The Violence of Existing
The Violence of Existing
Email: marenfic@yahoo.com
Live Journal:
Summary: This fic takes off after Buffy is
brought back to life in Bargaining (Season 6).
Events of Season 6 BtVS won’t happen, but AtS Season 3 will occur as
they did until Connor is kidnapped. From
there, events diverge a little, although I’ll be retaining some elements.
back as angry teen Connor—he is lost to Angel for good.
Buffy (who admittedly is the main character) I’ll be working with all Angel
characters.
Disclaimer: I don’t own any of these characters.
Pairings: B/?; references to A/C,
for it.
Rating: Some parts R
for language, some parts NC-17 for sexual situations
Warning: This fic is
pretty dark. There will be some light
BDSM themes with consensual sex, and there will be character death.
Feedback: Please!!!
A/N: Italics
generally indicate direct thoughts of characters unless they indicate
emphasis—it should be easy to tell which is which.
Also, for those of you who are interested, I’m not
abandoning Reprise Revised. I’m going to
work on it this weekend and try to get a another chapter or 3 up for your
reading pleasure or torment, depending on how much you like what I’m doing.
********************************************************************
Hurts.
So bright, so loud, so hard. No,
please. No.
Those were the words that made up the woman’s first coherent
thoughts after her soul was shoved back into her body, after the magic had
repaired and reanimated her rotting flesh, after she frantically dug her way
out of the box that held her trapped under several feet of earth.
mind after she tried to make out the shifting, hazy forms that swam in her
not-yet-working vision, after she struggled to make sense of the riotous sounds
that were pounding into her newly awakened ears, after she started trying to
breath through her mouth so that she wouldn’t have to breath in the acrid smell
of the burning town. Those were the
first words that invaded her fuzzy consciousness after she mindlessly, almost
effortlessly, fought the demons who had cornered her in the alley.
Those were the first words that shoved their way into the
woman’s head, pounding and unrelenting, as she crouched against the brick wall,
four strangely familiar faces peering at her as though she were some circus
attraction.
With a cry that sounded like that of a wounded animal, the
woman pulled herself up off of the ground and pushed past the people who were
crowding her, suffocating her.
NopleaseNo.
Have to run. Have to hide.
Those were the second set of words that were spoken by the
broken, raw voice in her head. An instant
later she was throwing one leg over the seat of a dead demon’s motorcycle and
kicking it into gear. The sound of the
roaring engine and the sensations of the rumbling bike under her were nearly
painful in their intensity, but she preferred the discomfort they offered to
the bracing, harsh reality staring at her from the eyes of those people who
kept calling her “Buffy”.
**********
Three days later, Buffy found herself shivering in the
shadows in an alley across the street from her father’s apartment in
but she couldn’t make herself approach the glass double-doors that would lead
into the warm, safe interior of the building.
Her memories had started coming back two days ago.
stolen motorcycle without knowing who she was, where she was (other than hell),
or where she was going. She had gotten
about an hour out of town before stopping at the side of the road and pulling
into a small wooded area. It was quieter
there, no people, and she wanted to rest but she couldn’t.
she couldn’t stop the memories from flooding in and they were harsh and painful
and full of blood and death.
Those memories haunted her now as she stood in shoes with
broken heels, her burial dress torn and bloody.
As much as she was in desperate need of food and sleep, she couldn’t
take those final steps. She couldn’t go
to her father in his safe, normal upscale apartment in
because she wasn’t safe—she wasn’t normal.
She couldn’t seek shelter with the people who loved her—not her father,
not Willow, not Xander, not Dawn, not Giles.
She couldn’t allow them to see her for what she finally realized she
was. She was Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and
she was a freak who wasn’t welcome in Heaven or in Hell.
Buffy slowly turned away from the beckoning warmth of her
father’s apartment building and retreated further into the dark, dank
alley. She realized now that she was a
creature of night, something that belonged in the darkness, in the dankness
with the other dangerous beings. She
realized why the Watcher’s Council must have wanted all the slayers to live
their lives alone and carefully controlled.
Beings like her were hazardous.
Buffy had refused to accept that she couldn’t live a normal life, have
normal friends, do normal things lio too to school and have human
boyfriends. Now she knew for sure that
she wasn’t normal and could never be normal.
The funny thing was that she also knew she wasn’t a truly evil being
either—otherwise, when she was expelled from Heaven she would have gone to a
Hell dimension. She had died, after
all. Fair and square.
It might as well be
hell
. . . and so she had to assume that neither place wanted her
soul. She didn’t dare think about the
implications of that, that her soul would be bound to earth for eternity, never
knowing the oblivion of death, never knowing peace . . .
Damn, I can’t think
about this now
So she didn’t. She
shut off those thoughts, shut off the few emotions that weren’t already dead
inside her. Buffy didn’t cry for the
loss of her life, her death, her dreams and her peace.
The Slayer.
Slayer
When the quartet of three-mouthed demons surrounded her, it
came as no surprise. This was her world
and she had been a fool to deny it for so long.
Perhaps it was this realization or perhaps it was the fact that she
didn’t fear death any longer, but when she spun into action, the fight seemed
almost effortless to her. She felt . . .
detached. Her mind was blank and free of
the fear of losing something important to her for the first time ever.
destruction and death, and she embraced it.
With her mind free of distraction, her body was free to
fight at its full potential for the first time in her life (or death).
fatal beauty—what one could see of it anyway.
She was a kicking, punching blur of magnificent force.
demons who had mistaken her for a meal in less than 2 minutes, her only injury
the reopening of the wounds on her knuckles that had come from clawing herself
out of her grave.
As she gazed down at her bleeding knuckles, the first spark
of feeling other than pain flickered inside before quickly fading back
out. Buffy knew it was the adrenaline of
the fight that sparked the fleetingly pleasant feeling, and it made sense to
her. She was made to be a killer.
feel good to her.
The crunch of a boot on a stray rock abruptly pulled her attention
away from her knuckles and she searched the darkness for the source of the
noise. Two, then three seconds passed by
before she caught a glimpse of the masked sniper dressed completely in black
stalking towards her, and then the blackness of the sniper’s clothing turned
into the blackness of nothingness as the tranquilizer shot into her
bloodstream.
**********