Chapter Text
| Current mood: | gearing up |
| Entry tags: | fanfic, ftvs, teaser |
Faith the Vampire Slayer: 1x01 (teaser)
And the stage is set. Are you sitting comfortably?
Right.
Ethel the Aardvark was hopping down the river valley...
Muse, look with kindness on my poor skills
and grant me words worthy of the tale I tell.- Allan Cole, The Far Kingdoms
So look at me now, I'm just making my play
Don't try to push your luck, just get out of my way
'Cause I'm back.- AC/DC
While still far from the introspective type, Faith has been thinking a lot of late regarding when, precisely, she started feeling less guilty about remaining a free woman. Double header in the column for Apocalypses Averted -- nothing to sneeze at, but in the end that's two-dollar words that don't pay the rent. More important is attitude. From the moment the glass shattered between her and Wes she'd sworn things would be different, and indeed they have: Angel ensouled, Hellmouth sealed, Slayers blooming all over the globe. Plus, shiny new girlfriend -- old enemy, but apparently those make the best kind -- real Scooby respect despite the occasional hinky stares, and whose fault is it if the sight of them together is considered weird? Feels damn good, from her end.
This? Not so much.
Howls echo through the surrounding forest as she half-slides, half-stumbles downhill. The new boots are getting a real workout, and it's not like she wouldn't have beaten them to hell sooner or later, but she resents being forced into it. Traveling cross-country by automobile, bypassing so many conveniences of the modern age, is the inevitable price of remaining a semi-wanted fugitive. Running from a fight, now -- probably gonna suck no matter how much older or wiser she might get.
Of course she has only herself to blame; originally it was about finding the Nekitri, leading them away from populated areas, until she got cocky. Before she knew it more had joined the chase and now the hairy buggers are playing back, herding her instead of the other way round. Even after months of soft living, slacking off training in favor of workouts between the sheets, Faith knows she can take them all -- probably, without getting too banged up -- but finds herself rather uneager to try. Facing off against superior numbers and firepower no longer being her preferred method of relaxation.
At least, not all the time.
She skids to a halt at the bottom, risks a quick look over her shoulder. The howls are getting closer, so doubling over the creek didn't throw them off. Giles' briefing made them sound like wanna-werewolves, but Faith's decided she'd rather deal with a pack of those. Weres are clumsy, graceless creatures even in the wild, away from embarrassments like linoleum floors; the Nekitri a sleek and streamlined contrast, way more teeth and uglier appetites. Add double-jointed limbs, top with the stink of a week-old litter box, and it's guaranteed fun for the whole family.
She breaks into a trot, readjusting the bow strapped across her back. Another new toy, and well worth the cost, just not so convenient when you're running for your life. Would have ditched it by now if not for that whole cocky underestimating, mutated into pride both practical and just plain stubborn. Not that she's stupid enough, anymore, to die for a bright and shiny, but she's thrown away enough nice things and damned if she'll lose the first one she actually paid for.
The trees are starting to thin as she picks up the pace, breathing steady. She can go to ground if she has to, hold out one more day 'til the cavalry comes to town, but these things really shouldn't be left roaming around. Her own pride notwithstanding. So her destiny turns out to be dogcatcher.
She grins, dodging a fallen tree. There are worse things.
Like demons who sneak up on your flank.
Of course she hears it tearing through the underbrush before it bursts forth, a whirling dervish of Tasmanian devil all slobber and snarling. That gives her the split second she needs to alter course, duck under a branch that misses her head by that much and then she really puts the hammer down, balls out T-one thousand ground-pounding. The forest is breaking up, and she can only hope they won't be cresting the next hill only to find a bustling highway full of canned tourist meat. Maybe a few Smokies, to liven things up...
The smell of fresh manure is strong as she tears down the gently sloping hill, toward the center of the valley. Pale, washed-out moonlight bleaches the fields, dark outcropping of a house and barn looming ahead. Startled cattle and horses protest from inside but they can't drown out the siren song in her ears, wordless call of the predator; any minute now lights will come on, some old farmer with a shotgun come storming out and what's already wrong will go nowhere good, in an even bigger hurry --
She dodges one from the left, but the gravel driveway is less forgiving than soft forest floor and she nearly loses it, regains her balance to go airborne as the other sails underneath. Positive there's a third, at least, and she's just hit the ground when she realizes too late they're ignoring her. Heading straight for the barn, as the animals inside start to scream
(like people)
"Oh, no you don't --" Might be stupid, but no way in hell is she gonna let them have all this nice juicy beef without a fight. The first leaps to the side of the building, tearing mightily at the door as it explodes in a shower of splinters; she grabs the bow from her back, gets off one good shot before it disappears inside and she gives chase, the other two hot on her heels.
Inside is darker than planned but she doesn't slow down, trying to ignore the deafening shrieks. Pinpoint where the fucker's got to...
She twists and drops before fully processing the scream of Slayer-sense; feels it whip through the air above, imagines strings of descending drool as she rolls away. The bow's turning into a liability and she tosses it into the loft, retreating to the far wall, pulling the knife from her belt. A frightened horse is slamming its enormous bulk against the other side, and the rest of the demons are scuttling forward out of the gloom when her free hand comes to rest on smooth, polished wood.
Without looking, she lifts the pitchfork and weighs it, gauging heft and balance.
The sharpness of the points.
She doesn't waste precious breath on witty quips, just throws herself in; keeps them at bay with the business end, striking repeatedly at those double-jointed knees. But the tight quarters are working against her, thin denim scant protection from their claws. Bleeding in a dozen places, and her shoulder's probably dislocated again, when one of the demons turns with a snarl.
Her gaze follows to a young, dark-haired boy in a white nightshirt. Standing in the doorway. Frozen in terror --
The Nekitri crashes to the ground before him, convulsing like a pretzel in a futile attempt to dislodge the pitchfork, run clean through its back. Already she's moving on the remaining two; kicks one in the knee and it falls, opening its mouth to scream in frustration before she grabs it by the back of the head, slams it face-first into a wrought iron plow, shattering every tooth.
The third is scrambling to get away, but she can barely see through the red haze, on full auto assault as she catches up just outside; slams into it from behind, the two of them a rolling ball of fists and fur that ends in a heap with her on top. The beast's scrabbles intensify, growing desperate as her limbs wrap round it like a python. Spit flies, its teeth snap on air and Faith bears down, face twisting in a savage grin; hearing and feeling the crack and crunch, snarls that turn to squeals until her hands find its neck to deliver the final, fatal twist.
She slowly disengages from the stinking corpse. Ribs heave for air as she struggles to stand; blood running hot from her wounds, heart pounding in her chest.
Somewhere a door slams. Through the roar in her ears, a woman's voice, raised in fear.
Do you still feel that way?
The cock of a shotgun, as she falls to her knees.
Do you still want to die?
Falling, Faith remembers.
(Act 1)