A Blonde, a Brunette, and a Redhead
Title: A Blonde, A Brunette, and A Redhead
Prompt: Out of the Frying Pan
Setting: A continuation of NFA, not comic-compliant. Oh, and pretend that thing with the Immortal never happened.
Words: 999, PG-13 but it’s kinda violent
Note: “If you want to get out alive…run for your life.” - Three Days Grace
This one keeps growing… there’s more to follow if people want it. *Dangles comment-carrot*
***
The rain beat down, soaking Buffy’s hair and making her leather jacket stick to her body. The jacket would be a lost cause-a shame, because it fit really well. She pushed the thought away as she splashed down the street, dodging upended dumpsters as she went. She could see the titanic figures looming in the distance. A low rumble shuddered beneath her boots, deeper and more grating than an earthquake, a sound that she’d come to associate with apocalypse. And was that burst of shadow and flame a dragon?
“Come on!” she screamed back to the pack of girls following her. They were all slayers now, but without years of training and emotional history driving them forward, they couldn’t match her pace. They were flagging. By the time they reached the front lines they would be useless. No matter. She had to get there. Buffy weaved sharply as another slab of concrete and rebar crashed to the ground where she had been a moment before. She glanced up and saw a figure charging over the rooftops above, long dark hair streaming behind her, the spike-headed war hammer hooked over her shoulder illuminated in the flash of the lightning arcing across the midnight sky. Faith. Buffy raised her scythe in a half-salute as she ran. Faith returned the gesture. Go Team Sunnydale.
That was when Buffy tripped over the first corpse. Her breath left in a huff as her arms flailed before she caught herself on hands and knees. It was a young black man, shaved head, eyes staring sightlessly out his pale, bloodless face. He’d made it to a sitting position, back propped against the wall, before he’d died. The wrist-deep water around him was black in the lightning, copper-scented and clinging to her hands as she rose. Nothing to be done for the dead man now. She ran on.
She could hear Angel’s roar of rage in the distance, and she pushed herself onward, faster still. Stupid vampire, letting them believe he’d gone to the dark side rather than ask for help. He never knew when to let her in, not with Dana and not now. She’d heard about his infiltration of the Black Thorn third-hand, first from Giles, who presented it as evidence that Wolfram and Hart had finally corrupted Angel, and then from one of the seers in Willow’s coven. Even life on the hellmouth hadn’t fully prepared her for that.
A blonde, a brunette, and a redhead walked into a bar. The blonde was quiet, as she’d been ever since Sunnydale. Her heart hurt, you see. The redhead, while meddlesome, was a faithful friend, and was doing her best to cheer up the blonde and bring her back into her life. Or at least get her to poke her head out and see a little of England before the world ended again. Halfway through their third drink, the brunette’s eyes snapped forward, fixed in a thousand-yard stare, white light glowing in a halo around her dark hair. The pub chatter went silent, the thumping music melting into white noise. “The warrior is entangled in the thorns, aflame. His city burns. His people perish. The Watcher is deceived-his fears cloud his vision. Without the Slayer, the City of Angels will be devoured. The warrior will be ash. The future darkens. You must go now.” And then the brunette dropped to the floor, unconscious. Because the blonde’s life was a cosmic joke without a punchline.
Buffy had been at Heathrow within the hour.
She cut down the first minion that crossed her path with a single sweep of the scythe, bloody ichor mixing with the rain. And then there was no time for thinking. An arm severed from a scaly body, ducking in and slashing, fighting a dozen enemies at once. Taking an inch wherever it was given, any pound of flesh offered. She whirled, carving the head from a horned demon and cutting another in half with the backslash of the same stroke. She barely felt claws sink into her shoulder, teeth worry her leg. Blood soaked her hair and skin as surely as the downpour did, and she couldn’t have told how much was her enemies’ and how much was her own. To her left, Faith leapt and drove her hammer through a hairy creature’s skull, landing back to back with Angel. To her right, Willow had arrived, standing on the nearest building and flinging energy around like the mighty sorceress she was.
A blonde, a brunette, and a redhead walked into a battle.
The action cleared a little, just enough that she could look around and take the lay of the land. She decapitated the limbless body of a demon lying in the street next to her that still squirmed, unsure if it was she who had dismembered it. And then she saw it. The flash of white hair and shredded leather.
Saw him.
She dashed rainwater and blood and running mascara out of her eyes with one tattered sleeve. He was vamped out, blood streaming from a multitude of wounds, laying waste to the demons around him. She fought her way toward him, cutting down anything that dared cross her path. She saw him filet one enemy and then another. She saw them press in around him.
She saw him fall.
She reached his side, brought the scythe slashing through the body of the thing that was tearing his head off. The rumbling in the earth around them became stronger, more violent, and she could see cracks forming in the pavement, coalescing into a great gaping maw. The street was being swallowed into whatever lay beneath.
Buffy wrestled Spike to his feet. He stumbled against her, head lolling. “Spike! Look at me!” she shouted, voice cracking. She grabbed his chin, turned his face to look at her. “We have to run now. C’mon, Big Bad, RUN!” She grabbed a fistful of belt and, half dragging him, ran for both their lives.
Prompt: Out of the Frying Pan
Setting: A continuation of NFA, not comic-compliant. Oh, and pretend that thing with the Immortal never happened.
Words: 999, PG-13 but it’s kinda violent
Note: “If you want to get out alive…run for your life.” - Three Days Grace
This one keeps growing… there’s more to follow if people want it. *Dangles comment-carrot*
***
The rain beat down, soaking Buffy’s hair and making her leather jacket stick to her body. The jacket would be a lost cause-a shame, because it fit really well. She pushed the thought away as she splashed down the street, dodging upended dumpsters as she went. She could see the titanic figures looming in the distance. A low rumble shuddered beneath her boots, deeper and more grating than an earthquake, a sound that she’d come to associate with apocalypse. And was that burst of shadow and flame a dragon?
“Come on!” she screamed back to the pack of girls following her. They were all slayers now, but without years of training and emotional history driving them forward, they couldn’t match her pace. They were flagging. By the time they reached the front lines they would be useless. No matter. She had to get there. Buffy weaved sharply as another slab of concrete and rebar crashed to the ground where she had been a moment before. She glanced up and saw a figure charging over the rooftops above, long dark hair streaming behind her, the spike-headed war hammer hooked over her shoulder illuminated in the flash of the lightning arcing across the midnight sky. Faith. Buffy raised her scythe in a half-salute as she ran. Faith returned the gesture. Go Team Sunnydale.
That was when Buffy tripped over the first corpse. Her breath left in a huff as her arms flailed before she caught herself on hands and knees. It was a young black man, shaved head, eyes staring sightlessly out his pale, bloodless face. He’d made it to a sitting position, back propped against the wall, before he’d died. The wrist-deep water around him was black in the lightning, copper-scented and clinging to her hands as she rose. Nothing to be done for the dead man now. She ran on.
She could hear Angel’s roar of rage in the distance, and she pushed herself onward, faster still. Stupid vampire, letting them believe he’d gone to the dark side rather than ask for help. He never knew when to let her in, not with Dana and not now. She’d heard about his infiltration of the Black Thorn third-hand, first from Giles, who presented it as evidence that Wolfram and Hart had finally corrupted Angel, and then from one of the seers in Willow’s coven. Even life on the hellmouth hadn’t fully prepared her for that.
A blonde, a brunette, and a redhead walked into a bar. The blonde was quiet, as she’d been ever since Sunnydale. Her heart hurt, you see. The redhead, while meddlesome, was a faithful friend, and was doing her best to cheer up the blonde and bring her back into her life. Or at least get her to poke her head out and see a little of England before the world ended again. Halfway through their third drink, the brunette’s eyes snapped forward, fixed in a thousand-yard stare, white light glowing in a halo around her dark hair. The pub chatter went silent, the thumping music melting into white noise. “The warrior is entangled in the thorns, aflame. His city burns. His people perish. The Watcher is deceived-his fears cloud his vision. Without the Slayer, the City of Angels will be devoured. The warrior will be ash. The future darkens. You must go now.” And then the brunette dropped to the floor, unconscious. Because the blonde’s life was a cosmic joke without a punchline.
Buffy had been at Heathrow within the hour.
She cut down the first minion that crossed her path with a single sweep of the scythe, bloody ichor mixing with the rain. And then there was no time for thinking. An arm severed from a scaly body, ducking in and slashing, fighting a dozen enemies at once. Taking an inch wherever it was given, any pound of flesh offered. She whirled, carving the head from a horned demon and cutting another in half with the backslash of the same stroke. She barely felt claws sink into her shoulder, teeth worry her leg. Blood soaked her hair and skin as surely as the downpour did, and she couldn’t have told how much was her enemies’ and how much was her own. To her left, Faith leapt and drove her hammer through a hairy creature’s skull, landing back to back with Angel. To her right, Willow had arrived, standing on the nearest building and flinging energy around like the mighty sorceress she was.
A blonde, a brunette, and a redhead walked into a battle.
The action cleared a little, just enough that she could look around and take the lay of the land. She decapitated the limbless body of a demon lying in the street next to her that still squirmed, unsure if it was she who had dismembered it. And then she saw it. The flash of white hair and shredded leather.
Saw him.
She dashed rainwater and blood and running mascara out of her eyes with one tattered sleeve. He was vamped out, blood streaming from a multitude of wounds, laying waste to the demons around him. She fought her way toward him, cutting down anything that dared cross her path. She saw him filet one enemy and then another. She saw them press in around him.
She saw him fall.
She reached his side, brought the scythe slashing through the body of the thing that was tearing his head off. The rumbling in the earth around them became stronger, more violent, and she could see cracks forming in the pavement, coalescing into a great gaping maw. The street was being swallowed into whatever lay beneath.
Buffy wrestled Spike to his feet. He stumbled against her, head lolling. “Spike! Look at me!” she shouted, voice cracking. She grabbed his chin, turned his face to look at her. “We have to run now. C’mon, Big Bad, RUN!” She grabbed a fistful of belt and, half dragging him, ran for both their lives.