Victor, I remember that piece!
A second drabble:
Amanda Lisle #2 (age 17, Oxford, late 1960s)
On a long June evening, Rupert takes me on an illicit pub crawl.
They must know I'm underage; everyone knows Rupert's father. Yet no one runs us off, or tells a proctor.
Rupert's drinking half-pints. The stuff smells wretched to me. But he's talking about his father, my Watcher, saying things he wouldn't normally say, horrible things, about his father's distaste for me, his desire for a Slayer who isn't a witch, isn't beyond his control.
"Hullo, Ripper. Is this Amanda?"
I look up at a sorcerer. Everything in me stiffens as he holds out a hand.
"I'm Ethan Rayne."
Well, the new thing doesn't have a name, but here's part two:
Part Two: Don’t Let’s Start
Giles pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He could feel the soldier’s stare boring into him, although the man’s face betrayed nothing. Giles put his glasses back on and focused on the map adorning his wall, which had become increasingly covered with colored stickpins.
“What you’re proposing is out of the question, Agent Miller,” said Giles, not meeting the young man’s gaze. We have a heavy responsibility. To the world, not just to the United States. Our resources are … stretched thin.”
Giles sighed and finally turned to look at the soldier standing rigidly in front of his desk.
“And of course, you understand, we don’t have an easy relationship with the organization you represent.
“Used to represent,” said Agent Miller, matter of factly. The Initiative’s been closed for years.”
“As you say,” said Giles.
“And you didn’t have a good relationship with the Watchers Council, either. Sir.”
Giles flinched at that, and looked to Buffy and Xander, sitting off to the side, for support.
“He has a point,” said Xander, shrugging. Buffy, however, was less blasé about the whole affair.
“She tried to kill him,” she said, her voice subdued, but Giles could tell she was getting upset.
“Well, yeah,” said Xander, but who hasn’t?”
Buffy shot him a look that could shatter steel, but Xander just smiled.
She turned her attention back to the soldier.
“Graham, you know if I could help you, I would, but this…”
“We’re not asking you for much,” said Graham, his voice softening.
“Tactical advice. Sharing information.”
“And in return...” said Giles, coolly.
“We, likewise, share information.”
Graham removed a small stack of files from his briefcase, and set them on the desk. The names on the files sang like headstones:
“Wesley Wyndam-Pryce,” deceased;
“Charles Gunn,” missing in action;
“Winifred Burkle/Illyria,” deceased/missing in action;
“William the Bloody, aka Spike, Real Name Unknown,” missing in action;
“Angel/Angelus, Real Name Unknown,” missing in action.
“Everything we know about the Wolfram & Hart affair,” said Graham.
Giles, Buffy and Xander exchanged looks. The disappearance of Angel and his team had weighed heavily on them. And here was someone—someone more or less trusted, if not a friend—offering them information.
“But this … plan,” said Giles, spitting out the last word as though he hesitated to call it that, “this woman…”
“She’s resisted your efforts to bring her into the council,” said Graham.
“Yes,” said Giles. “She wants nothing to do with us. And what do you propose to offer her?”
“Closure.”
Hey, look! It has a title now!
In the City
Part Three: In From the Cold
The moments perched above the alleyways hovered like a magician’s card trick. Time hovered impossibly, the moments blending into one. It could be hours, minutes. She couldn’t tell.
Then time snapped like an elastic band, and she was moving before her conscious mind registered what was happening. When reflecting upon it later—and she always reflected upon it later—she’d swear she never heard the screams until after she was moving.
The woman had fallen to the ground, her arms raised ineffectually above her as the vampires clawed at her. Her voice was raw from screaming, so raw that sound was no longer emerging from her mouth, but that didn’t stop her. She screamed silently while the monsters glowered. She was still screaming when the first monster dissolved to dust in front of her.
The second vampire turned to face Justine.
“Well,” he said, “looks like this will be exciting after all.”
Justine said nothing. The vampire’s fist came barreling toward her, and she blocked it effortlessly with her arm. Spinning, her leg kicked out, the impact near shattering the monster’s knees.
With another fluid motion, the stake thrust through the vampire’s heart.
She felt she should say something witty, some expression of triumph, but all there was here, she thought, was emptiness and dust. Her eyes fell on the woman.
“You OK to get home?” said Justine, without much feeling.
“Ye…yes,” said the woman. “My God… that thing.. you saved me.”
“Go home,” said Justine, turning and leaving. “Stay out of the dark.”
Justine stepped back into the shadows.
“Good advice,” said a voice, pleasantly, behind her. “It’s not safe.”
Justine swung around, ready to fight. Behind her stood a short young man, his hair dyed bright blue, in jeans and a bowling shirt. His hands were thrust deep into his pockets, and Justine could tell immediately he wasn’t looking for a fight. Still, she kept her distance.
“Easy,” said the man. “I’m a member of the hair club for humans, just like you.”
Justine thought absently about her hair then, realized how matted it must have become. For the first time in ages she realized how filthy she must be.
“Who are you?” she said. “Are you from the Council? I told them …”
“No,” said the man. “I’m not Council, although I know ‘em.”
“Then who are you?”
“Oh. Name’s Oz. I’m just here to talk.”
Oz knitted his brow in concern.
“And, maybe, we should get some real food in you.”
The door of them walked to a nearby diner. At first the staff bristled at Justine’s presence, but a smile and the slipping of greenbacks kept everything mellow. Justine remarked on how the man seemed to exude mellowness, as if the world simply calmed down around him.
She plowed through a salad and a burger with Oz not really saying much of anything before she finally spoke. And when she told her story, she told all of it, as best as she could remember—she found it odd how many details seemed to be missing. Oz didn’t flinch a bit.
When she finished Oz took another sip of coffee, and then folded his arms on the table.
“Rough story,” he said. “Sounds like you’ve gone through a world of hurt. Regret any of it?”
“Some,” she said. “None of it. It’s hard to say.”
“I get that,” he said. “How long have you been out here alone?”
“I thought you said you weren’t from the Council.”
“I’m not. I’m just doing a few favors for a friend.”
“I can’t take their ‘sacred destiny’ bullshit. I’ve done destiny. I’ve seen what a crock the prophecies are. I’m not buying what they’re selling.”
“But you still slay vampires…”
“Yes.”
“Well, here’s the offer. No sacred calling. No destiny. Just a paycheck, food and a place to crash.”
Justine watched Oz’s eyes. She had questions burning at her, but for the first time in a year, maybe more, she didn’t feel like her sanity was teetering on the edge. She sipped her coffee.”
“This friend,” she said. “What did he do to get you to play errand boy?”
“Saved my life a few years back.” He then seemed to re-evaluate that sentence. “Well, tried to. Close enough.”
Justine’s eyes were locked on the man, now. The things she’d done and seen were terrible, and he didn’t even blink at them.
“I’m not going to say it’ll all be pleasant,” he said. “Quite the contrary. A lot of it’ll suck. They’re pretty upfront about that.”
Justine pondered. Just that second, going back into the cold sounded less than appealing.
“Fine,” she said. “I’m in.”
