Origins: Mother of them All
by Amber Penglass
Origins
Amber Penglass
Disclaimer: All characters are owned by either Joss Whedon or Gene Roddenberry. Plot and concepts belong to yours truly. I am only a poor Massage-therapist in training; don’t sue, or next time you visit a spa you may find a crazed blonde as your therapist, coming at you with hot rocks…
Note: This first chapter will be longer than most of the others. Just warning you…
Note2: This story is set mid season two. Tyr is still with the crew!
Note3: Thanks to Alexander for pointing out the lack of differentiation between time changes- the stars worked in my last story! Wonder what happened...
Note4: Everyone, if you review with a comment/question, check back at the top of the next chapter posted. I usually respond there.
Now everyone enjoy!
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Prologue
We all have origins. Our parents, our ancestors, our heritage. Our homeland, the high school we graduated from. Origins. It makes us who we are, what we will become. It defines parts of us before we have even begun to understand ourselves, to cultivate the parts of us that aren’t already decided.
At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
My name is Buffy Anne Summers, and no matter how much longer I will live, I will live with the mixed emotions of triumph and guilt. The Slayer in me is howling with joy, while the thirty-two year old human woman is screaming with grief.
I am the Slayer, and I am the mother of all Nietzscheans.
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Chapter the First:
Mother of Them All
It was cold. That was the first thing she noticed- cold. You know the worst thing about patrolling at night in winter? The bulky jackets that work best for warmth are far too hindering, movement-wise, to be worth it. Of course, on the rare occasion she ran into a vamp in the dead of winter (since people stay inside in winter, so do the vamps normally), warmth wasn’t a problem. Nothing to keep you warm like pumping blood, roaring in your veins from a good fight.
But yeah, it was cold. As in, she-suddenly-didn’t-have-an-ass-fingers-or-toes kinda cold. Her first movement, as soon as she woke up, was to give a violent shiver, wrapping her arms around herself and bringing her feet up to her numb buttocks on instinct, curling into a tight fetal position. Keep the core warm…
And as if that heinous cold hadn’t been enough, then came the light. Harsh, relentless, evil, evil light.
“Turn it off, Dawnie!” She snapped. “And turn the heater up, would you? It’s cold…” Her voice was slurred, enough to surprise her a bit, but not enough to worry her- she’d just been woken from a dead sleep, and she was freezing!
There were faint voices. Probably Xand and Willow…the whole troop was in town for a good ole’ Scooby Reunion. Even Oz had shown up from some corner of the universe. Was this their idea of a joke?
‘Well, methinks twas time to show this pseudo Mystery Inc that one does not steal beauty rest from the Slayer without serious consequences…’
She forced her eyes open, blinking against the harsh, white light-
Her trusty Slayer senses kicked in too late, at the same time the warning bell telling her, ‘You’re not in your room! Something is WRONG!’ went off with a vengeance. Four pairs of monster-sized hands were on all four of her limbs, and she yelled, kicked, twisted, all on instinct- but she couldn’t budge! Her legs and arms seemed to collapse on their own, trembling pathetically, as if…
Now she knew something was really wrong. She couldn’t move her limbs! Sudden exhaustion swept over her when she tried again. Spots from the harsh light were still obscuring her vision. Senses suddenly flooded her mind, an overload of information as the connection between her body and her brain cleared like so much gunk from the sinuses when recovering from a really, really bad cold- she was naked, there was an odd emptiness inside her, her hair was incredibly long down her back, and gone was the ache from the arm she’d broken while escaping from a crazy psycho scientist who had kidnapped her over a week ago…
Then those big hands had pulled and yanked her up off the cold metal thing she’d been laying on, cold air blowing over her way, way too sensitive skin. The flashing spots obscuring her vision had begun to dim, and she could see a little, now- four huge brutes that walked as if they were wearing iron chairs stood all around her, gripping her arms and hair and back, any handhold they could. Obviously, they knew she was the Slayer- or at least, someone really strong. That wasn’t good… The article of surprise had always been her good friend. She was sad to see it go, in this instance.
She was dragged out of the room –that she saw at the last minute, as the dots cleared, was steel all around- and into an equally cold and drab hallway. Her nakedness was starting to get to her, especially when they started to pass other people in the hall. At first white blurs, the farther they went the better my eyesight got. Unfortunately, the father they went the weaker she got, too. This, she decided, was not a good thing. No strength, minimal eyesight, no idea where she was, absolutely no idea how she’d gotten there, or why, no idea about the enemy…
This was bad.
Then it got worse- they came to another room, with another steel bed. Only this time, there were more occupants. Her eyesight was almost back –it had occurred to her by now that this lack of vision wasn’t just bright-light induced- and she saw more people standing around, white blurs at first, but then dark blobs that she guessed were faces, began to clear. She was hoisted onto another table, despite the feeble, squeaky-sounding protests that she managed to cough up. Something was wrong with her vocal cords, too? Shit!
Iron manacles of some kind, cold and heavy, were locked around her wrists, ankles, and neck with four snaps of frightening finality. Panic threatened to choke what little amount of clear thinking she possessed, and she concentrated on fighting it back, rather than her captors, since she couldn’t do that anyway…
She could almost see clearly, now. She was blinking rapidly- it seemed to help, she thought, just before one of the white-coats came into view, and she started wishing she hadn’t been blinking quite so much. White-coat wore glasses –she could see the glare of light reflected off them as two white spots in a larger skin-colored space- and he was holding a delicate, slender thing of something glinting…
‘Scalpel!’ Her memory screeched at her- she’d been in hospitals often enough, seen enough TV shows, enough murder shows, enough murderers, to know what that shining thing was, without a doubt...
Then something wet and cold was slathered over her stomach, her lower abdomen, and that shining thing, cold and slender, was brought down by a careful hand-
Pain, screams (her own?), and, finally, darkness.
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When she awoke again, she remembered what had happened. At least, most of it…parts were fuzzy. She’d been on patrol in the cemetery, and the old Scooby Gang had indeed been back at her house, she remembered, an old fashioned plantation house on the East Coast, near the prophesized site of the next soon-to-be-in-business Hellmouth. Albeit, it was proven that it would be an eensy teeny tiny one- not nearly big enough to let anything through other than barely tangible energy. Buffy, in the solitude of her mind, remembered Giles explaining why they couldn’t stop it from opening, even one so small…
“The Earth is like a conductor,” Giles had said. “A massive conduit of unlimited passageways to other times, dimensions, and worlds. All of that needs some sort of outlet, aka, the Hellmouth. With the one in Sunnydale closed, if we try to prevent this one from opening, the Earth will burst from the inside out. Not today, not tomorrow, but eventually.”
“But if we close this one before it opens, won’t it just open somewhere else, anyway?” Xander had pointed out. “At least then it wouldn’t be our problem.”
Buffy had been inclined to agree…but the Slayer wasn’t. The Slayer in her was quite happy with the prospect of a new Hellmouth to guard.
Not for the first time, as Giles and Xander had left after that to get pizza, Buffy wondered if perhaps…just perhaps a tiny bit of that power, that dark power she’d turned down so ruthlessly had actually gotten in. She wondered if she was just a little darker than before…she certainly had been feeling the Slayer as a far more separate entity as of late. Then again, wasn’t that a good thing? For the first time every, she had the option of being near pure Buffy at times, suppressing the Slayer. She remembered wondering if this was what Angel and Spike had felt like at times, ignoring and suppressing a persistent darkness within them.
She’d ignored such thoughts, again, and gone out to the cemetery for a few hours, while waiting for the pizza to arrive- it would take a while, she knew, with several mouths to feed, and a few that could eat more than their share three times over. The cemetery would keep her busy.
But, she recalled, it hadn’t been demons or vampires she’d encountered that cold October night. Instead, there had been a bright light, right in front of her, exploding into loops and curls of blue-white glowy-ness, eerily resembling the portal Glorificus had opened with Dawn’s blood so long ago. Shocked more than frightened, Buffy had retreated behind a headstone bigger than she was, to observe, wait, and if need be to give her the advantage of surprise.
Five men had jumped out, four of them big, huge brutes like the ones that had hauled her out of that first steel room. The other, she was certain now, was the man that had taken the scalpel to her. The man, a doctor of some kind? He had looked at some sort of fancy palm pilot, then with a large grin on his face, white teeth reflecting the light of the full moon like an eerie omen, he’d pointed directly at Buffy’s hiding place.
The brutes were fast- far faster than she would have expected, like they’d grown those muscles with weights strapped to them, only to have them now taken off. Then again, she was the Slayer. She outstripped them, flying through a well-memorized cemetery, weaving, turning, looping, even backtracking, using all the skills of someone used to having to adopt the tricks of prey animals to survive. It hadn’t taken long to loose them, she remembered. But then, that blue portal had gurgled up from nowhere again, and spat out the Fabulous Five.
Another chase. Another portal-pop. Another chase. Another Portal-pop. Chase. Pop. Chase. Pop…
On it went until sunrise. After the first time her chasers had again stepped out of the blue (literally), she’d decided against going anywhere near home. She couldn’t risk leading these guys to her friends…and with all of them together in one place, too! It had been one of the suckiest nights of her life.
Then she’d gotten sloppy and turned too slow just once, taken a heavy fist to the back of the head, heavy enough that even the Slayer swooned. A pinprick to the throat –needle? - and then the familiar world of unconsciousness.
The only other thing she remembered between then and now, besides Dr. Happy Scalpel, was a brief spell when she’d been partially conscious. A nurse of some kind had been drawing blood. Buffy had spied, through low lashes, a cart loaded with two trays, both filled with vials of more red liquid. Somehow, Buffy knew it was all hers. Dr. Happy had entered, smiling pleasantly at the sight of so many vials.
“Good, good. Even if we run out, there’s plenty here to synthesis more.” He rubbed his hands together, and Buffy was momentarily reminded of Mayor Wilkins, even in her groggy state. “Yes, yes, no chance now that this program will ever run out of material for more clones.”
Then he’d turned, left, and shock and confusion had aided the drugs in her system, and all that combined with the results of that needle sucking so much of her blood, Buffy had once again succumbed to the pull of her eyelids.
Now she was fighting that same pull again, and winning, thankfully. She felt a dull ache in her stomach, but nowhere near what it should have been, she thought, unless she was doped up on painkillers. But why would they bother now with painkillers, she thought with a frown.
Suddenly sick of trying to do things the thinking way, when she was way more used to doing things the punching-bag way, Buffy forced her eyes open the rest of the way, and took a good, long, wide sweep around the room. No door, she noted first of all, sourly. Her eyesight was fully back, she was happy to see (no pun intended). She was in another room, this one metal also, only now she was on a cot. There was a familiar metal contraption in the corner, next to an equally metallic sink. There was a mirror, a ‘shelf’ built into the corner to serve as a table, and a stool bolted to the floor. She thought that was rather odd. If they thought she might use the chair as a weapon, why had they left the glass in the mirror? It didn’t make sense. Then again, nothing had made sense since that day in the Cemetery. And how long ago had that been? A day? Two? A week? There really wasn’t any way to tell. Looking down at the pink scar that ran across her lower abdomen, she guessed at least a week, judging by how far along she was in healing.
She was naked still, she noticed, but a moment later she spotted something exceptionally welcome, folded at the foot of her cot- clothes! Simple and ill-fitting, she discovered when she pulled on the colorless drawstring pants and tank, but they would do. Her hair was also, somehow, immensely long, reaching her buttocks, a length it hadn’t ever reached before, even when she’d refused to take anything resembling scissors to her hair for five years in elementary school, much to her mother’s annoyance at the time.
Buffy went to the mirror to examine what else was different. Not much, she discovered. The blonde highlights brought on by chemicals and California sun were gone, just the purely natural ‘dishwater’ she’d hated when she was younger. She was also painfully white, she saw with surprise, her eyes going wide. It was as if she’d never seen the sun… Her arms and legs, as she’d noticed while putting on her clothes, were painfully thin, and trembled with fatigue easily. She wasn’t malnourished, just…skinny. No matter how she tried, she really couldn’t think of an explanation for any of these. In a huff, she whirled and went to the bed, sitting down as her legs again began to shake. She put her hands on her knees, trying to stop the quick movements.
“Damn it…” she muttered, tears pricking the corner of her eyes even as she realized her voice was working again, albeit just as shakily as the rest of her. She blinked, quickly, hoping she could blow dry them with her lashes- it be just her luck to have her enemy waltz in right now, while she was trying not to cry from frustration.
There was a sound like a heavy slid door slipping open, and Buffy looked up, glossy-eyed, to see two more brutes standing where once there had been solid wall. They were next to her, quicker than she could follow them with her gaze, and certainly quicker than she could avoid. They had her by the arms just as she managed to pull herself to her shaky feet, and were dragging her out of the room before she’d even managed a squeak.
Hall after hall, she was pulled down. Turn after turn, she was twisted around. Soldier-like person after soldier-like person she stared at, wondering if she’d been thrown into a sci-fi flick. The men she passed, the ones that weren’t wearing the universal white lab coat, where wearing dark blue clothes, definitely military, but unlike any branch or nation’s she’d ever seen. Some even had helmets and body armor- a troop of men so dressed had gone tromping past her, earlier. The oddest thing, though, was the occasional man or woman that screamed, to her nearly silent Slayer-sense, ‘PREDATOR!’ These men and women were normally dressed in leathers, in mesh, or in expensive silks. But all of them had rippling muscles, all of them walked like…
…like Slayers.
For a brief moment, after stumbling across this disturbing thought, Buffy wondered if someone the Powers that Be had let the Slayer-making darkness make the leap between genders. But then she saw the other addition, the one noted by her eyesight, not her Slayer-sense. Arm spikes. Curved, deadly looking boney protrusions from the fore-arms. Most wore leather gauntlets, gloves, or bracers specially designed to allow for the spikes.
So what were these people? Some sort of hybrid? Slayer/something else? She couldn’t deny it. Something about these spiked people struck a cord in her, although oddly enough, it wasn’t the Slayer cord… But what else could it be?
Utterly confused, Buffy let herself be guided down yet another hallway, and, at last, to a set of plain double doors, also metal. One brute, keeping one large hand on her upper arm, reached out to knock on the door. Instantly, she sharpened her observation of her surroundings. Whoever the occupant was, to be so important as to entice such a polite act from this short giants was something to take not of.
“Enter,” came a voice from inside. Buffy’s mind gave a sharp lurch as her conscious thoughts were linked to the section of her brain titled ‘audio memory.’ That voice. She knew that voice…
Brute #1 shoved the door open, pulling her in after. Brute #2 stayed outside. Buffy was brought out from behind her captor, around front with a sweeping yank that sent her stumbling on still weak legs. Her quick eyes saw the form move towards her before she could react, but all that happened was supple hands caught her by her upper arms, pulling her upright.
“Now, now, lads, we can’t go damaging the goods already, now can we?”
That voice…
Her head jerked up so sharply, she could feel the fluids surrounding her brain slosh, and she was dizzy. She met eyes so familiar, so strikingly familiar; it sent a cold dump of shock down into the pit of her stomach.
“Spike.” It was a statement, not a question, not an exclamation, not a breath. Her rational mind knew it wasn’t possible, even as she looked at those familiar, high cheekbones, that aristocratic nose, those thin lips, that narrow chin, even the dark curls she’d so rarely seen beneath the stark bleach blonde she remembered. But here he was-
No! She stiffened, at the same time she pulled away, belatedly taking not of a rather important factor. The hands on her arms had been warm, and her Slayer-sense was picking up a strong, definitely alive heartbeat.
One of those familiar eyebrows rose in question, and he half turned to another figure standing a ways behind him. Buffy followed his gaze, and stiffened even further. Standing against the backdrop of more steel and a long metal conference table behind him, Dr. Happy.
“You!” She snarled. She was barely restraining her instincts, the instincts that were telling her incapable limbs to launch herself at the swine before her and throttle him ‘til he wished he was a vampire so dusty-land would rid him of pain!
But Dr. Happy’s only response to her outburst was to ignore her, giving his undivided attention to the Spike-copy. She swallowed harshly, clenching her fists at her side and sweeping the room with her eyes, belatedly, for anything that could be used as a weapon. The only thing she saw was a metal stick strapped to Spike-copy’s leg. It had buttons and a touchpad on it, like some sort of real-life saber from Star Wars. Recognizing it as a weapon, her fingers itched for it… She clenched her fists tighter, redirecting her attention to the exchange at hand.
“’Spike?’” The Copy echoed, his voice full of arrogance, condescending amusement, and above all- power. No, Buffy realized. While Spike may have possessed those traits, although in different proportions, it wasn’t Spike. It was all off…
“I don’t know, sir,” Dr. Happy answered. “It is possible that so many clone-ings have degraded her mind…we’ve never bothered to test her intelligence, before.”
“Fool,” came the murmured response as Copy looked away from the doctor, and back to her. Her Slayer ears picked up the comment- she doubted Dr. Happy had heard it.
“You can have her, now, anyways,” Dr. Happy said, his face void of emotion- deliberate, or just stupidity? “And what about our deal? You promised to send us back, to a time where science was truly appreciated…” A fanatical gleam, something far too familiar to Buffy, entered Dr. Happy’s eyes, a sheen of madness over his gaze.
As if being reminded he had a conference, or something, to attend soon, Spike-Copy raised his eyebrows a bit, again, and half turned to Dr. Happy.
“Words are a funny thing, you know.” He said casually. He raised his hand, signaling to something. A moment later, they all knew what. More of those spike-armed people emerged from behind hidden panels in the walls, deep shadows, or dropped down from vents in the ceiling. More brutes burst in, but were too late- several spike-armed people had guns of various designs pointed at them. Dr. Happy began sweating.
“B-but…you promised…you promised you’d show us how to go back in time…” The blubbering faded into murmurs, and Spike-Copy’s gaze turned decidedly amused and lofty all at once.
“I believe me words, good doctor, were something along the lines of, ‘I managed to find a way to get these things from the past.’” His smile was malevolent, and purely selfish. “I said nothing about time travel.” He pulled something from beneath the floor-length, sleeveless leather coat he wore, and tossed it to the doctor. It, some sort of clear floppy plastic, landed at his feet.
“There you are, Doctor. The map to the destroyed old laboratory on Earth from which I gleaned my findings. You’re welcome to visit any time to find out anything more that you can.” The curtsey was thinly veiled mockery, and Buffy found herself wanting to hit the man that wore Spike’s face, as much as she’d wanted to pound that face back when it had belong to Spike, before the idiot had gone and gotten himself a soul…
Then his hand was on her arm again, hauling her out of the room. The small army of those predator-people followed, surrounding them. One of them, bigger and stronger (and definitely yummier, Buffy had to admit) that most of the others came up to stand beside Spike-Copy.
“My Lord, the charges have been set. They await only your command.” When Spike-Copy nodded in acknowledgement, the other man fell back again.
Never in Buffy’s life had she ever heard anyone speak with such a perfect mixture of subordinance and absolutely, total arrogance all at once. It was almost fascinating.
Down the hall, around a corner and down another hall, chaos was rising. Doctors and brutes alike shuffled out of the way, confusion on their faces. A few of the predator-men took glee in slashing a few of them along the way. A splatter of blood was thrown across her back, and Buffy’s eyes narrowed, her trembling muscles –which were already fast on the way to regaining strength- tightening even more.
But it wasn’t until a full squad of the brutes faced them off in an unusually wide hallway that Buffy saw her chance. With various cries of absolute enjoyment, mingled with near insane laughter, the predator-men surged forward, and attacked. Guns came out, as did the forearm-spikes. They stabbed, shot, slashed, butted, punched, kicked, clawed their way through the brutes that were just as muscled as they, and as fast, but didn’t seem able to take as many hits.
Even Spike-Copy was joining in the fray as he pulled her right through the middle of it, and this placed her in the situation she needed to get away. She watched, eyes quick as ever, as her captor pulled her through the mess, until at last- there!
Quick as lightning, she snatched the heavy gun out of the hand of one of the predator-men. She used what little strength she’d managed to build up to yank her arm from Spike-Copy’s unwarily limp grasp, ducking behind him to give her cover from the predator-man whose gun she’d snatched, giving her precious seconds to feel it in her hands, find the trigger, and let instinct take over. Not allowing herself any time for remorse, Buffy slammed the butt of the gun over Copy’s head at the same time he whirled to face her. She pointed and shot another predator-man just as he came near, then whirled and ducked into the chaos, dodging the fighters, shooting or knocking unconscious those that got in her way. As soon as she could, she jerked herself into the first available off-shooting hallway.
She was breathing heavily, and a headache was beginning to throb behind her eyeballs. It occurred to her that her massive hair wasn’t helping matters, and wished fervently for something long and sharp…and not just as a hair-cutting utensil.
Her already short breath suddenly hitched even more in sudden wariness; a loud, blaring klaxon began echoing down the halls, accompanied by bright, flashing red lights that aggravated her oncoming headache even more. Belatedly, it occurred to her just what that second predator-man had meant when he’d told Spike-Copy about the ‘charges.’
“Ah, hell,” she muttered, crouching down and hugging the wall. “This is not my day…” Then she stifled all wailings of self pity and panic, and looked back down the hall, where she now saw more predator-men running flat out past her. Obviously, they knew a way out. Buffy made a quick decision, and waited until the last predator-man had passed her, then ducked out of her side hallway to follow. She ran along the wall, low and quick as she could, trying not to loose the last straggler she kept in sight, but keeping back far enough, using every inch of stealth gleaned from sixteen years of Slayerness she could to make sure he didn’t realize she wasn’t far behind.
There was, she confessed in the back of her mind, a bonus prize to all of this if she managed to follow these men far enough. Perhaps, just perhaps, and answer to where she was. And why. Can’t forget the why…
Bodily memory took over the process of keeping her movements quick but quiet, as Buffy’s mind took on another task; just why was she here? She remembered the how (inter-dimensional portals weren’t all that uncommon in Sunnydale, unfortunately.), but what about why? Buffy was chilled to the core when she remembered the reference to ‘cloning,’ and as much as she wanted to there was no denying that Dr. Happy had been referring to her. She’d been too much in shock about the Spike look-alike at the moment to really pay attention to the implications...
“It is possible that so many clone-ings have degraded her mind…we’ve never bothered to test her intelligence, before.”
Buffy’s jaw tightened at the hazy memory of the voice, and the fear-striking words. She couldn’t afford to think about this too much right now- she’d begun to hear her own labored breathing, even over the klaxons. She shut down on her worrisome ponderings for a later time, and concentrating on keeping predator-boy in sight.
A low rumble was Buffy’s only warning- and it wasn’t her stomach. A violent transfusion of energy from shockwave to Buffy’s body flung her forward, and she slammed into the opposite side of the curved hallway she’d just turned into. The metal hummed with intense vibration, ‘til a low ringing began churning through the air. Buffy clapped her hand over one ear, barely remembering to keep ahold of her gun with the other hand. She stumbled to her feet, worried she may have lost her tail. She found him quickly enough, and barely ducked back behind the corner to avoid being seen as he stood, shook himself off, and started running again.
Only a few more turns later, and they came to a large, rounded doorway that Buffy recognized as some sort of airlock, and her eyes widened slightly, just before narrowing in contemplation. Was she underwater? It would explain how weak she felt- she probably wasn’t used to the pressure, since she was sure they were probably quite deep down. And it probably explained the tremor, too- hulls buckling, probably. Which meant that unless she wanted to end up like that ‘live mermaid’ supposedly found in a tuna can (only without the ‘live’ part), she’d better get going…which, unfortunately, relied on Predator-boy getting a move on!
As she watched, the aforementioned ‘Predator-boy’ began to punch buttons on a totally foreign looking keypad, and the doors slid open with a sucking noise. He stepped through, and Buffy barely saw yet another one only a few feet after it… Buffy bit her lip. The first one would close any second, but could she risk him seeing her in that small space between the first and second airlock? Or could she remember the keypad combo? No, she couldn’t- she hadn’t been paying enough attention.
Then the airlock started to close. Buffy cursed herself for not paying attention to the entered code, and made a split second decision. She darted, leaped, tucked, rolled, and bounced to her feet just in time to see predator-boy whirl around in surprise, just after he’d opened the second airlock. A weak punch, aided by surprise, was effective enough for her to knock him back, through the newly opened passageway. She followed after, darting around him to throw him back into the small space, just as the second door locked. Instantly, he was at the keypad. Buffy’s eyes darted, spotted, aimed, and then she kicked with all her might at the keypad on her side. Metal crunched beneath her blow, and sparks fizzed.
Then she turned and ran, ignoring predator-boy’s roar of rage behind her at the same time she noticed that, this time, she was in some sort of large storage bay. Where were all the other predator-dudes? Were they already ahead? Or had she followed predator-boy to a different exit than the others? Behind her, she heard and felt another rumble, though this one, while it felt closer somehow, was also more muffled- the airlock seemed to act as some sort of buffer to the sound.
Numbly, in the back of her mind, she’d just condemned something at least partially human… She’d let the Slayer take over, completely, for the first time in a long time…and she couldn’t afford the time to be shocked, damnit! Shoving the raw anger at herself into the back of her mind, along with the contemplations about cloning, Buffy continued to run across the storage bay, although by now exhaustion from her depilated limbs was beginning to take it’s toll, and she was little more than jogging, with the occasional stumble. But it wasn’t until a particularly nasty stumble that surprised even Buffy, a stumble that after which she stayed on the floor for a few moments, catching her breath, that she noticed that her clumsiness wasn’t entirely her doing- the floor was moving! Or rather, the entire room was!
Hands pressed to the cold metal floor, Buffy could feel the vibrations, could feel the slight, smooth movement. Buffy looked behind her- the airlock she’d left behind was barely visible, but instead of the white spot of light she’d seen the last time she’d looked over her shoulder, she could see only darkness through the glass...and…something else…something that made Buffy stagger to her feet, moving to go back to the airlock. But as she began to move, and she watched, twin metal plates slid down and from below, circling to close and lock with a loud clank over the glass.
Could it be? Had she seen stars through the airlock? So, not underwater after all? But space? With gravity? Because unless she was loopier than she felt, her two feet were definitely still planted on the floor. The floor which, suddenly, gave another lurch, a lurch that was too strong to be mistaken for a mere stumble on her part. It was confirmed, then; she was on, or in, something that was moving away from the other half of the now closed airlock she was staring at.
The lurches and jerks became a rough, rumbling shakiness that sent Buffy looking for something to support herself on, namely a tall bolt of some kind sticking up from the floor. Large metal crates, stacked higher than she stood, rattled against one another within steel mesh netting holding them in place. Below her, the vibration of the metal grew to a deafening, rumbling roar. She found a strap on the gun, looped it over her head and under one arm, wrapped her arms and legs around the bolt, then brought her hands back around the bolt to clap over her ears…
Up, down, side to side, upside down, right side up, diagonal, tilting, horizontal, vertical- in the brief time that followed Buffy felt her body contorted every which way. She wasn’t quite sure if it was herself or the whole ship (it had to be some kind of ship) that was doing this, all she knew was that she was incredibly nauseous mere moments after the trip had begun. Thankfully, there seemed to be nothing in her stomach to begin with, so her dry retching was clean, at least, although still painful, especially when combined from the now roaring headache, violent sloshing of the liquids in her head surround her brain, completely loss of any sense of up or down, and the aching, trembling weakness of every part of her body…
She couldn’t help it. As soon as the rumbling and shaking stopped, and all things lurched to stillness, Buffy fell into a deep, solid sleep.
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It felt like she’d just closed her eyes before Buffy awoke again, shivering harshly. Her breath came in short, visible puffs as she pulled herself up from the floor, feeling like her flesh had been frozen to the very floor. She rubbed her nearly numb upper arms, and forced herself to her feet with one goal in mind; ‘get somewhere warm!’ This time the severe stumbling was all hers, and she took to walking along the tall, stacked crates, keeping one hand against the chain mesh that held them all in place. That headache was back, aided by the cold, and her legs were shaking worse than ever. Pure stubbornness kept her going, a single-mindedness that she locked onto and held tight with both hands until she came, to her numb surprise, to another sliding door. This one was made with two panels of thick, plexiglass-esq stuff held by a diagonal bar of thick red metal. Beside it was another touchpad, and Buffy staggered to it like a half-dead drunk.
She leaned against the wall next to the pad, breathing heavily. In her mind’s eye, she tried to remember the keys that predator-boy had touched… She’d kept a bit better eye on his hand’s the second time he’d entered the code, but could she remember? Would an alarm go off? She didn’t think she could face off a fly right now, let alone more of those predator-guys, or whoever else was on this vessel with her. Then again, she wouldn’t last much longer in this cold, she knew.
Decided, she raised a shaky hand and pushed the buttons she thought were right…
Nothing happened.
She tried again. Still, nothing happened.
She rubbed an aching brow, blinking blearily before trying again, this time changing some of the keys to others near them…Still nothing. One last time, again altering the buttons a bit, and an exhausted grin split Buffy’s face when at last the door slid open-
Buffy suddenly found herself staring down the barrels of several unfamiliar looking weapons. Her hands went up on their own in surrender, and a male hand then darted out from behind one of those guns to snatch her own weapon from her side.
“Hey, not here to cause any trouble…” she said slowly, trying to keep her voice from shaking. It was as if she’d hardly ever used her vocal cords, something she knew for a fact was quite far from true.
“Clonies are always trouble,” growled the man whom had taken her gun. He moved behind her, jamming the point of his weapon into the small of her back. “Move!” He barked, and she was propelled through the newly opened door. To the others, the man said, “Tell the Cap’n its nuttin’ but a Clonie jumped from that hunk o’ space debris. Dunno how she got off in time… If m’memory serves, th’ Clonie tanks were on th’ other side.”
In her mind, Buffy did her best to remember the path she’d traveled within that ‘hunk of space debris.’ She certainly had walked/ran far enough for her original location to be quite far from where she’d crossed the airlock. If she hadn’t been shown to that Spike-look-alike, she probably wouldn’t have made it off.
‘Somehow, he’s still watching out for me…’ The thought came unbidden, and the back of Buffy’s throat formed a knot that was painful to get a swallow down past.
Buffy was prodded, by the one man alone after the others dispersed, down a narrow, almost slimy hallway. The floor below was nothing more than a grate, below which she spied a huffing, puffing engine that released an occasional spurt of steam to rise up and blind her for a moment. Her clothes began sticking to her skin that was sweating bullets, and her hair clung to her scalp.
‘At least I’m warm, now,’ she thought with irony, a tiny smile smoothing the corners of her lips outward.
Eventually they came to a set of rickety steps clinging to the bulkhead, and she was shoved upwards unceremoniously. Walking had been one thing, but climbing almost did in her still trembly legs. Her captor saw the shaking from behind her, and gave a derogatory snort.
“So, yer a new Clonie, too, eh? Poor thing.” His voice was mocking, but not quite cruel. “So, who were you copied off of, eh? Some famous hooker? Some rich snob get turned down by yer Original, managed to get a sample so he could have a copy of his own? Not uncommon, you know, and yer pretty nuff. Though I like a bit more ass on my girls, meself. Yer a bit skinny. Then again, most new Clonies are. Most of em can’t even walk for days, like babies, they are, what wit’ all tha’ muscle never been used b’fore.”
Buffy wanted to tune him out, but as much as his words sickened her, Buffy knew when not to turn down freely offered information. So he thought she was a clone? She had to admit, in the wailing, sickened part of her mind that already knew the truth, that it made sense… It did. It did…it really did… Especially, her memory told her, when she took into account that little incident that had gotten her that broken arm, barely a week before Dr. Happy and his quartet of Bruties had kidnapped her. Things were starting to make sense in a scary, connect-the-dots sort of way.
Then she thought of something else.
“But why…” she found herself speaking without meaning to. She swallowed hard. “They cut me open, right after I woke up. Why?”
“Boy, you are new, aren’t ya?” She heard him spit over the guardrail. “Clonies can’t have babies, dat’s why. They’re all messed up, the kids that do live.”
Buffy stumbled with the sudden, painful cramp that gripped her gut and heart.
Babies…
They took out her reproductive organs?
“They…they made me so that…” She couldn’t finish the sentence. But he did, for her.
“So ye can’t have little ‘uns. That’s right, blondie.”
Buffy felt like she was going to be sick. She clung to the railing, breathing in deep, dragging, ragged dry gasps of air, her eyes wide and her face even more pale than before. She’d been like that only a moment before the man grabbed her by the shoulder of her shirt, and dragged her forward again.
“Stop feelin’ sorry fer yerself,” he said, aggravation in his voice. “It’s a pity thing, you know it is.”
But she’d stopped listening, and didn’t listen to anything else after that, until they came to another hallway (so many hallways in the past few hours!), then to a hatch. The man reached around her and shoved, then lifted a heavy metal handle, shoving the hatch open, inward. She followed the door, tumbling inside.
“Clonies are trouble everywhere,” the man spat over his shoulder. “Not too common, but illegal where they do exist. Cap’n won’t wanna be caught wit’ you. No offense. We’re goin’ planetside in few hours. We’ll drop ye off there, most like. Doubtful I be seein’ you ‘gain, so g’luck.”
Buffy was on her feet in half a second, but the hatch had been slammed shut before she’d reached it, slamming herself against it with a loud cry.
“Let me out!” She shouted, rearing back and shoving up against the hatch a second time. It didn’t budge –not that she’d really expected it to- and all Buffy could do was slid down to the floor, breathing raggedly as she shut her eyes tight, sweat dripping down her brow as she pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapped her arms around her legs, and let out a loud, long wail, straight from the bottom of Buffy the Vampire Slayer’s soul.
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“For she’s a jolly good fellow, for she’s a jolly good fellow, for she’s a jolly good felloooooow… That nobody can deny!”
“Giles!” Buffy ran, leaped, landed, wrapping her legs around her Watcher’s legs and her arms around his back, pinning his arms to his side and hugging him tight. Laughter echoed the older man’s ‘oof!’ of expelled air as he dropped his duffle and a brightly wrapped package. Willow and Xander came up as Buffy dropped back onto her own feet, settling down for a regular hug with the winded Englishman.
“Wonderful to see you, as well, Buffy,” Giles said, resettling his glasses back on his nose with a shaky, but genuine smile as he returned the now normal embrace.
“Happy birthday, Buff,” Xander’s remaining good eye twinkled with the Xander-man brand of humor that had never completely faded as he took his turn in the Slayer’s strong huggy-world.
“Xander! Oh, I’ve missed you!” Buffy breathed as she breathed in her long-time friend’s scent of lumber wood and the beach.
Willow was next, all soft glowy sweetness and subtle power, her hugs as Willow-esq as ever, both enthusiastic and hesitant as she stepped up to envelope her blonde friend in her arms. Buffy squashed the hesitancy with her death-barring squeeze, and Willow held her friend with tears in her eyes. When they pulled away, Buffy’s eyes, too, were glossy.
“I missed you, Buffy,” Willow sniffed. “It’s been way, way too long, especially when I found out you’d been kidnapped by some sort of psycho doctor, thought I’d never see you again, and then when I found out you’d almost gotten yourself killed while escaping-” she paused to touch Buffy’s arm-in-a-sling. “-I thought it was all over, and then I found out that, no, you’re really ok and not shish kabob, I was so relieved and then I thought that this wasn’t right, that what if you had died, and that I hadn’t seen you in so long, so I called up Giles and Xander and Kennedy and Faith and even Wesley and Angel and said Hey! Guys! We need to have a reunion and look! Here we are!”
Then Buffy was hugging her again, laughing. When she pulled away, she said, “I guess I never realized how much I missed Willow-babble 'til I heard it again!” She teased, Willow’s cheeks flushing to match her hair, a sight none of them had seen in a good, long while.
“Come on in, you guys,” Buffy sniffed, motioning them inside the small house. When they were in, she moved to close the door, pausing a moment to appreciate the bright, sunny day that had blessed this happy reunion…
She paused, suddenly, when she spotted the man standing squarely in the middle of the walkway leading up to her front porch. He stood there, hands in the pockets of his black jeans, his form-fitting blue shirt half hidden by his usual black leather duster… His hair wasn’t bleached, this time, but rather a becoming dark brown, gelled and curly against his scalp. That big yellow gem was around his throat, hanging in the middle of his chest. It was dark, and dull, not glowing like the last time she’d seen it…
And he was smiling at her…
“Time to wake up, pet,” he said. “And you might want to duck…”
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Buffy’s eyes opened with a snap, and she sat up just as quick. With Spike’s warning echoing in her mind, as soon as she was upright she bent back over- and just in time. Above her, a booted foot swung past, where her head had been only moments before. She opened her senses, searching, sensing… She honed in, then reared up and charged, ramming her right shoulder into the solar plexus of her would-be attacker. She let her momentum transfer to him, sending him flying back into a metal bulkhead. When she stood upright, backing away, she recognized the dirty man slumping down against the wall as one of the men that had first pointed a gun at her, back when she’d been trying to get out of the storage bay.
He groaned, rolling his head up from his chest to glare at her. “Damn Clonie…yer kind isn’ supposed to be fast!” He sounded whiny, as if he felt he’d been cheated. “Yer supposed to be all slow and groggy… Dannie said you were new…new ones are always the slowest…”
“Not this one,” She responded without thinking, although even after so simple a defense as the one she’d just pulled, she was already starting to feel woozy and exhausted.
Her attacker pulled himself to his feet, shook his head, and took a step towards her. She took a step back, glaring.
“Stay back,” she warned. “I’m not too fond of people who try to turn my head into a cracked coconut while I’m away in nappy-land.”
“Aren’t you a funny one!” He bent over and picked up something that resembled medieval manacles from the floor- he must have dropped them when she’d shoulder-slammed him, she realized. “Listen, we’re about to land. Unless you wanna do dis th’ hard way…” he pulled a gun out from his belt (Buffy momentarily cursed herself for not spotting it while tackling him), and aimed it at her heart. He shook the manacles, raising an eyebrow.
‘Dannie’s earlier words came back to Buffy.
“You’re going to abandon me?” Her voice was low, angry, and a touch incredulous.
“Didn’ Dannie tell y’how it is, luv?” The man whined. “Yer a liability, get it? A Clonie. Not that I’d do spreadin’ that ‘round if me was you…”
Buffy clenched her fists, trying to calculate her options. She couldn’t stay, and she couldn’t go. But she had to do one. These men here on the ship, they obviously didn’t want her here- it wasn’t safe. Then again, neither was a strange planet, the conditions on which she was completely ignorant of. The men on this ship knew what she was, which didn’t seem like a good thing, might at least provide her with information. But couldn’t she get that on the planet, just as easily? But, once again, she’d just been advised to not spread around the fact that she was…was a…
Buffy swallowed, harshly, then reached out with a hand not quite as fast as she would have liked, but fast enough, to snatch the manacles from the man’s hands and fling them across the room. They smacked the wall with a loud, metallic clatter, falling to the ground.
“Let’s go,” she growled lowly, turning on her bare, cold heel and stepping out of the open hatch and into the passageway. Stunned, the man scrambled to follow, then moved ahead of her to lead. Anyone they passed either stepped out of her way, avoiding eye contact, or openly sneered. One spat, and earned a fist in the gut for it. Buffy was in no mood to be hospitable, or to build ‘friendly relations,’ since it didn’t look like she’d be staying, anyway.
Their destination, when they arrived, Buffy discovered to be a smaller storage bay. About a dozen or so men, all grimy looking with mismatching body armor and weaponry, stood about. She recognized Dannie near the front, an equally grimy bag at his feet. He spotted her when her guide moved away to join them, and picked up the bag and moved through the ranks to stand before her. He seemed to be suppressing a frown, one that was deeper than the one he already wore when he shoved the bag into her arms.
“Cap’n has a soft spot fer blondies,” was all he growled, then left her, only looking back once when the airlock opened to make sure she followed. She took one look around the storage bay, told herself she wasn’t really loosing anything, then stepped out with the rest. It didn’t escape her notice that as they all stepped onto some sort of lift they were all avoiding looking at her, giving her more space than they were giving each other.
Disgusted, Buffy ignored them and knelt to open the bag and sift through it. First thing she spotted that really got her interest was a pair of worn, too-big leather-looking boots. She pulled them on, and while they flopped a bit, they were serviceable. In the back of her mind, she was rather surprised at this extension of minor kindness. Then again, she thought, if the whole reason these guys were getting rid of her was to cover their backsides, then this was probably just an attempt to silently bribe her into not going to the authorities. After all, first thing anyone would want to know is, where, exactly, did this ship pick her up? And if Cloning was illegal, then what was this ship doing at a cloning facility, anyways?
There was also a short sort of cloak/coat that she pulled on, and a smaller pack within the bag of what looked like field rations. A canteen of water, and a tube of something, with writing on it that was completely alien to her.
‘Better than nothing,’ she thought to herself, then stood up, bringing the bag up and around to sling over her shoulder. The lift came to a halt with a slight lurch, and Buffy barely kept her balance, reaching out a hand to press her palm against the wall.
“Let’s go,” Dannie groused as another sliding door ‘slooshed’ out of their way, and her charming company men exited the lift. The moment the doors were open, a flush of scent, sound, and grease filled air flooded in, and Buffy nearly gagged. Never, not even while patrolling the dankest, most rotting alleys of the Sunnydale docks had she ever encountered such a city-stench!
The doors began to close as soon as the last man was off, and Buffy forced herself to take a deep breath, hold it, and practically dive out of the lift…and into the smelliest, dankest, dirtiest crowd of the most desolate, mean looking people she’d ever seen. Buffy’s heart gave a wail of near desperation, a wail that the Slayer lost no time in clamping down on. For the first time in her life, Buffy was fully grateful to be the Chosen one; without her/it, she would have given up right then and there. Everywhere she looked she saw desolation and despair. All around here there was nothing but grey, grey, grey. She looked up, and even the sky (what bits were visible through the elevated landing platforms hosting hundreds of ships, including the one closest, the one that she must have just have gotten off of) was a dank shade of greasy grayness.
Dannie or any of the others, for that matter, were nowhere to be seen, and she’d heard the lift leave several moments ago. She also had the feeling that if she hung around here, waiting for Dannie and the others to return to their ship, this time they wouldn’t hesitate in disposing of her. She had no choice- it was time to do the local-wanna-be thing; mingle.
And so, mingle she did, shoving her way through the crowd, forcing herself to not care whose toes she stepped on and to stop saying ‘sorry’ every time she bumped a shoulder. She kept her pack close, since while she didn’t have anything too valuable in it, it was all she had. She also kept her hood up, and low over her face after she’d received one too many ‘offers’ in the first half hour of moving around, not quite sure what she was even looking for.
It wasn’t long before all the walking began to take its toll on her still ‘new’ limbs, and she began looking for a relatively safe place to take a nap… It took her a while, too, but eventually she managed to stumble across the tiniest alleyway she’d ever encountered, barely small enough to squeeze into. It was blocked, halfway through, by some boxes. She managed to wiggle a few of them free, lifting them up and over her head. She turned, placing the boxes on either side of her so that when she ducked down (which was hard to do in the cramped space) no passerby on either end of the alleyway would be able to discern anyone was there.
It would have to do, she decided, wrinkling her nose at the stench of the filthy run-off water trickling down the way. She flattened an extra box to sit on- it was better than nothing. She did her best to make herself comfortable, settling down and waiting to make sure no one had seen her go in.
When it was quite for a while (figuratively speaking- it was loud as every outside the alleyway), her weariness began to make its way from her limbs to her eyelids. Comprehensive thinking and planning would have to wait, she realized, and she fell into an uneasy sleep.
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“Well, at least these unexpected turn of events is proving to be amusing, if nothing else,” came the sarcastic drawl from one tall, lanky, pissed off Nietzschean. Charlemagne Bolivar turned from the large, gilded mirror adorning the bulkhead of his spacious onboard quarters, to face his second-in-command, a Nietzchean by the name of Visago Tisachi, by Yingava out of Sinzasi. He had, at the moment, only one wife, but a boy-child of promising skill and talent. Charlemagne kept this in mind, always, when dealing with this man. Too many great leaders had gotten cocky in their handling of their fellow Nietzchean, only to have the sons visit them one day to extract revenge. It was an oversight Charlemagne aimed to never make.
“Do we at least have any word on whether or not she got off?” Charlemagne asked when he’d calmed himself. “I fail to believe she was as ignorant as Doctor Moinitage wanted us to believe. Her eyes…her eyes were far too bright for that.” He paused, remembering the odd gaze the woman had given him, then looked again to Visago. “Well?” He asked. Visago shook his head, slightly.
“No, my lord, this no word,” he answered. “Most of the ships docked at the time didn’t disengage in time to escape the blast. There are only three that we know of, and we’re in the process right now of tracking them down.”
“Good, good, very good,” Charlemagne was pleased; it was what he would have done. “Contact me when you know the locations of those three ships. If Mother was on one of them, which my gut tells me she is, then we’ll want to explore those three locations as soon as possible.”
Visago nodded, and turned to leave. He paused at the door, though, half turning back to ask, “Is it true, sire? Is she truly the clone of Drago Museveni’s mother?”
“If she’s not,” Charlemagne responded casually enough, turning back to the mirror. “We’ll know nine months after we find her.”
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To Be Continued…
The Andromeda crew will be seen next chapter, promise.
I’m still doing research on what little is known about the creation of Nietzscheans, so if any of you fellow fans know anything, any and all input is very welcome. Hope you enjoyed- I know I’m hooked, at the moment. I’m hoping this plot can keep my attention long enough for me to finish it! Please note that I have very little knowledge of Andromeda post season three/four-ish. Enjoy, all.
-Amber Penglass
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