angel shook away the calming touch and grasped Buffy’s upper bicep in steely fingers.

The calloused slayer went deathly still.

So still in fact, that Angel froze in reaction, as a cautious warrior would to an enemy. Her voice was so quiet, neared a whisper really; But Fred, who still watched with vigilant eyes, shivered from the power of it.

“Remove your hand.”

His voice a growl, he loosened his grip, but refused to let go. “Then answer me damnit. Would you have killed that girl?”

In an effort to tether control, Buffy shut her eyes carefully, counted to ten, then murmured quietly.

“Remove your hand.”

“Yo!’”

The newest voice had Angel turning his head. The woman, the other slayer, approached with a long, coltish gait and narrowed eyes. Apparently, she had no such control, as she stepped right into Angel’s face and said quite clearly. “BACK. OFF.”

Loyalty ran deep when it came to Snake. Spike, lips curved in a wide, quite satisfied smirk, ambled over to lean against a wooden crate to the right of Buffy. The man, who he remembered as Pike, but was now known as West, hopped off the catwalk and landed on the crate with wolfish movements and a frown curving his lips. Together they presented a unified front of mercenary-like viciousness that had Angel glaring, baring his teeth (which apparently pleased Spike -enormously-) and doing as the young slayer had asked. He backed off.

“Are the charges set?” Buffy’s voice, smooth, placid, stoic, her flat gaze slanting towards Jackson, who stood studying Angel darkly. Forcing his gaze away from the glowering vampire, Jackson carefully ignored the spark of raging jealousy and nodded. “Yeah. Ten minutes.”

With a brisk nod of approval, Buffy hefted the duffle bag and slung it over her shoulder. Eyes poised, carefully controlled, she turned to stare at Angel. He resisted the urge to squirm at the intensity of her gaze.

He couldn’t have known the war that raged deep within the woman he loved. . .had once loved. . .whatever. She didn’t quiver only because the sight of him left her frozen, feeling things she hadn’t felt in nearly a decade. But she wouldn’t explore them. And she’d be damned if she admitted it was that long forgotten pain that lingered in a soul now polluted with black. As a result of her inner turmoil, her voice held a vicious heat that had Liz gaping at her in surprise. Snake never got -angry-. Snake never got -anything-.

“Get your people out of here.”

And without another word, she turned and strode from the warehouse.

Liz sent a tentative glance in Snake’s (Buffy’s? What kind of a name was Buffy???) direction. The smaller woman was sitting in eerie silence save for the vicious zing of metal on stone as she sharpened a scythe to slice bloodlessly. Her back flat against the solid brick of the basement loft, lithe legs crossed Indian style. . .and the most vicious scowl one could ever fathom plastered across her normally emotionless features.

Wincing as if the scowl were directed at her, she carefully averted her gaze. Her voice hushed, she leaned forward conspiratorially. “Who the hell was that guy?”

Though he knew full well who she spoke of, West’s eyes narrowed, sparked with jealously as he muttered. “-what- guy”

“The guy who’s got sunshine-and-roses’ knickers in a twist, jackass." West bared his teeth in a scowl, but fumed in silence. Apparently pleased at his well aimed barb, Spike touched a flared match to the tip of his cigarette and puffed thoughtfully, continuing with amusement peppering his smooth British accent.

“And he, boys and girls, is our Slayer’s long lost love. . .Ensouled, en-angsted, en-poufed”

Liz snorted. “Yah right.”

“You dare question my expertise on all things Buffy?”

“Shut the fuck up Spike.”

“Shove it up your ass . . .*Pike*”

West’s eyes blazed and he lunged forward , fists aimed for Spike’s smirking mouth. Vampire reflexes, however, sorely outweighed that of a lowly human’s. West tumbled to the ground.

“Cool it you two!” This from Liz, who slapped a hand on Spike’s chest and prevented him from standing with little effort. Her voice lowered to a growl. “Cool it or I’ll throw you -BOTH- a beating”

With a huff, West planted himself back in his chair. Tension had clearly risen in the spacious room. Not to be deterred, however, Liz shoved at Spike’s shoulder. “What were you saying?”

“Keep glaring at me like that and I’ll make sure your eyes aren’t staring at anything but your bashed in brain, Pikey my boy-”

“SPIKE”

Holding up his hands in mock truce, he took another drag of his cigarette, smiled at Liz winningly. “Anything for you, pet.” She glared, he relented. “All right, all right. . . our ahh. . .” He tossed a wary, sideward glance at Buffy, who continued dragging the stone across the pristine blade with the utmost concentration. “Stalwart leader wasn’t always a shrew, ya’ know.”

“Keep the opinions to yourself, Spike. Or I’ll forget you’ve been neutered and make you small enough to fit in an ashtray”

“You know what, you insolent mortal? I’ve a mind to shove-”

“GEEZUS Will the both of you STOP! You sound like my parents!! -AFTER- they got the divorce!!”

That shut them up quite cleanly, the thought of sounding like -shudder the thought- a couple slamming a clamp on their barbs quite effectively. Satisfied, Liz smirked. “Now Spike, as you were saying-”

“You’ve got questions, you come to me.” The voice was viciously low, achingly quiet. . .and so angry it had Liz holding back a squeak. Spike quirked a brow, stood, met the smaller woman’s glare from a good twelve inches up.

“You haven’t exactly been all that forthcoming, luv”

Spike was suddenly flying across the room, blood dribbling from a broken nose. Buffy, her chest heaving, growled out with that last inkling of control. “DON’T call me that. . .EVER. . .”. Liz gawked, then stood and strode over to Spike, batting away his hands to examine the bloodied nose. She turned accusing eyes to her mentor, but ‘Snake’ was lost in memories. Degrading memories that, after the days events, left her rocking.

“I can’t do this. . .” Her voice was barely audible and, without a word, she strode towards the door, ripped it open, and slammed it behind her. Gaze worried, West stared at the door long after she’d left.

Some women would have headed to a trusted friend's to blubber over cookie dough double fudge mint chip ice cream. Other women would have flounced to a gym and pounded into a pretty, neon pink punching bag. Still others would scream, rant and throw things at innocent bystanders.

Buffy was none of these women. She belonged to the small percentage of femme fatales that killed things when they was angry. Lots of things. Most of which, she was pretty sure, were evil.

Then she got rip-roaring drunk.

Slamming down the empty shot glass with a comical crack, the bartender winced in sympathetic pain as the glass split from the force.

“’Ey come on now, der’s no need fer that. Easy on da glass, hm?”

Now, Julian the bartender was lucky this fine eve, as the formidable slayer was to damned wasted to be much of a threat to anything breathing. Growling out an impressive ring of curses, she shoved at the broken glass, slicing into her skin in the process. Visions of lawsuits and bankruptcy dancing in his head, Julian quickly cleaned up the glass and handed her a towel for her bloodied wrist.

“Methinks you’ve had enough now, y’hear? Go on home now, love. I‘ll call‘s ya‘ a cab.”

Her voice was only a little slurred as she threw the towel at his head. “Don’t call me love, asshole.”

Sighing, Julian watched as she stumbled out of his establishment. Girl had a serious problem. . .but at least it wasn’t -his- anymore.

TO BE CONTINUED