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Part Four, Brassed-Off Buffy



Buffy may have lost consciousness feeling hopeless, but she wakes up pissed.



At first, she’s unsure why she’s angry, but then, the memories come pouring into her conscious mind as if water’s been dumped over her head.



Sitting up abruptly with a small intake of breath and opening her eyes, she watches the world spin as a wave of vertigo overtakes her sense of balance accompanied by a sharp stabbing pain through her mid-section.



She recognizes dimly that she’s in a bed, and her open hand thrusts out to catch and prop up her rebelling body. Her other hand goes to her neck, and she clumsily probes the puckered, enflamed flesh, re-closing her eyes as she re-experiences the sharp pain and rush of desire from Spike’s teeth and mouth over her neck. . . his body molded to hers as if he’d never left her side since the last night in Sunnydale when they’d huddled together on the narrow cot in her basement.



She doesn’t know how long she was insensible, but she knows that she dreamed. . . not a Slayer dream but a genuine nightmare. She doesn’t recall the details of the dream. . . just the impression. . . the fear.



A long time ago, she became tired of being afraid. . . grew weary of not being in control. “Nothing scares Buffy Summers,” the remaining Slayers say behind her back, admiring her toughness in the face of the ultimate apocalypse. . . the apocalypse they hadn’t pushed back. . . that had driven the human race and a handful of demons like Clem underground.



Yeah, right, tough.



With a cry of frustration, she pushes past the fog in her head, swings her legs over the edge of the small bed, almost running into the wall of the tiny room. A minute stool poses as an end table and holds a single candle. . . her only source of light.



Not thinking, she snatches the innocent tower of wax and hurls it hard and fast against the unadorned concrete wall.



The soft wax cylinder caves in upon itself, and the light snuffs out.



She’s in the dark.



“Brilliant move, Buffy,” she mutters to herself. Now she can’t even see to move around her prison.



Plunking herself back down on the lumpy bed, she discovers that the tears are flowing freely.



“Damn you!” she shouts into the shadows.



She hates him.



She hates that he ruined their mission and that she let herself be tricked.



She hates that he betrayed her with his soul intact and that he betrayed her for Dru.



But most of all, she despises him for making her feel. . . for making her lose control. . .



But is she really out of control?



Swallowing hard, she inhales deeply to center herself.



She has to take each move she makes seriously, or she won’t stand a chance of escaping in one piece. She’d figure out how to get past the mass of demons after she broke out of the room.



Think, brain, think. She’s reminded of Xander, and that brings forth a smile.



What’s the main thing? Patting her mid-section, she discovers that Spike left her with the device they’d worked so hard to retrieve. Her wrist feels too light. . . it’s no longer encased in her wrist computer. Not that she could do anything with it anyway. And obviously, she doesn’t have any weapons.



What about a door? There has to be a door in this place. They had to bring her in through a door.



Sliding forward onto her feet again and using the wooden bedpost for an initial anchor, she finds the cool wall and moves quickly around the room, drawing an internal map of her surroundings. The room is definitively tiny, and she encounters two significant things.



One is a small, ridged frame no bigger than a television screen positioned on the center of the wall opposite the foot of the bed. She tries to pry up the most raised edge but fails even with admittedly weakened Slayer strength.



To the right of the headboard, she finds the door. . . a large metal door that’s flush with the floor, walls, and most likely the ceiling. No door handle and no hinges. She raps on the metal with a fist and hears a dull thud. It’s thick. She won’t be kicking the door down.



Buffy decides that she’s in what Dr. Walsh called a Skinner box. . . only not for pigeons but Slayers. . . a Slayer box.



Every Skinner box has a key. She just has to figure out which one to press.



A fire throbs in her belly.



She has to figure out the right button to push, but first, she has to lie down. Stupid stomach wound.



The lumpy bed almost feels like heaven, and she should know, having been there herself. She’ll just close her heavy lids for a minute and store away the pain.



Then, she’ll be good to go.



Her hands slip across the icy comforter and encounter a pillow. Her face presses into the welcoming embrace of cotton, but before she can get comfortable. . .



Her eardrums vibrate with a loud pulsing sound.



“What the. . . ?” She tosses aside the pillow, uncovering the source of the noise. With shaking hands, she identifies the object as her wrist computer!



“It’s never made that noise before,” she mumbles to herself, flicking on the screen and sending a soft arc of blue light across the darkness.



The first thing she notices is the time.



21:16:47



She’s been out at least eighteen or nineteen hours. She’s screwed. Even if she escapes, the barriers won’t re-open for another month for sure now. Survival will be difficult. . . not impossible but certainly not fun. Demons cover the Earth’s surface.



The computer emits the strange sound again.



She wasn’t lying when she told Spike that she and technology were un-mix-y things.



Crap.



She has no idea what to do or what it means. The tiny screen remains blank except for the time and remains quiet except for the same string of beeps every few seconds.



So, Buffy starts pushing buttons.



Nothing, nothing, and nothing.



Not even the one menu she recognizes pops up. It’s as if the computer is stuck. . . frozen.



She tries a few other things before she emits a little noise of her own. . . a noise of annoyance and defeat.



“Oh, well, at least I can use it for a flashlight.” She looks around at the bare walls and lone bed. “Not that there’s anything to see.”



Then, her eyes latch onto something tiny in the corner of the ceiling.



“What’s this?”



Rounding the bed, Buffy grabs the small stool and drags it to the corner. Stepping gingerly onto the rickety piece of furniture, she shines the blue light at the object.



“Camera. Wonder what they think I’m gonna do in here.”



Metal sliding over stone snags her attention, and she reacts on instinct, leaping off the stool and managing a cartwheel aimed at the door.



The heavy metal slams shut in her face.



Buffy’s so angry that she literally sees stars. . . well, the stars might have something to do with her injuries and loss of blood but still. . .



A low groan comes from behind her.



She turns and holds up the tiny computer to illuminate the figure on the bed. Anger spirals back with more strength than she imagined.



“Spike.”





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