FIC: Whither Thou Goest... Part 15/?

[PB <pbnj@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>]

Title: Whither Thou Goest...
Author: Pink Rabbit Productions
Archive: Pink Rabbit, A Slayer/A Hacker
Author's Notes: This is the latest sequel to Spin, Spinning, Spun Out, It
All Depends On Your Timing, and Interludis Neanderthalensis. It's not
finished, but I'm going to start posting in segments since it's getting
close to the end (probably).
Disclaimer: The characters and show all belong to Joss Whedon, Fox, Mutant
Enemy, Kuzui, and God only knows who else. This particular arrangement of
words in cyberspace belongs to me, however. Btw, it contains love between
two women, so if such things offend you, are illegal where you live or
somesuch, kindly don't read it and upset yourself, 'kay. It'll just make
life easier on all of us.
Spoilers: None that I can think of.
Rating: soft R -- for cursing, some violence, and such
Part: 15/? (yeah, I know the parts and the chapter numbers don't match
up--and they never will bwahahahahaha)
Author's Notes Mark 2: Yeah, I know this one is just effing weird. So,
shoot me.

Whither Thou Goest...
Chapter 11 (part 1)

Buffy was sitting under a tree, the grass cool and damp underneath her,
staring across the quad...or at least she thought it was the quad. There
was the grass and the low wall that bordered the quad, but she couldn't
remember seeing any naked women or men in velvet robes there before.
Judging by the way those guys were staring at the girl, the university was
definitely going to be up for a sexual harassment suit if they weren't careful.

The woman squealed as one of the men reached down to cop a feel.

Snorting something unkind under her breath, the Slayer rose easily, tipping
her sunglasses down from their perch on top of her head as she moved. "Need
some help?" she questioned the naked woman as she got closer. Obviously
there was smudge on her glasses because she couldn't quite make out the
face that turned her way, the contours little more than hazy indications of
evenly spaced features.

"I wouldn't turn it down," the woman admitted, her copper hair glinting in
the morning sun.

And then one of her robed tormentors (Is there a Shakespeare play on at the
theater or something? Buffy wondered distantly) made another grab for a
rounded breast, only to find his throat caught in a punishing grip.

"I don't think the lady's interested," Buffy drawled.

In that instant, the other one made a grab and found himself receiving
similar treatment from his intended victim. Suddenly, the girl rose and
turned, standing shoulder to shoulder with the Slayer. Both women spun,
hurling their captives across the grass as though they'd rehearsed the
maneuver.

The Slayer dropped into a fighting stance as the taller of the two robed
men pushed to his feet, glaring at her with unconcealed anger. "I suggest
you choose your allies very carefully, Slayer," he advised.

Buffy glanced over, surprisingly unsurprised to find that the naked woman
was no longer nearly so naked. Decked out now, in black leather and silvery
sunglasses, she shook her head like those women in hair commercials and the
coppery curls tumbled away to reveal silky blond hair that just touched her
shoulders. She was braced in a fighting stance that mirrored the Slayer's
own, just like her sunglasses mirrored the world laid out before both of
them; mirrored everything except her own hands where they were poised in
front of her. "He's right," she said softly. "Often it's your allies and
not your enemies who truly define the battle." The men lunged and suddenly,
she opened one fist, passing a fine boned hand in front of the scene. The
two men crumbled to dust mid leap, their remains floating gently toward the
grass, while the moon rose high in a suddenly dark sky. "Keep your friends
close," she exhaled, "and your enemies closer." Then she turned and began
walking away, her pace brisk.

The Slayer spun, hurrying after her, still trying to get a look at her
face, which seemed to defy every effort to be seen. "Who are you?" she
demanded, still trying to catch up the final few paces so they would be even.

The woman shrugged slender shoulders. "I don't remember anymore."

Buffy considered the answer for only a moment before shaking her head. "I
don't believe that."

A soft laugh greeted the proclamation. "You should always believe the
unbelievable," she chided gently without slowing her stride.

Buffy shook her head in confusion. "You can't believe the unbelievable. If
you could believe it, it wouldn't be unbelievable."

Another laugh. "I daresay you haven't had much practice," said the blond.
"When I was your age, I always did it for half-an-hour a day. Why,
sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast."

Buffy forced down her frustration. "Look, I just need to know. Are you one
of the good guys or one of the bad guys?"

"I'm not any kind of guy," was the laughter tinged response.

And then the world spun out of control, pitching the Slayer to and fro
until she collapsed to the grass.

When the earthquake finally shuddered away into nothingness, she slowly
pushed up on her hands only to find that grass had turned to marble,
moonlight to candlelight, and trees and openness of the quad to a huge
ballroom that glowed with the light of a thousand candles glittering off
mirror lined walls and jewel encrusted gowns. Hundreds of people moved to a
song Buffy recognized from one of the grungier bands that often played The
Bronze, dancing a neat minuet, their steps measured and perfect. Women in
intricately stitched silk gowns with multitudes of rustling petticoats and
wide panniers danced with men in camouflage and weapons vests.

The dancers turned to face each other in two neat rows, bowing gracefully,
before resuming the dance.

Buffy could only stare in horror as she realized that the mirrors lining
the entire hall showed only her own reflection standing in an empty room
filled with candlelight. She did a slow turn as the monstrosity dawned on
her and abruptly found herself swept into the moving line of dancers.

"I knew you'd be here," Riley's voice echoed in her ears as he took her
hand, while on either side of them camouflaged dancers moved to and fro to
the slow beat of the music.

She shook her head, trying to pull back, peering around him to find her
image in the mirror, shadow dancing with nothingness. "Oh God." And then
she did pull free, staring at him with raw revulsion. He was dressed like
the other men, in camouflage and khaki, and carrying some kind of gun on a
harness over one shoulder.

"What's wrong, Buffy?" he would-be suitor questioned, his expression
blankly questioning. He followed the line of her gaze, then looked back at
her, shrugging. "I don't see the problem."

The Slayer backed away from him, slapping his hands aside when he would
have grabbed for her. "You're dead."

He looked hurt. "Why would you say something like that?" Again he tried to
reach for her and again she knocked his hands aside.

"Because it's true, little boy," Angel's smooth voice cut through the
ballroom as he dusted Riley from behind without even slowing his pace,
grinning to reveal the oversharp canines that went with the game face he
wore. Angel's other hand hung poised in mid-air, a woman's narrow fingers
resting against his own. It was the blond again, though it was hard to
recognize her. Instead of black leather and sunglasses, she wore the sort
of gown Buffy had once fantasized about wearing for Angel; a low cut bodice
and tight corset cinched her breasts into creamy mounds above the low
neckline, while the skirt fell her slender waist to the floor in a bell
shape. The gold silk brocade glittered with subtle twists and curves of
delicate fleur de lis, moving gracefully with the wearer, while her hair
gleamed like a golden flame in the candlelight where it was piled on top of
her head in soft ringlets. As she smiled at Buffy, the unfocused, but human
shape of her features sharpened now to vampiric clarity.

"Now he's some kind of guy," the blond commented dryly as she nodded her
head gracefully at Angel.

Angel flashed another toothy grin, then dropped his hand down and around
the blond's slender waist, hauling her close. "Kind...me? Never." The kiss
they shared was as hot-blooded as they were cold-blooded, burning between
them and making Buffy nauseous.

The Slayer spun away, biting back on the surge of acid rising from her
stomach. She was still contemplating whether to run or just start killing
and not stop until she was the only one left in the room when she became
aware of someone coming up behind her. She spun to face the gilt-gowned
blond, snarling as she faced her smiling visage. "Get away from me!"

The blond shrugged, the gown dipping with the faint movement. "I
can't...every story needs a villain...and somehow...I got elected..." She
shrugged again and her tone was ironic. "I didn't get a vote, but I did get
elected."

Buffy shook her head, backing away. "You aren't her. You're the thing that
killed her."

The blond laughed softly, the vampire's features softening with pity in a
way Buffy hadn't even known they could. "Whatever I am, that's not it." She
reached out, cupping the Slayer's chin in a deceptively fragile looking
hand. "Be careful, little Slayer, there are plenty of people out there
ready to make you the villain too. It's not a job you want." She stroked
the Slayer's lower lip with the pad of her thumb. "Trust me." Pain
flickered in the depths of her eyes and then she moved faster than Buffy
could track, striking the Slayer, spinning her around with the force of the
blow and grabbing her again. One impossibly strong arm wrapped around
Buffy's torso, while another braced across her throat, the fine-boned hand
shaping to the side of her face to drag her head to the side. She tensed,
braced for the feel of sharp canines tearing into her flesh.
"It costs you everything you care for... everything you love... family...
friends... lovers... future... past... present... everything you are or
will ever be... they take...and they spit on it for their own pleasure."

The Slayer strained against that harsh grip, muscles rippling with the
effort. "Who?" she demanded, her voice hoarse with tears. She didn't want
to die without some kind of answer.

And then she found herself free. Spinning to face her attacker, she dropped
into a fighter's stance, only to find the vampire had disappeared along
with the great hall of mirrors, to be replaced by the quickie mart where
Willow had nearly died.

The young woman who had died was there instead, a monstrous gash still
marring her midsection, calmly sitting on the counter and drinking a
Heineken straight from the bottle. Reminded of her own guilt and failure,
the Slayer's gaze slid away from the ragged edges of the wound. "I'm
sorry," she managed to choke out, while the blond continued slowly downing
her beer.

"Don't be. The beer's warm, but I'm not." She laughed softly at the joke
and took another swallow from the bottle. "Besides, what could you have
done?" She shook her head disgustedly and set the beer aside. "Really
shouldn't be drinking these anymore, but they don't have AA meetings for
the dead. More's the pity."

Buffy could feel choking tears sliding down her cheeks, but she couldn't
think to speak.

The blond slid off the counter and dropped easily to the floor.

The Slayer suddenly became aware that Willow was there, standing just off
to the side, waiting, but not involved in the conversation as the blond
drew abreast of her, reached out and stroked the line of her jaw, leaned
close, soft lips just dusting her cheek as she whispered, "She's my gift to
you...the only chance you've got...so hold on tight." Then full lips split
in a wicked grin. "'Cause it's gonna be a bumpy ride." Still smiling, she
kept on walking, moving past the Slayer toward the door.

Buffy spun, the frustration in her voice calling the other woman back.
"Wait! Who are you?!"

The blond paused, peering back over her shoulder to reveal a sad smile. She
shook her head. "The dead can't answer questions. They can only ask them."
Then she turned away again, moving into the night with loose limbed strides.

Buffy started to go after her, but paused as she felt arms wrap around her
from behind, followed by the familiar sense of Willow pressed against her
back. She didn't know exactly how it was she knew it was Willow without
seeing her or hearing her speak, she just did. Maybe it was the smell of
her body, or the feel of the curves she knew so intimately well. A hand
gently petted her hair back from her brow as Willow's brushed her cheek,
and then she felt the hacker's warm breath on her skin.

"Let her go...she has things to do." She brushed her fingers along Buffy's
jaw, bringing her head around until their eyes met. "Just like you have
things to do." And she kissed the Slayer softly, while Buffy stood stiff
and uncertain how to respond.
"Kiss the girl, for God's sake." The words were half ironic, half
plaintive, drawing Buffy to look up into her own eyes. Her jaw hung open as
she suddenly found herself face to face with... herself.

A wryly smiling, sunglasses and leather jacket wearing rendition of herself
who was eyeing Buffy over the edge of her the eyeglass frames. "And if you
ask me who I am, I'm going to have to get mediaeval on you."

"I don't know who or what you are, but you're not me."

The other Buffy laughed at that, looking younger and more carefree than
Buffy had felt in ages. "Of course I'm you...just not all of you...just
like you're not all of you...I'm the you that's locked away where you can't
reach me."

Sick and confused and tired of non-answer answers, Buffy was ready to
scream and starting to suspect it was only a nightmare or at the very least
a very unpleasant dream. "No," she insisted, wanting to deny what she could
feel was true.

She smiled at herself, and then Buffy wasn't sure which her was her and
which her wasn't her. It was all too confusing.

"Distracting isn't it?" she heard herself comment. "Sort of an Id Quo Pro,
I suppose." And she laughed at her own joke. The other Buffy reached out a
hand, the wry smile turning sweetly seductive. "Willow knows...Willow
always knows...even when she doesn't know..."

And then the Slayer felt the loss of the comforting warmth of her friend
against her back as she watched her alternate self take the hacker in her
arms. The other Buffy winked. "Better get your act together," she told
Buffy, then feathered a tiny kiss onto Willow's lips. "Because without me,
you won't keep her, and without her...you're lost."

"Willow, please...." Buffy heard her own voice pleading to the red-headed
hacker, felt the emptiness in her life, felt the panic that came from being
locked away from her other half for all time.

And woke. For a moment, the Slayer lay confused as she separated reality
from the dream. Her dorm room. She was asleep in the dorm she shared with
Willow, the darkened room dimly lit by the hacker's glowing laptop. Buffy's
eyes slid over to the desk and she spotted the redhead's slender frame,
silhouetted in the soft illumination. She heaved a sigh of relief and
pushed upright.


--"If I was all that fond of real life, I would never have majored in theater"

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