A post-Chosen something or other
Jun. 2nd, 2003 09:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
essene_backup“No.” Soft and unsure.
“No.” Louder, more insistent.
“NO!” An intense scream.
Buffy awoke, ramrod straight and wide eyed. She brought the heel of her palms to her eyes and vigorously rubbed away the tears that were building there. Throwing off the thin blanket, Buffy searched the studio, hoping that Dawn had already left for class. There was no sign of her in the tiny apartment and Buffy felt her shoulders loosen and her stomach unclench.
Wiping the steam from the medicine cabinet, Buffy searched her face for….a sign. A sign that she was really okay. That it was over. That she was done. There was nothing written there in the smooth curve of her cheek or the quick jump of her nose. The bend of her eyebrow told her nothing about what she was or what was to come, or…anything. Sighing, she lotioned up and closing her eyes began to comb her hair.
When she next opened her eyes she was fully clothed, lying on something hard that was spreading a chill throughout her body. She tried to sit up, found her head doing something spinny, and immediately lay back down. Trying a different tactic, she surveyed her surroundings. It was familiar…but not in a way that she could pinpoint. And then it hit her: she was on the floor of a giant cooler. Above her swung carcasses of various animals; cows, pigs, lambs, an occasional duck or goose. This time she sat up slower, more cautiously, and her head didn’t feel like the Tasmanian devil was running through it. She took a mental inventory of her body; clenching and unclenching toes, fingers, and various muscles—everything seemed to be in working order. Shakily getting to her feet, she groaned as a searing pain tore through her brain and she reached out to steady herself, grabbing onto a side of beef for support. In addition to her throbbing skull, there was now a persistent electronic beeping, annoying her into searching for the source. It seemed to be coming from…her own body. Patting herself down, she groped in a tight pants pocket and retrieved a cell phone. Flipping the top open she read the message there: “Good morning Sunshine. Can’t wait for your call. 777-555-1212.”
Sitting on a stack of crates, Buffy stared at the numbers on the tiny screen. Looked around at the chains and the yellow-red, hulks surrounding her. Back at the screen. Deciding, she pocketed the phone and began to search for an exit. She walked near the wall to avoid brushing the meat—good in small cellophane wrapped packages, not so appetizing in such large, raw, skinned amounts. Finally, she reached a door, only to find it immovable. She continued to walk, skirting the entire white box, to end up once again by the door of scorn. It appeared just like any other warehouse-type door: knob, rectangular in shape, a square glass window with what appeared to be chicken wire stuck in it. The glass was 2 feet above her eyeline—sometimes it really sucked to be short. The door was smooth, white and thick metal. The doorknob? Locked. She’d kicked it. She pounded it. She’d flying-scissor-drop kicked it. She’d screamed and railed at it. All for naught. It still stood there. Closed.
Sliding down the door, she pulled the phone out of her pocket and stared at the miniscule screen again. Who the hell could read these things without some sort of ocular assistance? “Sunshine. Morning.” Neither of those terms boded well. All kinds of subtext and mockery in the first, and well…the second indicated an obvious stretch of time missed. She looked at the keypad and ignored the numbers listed on the readout and punched in Xander’s. Only to receive a persistent clicking noise for her trouble. In the screen she saw the words “Searching for signal” scrolling past, and then, “Naughty girl. Call the right number.”
“No.” Louder, more insistent.
“NO!” An intense scream.
Buffy awoke, ramrod straight and wide eyed. She brought the heel of her palms to her eyes and vigorously rubbed away the tears that were building there. Throwing off the thin blanket, Buffy searched the studio, hoping that Dawn had already left for class. There was no sign of her in the tiny apartment and Buffy felt her shoulders loosen and her stomach unclench.
Wiping the steam from the medicine cabinet, Buffy searched her face for….a sign. A sign that she was really okay. That it was over. That she was done. There was nothing written there in the smooth curve of her cheek or the quick jump of her nose. The bend of her eyebrow told her nothing about what she was or what was to come, or…anything. Sighing, she lotioned up and closing her eyes began to comb her hair.
When she next opened her eyes she was fully clothed, lying on something hard that was spreading a chill throughout her body. She tried to sit up, found her head doing something spinny, and immediately lay back down. Trying a different tactic, she surveyed her surroundings. It was familiar…but not in a way that she could pinpoint. And then it hit her: she was on the floor of a giant cooler. Above her swung carcasses of various animals; cows, pigs, lambs, an occasional duck or goose. This time she sat up slower, more cautiously, and her head didn’t feel like the Tasmanian devil was running through it. She took a mental inventory of her body; clenching and unclenching toes, fingers, and various muscles—everything seemed to be in working order. Shakily getting to her feet, she groaned as a searing pain tore through her brain and she reached out to steady herself, grabbing onto a side of beef for support. In addition to her throbbing skull, there was now a persistent electronic beeping, annoying her into searching for the source. It seemed to be coming from…her own body. Patting herself down, she groped in a tight pants pocket and retrieved a cell phone. Flipping the top open she read the message there: “Good morning Sunshine. Can’t wait for your call. 777-555-1212.”
Sitting on a stack of crates, Buffy stared at the numbers on the tiny screen. Looked around at the chains and the yellow-red, hulks surrounding her. Back at the screen. Deciding, she pocketed the phone and began to search for an exit. She walked near the wall to avoid brushing the meat—good in small cellophane wrapped packages, not so appetizing in such large, raw, skinned amounts. Finally, she reached a door, only to find it immovable. She continued to walk, skirting the entire white box, to end up once again by the door of scorn. It appeared just like any other warehouse-type door: knob, rectangular in shape, a square glass window with what appeared to be chicken wire stuck in it. The glass was 2 feet above her eyeline—sometimes it really sucked to be short. The door was smooth, white and thick metal. The doorknob? Locked. She’d kicked it. She pounded it. She’d flying-scissor-drop kicked it. She’d screamed and railed at it. All for naught. It still stood there. Closed.
Sliding down the door, she pulled the phone out of her pocket and stared at the miniscule screen again. Who the hell could read these things without some sort of ocular assistance? “Sunshine. Morning.” Neither of those terms boded well. All kinds of subtext and mockery in the first, and well…the second indicated an obvious stretch of time missed. She looked at the keypad and ignored the numbers listed on the readout and punched in Xander’s. Only to receive a persistent clicking noise for her trouble. In the screen she saw the words “Searching for signal” scrolling past, and then, “Naughty girl. Call the right number.”
