Gods, that line, at that time, to that man ...

Well, the voice is actually the mystery woman's voice whispering in the back of Amy's head, but yeah, Wesley is definitely the subject.

Is that unclear, though. Should I adjust?

I already used, "I wish I'd written that," didn't I.

Heh. That's OK. Say it all you want. I don't mind.

ETA: clarified that sentence. It's kind of important.

Crap, I misread it the first time, I read it as "To die is not a terrible thing." But "To not die is a terrible thing" is equally powerful. And equally true, when it's time to die and the release is denied.

Anyway, take my usual response as given.

Amazing Victor -- just amazing.

Amazing Victor -- just amazing.

Thanks.

Guess I should kill somebody now, huh?

Is this maybe too twisty for primetime? Wesley/Illyria erotica? For the liquid challenge?

This Body

This body, this body....

Things change, with this body. Attention must be paid. It hungers, thirsts, speaks to the mind within and is spoken to in return, wanting, needing, grinding down into the dirt by this water, this cold lake in the mountains above LA, this body meets Wesley's body. He has the advantage, for his body knows this body and she knows nothing at all.

But she learns, as the sky opens and a brief shower drenches their bucking limbs, her hair splayed across the ground, his naked back. And here is sunlight again, but this body?

Remains wet.

Ack. Yeah, twisted's a word.

I need a cigarette...

Nah, that's not too twisted. For me, anyhow. Yum.

Liquid, by William the Bloody (channeled through an even worse poet)

Sore upon my mouth her kisses tore
No balm of Gilead her blood and tears
In my belly bitter, but her sweetness on my tongue
My parch-ed lips, they crack’d and bled no more.

How sweet the getting was when I won you
How brief the tasting of you turned my head
‘Tis not for you, think what you do, he said,
Ironic, then - I like the Mountain Dew.

buWAHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Part Thirty-one: Identity

Connor and Faith circled one another like wolves, each searching the other’s eyes for weaknesses. As they paced, thin smiles grew on both their faces. They moved as one entity, their movements synched near perfectly.

Justine wasn’t entirely sure who threw the first punch—they seemed to come in rapid bursts, each hit searching for a path to connect, each hit repelled. They were both reveling in the fight.

Some part of Justine’s brain knew Faith should be winning this fight easily, that she should simply step in and help finish it, but she was paralyzed. The voice had stopped taunting her, but she could hear its echo inside her head. Faith was caught up in bloodlust—Justine could see that now. Connor was, too—their traded thrusts and parries almost more ballet than violence. The bloodlust was clouding something.

Justine reached her hand down to the stake tucked in her belt, but as she did, she could hear the invisible voice—audible this time, not inside her head. “What are you, Justine?” it asked her, and she didn’t know the answer. “Justine’s not really here, is she?” said the voice, which then deteriorated into a maniacal giggle. If Faith and Connor had heard it, though, it wasn’t apparent.

Justine’s hand was now clenching the stake, and she could feel a pulse of energy running through her body. This was something that shouldn’t be here. She closed her eyes, and could feel hot blood spilling on her arms as she slit Wesley’s throat. She could see Holtz jabbing a knife into her hand. She could see….

She opened her eyes, and she could see the figure of a woman standing beyond where Faith and Connor fought—savage, face caked in mud and war paint, wearing bone and the hides of animals. The woman was staring at her, expectantly.

“Slayer,” it hissed, and Faith missed a jab, Connor’s fist connecting with her jaw. Faith staggered, but as he sprung forward, she spun and kicked, and as he staggered, pounced with another blow, and then another. Connor was reeling.

The feral figure of the woman paid no attention to the sparring, and Faith seemed oblivious to her—but Justine knew she’d heard the voice. Their blows were landing harder on one another now, less graceful. Faith’s rage was now murderous, her face grimaced in something beyond pain and anger. Justine closed her eyes, and she could feel the blade in her hand as it slit Wesley’s throat.

Wesley hadn’t died. He was here now. She knew this. Somewhere out there, in the city. When had she tried to kill him—it wasn’t long ago. Just hours ago, it seemed. Yet he was out there somewhere, and here was Connor …

She remembered. She remembered stealing Angel’s son, but here he was in front of her, nearly a man. But that was only …

“Slayer,” said the woman watching her, the words straining to leave her mouth. “A slayer is not a …”

“Murderer,” said Justine aloud, the fog in her head beginning to clear. “My God. I almost became a…”

“A slayer,” said the woman. “A slayer hunts. A slayer does not…”

Connor was losing, reduced to blocking punches which landed with increasing ferocity. His face was battered and bruised. Faith would kill him soon, and that was …

“A slayer is not …” and Justine realized she was mouthing the words now, and the visage of the woman was gone. “A slayer is not a killer.”

Faith stopped, and Connor stumbled to the ground—conscious, but only barely.

“And what to you know about it, babe?” said Faith, almost amused, the bloodlust radiating from her eyes. “Who are you to tell me what a slayer is?”

“I’m Justine,” she said, the words coming from somewhere else. “Justine, the vampire slayer.”

Faith released a snarl as she leapt, but Justine deflected her punch almost instinctively. Soon, she and Faith were locked in a swirl of punches and deflections, of kicks and blocks. Faith was growling like an animal now, like some demon within her had been released.

For Justine, however, the fight seemed distant, as though it were something she were watching from afar. Faith’s blows grew wilder, (continued...)