"Another Conversation With Another Dead Person" - Buffy the Vampire Slayer (Willow/Tara, PG)
Title: "Another Conversation With Another Dead Person"
Author: Erimthar
Fandom: "Buffy the Vampire Slayer"
Rating: PG
Word count: 1,451
Pairing: Willow/Tara
Warnings: Some spoilers for BtVS seasons 6 and 7
Notes: In "Conversations With Dead People," why did the First Evil appear to Willow as Cassie Newton instead of as Tara?
The First Evil bitterly reflected -- not for the first time, or even the billionth time -- on how irritating and demeaning it was for a being of its stature to have to exert actual personal effort to manipulate these things that called themselves "humans." These creatures were as insignificant in comparison to it, as the bacteria on a doorknob was in comparison to them. Even less significant, in fact. That bacteria could cause a human to catch a cold, and the cold could turn into pneumonia, and the pneumonia could kill it.
But the humans couldn't hope, even in theory, to achieve any such victory against the First. It was not just immortal, it was outside the very concepts of life and death.
The First had been there to put the "bang" in the Big Bang, and to ensure that good would never be anything but a reaction to evil. Never a real thing in and of itself, but only a temporary illusion.
There were those who claimed that good and evil could define themselves only by their opposition to each other. Even some of those silly rubber-limbed B-movie monsters laughably known as the "Old Ones" thought so, as did a few of the dithering, impotent "Powers That Be." But they understood nothing.
There was no "First Good" to balance the First Evil. Evil... the satisfying of one's every need, want and whim at the expense of irrelevant others... was the natural state of the Universe. It was the only thing that allowed life to exist in the first place, with the strong replacing the weak until they evolved to the point of being so indolent and secure that they had the leisure to develop things like "philosophy" and invent concepts like "good."
There were no such ridiculous notions back when every creature had to spend every minute of every day trying to survive until the next minute. Those days were coming back though, soon enough.
And when they did, this demeaning drudgery would be nothing but a sour memory.
* * * * *
Willow Rosenberg, sitting there in the library trying not to fall asleep on her books, was 21 years old. The First had heaved sighs of exasperation that lasted longer than that. Yet this silly, red-headed licker of girls was the most powerful witch of her generation, or even era. She had come within moments of ending the world almost effortlessly. That incident had actually succeeded in causing the First a twinge of anxiety. You didn't need life to have evil, but you did need it to have fun. Those millennia certainly tended to drag on with nobody to torture.
Despite that near-Apocalypse, no one alive knew how much power Willow truly had. Only the First. (And a certain coven of irritating goddesses, who wouldn't be interfering unless an actual attempt was made to murder the girl.)
That power presented a small but troubling threat to The Plan, and so it had to be eliminated. Willow was still sufficiently frightened of herself that it shouldn't take too much effort to coax her to the sidelines and take her out of the game until it was too late. Failing that, there was always the suicide push. The witch could go join her dead lover in some afterlife with a clear, if useless, view of the magnificent symphony of cruelty to come. That option would actually be a merciful reprieve for her. It would be some time before the First could actually begin its conquest of the Heaven Dimensions themselves.
Hovering invisible among the bookshelves, the First began to run down the list of particulars for this new costume. The colorful skirt and matching jacket Willow loved so much, and the soft faux-leather boots. Hair falling free. Armpits always shaved, legs sometimes (yes, for this occasion), crotch never. No stutter. Willow was smart enough to know that self-confidence wouldn't be an issue for those in the afterlife, one way or the other.
The relevant memories were all in place. The blowing out of candles. Tinkerbell lights. The grabbing of headboards and the desperate biting of pillows and clawing of sheets. Love, fear, guilt, disappointment, anger, sorrow, reconciliation, love, and a bullet through the heart. Check.
It took but a thought for the First to assume the form of the late Miss Tara Maclay, there in the library behind the dozing Willow.
Which is why it came as such a surprise when it failed to happen.
There was no point in trying again, like some idiot chanting the same wrong incantation over and over, hoping it would eventually work.
Unbelievably, something was blocking the First, preventing it from taking this form.
Oops. Denied, said that something.
"What the hell...?"
Interesting choice of words. You're the First Evil, but you don't even know what's going on in hell? You really aren't very prepared for this, are you? Sad.
"You might want to think twice about pissing me off."
So, if I managed to actually piss you off, does that mean I'm even more evil than you? Do I get to take over your title, according to the Ancient Laws of Badass-dom? Maybe it's time evil had a makeover.
The First arched a metaphorical eyebrow. "Okay," it admitted. "That's pretty impressive. And kind of funny, in a way. I'm the fifteen-billion-year-old embodiment of all that is evil. And you are..."
A dead girl. A dead college co-ed whose name got misspelled in her obituary, and whose own family didn't show up to her funeral. One dead lesbo with a little pile of rocks on her headstone even though she's not Jewish. Who died with nothing in her life, except for a few friends who cared about her, and a woman whose love can be the greatest force for life, or for death, that this world knows.
You know how much power she has. And so do I. But I understand what that power really is, and you don't. Pretty soon the others will realize it too. And then, you'll be sunk.
"You really believe that? Dead thing, I'm no matinee vampire, or meat robot, or gum-cracking slut goddess. I am everything that your friends fear, all rolled into one. They've barely survived those laughable fairytale goblins they've faced so far. What makes you think they can stand against me?"
You're so proud of being the mighty First Evil, the very embodiment of hate, with no First Good to stand against you. And in fifteen billion years it's never occurred to you that that's a weakness, not a strength. No, there's no First Good. There's only billions and billions of souls... those who are alive, those who were alive, those who will be alive. Each one carrying that spark.
Even the lamest newborn vampire Buffy fights can throw a punch at her. But you can't. Because one way or another, that vampire is still connected to the world. It's dead, but it's more alive than you.
So you're the First and Biggest of the Bads. But that doesn't make you the scary dragon in the castle. It makes you a cow standing in a field, who can't even swish the flies away with its tail. All you can do is trick some of the flies into fighting the other flies, instead of buzzing in your face. But in the end it's the flies who make the decisions, not you.
All you can do is lose. Even if you win, that's the end... there's nothing more for you but millions more years of pointless existence. But those flies who annoy you so much? They have everything left to fight for.
So find some other face to wear, Big Bad. Willow's love is way out of your league.
And then the Dead Thing was gone.
The First sat in silence for a while. If it had been one of the lesser villains, it would have simply dismissed it all as lies, taken out its rage on a slave or two, smashed some crockery, and been done with it.
Ah, for the luxury of the ignorant, to be able to wave off as lies everything that's inconvenient, or frightening, or confusing.
But you can't lie to the inventor of lies.
When I get my physical form, the First mused to itself, the killing of kings and the flattening of mountains will have to wait. There's a certain gravestone, with little rocks heaped on top, that needs kicking over.
And then it took a face that wasn't Tara Maclay's, and strolled over toward the sleepy girl with her books, to further a plan that wasn't going to work.
Because really, what else was there to do?