In the City
Part Four: This Girl’s Army

Justine sat silently in the passenger seat of Oz’s van, listening to some LA band she’d never heard of crooning through the speakers. “In Los Angeles/only God believes/What he thinks he sees … and I can’t believe/that he died for me/just like on TV … even the Holy Ghost/has got a billboard on Sunset…”

Oz nodded in time to the music. He really didn’t talk all that much. She didn’t know why she was going with him. It would be nothing but trouble.

She looked sideways at the placid young man, and a thought she couldn’t articulate formed. All she could think of was the layer of filth that seemed caked onto her skin. She’d been living wild for months, maybe more than a year, but now was the first time she’d noticed it.

She felt like a fog was lifting.

She listened to the band she didn’t recognize, and watched the city roll by. They rolled down the 405, then off onto side streets. Torrance she figured. Hawthorne. Somewhere like that. The van pulled up to a bombed-out warehouse, and Oz pulled out a cell phone.

“Base, this is Rover. I’m in.”

“Rover?” asked Justine.

“It’s kind of an inside joke. They won’t let me change it.”

The garage door lifted, and Oz drove the van inside. A tall, blonde man in black was leaning against the wall. He and Oz nodded taciturn hellos at each other.

“This our girl?” said the man, stepping forward. Justine felt her lip curl, a feral growl building beneath her tongue.

“Woman,” said Oz. “Not girl.”

Justine looked sideways at Oz again, and relaxed.

“Right,” said the man. “My apologies. Are you Justine?’

Justine just nodded. The man didn’t step forward.

“I’m Special Agent Finn. Welcome. Make yourself at home. We’ll talk after you’re settled in.

A door slid opened, revealing an elevator. Justine glanced nervously at it, but Oz—seemingly catching her distress—simply touched her arm.

“It’s cool. It’ll be fine.”

She and Oz followed Finn into the elevator, and within moments, she found herself in a fluorescent-lit underground bunker filled with uniformed men and women.

“How many of these things did you guys build?” asked Oz. “A whole bunch,” said Finn, “But this isn’t the Initiative. Much smaller, no research. Just response.”

“And you’re in charge?” asked Justine.

“Sort of,” said Finn. “This is your room. Someone will be by in an hour or so.

Justine looked in the room. A bed, a dresser filled with clothes—jeans, jumpers, sweat shirts. Nothing flashy or expensive. Practical. All purpose. There was a computer—which she really didn’t know how to use--on a desk. There was a TV. There was a small bathroom, with a shower.

She turned the hot water on, and her fingers trembled as they extended into the spray. Tentatively, she undressed and stepped into the shower. This was dangerous. She was surrounded by armed soldiers.

The water nearly seared her skin. She turned the temperature up. Soap, shampoo. Her hair was knotted in so many places, she figured she’d be better off shaving it. Another time.

When she finished, she looked at herself in the mirror. It was the first time she’d looked at herself in ages. She looked human. She looked almost clean.

She dressed quickly. She realized all the clothes they’d left her fit loosely. They were all clothes she could fight in. That was good. No weapons, at least, not here. She had her stake from early in her hand. She tucked it into her belt, but it didn’t really matter. Anything was a weapon in her hands.

She thought about Holtz, and it seemed very distant. Another life. She looked at herself in the mirror.

“My name is Justine,” she said, quietly, hesitantly. “My name is Justine. The vampire slayer.”

In The City Part Five: The Replacements

Her hair was a mess, but the jeans fit, and the tank top she found in the dresser suited her. She could feel the air-conditioning chill her skin. She was alive.

A knock came at the door. She stiffened defensively.

“Not everything’s an attack,” she thought, and then corrected herself. She really didn’t know where she was. She really wasn’t safe.

“You decent?” said a voice from behind the door. It was Oz.

“Yes,” she said, noncommittally.

Oz opened the door and peered in. “Cool. Riley wants to talk to you.”

“Riley?”

“Special Agent Finn.”

“Oh.”

She didn’t like Finn. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but he made her edgy. But then, everything made her edgy. Everything except…” “So,” she said, looking Oz in the eyes, “what are you? An errand boy for the Army?”

Oz pondered.

“Something like that.”

She followed him down the hall. They walked in silence to what appeared to be a living room. There were couches and a television set, and a large coffee table in the center. Riley sat in a comfy-looking chair at one end of the table, reading a file. A young blonde woman sat on the couch, absently flipping through a magazine.

“Justine,” said Riley. “Settle in OK?”

“Fine,” said Justine.

“Good,” said Riley. “So, I bet you’re all wondering why I gathered you here.”

Justine, Oz and the young woman on the couch stared blankly at him.

“Comedy,” said Oz, after a moment. “Not your strong suit.”

“Right,” Said Riley. “I just always wanted to say that. Anyway...”

“Who’s the new girl?’ said the woman on the couch. “And who’s her barber? He should be shot.”

Justine felt her fist clenching, but Oz stepped casually between the two women.

“Justine,” he said, this is Amy.”

Amy smiled, and Justine found herself immensely uncomfortable. Finn annoyed her, but this woman…”

“So you found yourself a slayer, huh?” said Amy. “Got yourself another replacement for the real thing, huh?”

“You’re not a replacement for Willow, Amy.”

“I could be.”

“As I was saying,” interjected Riley, hitting a button the TV’s remote control. “You three have been gathered as members of a response team.”

An image of a skyscraper appeared on the TV screen.

“Wolfram & Hart,” said Justine, under her breath.

“Right,” said Riley. “Headquarters of some major movers and shakers in the occult world. Also, the last known place this man was sighted.

Justine could feel her skin tighten at the man’s image.

“Angel,” she said.

“I understand you have a history with him,” said Riley, rather coolly.

"That’s not going to be a problem, is it?”

Justine looked at the picture of the man, then glanced at Oz, who was watching her. She looked back at Riley.

“What do you want me to do?”

“It’s our job to find out what happened to him. And, if possible, rescue him.”

Justine shuddered. She could feel her teeth begin to clatter, so she clenched them tight. Riley flipped through pictures of the rest of Angel’s team. Some she recognized, some she didn’t. The picture of Wesley Wyndam-Pryce flipped past, and she nearly leapt out of her skin. She couldn’t understand why she was having such a reaction to just the thought of the man.

Riley turned off the TV.

“Our … commander,” Justine noted the hesitation on the words, “the man in charge of this mission, he told me to expect this reaction.”

Justine wanted to leave. Now. Go back to the city and live on the streets again. She didn’t care. She wanted…

“I don’t know exactly what happened with you and Angel,” said Riley. “I never much liked the guy, either.”

“That’s because Angel used to bang his ex-girlfriend,” said Amy. Riley ignored her.

“But the boss says this is a chance to wipe the slate clean—for both you and him. I don’t know what that means, exactly, but I think he may be right.”

Justine relaxed.

“Fine,” she says. “I’ll do it. But why me? Why us?

Riley leaned back in his chair.

“Boss says that, all he knows, is that there’s been a battle foretold—a (continued...)

( continues...) slayer and her allies. We thought it was the original. I mean, Buffy.”

“The chick he used to bang,” said Amy. “You turn such an interesting sort of red, you know that?”

Riley ignored her, as best he could.

“So anyway,” said Amy, seizing the moment. “Buffy and her pals turned the Army down flat. Bad blood. So GI Joe here put together a bunch of replacements. I get to fill in for the witch,” she smiled at Oz again, “Oz there gets to fill in for their gopher,” Oz cocked an eyebrow, but said nothing, “and you get to be Buffy’s stunt double.” Everyone let this sink in.

“This is going to be so much fun. Now all we need is a watcher and a vampire with a soul, and it’ll be just like old times.

“We’re working on it,” said Riley.

Wow. Color me incredibly hooked.

Or, as we say around these parts, "Oh, 'cause Wes and, what season is this? Is Spike? Dude!"

Spoiler-fonted because I have no idea if people want to hear my spec.

Never liked Amy. Maybe she'll die horribly.

Victor, fun!

Two quick drabbles here; this week's Open on Sunday theme was games. I'm afraid I went rather dark with the idea.

One

There is plague in Plymouth Colony.

ring around the roses

The blonde woman, with her curving smile and breath tasting of darkness, moves out of the shadows. The old man is alone; his family has fled, driven into the night by their terror of the buboes, the fever, the smell of death and contagion.

pocket full of posies

"Well, now." She smiles down at the dying man. He once paid her to flog him, calling her by a different woman's name. "What have we come to, here?"

ashes ashes

"All fall down," and she bends, eyes golden, to his throat.

Two

Faith, circling, smiling, feral, predatory. Buffy, hands manacled. Angel, giving that smile, the one Buffy remembers from her nightmares, her fantasies....

(hands in manacles, Angel touching his tongue to her, she can't go anywhere, she can't break the chains, she can never break the chains, she doesn't want to...)

Faith, smug, wanting to damage, flaunting what she thinks she's acquired from Buffy the rival, the Chosen, the golden favoured one. "When you're boyfriend's cutting into you..."

Buffy pulls her hands free, meets Angel's eye. "Psych", she tells Faith coldly.

They've been playing a game, here. Nothing more; just a game.

Never liked Amy. Maybe she'll die horribly.

It really is the island of misfit Scoobie wannabes. As to Amy dying, well ...

They've been playing a game, here. Nothing more; just a game.

I was too tired to follow this last nigh, but I like it a lot.

Thankee, sir. I'm actually fonder of Darla dancing through bubonic plague, but hell, I'm very very weird that way.