Disclaimers: Characters and concept of Buffy the Vampire Slayer are property of Joss Whedon and Warner Bros. No copyright infringement is intended. Original characters and story are exclusive property of the author.
Spoilers: "The Gift" (WB finale).
Author's Note: My friend, dragon, has a theory about whether a Slayer would be called when Buffy dies, since Faith is still around (see "Runaway Dawn"). Personally, I'm going with the "yes" theory -- it's just more fun that way. There's only one role 'cast' in this one, and that's the Watcher -- picture Peter Wingfield (Methos on Highlander) and you'll be set.
The Wheel Ever-Turning
© 2001, Grace Macy
Santa Fe, New Mexico. 8:40 p.m.
Block. Duck. Turn.
Side-kick. Upper-cut.
Block.
Again, and again, and again. Until her shoulders scream, until her legs feel as if they can no longer support her own weight, until her forearms are covered with bruises and her fists are swollen under their protective wrappings. She has a short break, and then it starts all over again.
Block. Elbow-jab.
Side-kick. Block.
Tuck and roll.
She lands hard and lays on her back, panting in exertion and pain, waiting for breath to come back to her body. And hears her Watcher's voice, elegant, awe-inspiring, sometimes hated, speaking that one dreaded word. "Again."
She shakes her head. "Can't."
"Again," he insists.
She gets up, wincing and quietly glaring. And she starts all over again.
They've been doing this for weeks. She's stronger now than she was when he first found her, and her reflexes are getting better, but she knows she still won't last more than 30 seconds in a real fight. But he says she will, eventually, when the time comes. And she believes him.
She hadn't believed at first. Not when he'd first showed up, when he'd first told her who she was, who she would be. She hadn't believed, had laughed him off, threatened to call the cops if he came near her. She wouldn't have done that. There would have been too many questions, too much risk that they'd really find out who she was: a runaway, desperate to stay away from the home she'd escaped, no matter what the cost on the streets of a strange city.
But he'd kept showing up in places she went, and eventually he'd managed to herd her towards a place she now knew to avoid. An alley by a bar she'd never seen before, with clientele she'd never imagined existed.
Vampires.
She'd almost died that night, but he'd taken control of the situation quickly, staked the thing right in front of her. He'd done it, she knew now, not only to prove he was telling her the truth but to create a sense of debt. He had saved her life. Now it would be up to her to save others. To save the world. To be the new Slayer.
When the time comes.
Block. Front kick. Turn.
Block. Right hook. Block.
Left-hook. Upper-cut. Duck.
But not fast enough.
The fist that lands against her cheek isn't as powerful as it could be, but she still goes down. She's not big enough, not strong enough, and he won't let up, not even for a minute.
"Get up," he tells her, his voice filled with impatience and disappointment.
She darts a glare at him, repressed anger and pain sparking in her eyes, before determinedly looking back at the mats on the floor.
He shakes his head, knowing the routine. She never actually answers when this happens, just gives him that look. That look that tells him that if he presses her harder, if he can just make her angrier, she will be a force to be reckoned with. Once she becomes the Slayer. Once she isn't just a too-small, too-slender, girl. Once she can take a blow without falling.
"Your enemies won't wait for you to feel better," he lectures for the hundredth time. "The hell-god, Glory, if she survives the current Slayer, certainly won't wait for you. So get up. Now."
And she does.
He doesn't know much about her as yet, and even less about her past, but he does know that she will do as she's told. Not because she's obedient, but because, in this case, she knows that he's right. She has to train, has to be ready to take the place of the current Slayer. He told her all about Glory after that night with the vampire. He told her about the walls of reality breaking down if the current Slayer fails to stop Glorificas. He told her about the nightmares that would live and breathe on Earth, day and night. He told her the truth: that if the current Slayer fell, she would be the only one who could protect mankind.
He didn't tell her about the other Slayer, the one sitting in a jail-cell awaiting redemption and a chance to actually do her job someday. The one whose release would not be engineered by the Council if the current Slayer failed to stop Glory, all on the gamble that the next Slayer called would be better. The Council had decided that that information would not be beneficial to the new girl's morale. She had to believe herself to be the only chance mankind had. She had to believe in the absolute necessity of her training, rushed and difficult and grueling as it would be. There was no telling when the final battle with Glorificas would be, so once the Council was aware that that was whom the current Slayer was facing, they began making plans for the next girl in line.
The augers had given them a name, Jessica Donovan, but no description. The psychics had tracked her down in Savannah, Georgia, but the description they gave the Council had been discounted as unimportant. The Council had decided to just go by the photo taken, which was given to their chosen Watcher. So it was a surprise to Alex Thatcher when he first saw her in person to find that she was so small, so slender . . . and so very, very young.
He'd known, of course, that a Slayer was usually in her early teens when she was Called, that the median age was fifteen, but it had never truly hit home until he saw this girl on the street. She was at most fifteen, her tightly curly hair a mousy blonde, and cropped close to her head. Most likely, according to the psychics, she was a runaway. Her clothes were old and ragged, hanging off of her too-thin frame. For a while he was certain the psychics were wrong; he'd even called and requested confirmation, but the new psychic who came was just as certain. So he'd made the approach, and eventually pulled the trick with the vampire, and now it is his sole responsibility to get her into shape. One way or another.
He's made sure she has enough to eat now, and in nine weeks she's filled out a bit, but not a lot. Not enough. And he knows that that is his doing as well. She eats, yes; but most of it gets burned up by her body in the grueling workouts. Once she becomes the Slayer, she'll be stronger, her body will allow her to actually retain more, but for now she is still dangerously thin, even for her petite 5'2" height. He finds it strange, as he always has when reading past Watcher journals, that nearly all Slayers are petite. Perhaps it is the way of the Powers That Be to ensure the Slayer is always underestimated. It would be certainly be very easy to underestimate this girl.
She rarely speaks to him, except to ask or answer a question, but he knows she's a clever little thing. She's survived on the streets too long not to be. She doesn't trust him, and he doesn't think that's unusual for her. But despite any problems, they know that she is not another Faith, so filled with anger and hurt that she turns it on all the world around her. She's strong, brave -- she's never even cried, at least not in front of him, even though he knows how much physical pain the training is causing her. Something about that bothers him, worries him, but he pushes aside those concerns and focuses on what else that lack of tears means. She has a duty, she knows she has a duty, and she wants to fulfill it.
When the time comes.
Sometimes he wonders when that will be, vaguely impatient with it all, wanting to be an official Watcher of an official Slayer, not just the trainer of the next one in line. It's what he's been trained for, what his family has done for generations. He's not much like Wyndam-Price, since the Council wanted someone with more real-world experience this time, but they do have that in common. He's ambitious, and to him the Slayer is the Council's best tool against the darkness.
Slayers come and go; Watchers remain.
Still, sometimes he wonders. This girl isn't the Slayer yet. She's little more than a child, still tiny and too slender even for the petite new clothes he's purchased for her. Half the time he's afraid he'll break her arm when he's teaching her a block, or making her practice it. Half the time, he's afraid she'll get killed somehow out there on the street, where she still insists on wandering in the daytime, before she has a chance to be Called. Before she has a chance at anything at all.
But there is a strength in her that he can see, a strength he knows will keep her alive. It shows even now, as she pushes herself up off the mat. The grim determination in her eyes as she buries the pain and gets to her feet, falls into a ready-stance. It makes him almost smile, and he has to bury that pride and the beginnings of affection with just as much force. He makes himself run her through the rest of the spar, no rest, no gentleness. He makes himself look hard and forbidding, and pushes down the wince of sympathy as he ends the bout and watches her limp slightly to the bench.
Still, he does hand her a bottle of water so she doesn't have to reach for it. And he does heat up a towel and lay it gently across her shoulders. And he does softly murmur, "Very well done. You're improving." But he doesn't let himself look at her eyes when he does all this. He doesn't let himself see the gratitude or the brief glow of joy at his praise. It shouldn't matter.
And yet, when she suddenly gasps and drops the bottle, he doesn't mind the sudden spill of water all across the floor. He doesn't care that it splashes his sweatpants and tennis-shoes. Without thinking about the propriety of it, he kneels by her in concern, trying to judge what might be wrong.
Her eyes are fixed on something far away, wide and unfocused, pupils dilated hugely. A flash of light appears deep within her eyes, bright and golden, searing in its intensity. Just for a moment, and then it's gone again. But he knows what it means, and he knows that she understands it as well.
She looks at him, her eyes still wide, her breathing shallow, and he nods. He summons a smile to his lips, but it is small and faltering, and when he speaks his voice isn't quite as filled with pride and eagerness as he once thought it would be. "You've been Called."
She nods slowly, and he can almost see the change as the strength of a Slayer floods her. She looks down at her hands, flexes them, and he can tell that the taped fists don't hurt as much now. She stands and walks carefully to the punching bag in the corner. There is a moment of hesitation, then she pulls back her fist and strikes at the bag with everything she has. They both stare mutely as the chain holding the bag snaps, and the sand-filled leather flies across the room to land with a crash against the far wall.
She swallows, hard, then turns to face him again. A faint smile pulls at her mouth. "I guess it's time, then."
He forces a smile and nods. One Slayer has fallen, and the new Slayer has been Called. His Slayer, who is just as much of a child as the last one had been. He's starting to truly see that now, and he wishes he didn't. Someday, it will be another Slayer who is Called, and that will mean that this Slayer, this girl, will be dead. Just like the one before her. He locks those thoughts away, even from himself, and smiles at her instead.
"Indeed it is," he says softly. "Indeed it is."
end
(for now)
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