Chapter 23 - Glimpses

After her third night of slaying with Wesley, Buffy was struck with the impulse to go clubbing. She hadn’t had a good time at one in what seemed like a long time. She hit one late, and as she entered, the thought came to her that she could probably take anyone there. Oh sure, she might not have the fighting moves down yet, but brute strength went a long way.

Feeling completely unafraid was not something that Buffy had a lot of experience with. She had never been the type to cower in fear, but a girl out late had to use a certain amount of caution. However, now as she danced to the beat, she realized that not one of these guys could do something to her if she didn’t want them to.

Power.

She had it.

Buffy swayed to the music, smiling as someone approached her from behind. She danced between him and another guy, her hands trailing over his arms as he trailed his hands over her. When he went a little too low, she gave his wrist a sharp twist. He winced and she flashed a ditzy, apologetic smile. He smiled, but kept his distance.

Sure, she had to fight vampires, but the whole super strength thing was definitely a perk.

Buffy stayed at the club until it closed.

It was that night that the dream came. It was vivid and stark. And in the way that only makes sense in dreams, she was herself and yet not herself.

She was in a club. There was loud music and a pit of dancing, spinning bodies and grabbing hands. The feeling of complete abandon. And power. Then—outside. A man follows uninvited. She turns, pulling a knife from her boot. A quick jab and it slides into him. He drops down the wall and onto the concrete. Wipe the blade on his jeans. A laugh. “You gotta learn to read signals, man. When the Slayer says no, she means no.”

Gasping, Buffy sat bolt upright in bed.

-----

“It was like I was me, but wasn’t me?” she finished. “I wasn’t me, but I saw through someone else’s eyes, and I was definitely the Slayer.”

“It sounds like a Slayer dream,” Wesley said. He looked at her from across his desk.

“A Slayer dream?”

“Sometimes Slayers get dreams of future events.”

“Whoa—I said this wasn’t me. I mean, so not in my future. Sure, I was clubbing last night, but—what?”

Wesley raised a brow. “You went to a club like the one you saw in your dream?”

“No, I went to a club,” Buffy said. “It was completely different from the one I saw.”

“Well, dreams aren’t always precognitive. It could have simply been a message.”

“Got that message loud and clear, thanks. Power corrupts. Don’t let it go to my head, or I’ll end up murdering people in alleyways. Oh, and I kept getting this vibe. Like there was something else to it. It was one of those words, you know?”

“One of ‘those words,’” he said dryly. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be a bit more specific.”

“One of those feeling words was coming across. Like hope or joy or faith or something. Yeah, faith. Weird, considering.” Buffy shrugged.

“Well,” Wesley said after a short silence. “It could have been a glimpse of the past. If you remember anything else, let me know.” He stood. “Shall we patrol?”

They avoided the cemeteries and started a circuit around the city back streets. Buffy was still somewhat amazed that no one questioned heavily armed people walking around at night. One time Wesley had had a sword, and tonight she had a crossbow. Tomorrow she was determined that she was trying an axe out.

There was a scream from up ahead, and they both sped up in a wordless agreement. A girl was pinned up against the wall, a vampire at her throat.

“Excuse me.” Buffy tapped him on the shoulder. “Can I get some action?”

The vampire turned toward her, and she backed up a few steps, getting him farther from the girl.

“C’mon, I know you want a taste of this.”

He lunged at her and she feinted, kicking him as he flew past her. As he came up again, Buffy whipped out a stake, which was quickly becoming her personal favorite.

As he dusted, she looked back at the girl.

Even though she was crying and clinging to Wesley, as soon as Buffy came over she tore herself away and took both of Buffy’s hands in hers. “Thank you,” she said, looking at her with grateful eyes. “So much.”

It wasn’t until that moment that Buffy Got. It.

This girl was alive because of her.

Being the Slayer wasn’t a job; it wasn’t something she could choose to do, or try out. It was who she was. She knew with an abrupt clarity that as long as she had the power to save lives, she was the Slayer.

-----

The next night, they had barely left the office when Wesley leaned in as they walked and whispered in her ear.

“Someone’s following us. They got out of a car parked across the street.”

“Let’s see what they want, then.” Buffy slipped around the wall and into a recess in the bricks, and Wesley stepped further into the shadows. After a few moments, a man rounded the corner of the alley and looked inquisitively into the darkness.

Buffy grabbed his arm and pushed him up against the wall. “What’s up?” she asked sweetly.

“Ah, Miss Summers—”

“Okay, how do you know my name?”

“Forgive my rudeness, I’m Robert Richards.”

“The man who replaced the one your father owed money to,” Wesley said in a low voice as he approached.

Buffy tightened her grip. “That so? Don’t you have underlings for this sort of thing?”

“I take a very personal, hands-on approach to things. That, and your case seemed quite interesting, at least from what I could piece together. Records were sort of scarce.”

“How’s this for interesting?” She lifted him up by the front of his shirt. “I’m no longer victim-rama girl. And I’ve got nothing to do with my father’s issues. If you think I’m going to, you’ve got another thing coming. You take up whatever problems you have with him.” Buffy tossed him a good five feet in the air, throwing him into the opposite wall, and then shouldering her axe and standing over him. “Because see, I know all about the other underworld in this town—hell, I’m on my way to beating up the other underworld in this town. You stay the hell away from me.”

Richards was left lying painfully against the pavement. He watched as she and her crossbow toting friend walked not out of the alley, but down into the dark of it. His head was hurting too much to hear the girl’s whispered, “Wow, I think I scared him.” After a moment, he started to get to his feet, but a voice from above startled him.

“She sounds serious. I’d do what she says, mate.”

With an impossible two-story drop, a black clad figure was suddenly on him, and he was confronted with a snarling, yellow-eyed visage. “Cause if you don’t, I’ll tear your neck out.”

Richards was pulled to his feet by his throat and slammed against the wall with almost enough force to make him lose consciousness. Abruptly the figure stepped back, regarded him for a moment, then leisurely made its own way down the alley, stalking after the pair.

Richards slid down the wall. Hitting the ground, he considered things.

Hank Summers could perhaps be added to those few on the ‘they can pay on their own time’ list. Or more prudently, perhaps he could be forgotten all together.

But he knew two things with sudden surety. His new occupation would be cut short if he interfered with the inhumanly strong and pissed off girl. His life would be cut short if he attracted the attention of the thing that followed her.