Ship of Fools

Each time her feet hit the ground they ached, and so often did they crack down it had become one long, dull throb. It was nothing, though, compared to the sharp pain of her thigh muscles, each movement, and there were many, was like the lancing of a boil. But it was her sides that hurt the most, a constant burning agony wretched through them like her insides were boiling. Buffy didn’t care, she continued to push herself, running faster, further and longer than even the most dedicated athletes could manage.

In the distance she could see her house, rays of sunlight bouncing of the white wooden slats of its wall. Seeing it goaded the Slayer to push herself that little bit more, to move into a final sprint. A normal runner would have entered through the open gate, not Buffy. With the grace of a champion hurdler she vaulted the hedge and sprinted across the lawn. Holding her hands out to cushion herself she bounced into the wall.

“Twenty five minutes and seventeen seconds,” Willow Rosenberg was sitting on the front porch. She looked up in awe, “Six miles in twenty-five minutes.”

There was no immediate reply from Buffy, she bent over, her hands holding her thighs like she was scared they might burst. Her tongue was out of her mouth as she gasped like a dog after water. Even as Willow looked at her friend a droplet of sweat dropped from the teenager’s forehead to land with a splash on the patio. Slowly Buffy straightened up and wiped the sweat from her brow, it reappeared moments later and continued to drip down her face, “I slowed round the park, misjudged some of the jumps over the benches,” it was meant to be an explanation for a time Buffy thought was slow.

“Jeez, Buffy, don’t kick yourself. You’ve just done an impossible time and you want to make it quicker,” Willow shook her head in despair at her friend.

There was a slight grin from blonde, “I’m a Slayer – it’s kind of in the job description,” she reached over and drained a glass of warm water thoughtfully provided by her Mom earlier, “restart the stop-watch and count me down from three. I want to get it down to under twenty five.”

*

“In twenty years time when the streets are awash with filth and you’re too frightened to leave your big, posh Manhattan Park house after dark, don’t come running to me. Because I’ll be in Allicante, oiled-up, skin sizzling in the mid-day sun like a burnt sausage,” Giles leant forward on the desk, his face red with emotion and his eyes sparking like an snapped electric cable.

“If you’ve quite finished…” said the committee chairman, his voice was soft with anger.

“No, not quiet,” Giles had only paused to allow himself to breath, “You can despise us, you can disown us, you can even try and close us down, but you will never break us, because we are Watchers, we are brothers, we are un-bloody-breakable.”

Behind them was a cry of yes and the ranks of the assembled watchers and potentials burst into a spontaneous round of applause, their shouts and claps creating a din that the United Nations committee room had probably never seen its life. A few of the more the excitable even stood up and threw papers in the air and for a few seconds there was pandemonium. Faith clapped and smiled with the rest, fighting back the knowledge that she was who had betrayed them. It was a great speech, she could acknowledge that, perhaps there was something in the middle-class British psyche which, when faced with imminent extinction, met the challenge with flights of Churchillian rhetoric. But it wouldn’t save them, the papers she had secretly passed to the United Nations Commission on the Treatment of Non-Human Sentients would see to that. Stakings, beheading; vampires and demons killed with no questions asked or explanations given.

In the back row of a the seats set aside for those non-human sentient, a blonde looked at her. The vampire gave a light small, unnoticeable to all but Faith, but to the Slayer it was enough to turn her insides to jelly. Faith had been sexually active since she was fourteen, with both men and women, but no-one had been able to reach inside her like Darla could. With everyone else it had just been sex, sometimes enjoyable if vacuous, sometimes less so and even emptier, but when the vampire made love to her Faith could feel a connection – and that had led to put aside everything she’d been brought up to believe. She was dimly aware that the applause was dying down, she paused and then took her seat between Giles and Wesley, as befitted a Slayer. If Buffy had been there the blonde would have taken her place, as the Slayer. It irritated Faith that she was an ‘a’ and Blondie was the ‘the’. Perhaps that had helped her make the decision; she looked across at Darla, the vampire brushed a streak of blonde hair from her face – revenge on Buffy wasn’t much of a factor.

“Nice man,” Giles whispered in her ear and looking at the Committee Chairman.

Faith nodded. Gene Scarman, the urbane New York lawyer who was chair, was many things, slippery, devious, probably corrupt, but nice was one thing he wasn’t. As if to confirm her opinions, after waiting for the tumult to die down, he spoke again, his voice as a dry as dusty tome in the Council library, “I’ve seen plenty, thank you, I spent the night with a mentally ill-man who thinks he’s a Watcher, who you seem to be entrusting with actually doing work,” Wesley blushed and Faith knew that this was another plan her Watcher had fucked up, “I’ve seen two of our most brilliant lawyers treated with appalling disdain,” Lilah Morgan and Lindsey MacDonald grinned at each other on being described as brilliant, “I’ve talked to several young vampires and heard their despair. Their dreadful tales of Slayer harassment. The Slayer harassment of vampires and non-human minorities is an endemic, ineradicable disease, threatening the very survival of our society…”

It didn’t sound good, thought Faith and for a brief second she felt a burst of guilt.

*

Televisions all over New York, probably all over the world, were tuned to the same view. At the moment all it showed was an empty desk, a switched off microphone sitting waiting. In Faith’s hotel room there were the inane garblings of a CNN anchorman, she imagined that in different places the droning would be in Chinese or Russian or Latvian. It would be a while until Gene Scarman entered from a backroom and made his decision, a decision all the countries of the world had agreed to adhere too. In the meantime the journalists were content to rely on rumour, speculation and guesswork. Faith shifted uncomfortably, the air conditioning was playing havoc on her naked skin. She glanced up as the bathroom door opened and out stepped Darla, the vampire was wearing a short negligee which barely reached down to her pussy and so thin that Faith could see the pink of her nipples against it.

“You look cold baby,” cooed the vampire. She sat herself on the bed next to the sixteen year old and began to rub at the brunette’s naked shoulders. Faith gave a light groan; it was a myth that the skin of the vampire was ice-cold, Darla was warm, and soft, and beautiful. Her hands rolled over Faith’s naked skin, pulling the skin tight and transferring her body heat like waves on a beach. Gradually the vampire moved downwards, until she was squeezing at the teen’s butt, kneading the flesh slowly and carefully.

There was a giggle from Faith, “Darla, they’ll be making the announcement soon…”

“Mmmnn, you’re lying facing the TV, I don’t know why you’re complaining,” Darla lips began to kiss at Faith’s ass cheeks.

“I’m not,” laughed Faith. She felt warm now, cuddling into the comfy duvet with her lover above her. Her body heat increased as Darla spread apart her ass cheeks, Faith groaned in pleasure as the vampire’s tongue licked at her asshole, the warm moisture of the saliva dribbling inside her. Faith grabbed the bedding and twitched her ass, encouraging the vampire. Darla’s tongue probed in and out, each lick sending little quivers of excitement through the Slayer. She gave a gasp of appreciation, as all to soon Darla pulled away.

“Don’t stop,” whined Faith.

Darla slid her hands under Faith so that they were lying under the teenager’s tits, she squeezed at the erect nipples, “I thought you wanted to watch TV,” she teased.

“I didn’t say that,” replied an affronted Faith. Darla didn’t reply instead she just made her fingers do the talking. Faith gave a squeak of pleasure as her lover toyed with her teats.

“Mmmm, I was teasing you baby doll,” Darla flicked Faith’s head away from the teen’s throat. The first time she had done it Faith had involuntarily tensed – no longer. She relaxed and let Darla lick at neck, the vampire’s tongue creating a small pattern on her skin, a sensitive sliding motion that pushed all of Faith’s sensual buttons. She moved her head, allowing Darla, easier access and the vampire’s lips drew across the naked flesh. Whirling emotions played across Faith, enjoyment, contentment, and guilt – all overwhelmed by the lust she felt for the vampire. Her entire body ached for Darla, an itch that however many times it was scratched would always return like a boomerang.

“Fuck me, fuck me good,” she moaned. Darla removed her hands from the teen’s tits and with one fluid motion turned her onto her back. She remained crouching over the Slayer, an unreadable expression on her face. Faith licked her lips, sensually, a reminder to Darla of what was in store.

The vampire smiled, “With pleasure.”

She got up, Faith twisted her head so she could keep the vampire in her sight. Darla opened her suitcase and came out with a strap-on. She grinned at Faith as she pulled it on, the Slayer returned her smile, seductively moving her legs apart so that the pink hole was wantonly on display.

“Not the hole I’m interested in,” Darla flicked the pussy lips with a finger, a quiver of excitement rushed through Faith. The vampire moved her hands under the teenager, pushing up the teen’s back and guiding her legs so that they rested against the vampire’s shoulders.

“As long as you fuck me, I don’t care…” Faith was almost breathless with excitement, having Darla bang her was the only thing she cared about. Her lover could do with her as she willed, Faith loved whatever position they did as long as she could see Darla’s beautiful face as they screwed.

Reaching out a finger Darla pushed it in Faith’s back hole. The brunette let out a tiny whinny as the digit wiggled inside her. She knew from previous experience that Darla wouldn’t remain in long, just enough to open the hole and allow the dildo to be squeezed in. True to form the finger was soon out, despite knowing it was only the prelude Faith let out a sigh of displeasure. Darla caught the sound and smiled down, she tapped the strap-on “Hey honey pot, I’ve got something bigger.”

“Just give it me,” begged Faith.

Her girlfriend complied, easing the dildo into Faith’s ass. The toy moved slowly at first, Darla unwilling to force it, instead letting it go at it’s own pace, gradually opening Faith up. The teen gasped with pleasure as the toy’s ridges played against her flesh, each bump designed specifically to maximise the recipient’s pleasure. As it went deeper her moans became loader as warm flushes burst out over her body, “That’s it, that’s it Darla, all the way baby, all the way.”

There bodies moved in unison. The Slayer bouncing into the bed, the Vampire thrusting back and forth, their eyes locked like lasers boring into stone. It didn’t take long for the benefits of air conditioning to disappear, the two women were soaked in sweat. Faith reached up and gripped at Darla’s hands, the vampire grabbed them back and they clung like shipwrecked mariners in a storm, as their thighs slipped against each other like a pair of drunken mud-wrestlers.

“Mmnnn yes,” Faith moaned. Darla grunted in response, she was slamming in out like a woodpecker on speed. Each thrust brought Faith nearer and nearer to the orgasm she so desperately sought. Her pussy, untouched though it was, was juicing up like a melting Popsicle. Faith could feel the warm liquid trickling against her thighs, a feeling both uncomfortable and comforting.

The orgasm was worth waiting for. It raced through the teenager like a runaway motorbike, blowing nerves that she never realised she had. Faith screamed in pleasure and let her body arch in a final tense explosion, before she collapsed back onto the bed, letting the sweaty covers rub against her skin. Darla pulled out the strap on and collapsed on top of her, “Looks like we’re just in time,” she said, “Gene Scarman’s heading to the podium.”

Beneath her Faith twisted so that she could see the TV. Darla moved up enough to let her lover turn and then fell back down again, lying on Faith’s naked back and resting her chin just under the shoulder blade.

On the screen there was the flash of photography and a slight bumping noise as the Scarman tapped the microphone to check it was working. Coughing slightly, he waited until the hubbub of excited reporters had died down and began to speak, “I’d like to thank…”

“It’s not an awards ceremony,” said Faith suddenly worried he might include her in the wall of fame, but Scarman stuck to his promise and kept her part secret, even if she had to wait for five minutes until he had finished his list of thank yous and get onto the main speech.

“I was asked by the United Nations, on behalf of all countries of the world, to investigate a sect called the Watcher’s Council. This age old secret society, whilst based in London, has tentacles across the world making this an international, not a national problem. As a lawyer I started with an open mind, setting myself up to weigh the evidence without fear or favour. The central question was this ‘Should an organisation, which operates under no law but its own, exist in our modern civilised world?

“In the cause of my investigations I came upon many disturbing facts. I have already thanked many of the non-human Sentients who came out of hiding to talk about the centuries old persecution of them by the Watchers. The told tales of cold-blooded murder, genocide of entire species, an entire organisation built on violence, intimidation and murder. An organisation, which by its admittance, is proud not to report to any Government, to any law, to any leadership but its own.

“On top of their ruthless persecution of minorities I discovered other salient facts. The paramilitary arm of the Council, are the Slayers, a name replete in the symbolism of their violent trade. But what is most disturbing about this, is not that the council has it’s own trained killers, but that these Slayers are teenage girls, many plucked from their homes and families when small. It was this that made my decision.

“Even many of the non-human Sentients accepted that, at times that a small number of them had killed innocents. Though I should stress their number is much less than the number of non-human Sentients murdered by the Council. I had thought about allowing the continued existence of a small, carefully regulated Council to help manage this small number of crimes. However, the Council by stealing children has put itself beyond civilised conduct. In 1945 in response to a similar genocidal organisation, the newly formed United Nations, had no hesitation in describing the SS as a criminal organisation. I too, follow their example, in calling the Watcher’s Council such.

“From this day forth it will be banned, membership will be a criminal offence. For the senior members I will be immediately seeking their arrest for genocide. The junior members, people who were carried away on a perverted crusade will be dismissed without pension. In a spirit of mercy I will only seek prosecutions for those who can be linked to specific murders, the rest can go free – on the proviso they never make contact with each other again and report to a local police station on a weekly basis. It is more mercy than the council gave their victims.

“And what of the Slayers and potentials. I see them too as victims of this malevolent organisation. I free them from the lies that entwined them, but I do so with a warning. Grow up safe and well, but the moment you decide to take the law into your own hands you will be hunted down as you hunted the non-human Sentients before you.”

Leaning across the bed, Darla picked up the remote control and switched off the television.

“So that’s that then,” said Faith.

*

“They say he died well,” Joyce patted her eldest daughter’s leg. In the doorway her fourteen year old, Dawn, stood unsure what to do, unwilling to leave, but not wanting to stay.

Buffy looked up from her tear stained pillow, her eyes were red and puffy. She had cried often since the end of the commission two weeks ago, but since this morning she had been crying non-stop, so much that her tears had gone and her voice was cracked from dehydration, “He shouldn’t have died at all.”

Looking at her daughter, Joyce forced away her misgivings at the speed of the trial and sentence. Every ounce of her liberalism, her belief in due process and the knowledge that the trial was something even Stalin would have thought was unfair, was pushed aside by her relief it was over and that Buffy could recover. A long drawn out trial, lasting years, wouldn’t have allowed her daughter a chance to grieve and move on.

“I know,” she lied, “but he has and you need to move on. It’s hard at first, but it’ll get better I promise.”

There was no reply from Buffy, so Joyce got up, it was best to leave her daughter alone for a while. She picked up the newspaper lying crumpled on the bed. It’s headline read, “Executed,” in smaller print, beneath it “For crimes against civilisation,”. At the bottom three men stared straight ahead each holding a crime board, Quentin Travers, Wesley Wyndam Price, Rupert Giles.