NOTE: This is set between "Restless" and "Buffy vs Dracula".  No actual spoilers, but this will make a lot more sense if you have an idea of what went on in those eps.  There *are* spoilers for Angel's "Sanctuary".

This isn't my first fanfic, but it's my first set in the Slayerverse.  Feedback, especially about Faith's background, which I'm not completely familiar with, would be appreciated: elizabeth_barr@yahoo.com.au.
 
 

You are dreaming.

Alone in your small room (a cell, really, but we'll accept the euphemism), you are stretched out on your small, narrow bed.

Your face, devoid of makeup, is pale and young.  Once, you wore make-up as if it were warpaint, purple eyelids, red lips, a beautiful hunting mask.  But now, you hunt only in your dreams.

Your eyelids flickers, your heartbeat increases.

The hunt is on.

You run through a forest, reveling in the strength that comes to you so easily.

Your prey runs faster, but it is stupid.  You will let it run until it is exhausted, and then move in for the kill.  Until then, you don't waste your strength trying to outrun the prey.  You can still see it.  That's enough.

You lick your lips and taste the slick, blood-red lipstick that signaled your intentions to any man who saw them.  The huntress is out for the night.

Your heart pounds, pushing adrenaline through your body. The wind raises goosebumps on your exposed skin.  All of your senses are heightened.  Like sex.  Better.

There is a shift in the atmosphere.  A chill runs down your spine.

Your prey is gone.

Now *you* are hunted.

You continue running, faster, faster.  Adrenaline courses through your veins like fire, but there is no joy anymore.  You remember the trailer park, the boys who never understood 'No'.  It's still like sex, but you're not the one having fun anymore.

You run.  A shadow flashes through the trees, the hunter is getting closer.

You thought that being the Slayer meant never being the prey.  But then, you're the Slayer with her own custom-made straitjacket.  *There's* an item that Buffy never tried on at the mall, never charged to her mother's account, never—

You trip, fall.  A fatal mistake.

You're going to die.

The hunter's footsteps approach.  You look up to meet your death face to face.

Death is wearing *your* face.

No, realise.  For the first time you notice the blond hair hanging in your eyes.  *You* would never wear a floating dress with red cherries on it.  That was B's style, the faux virgin.  You remember something you read once, the Mother, the Virgin and the Harlot.  Joyce, Buffy (hardly a virgin – Angel dealt with that – but almost, with her upstanding church-going boyfriend and pastel wardrobe.)

And you.

You understand, you aren't the prey after all.

It's almost a relief.

You look into your face, its expression concealed behind clay-like warpaint.

The weapon is raised, but despite your self-directed anger, you are not afraid.  This is the hunt.  Someone must die.
 

You wake up in your room (cell), heart pounding, muscles aching.  The primal instinct pulses in your mind. The eternal hunt is on, and you are missing out.

END

Feedback and chocolate: elizabeth_barr@yahoo.com.au

Copyright © 2000 Elizabeth M. Barr

Buffy ® is the property of Mutant Enemy (grr, arrgh) and Twentieth Century Fox.  No profit is derived from this fan fiction.