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The smell was what woke her, so unlike LA’s normal city smells of gas and heated sidewalks. This smell was green, that of grass and summertime in a garden. It was a lovely smell, but it wasn’t right. It whispered even to her unconscious mind…

Slayer…

Buffy snapped awake, pulling her body into a protective crouch as she searched for whoever dared disturb her slumber.

But there was no one, nothing but the chilling silence and the forest around her.

“Forest?” she said aloud, breaking the silence; she could feel the bed of crushed leaves and roots beneath her feet. And the suddenly she remembered.

“Daddy’s test,” she whispered, feeling her heart sink. She wanted to cry, scream out, but she tamed the rage and pulled it back into herself. That would be a show of weakness, and there were eyes watching, she knew.

Slowly, she rose from the crouch and stretched, taking stock of her surroundings. The forest extended in all directions without end, and was silent, unnaturally so. No chirping birds, no rustling of foliage with stray animals, no buzzing of bugs. It was the sort of silence that implied death, and its ever-faithful companion fear.

Buffy could practically taste it on her tongue.

She took stock of herself and saw that she was barefoot, in shorts and a t-shirt, and most importantly, weaponless.

“Well this is so not of the good,” she muttered, and drew on her power until she was clothed in her hunting attire, guns and all. She patted the butt of her left Desert Eagle and, trusting instinct, started walking.

She eventually found and followed a bare earthen path that wound snake-like through the trees, leading her towards whatever fate her father had concocted for her. She cast a scouting spell out before her and used her mind to keep aware of what was behind. The path led through the woods, sunlight streaming in haphazard chunks through the overhead trees.

Gradually, the trees began to thin out, their leaves fading from healthy green to sickly browns and yellows. Without leaves to contend with, the sun shining down onto the dead trunks was a harsh, vivid contrast.

Finally even the dead trees were no more, and Buffy found herself in a clearing. In its center stood an old shack, with lopsided wooden shingles for siding and rusted tin sheets for a roof. The moment she saw it, Buffy’s neck started to tingle viciously.

Tracing the butts of her guns, she walked slowly towards the shack. As she got closer, the smell of death filled her nose and made her skin itch. She stepped carefully onto the broken steps, reaching out a hand to touch the door. The door fell back on its one hinge with a rusty creak, and Buffy stepped into the darkness.

The smell that had been pungent outside was overwhelming in the small, enclosed space. She barely managed to stop from vomiting, breathing hard through her mouth. She could taste the deaths around her, and swallowed hard to control her stomach. Slowly, her eyes adjusted, and she saw horror.

There were bodies, babies, men, women, stacked in haphazard piles. Wide eyes glassy, mouths open with festering tongues dangling out, blackened bits of flesh having fallen off and onto the floor.

Buffy fell down, gagging, hand to her mouth, the other on the floor to hold her shaking body up. She closed her eyes, but she couldn’t get the images out of her mind.

There was a creak, the sound of feet walking across wood. Buffy lifted her head instantly, peering out through the curtain of her hair. Filling the doorway stood a respectable looking man in khakis, loafers and a button down shirt. The only thing that gave him away was the empty expression in his eyes. He had the eyes of death.

“Monster,” she gritted out from her place on the floor, shaking with anger.

“Well, yes,” he said mildly, stepping in and closing the door behind him.

“But you should know, dearest Buffy, that the worst sort of monsters are human.”

She twisted around and swung her leg up to land a kick in his stomach. He fell back, laughing at her efforts. She jumped to her feet, stalked up to him, and punched him in the mouth.

“You’re not human!”

“No,” he said, wiping blood from his mouth. “But I once was, and I am still almost human.”

His hand shot out and caught her by the neck, fingers like steel digging into her flesh. He grinned maniacally at her as his grip tightened around her throat.

“Almost.”

She swung her right arm up and tried to cast at him. He deflected it easily, with a raise of the hand, and she realized then how much what she’d seen had weakened her.

And he’d meant for it to.

“Your father warned me you’d be a bit frisky with the magick.”

His words made rage surface, and it had more to do with her Slayer powers than her magicks, she knew. This was justice, running through her veins, about to be served through her hands.

“Oh… you have… no idea.”

Buffy kicked up, catching him in the groin, and dropped as his arm fell. She breathed in deep as air came easy again.
Her legs came up, feet taking him right under the chin. He staggered back, landing in a pile of bodies.

He jumped up and spun around with a look of disgust on his face. His once neat shirt and pressed khakis wore bits of decomposing flesh, and his face was contorted with rage.

“Now, I’m gonna have to punish you for that, Buffy dear.”

He came at her like a blur. His fist caught her across the jaw, snapping her head back, and then shoved her forward with extra-human strength.

Buffy landed on her knees amidst the bodies, and heard a pop as one of her joints slipped out of socket. She let out a scream, arching back and swinging outwards with both hands. Her one hand connected with his stomach, and she heard him grunt and fall.

But then he was at her back, stronger than ever, an arm tight around her throat. She clawed at him as the pain from her knees filled her mind.

“Silly child, thinking you could best me.”

“…Not…finished.” Buffy snapped her head back, hearing the crack of his nose as her skull connected with his face. His arm dropped from her throat, and she spun around to face him, hands raised high.

She let herself go, let the power flow through her until her skin felt like it would vibrate off her bones, and sent it at him. The words that she chose were in a demonic language long dead, simple but brutal.

“Karasente fenisk un zeka tomay!”

She watched his eyes widened in horror as he realized what was happening, as he fell back onto a pile of his victims and began writhing. Flesh fell from his body in large, smoking chunks, and she forced herself to watch until all that was left was bones and echoing screams.

As the last of the screams faded out, so did she, the sights and smells evaporating from around her. She heard a pop, and then found herself back in the mansion.

“-and Mr. Summers be paying me good, too, for this mole shit. I got me a new place on South 22nd street, you know? Some soap star shares the same air is me.”

“Sounds charming, pet.”

Buffy stood in the hallway, still dripping ooze and bits of flesh. She listened to the two unmistakable voices and felt an unbearable rage fill her. She clenched her hands, and felt a piece of something slide down her arm. It hit the floor with a wet plopping sound.

At the noise, Spike and Des turned and looked at her. Spike saw her face, and knew that with her new abilities she’d heard Des loud and clear.

“Buffy! Girl, you’re back! How’d it go?” Des started towards her, her cheerfulness wearing a desperate edge.

Just as she got close enough to touch, Buffy raised her dripping arm and let it fly; Des went down cold.

“Now, pet, that wasn’t a very nice thing to do to your friend there.” Buffy whipped her twin Eagles out of their holsters and pointed them right at him.

“I don’t have friends,” she spat, keeping the guns level with his throat.

“What I have are spies that tattle to Daddy on the progress of dear little Buffy, the dead cell come roaring to fucking life! But what I saw…” Her mouth quivered, but she straightened her chin and held back the tears.

“I don’t know how to deal. But maybe I’ll start by dealing with you.”
She shoved the guns in tighter. The metal was hard and cold even to Spike’s dead skin but he held still, trusting the rage would burn itself out.

“Remember that nothing’s what it seems, pet,” he said softly.

Just then Hank came walking into the foyer, arms spread wide.

“Buffy, excellent!”

“Did you think I wouldn’t know?” she asked, calmer now in the presence of her father. He didn’t answer.

“I want that little traitorous little bitch out of here,” she said, never taking her eyes off of Spike.

“No, of course not," Hank said finally. "Just a precautionary measure, Buffy, I’m sure you understand. But I’ll have her taken care of. Obviously she took my request to look after you in the wrong way.”

Buffy glanced over to Des’s prone form as the boys lifted her up and carried her away. Regret pressed hard in her throat as five years of friendship left unconscious in the arms of her soon-to-be killers.

But Des had betrayed her for power, she thought, and raised her chin high to look her father in the eyes.

“Good,” she said icily. “If you have any other spies you’ve set on me, now would be the time to take care of them as well.”

A heartbeat passed after that first challenge of authority, and then Hank gave a curt nod.

“Very well. Spike, take care of it.” And that told Buffy all she needed to know.

She lowered her guns as Hank came over and touched her arm.

“Now, let’s get you a shower so me and my best girl can go talk about her success.”

Buffy let her father slowly lead her away.

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