Part One of New, As-of-yet untitled Buffy fic.
“It’s just after this thick of trees,” said Xander, as Buffy hacked away at the vines with a machete. Africa had been good to him—he was tanned and muscular, his eye patch now seeming as natural on his face as the stubble he was also sporting.
“And how can you tell this thick of trees from every other thick of trees we’ve hacked through today,” said Buffy, irritated. “And, come to think of it, Xander Francis Burton, why the Hell am I the one doing all the chopping?”
“Hello. Super-strength,” said Xander, chuckling. Willow said nothing, just rolled her eyes. You’d think they’d not have been separated for the past year.
“I mean, you’re the king of the jungle here, pal, not me,” snipped Buffy, as she yanked a troublesome vine that was blocking their path. “I should be back in Italy. With Dawn. Doing… Slayer things in Italy.”
“Oh, is that what they’re calling it these days,” said Willow, giggling, as both Xander and Buffy stared at her in disbelief.
“What, I can’t crack with the jokes, too?”
“I’m holding a machete, y’know?” said Buffy, her lips pursed in faux seriousness.
“Look, guys,” said Xander. “I wouldn’t have dragged you down to the deepest, darkest heart of Africa if it wasn’t important, and I wouldn’t have left the rookies out if I didn’t think it was big-guns-only territory. Buff, you and Giles asked me to let you know if I find anything important…”
Xander rested his palm on Buffy’s shoulder, signaling her to stop. He pointed deep into the jungle mist.
“And, hey. Look. I did.”
There, rising out of the jungle, was a pyramid, not dissimilar to the ones in Egypt, and just as big. The three of them stared at it, awestruck.
“Why did no one ever tell me there were pyramids that big in the Congo?” asked Buffy, stunned. “I’m pretty sure I was awake that day in school.”
“There aren’t any,” said Willow. “I mean, there’s not supposed to be. Not that big.”
“Uh-huh,” said Xander. “There’s a major mojo shielding this thing. It’s not really cracked.” Xander pulled a black diamond from his pocket. “This little baby’s letting us see, even though it’s blinvisible to the rest of the world.”
“Xander,” said Willow, cautiously, “What, exactly, is in there.”
“That, my dear Watson, is the Temple of Ker-bee, the last known resting place of the Julian Moonstone.”
Willow stopped dead in her tracks. Buffy looked from Xander to Willow and back again.
“The what?”
“It’s a source of mystical energy,” said Willow. “It absorbs the moon’s power, allows transportation anywhere that sees the moon’s face. Absorb the power of….”
“…Nightwalkers,” finished Xander. “We’ve been reading the same books. This thing can allow us to track vampires anywhere, protect buildings from them, rob them of their powers.”
“Xander,” said Buffy, “this is incredible.”
“Yeah, but there’s probably traps, mystical guards and serious, pulse-pounding violence ahead. You know. Women’s work.”
Buffy and Willow both shot him withering glances, and pushed forward. Xander was right, of course. No sooner had they entered the pyramid then they were set upon by three horrendous demons with black scales, wielding flaming swords. Willow and Xander fell back as Buffy dispatched two with her machete, then felled another another with a kick to the stomach, beheading it as it fell.
“That wasn’t so bad,” said Buffy, until she saw the frightened looks on her friends’ faces. Spinning, she watched as an even larger demon began to draw its sword down on her. Rapidly she fell so the blade missed her. Suddenly, a bolt of energy erupted from Willow’s fingertips, charring the monster.
“You know,” said Xander, “the sad part is, I’ve missed this.
“I could be in Rome, right now,” mumbled Buffy, wiping the blood off her machete. “These things aren’t built for this sort of thing.”
“Sorry, Buff,” said Xander, who began dusting off the runes on the side of a wall. “If the forces of evil were a nice Chiante, we’d be styling, but all we got is…” A secret door slid open. “…this.”
The three of them entered, cautiously, into a huge, obsidian chamber with a jet-black alter in the middle of it. The walls were adorned with torches, but there wer eno decorations, no symbols etched into the stone. Everything was smooth, and undisturbed.
“There’s no dust,” said Buffy.
“Huh,” said Xander.
“Look at it,” said Buffy. “This thing’s been hidden for, what, a few thousand years? And there’s no dust anywhere.”
“You’re right,” said Willow, her hand now glowing with a blue flame. “Think the maid stops by on Thursdays?”
“Searching for warding spells?” asked Xander.
“Uh-huh,” said Willow, “but it’s no good. This place reeks of magic. It’s everywhere.”
Xander walked slowly to the alter, where a black medallion rested on the smooth, polished stone.
“This the thing?” asked Buffy, now sounding edgy.
“I think so,” said Xander, his hand hovering above it. When Willow offered no objections, he snatched it up into his hand.
Suddenly, there was a bright flash of light, and a feeling of flying, then darkness.
The three awoke in a metal room with glass windows. The room was lit by fluorescent lights. Computer equipment was everywhere.
“Guys,” said Xander, “I think we’re out of Africa.”
The two women looked at him, and then looked out the window. In the sky above them, where the moon should be, was a giant blue orb with swirling white clouds.
“That’s… the Earth,” said Buffy. “Somebody put the Earth in the sky.”
“No,” said a freezing cold voice. “You’re on the moon.”
They all turned, to see a tall, masked man in what looked like a dark cloak, standing just beyond the shadows. His eyes were just white slits.
He stepped into the light, revealing a tall, muscular man wearing a cowl and what turned out to be a cape. The three stared at the man, as incredulity creaped across their faces.
“Ok,” s
Oh,
lovely!
Nice one, Victor. Thoroughly intrigued - can't wait for the next installment - v. good dialogue, as ever - you've really got the voices nailed. Go team.
Ahem. So, still fiddling around with
Firefly
fic and, for no particular reason, present tense.
I still don't like the whole Crazy Space Incest reading of the River-Simon relationship. But my Simon/Kaylee sort of...isn't.
Thicker than Water.
Surfacing from sleep it still takes him several long, lingering moments to place himself in the here-and-now. There are whole seconds when Simon could be waking up to his sixth birthday, or when he might have snatched a few minutes or even hours of much-needed sleep between shifts in the hospital; whole seconds before he remembers that his life has been jolted off course forever, and that his world has shrunk to one patient, one research project, one precious thing that he has hidden on a ramshackle ship manned by petty crooks. He opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling and knows that he is trapped in a fragile bubble of steel and air and second-hand parts, hiding his sister from the authorities and depending upon the kindness of criminals.
This is not the future he expected.
"You're awake." He peers blearily down the length of his body and sees River framed in the doorway, all skinny limbs and tangled locks. She looks about twelve – and yet not. Disturbingly not. Her clever fingers clasp the edge of the door and she swings herself out carelessly, like a child leaning away from a climbing frame. He sits up, half-afraid that she will fall, and the sheet drops away from his skin. "I was waiting, and then you were awake. Grass and daisies soon."
"You – yes. Yes, I'm awake," he agrees, because it's the simplest thing to do, and he tries to look like a nonchalant brother rather than a concerned physician as he scans her face and limbs. She seems calm enough, and her colour is normal. He meets her eyes and sees her smiling at him knowingly. She understands him too well. "I – how are you feeling, River?"
"She wears not motley in her brain," she announces gravely. He tries to place the reference, and it's just on the tip of his tongue when she executes a flawless and unexpected pirouette and distracts him once again. Her expression, when she meets his eyes again, is kind. Pitying. "You've patched me up well, Simon. It's not your fault I'm broken. You're all virtue, Simon; no patches; no transgressions." She steps further into the room, placing her bare feet so carefully she might have been picking her way through broken glass. Her borrowed dress is too big, hanging loose where curves should swell to fill it. He watches her curious progress with a familiar ache of tenderness, and rubs the sleep out of his eye with the back of his hand. His bed is hard under him, but he is growing used to it. When she reaches his side she leans close and whispers confidentially: "You can't fix a fault line with a bandage and a pin – the stresses on the tectonic plates are simply too great." He back smiles at her, and it feels like someone has reached right into his chest and is squeezing his heart. "It's not your fault," she says, and kisses his cheek.
He wants to wake up out of this, and have her whole again, and home.
* * *
"Armies march on their stomachs," River points out, surveying his latest culinary offering with an expression of profound distrust. Protein powder is adequate sustenance, but it is far from appetising. Nobody has ever taught Simon how to cook, and his forays into food preparation have not been the greatest of successes so far. His respect for Shepherd Book is growing by the day.
"Yes. Well, we aren't an army," he says. "Come on, it's delicious. Really. Just like – well, just like someone's mother used to make. Possibly. Somewhere. In a place without fresh fruit or vegetables or anything meat-like." There is a little pause. "I'm not selling it, am I?"
"No," says River firmly. "I'm not that crazy." She meets his eyes and they both laugh with a suddenness that is as welcome as it is unexpected. "I want miso soup," she adds unhelpfully. "And goose eggs."
"Brat," he replies, eyeing the brownish mush with resignation. She is still growing, he reminds himself, and she should really eat - but he feels exactly the same way about the food himself. He pulls out one of the mismatched chairs and sits at the dining table, half-hoping that this will somehow make the contents of the bowls seem more foodlike. It does not. River perches on the table, her dirty knees peeping out from under an explosion of fabric. He knows she should be sitting at the table, not on the table, but it no longer seems to matter very much.
The mush tastes worse than it looks.
It is only now that he is coming to realise how very many of the little details of what he had considered to be normality were never normal, never a given. Privilege had softened all life's edges for the Tams, and although he had never been one to overindulge in luxury for its own sake, still he had taken for granted the opportunities that wealth afforded him. The freedoms. He had never had to worry about where to find medical supplies, or research data, or fresh mango juice. These things were unthinkingly available in his old life, simple as air. He had also, without pondering it very hard, always believed that there was right and wrong, good and bad, acceptable and unacceptable. That it was easy to tell one from the other.
"It's really not that bad," he says, waving his chopsticks at the mush. "Once you get used to it. It's – ah. It's wholesome. Really. It's good for you."
"So is spinach," says River, glaring at the bowl. After a moment she picks up her chopsticks, and Simon knows a moment of unexpected optimism before she winds her hair into a knot and stabs the chopsticks firmly through the middle.
"I like spinach," he murmurs, poking the mush. His expression is glum. It really does taste nothing like chicken, whatever the flavouring crystals may have promised.
"Your palette is unaccountably deficient," agrees River amicably, swinging her bare legs. "It's because you're a boob."
It was River's letters that first taught him to question his vision of reality, and since then everything that once seemed solid and beyond doubt has begun to crumble and fray around him. Out here in the Black, as Simon has come to realise, one cannot take breathing for granted, let alone mango juice, and everything is shades of grey. Respectable does not mean good, and nor does courteous.
Mal Reynolds is a smuggler who positively delights in being abrasive, but presently he is all that stands between River and her pursuers – and Simon, to his own surprise, trusts him with both their lives. Shepherd Book is a man of the cloth, but he knows how to shoot a man dead, even if he does choose to aim for their kneecaps by preference. Simon's life is full of disturbing contradictions and juxtapositions now.
River glances disdainfully at her untouched dinner, swivels around, slides back along the wooden surface and lies back down on the table as still as a mummified queen. Simon is reminded, a little randomly, of a book he once read which claimed that, on Earth That Was, rich men would sometimes eat their dinner from the naked flesh of a virgin. He considers mentioning this to River, smiling at the thought that she probably already knows, and could cite the relevant historians and critique all their works, but upon second thought he finds himself uncomfortable. Simon swallows another mouthful of protein, enjoying the tranquillity of the dining room all the more because it is bound to be short lived. Zoe and the Captain are offship, negotiating the details of their latest job. Jayne will be with them, looking dangerous. Inara is already planetside. Serenity is, for once, living up to her name.
"It doesn't know what it's supposed to be," River says, dipping an idle finger into the cooling food without looking at it.
"I know the feeling," says Simon wryly, surveying his sister. She seems to feel his affectionate glance, because she abruptly rolls over and props her chin on her hands. She is not smiling.
"No you don't," she says, after a moment. "You know what you should be. You're just scared."
He wants to protest, but her knowing expression disturbs his composure and he ends up simply rolling his eyes and turning his attention to his own unappetising meal. He wonders if she knows herself what she means.
There have been countless little shocks as he adjusts to his new routines and to the deprivations of life on a battered old ship, living hand to mouth. Processed food. Recycled air. No more baths. Learning to darn socks, which was slightly different from sewing skin. Wearing dirty shirts, because it simply wasn't practical to wash them after only one day. Body odour, his own and other people's. No privacy. Eating mush. Simon is tired, frustrated, exhilarated, disgusted, startled, amused, bemused and annoyed on a daily basis. He is no longer sure who he is, wrenched so out of context. He has gone beyond colluding with criminal activities to actively planning them, an
