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...)

( continues...) as Justine grew more centered, until finally an opening came, and when a punch flew forward, Justine grabbed it, and flipped her opponent onto her back. Faith struggled to leap to her feet, but Justine fell on her and pinned her down with all her might.

“Who are you,” said Justine, the words coming unbidden to her lips. “What’s your name?”

Faith snarled and growled, more trapped animal writhing beneath her than human. Justine repeated herself.

“Who … are … you?”

“I’m Faith,” she said, the words coming slowly, hesitantly. The look in Faith’s eyes seemed to change, as though she, too, were watching someone watch her from afar. “I’m Faith. The vampire slayer.”

And with that, Faith stopped fighting, and tears began to well in her eyes. “I’m the vampire slayer,” she said, and Justine could swear the slayer suddenly looked older. Then she realized she, too, felt different. They were returning to who they were.

The two remained silent for a moment, each unsure if they should move. Finally, Faith let out a forlorn sounding laugh.

“Some first date, huh?” she said, and Justine, too, realized she was laughing. The two women rose, and looked over at the fallen Connor and Dawn. They were met by the mocking claps of invisible hands.

“Oh, good,” said the voice that came from nowhere. “Can we please get back to work now?”

Justine’s hand was now clenching the stake, and she could feel a pulse of energy running threw her body.

Homophone; you want 'through' here.

I'm interested to see what's coming.

Homophone; you want 'through' here.

You're right. Fixed.

I'm interested to see what's coming.

Me too.

Part Thirty-two: Instant Replay

There was a whirlwind of colors surrounding him, an ephemeral light that seemed to grow and then contract for an instant, and then, suddenly, he was somewhere else. He knew it was Los Angeles the minute he hit the pavement—the chemical-scented, polluted air, the distant tang of salt. He knew where he was, but couldn’t identify the source of the rumbling thunder that seemed to echo from everywhere.

Then he looked up, and saw an army of monsters approaching from all directions, as above swooped enormous, reptilian wings.

“Well,” I don’t know about you,” said Angel, in front of him, “But I kind of want to slay the dragon. All right. Let’s get to work.”

“They are alive here,” thought Oz. Angel and Spike he knew, the other two had to be Gunn and Illyria. Spike was battered and bleeding. Gunn looked like he was about to collapse. They didn’t realize they’d been fighting this battle, over and over again, for months. And as soon as that observation crossed his mind, another one did, also—a sweeping feeling of déjà vu.

“Whoa, let’s do the Time Warp again,” said Oz, the memory of living this scene before playing at the corner of his mind. It was like the old days, when he could almost remember what happened when he was the wolf.

“Angel!” shouted Oz, before the vampire leapt into battle. Angel turned and looked at him.

“Oz,” he said. ‘Hey.”

“Hey,” said Oz, feeling himself synch already back into the rhythm of the last time he’d had this conversation, if indeed, he’d only had it once. How many times had he been living this moment over and over?

“Look, Angel,” said Oz. “I don’t have much time. This isn’t Los Angeles, we’re trapped in a loop in time, and Wesley needs to stop it before it destroys the universe. Get it?”

“Uh, guys,” said Gunn. “The Army of Darkness is on the march.”

“Don’t fight them,” said Oz. “Illyria, back me up on this. Have we lived this moment before?”

Illyria stared at him like he were some sort of talking insect, and Oz’s blood chilled just looking at her.

“Yes,” she said, after some contemplation. “Yes, we have been dying here for months, over and over again.”

“Well, lovely then, Queen Smurfette,” said Spike, “and we’re going to die again if we don’t get ready to fight.”

“No!” shouted, Oz. “We need to get out of here, back to the real world. Wesley said …”

“Wesley is dead,” said Illyria.

“Uhm, hello!” said Spike. “The forest is on the move, and MacBeth’s a wee bit uneasy right now.”

“Yeah, he’s dead,” said Oz, “but he’s back somehow. Look, I don’t know the details. He said I wouldn’t be alone. He said … “

“I recognize this place,” said Illyria, looking up at the sky. “We are within a fragment of my own lost power.” She turned and stared into Oz’s eyes “We are stranded in a fragment of myself.”

“That’s about the size of it,” said Oz.

The horde of monsters was nearly upon them, the dragon swooping above. It reared its head and a column of flame erupted. Illyria gestured and the blaze was blocked by a wall of energy. Another wave of her hand, and the approaching bests were frozen in time.

“All right!” shouted Spike. “Now all we need to do is hang tight until teen wolf figures out how to get us home.”

Angel was silent, his brow furrowed.

“Better do it soon, Oz,” he said, understanding falling upon his face.

“Yes,” said Illyria. “I am drawing power from the fabric of this pocket dimension. But that accelerates its destruction, which in turn…”

“Could end the world,” said Oz. “Right. No pressure.”

The forest is on the move, and MacBeth’s a wee bit uneasy right now

Hee.