“Time is like a jigsaw puzzle. Imagine a giant box full of billions of pieces of millions of puzzles – that’s the future. Beside it lies a huge board, partially filled with bits of the overall puzzle – that’s the past. Those in the present reach blindly into the box of the future every time they have a decision to make, draw a piece of the puzzle out and slot it into place on the board. Once the piece has been added, it influences the final shape and design of the puzzle, and it is useless trying to fathom what the puzzle would have looked like if a different piece had been picked. - Darren Shan, The Lake of Souls (Cirque du Freak #10)
Chapter One – Old Friends Make The Worst Enemies
Time, the man had decided, was a bloody nuisance. Always moving too slow when he needed it to move faster, or too fast when running for his life. And he had been doing a lot of running of late.
The desert had long since faded, and he allowed a wave of relief to wash over him, realizing he hadn’t seen another car for miles. Yet still he cursed himself for taking the scenic route, having grown tired of his cross-country adventure before it had even begun.
When planning his escape, he knew it would mean fewer chances of being seen. The only downside was that it added several hours to his journey.
And Sunnydale was still a few hours off—assuming he could stay ahead of the combat boots and pristine lab coats. Always so tidy. So clinical. No appreciation of the dark arts. For the chaos in which he thrived. Just containment and order.
He hadn’t stopped except to steal gas from a service station outside of Garlock. The beat-up old Dodge he had stolen back in Mountain Springs had barely enough fuel to get him through Death Valley. He knew he’d need to stop again soon—to clean and bandage his bullet wound before infection set in—but he couldn’t. If he stopped, they’d find him, and that just wasn’t an option.
He’d spent one too many long, dreary months confined to a tiny, white cell planning his revenge. And now he was free. He would stop at nothing.
His recollection brought him back to one prior instance of escape. Somehow he had slipped out the door undetected when a military experiment had gone postal at the Sunnydale facility. It wasn’t long before they had caught up with him in Nebraska. Always with the sedatives and shackles. Only this time, they didn’t return to Sunnydale.
He had overheard two soldiers discussing what had occurred after he had slipped through the cracks. The site was closed. All documents destroyed and sealed under a thick layer of cement. Their heinous experiments hidden away from prying eyes.
Upon their arrival at the new facility, it felt as though his departure had never occurred. They returned to treating him as if he were one of the rabid beasts they usually hunted, rather than the talented, yet misunderstood, artist of chaos that he was.
He swallowed hard, shoving back the memory to the dark recesses of his mind, and turned his attention back to the road ahead.
The sun had set soon after he passed through Old Garlock, bringing with it a welcoming coolness as a sea of black engulfed the sky. His vision blurred, and he struggled to keep his eyes open. Each time his eyelids met, they grew heavier, weighed down by heavy blood loss and long hours spent in the blistering sun.
The truck swerved right, unnoticeable at first, his senses blocking out everything but the need to rest. Suddenly, he jolted awake. His eyes snapped open in time to see a set of headlights appear in the distance. In a moment of hazy panic, he straightened in his seat, his foot pressing harder on the gas pedal as he jerked the steering wheel to the left. Balding tyres screeched like banshees in the night as the rear of the truck lost traction and began swinging wildly from side to side.
He let out a loud groan. The pain in his leg came in waves at first, before sharpening into something much worse as he fought to regain control of the fish-tailing vehicle.
It was bleeding again—a little too much.
He eased his foot off the accelerator, moving it to the side and pressing down gently on the brakes. The combination of actions allowed him to steady the Dodge just enough to pull over to the side of the road. Loose gravel crunched under the weight of the pickup as it came to a rolling stop, and the engine stalled.
He sat for a moment, his heart pounding wildly as his breaths became shallow, fogging up the glass windshield before he shook away the initial shock. Instinctively, he killed the lights and sunk down low in the driver’s seat, his bony knees pressing into the dashboard as his body leaned across the bench seat.
The other vehicle drew closer, its high beams casting a haunting display of shadows that danced across the Dodge’s cabin. A cold sweat trickled down his spine, soaking his shirt, and the bitter taste of fear clung to his tongue. For a split second, the man contemplated diving out and making a run for it. The darkness would offer the perfect cover but also make it impossible to tell which direction he was heading.
Weighing up his options, he propped himself up on one elbow. His body tensed as he extended a shaky hand, fingertips brushing against the door handle. Readying himself to burst out—should they come to a stop.
The vehicle approached at speed; the roar growing louder as it barreled towards him. Then, almost unnervingly, the car eased into a crawl.
As high beams swept across the Dodge like searchlights, his breath caught in his chest, every muscle going rigid. Without warning, the driver gunned the engine and whizzed by.
With a heavy sigh, his head lolled forward to rest on the worn leather seat. Not wasting another second, he shot upright in time to watch as the car disappeared out of sight in the rearview mirror, swallowed by the abyss. Silently thanking whatever mystical forces were watching over him, he twisted the key, and the engine spluttered to life, lurching forward and back onto the asphalt.
The road seemed to stretch endlessly, barely illuminated by the millions of tiny, twinkling stars. The brisk night air rushed in through the open windows, carrying with it the fresh scent of autumn—damp earth, old leaves and nostalgia. No one ever understood the art of what he does, the beauty of watching a seemingly ordinary person unravel at the seams. They didn’t need much, just a little nudge.
A mask.
A costume.
A tasty treat.
A shift in perspective.
And suddenly the world they knew and held dear, don’t make a lick of sense anymore. And what did he get for his trouble? Tweed. A nasty right hook. Solitary confinement. And endless experiments.
Followed by the long, grueling hours he had spent wandering through the blistering heat of the Nevada desert. The memory crept to the forefront of his mind, fueling the vengeance he had planned against the slayer and her sellout, traitorous watcher. Oh, how he was going to make them pay!
Old friends, it seemed, didn’t stay friendly. And one person in particular had proven that rather definitively.
Lights soon appeared in the distance; the warm, inviting glow of streetlights lightened the horizon. Sunnydale was close now—to an outsider it was a small, unassuming Podunk little town that seemed laughably ordinary. But he knew better. This was where it all began, and this was where it was going to end.
The scenery shifted the closer he came to town; the highway giving way to the Sunnydale exit. The edge of town appeared soon after, small commercial areas at first, followed by neatly spaced houses and the flickering neon signs that buzzed in the stillness of the witching hour.
He needed to find a place to lie low and, ever the creature of habit, his eyes scanned the side streets for any signs of the Motor Inn. A couple of wrong turns later and there it was—a rundown, derelict establishment on the outskirts of the bad part of town.
Its grimy, paint peeling exterior and slow pulsating ‘vacancy’ sign matched its reputation for discretion. The Dodge rumbled as he pulled into the parking lot, coming to a stop under a busted streetlight. Eyes darting around nervously, ensuring he hadn’t been followed. Satisfied, he stepped out into the night.
He staggered towards the building, jostling his wound and sent a wave of pain coursing through his side. He shoved the door open. The tiny bell jingled loudly overhead, disturbing the dozing night clerk. An overweight man in his late forties lifted his head and turned towards the newcomer, looking more annoyed than scared.
The night clerk eyed him suspiciously, studying his blood-stained clothes and dirty and bruised face. Arching a brow, he opened his mouth as if he were about to say something, before snapping it shut, figuring it better to remain silent instead.
The newcomer hobbled towards the clerk, reached into his back pocket and slapped a wad of bloodied Benjamin’s on the counter. “Need a room. Don’t particularly care which.” He grunted, his usual British charm sounding more guttural than he intended.
Unfazed, the clerk reached out and snavelled the bills before the man changed his mind about paying. Blood money was the least suspicious thing he’d seen working the night shift, and considering most visitors rarely pay—threats and intimidation was more their style—he would not pass up the opportunity for a payday.
Instinctively, he reached under the desk and plucked a key off the hook, sliding it across the countertop. “Room six. Round back.”
The newcomer nodded, snatched the room key and limped towards the exit. Behind him, dark droplets trailed across the scuffed linoleum. His dry, rough hands gripped the cool, metal handle, and just as he was about to pull the door open, a shaky voice called out.
“Name? I-I need a name.”
He froze momentarily as he considered what alias to use. A sly grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, the perfect name sprung to mind. “Giles. Rupert Giles.” The irony was almost too perfect. He couldn’t contain the low, maniacal chuckle that fell from his lips. And without another word, he left the clerk to wonder just how much trouble that name would bring.
Making his way to his designated room, he passed several identical red doors, each one as unassuming as the last. As soon as he had reached room six, he jammed the key into the lock and twisted it open. Immediately, the rancid scent of stale beer and the faint smell of something metallic assaulted his senses. His hand skimmed across the wall, searching for the light switch.
A few seconds later, the harsh fluorescent light blinked to life. Stepping through the doorway, he leant against the frame for support, one hand pressed firmly against his thigh. He glanced around, a sense of familiarity creeping up on him.
The dingy hotel suite looked just as it had all those months ago, scuffed walls, stained carpet, a king size bed that sagged in the middle and a busted old TV in the corner with a coat-hanger antenna. He pushed the door closed behind him; the deadbolt slid into place with a satisfying click.
Exhaustion quickly overwhelmed him. His legs buckled, causing him to stumble backwards into the door. Dazed, he peered down to examine the bullet wound in his leg. The bleeding had all but stopped; the puffy, red edges reminded him just how fast infection was setting in. Taking a deep breath, he exhaled slowly, bracing himself for what was to come, and pushed himself off the door, headed for the kitchen.
Once there, he reefed open the top drawer of the counter and started rummaging around, looking for the sharpest knife, he could find. After settling on a long, black-handled steak knife, he hobbled toward the bathroom in search of a first-aid kit. Eventually, he found one in a cabinet under the moldy vanity.
He spilled its contents into the sink and located a few bare essentials: an opened bandage roll, a couple of gauze, some white thread and a sewing needle. After prepping what little supplies he had, he began removing the drawstring from his tracksuit pants with trembling hands, laying out a lighter and a rusty pair of pliers from his pockets. His breath hitched as he gingerly peeled off his soiled pants, exposing the angry, swollen wound beneath. The sight made his stomach twist. Swallowing back the bile, he twisted the drawstring around his thigh, roughly six inches above the gunshot wound, and yanked it tight.
He paused, testing the tension; tight enough to slow the bleeding, but not enough to cut off circulation completely. With the bleeding momentarily under control, he reached into the backpack he’d found stashed under the driver’s seat and pulled out a half bottle of whiskey, set it down beside the bathtub and climbed in.
Positioning his back against the wall, he bit down hard on a strip of shirt; the taste of stale copper filling his taste buds. The fabric did nothing to muffle his screams as he gripped the knife with a damp, clammy grasp, and pushed the serrated knife through sensitive flesh. He made a small incision, shallow and clumsy, the sawing motion leaving rough and uneven, jagged edges far from the skill and precision of a skilled surgeon.
He dropped the knife and pushed his thumb and index finger into the sizeable chunk of soft tissue. Instantly, his entire body jerked and contorted as fresh, warm blood squirted from the wound, where it trickled sluggishly down the side of the bath. He growled in frustration, a mix of determination and adrenaline—the only thing keeping him from slipping into the world of unconsciousness—when he was about to give up completely, his fingertips brushed against something cool and hard. He squeezed his eyes closed and tried to grasp the bullet, but it was too slippery. With no choice left, he reached for the pliers.
The man inhaled sharply, his breath catching in his throat, and pushed the pliers deep within the penetrating wound. Writhing around in excruciating pain when it came into contact with the fragment. He pushed on, shoving them deeper, until he could close them around the metal fragment. With one swift yank, he ripped it out. With the bullet finally out, he had to act fast.
The world around him spun and darkened. He slumped back, spat out his shirt and held it firmly against the wound, his free hand reaching for the whiskey. He lifted it to his mouth, pulled the cork out with his teeth, and poured it over the wound.
The burn was immediate and unforgiving, his body thrashing in excruciating agony. His leg felt as if someone had doused it in acid. And as the sting eased into something more tolerable, he snatched the needle and thread from the first-aid kit and with trembling hands set to work patching himself up.
The blunt sewing needle required more force than he was capable of piercing through his sensitive skin, over and over with each tug of the thread. His body tensed. His breathing turned shallow, and a cold sweat dripped down his temple. The edges of his vision blurred, glassy and bloodshot. And a loud, incessant ringing echoed in his ears—he had little time left.
He needed to stay conscious.
Finally, when the last knot was firmly in place, only then did his shock-ridden body stop spasming. He collapsed against the back of the tub, his head lolling lazily to the side as the world around him tilted dangerously on its axis.
A strange tingle spread through his limbs, his hands falling by his side. His bruised and battered body finally gave way to the shock and exhaustion of the past twenty-four hours. The darkness overwhelmed his willpower, and the world around him hurdling into oblivion.
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Story Notes:
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Story is currently unbeta'd and edited while incredibly sleep deprived. I am only human so there's a good change a few mistakes survived the massacre. If you find any, send them back to be dealt with accordingly.
My other fics have not been abandoned. I got sick, my son had a bunch of appointments and my mental health took a nose dive. I've been writing here and there but I am currently working on 10 different stories as my brain won't decide which it likes best.
New chapters for RotWQ and TMYMM are coming sometime before Christmas, I promise! I ended up not liking how RotWQ was heading so I have been reworking a couple of things for the next few chapters.
Story is currently unbeta'd and edited while incredibly sleep deprived. I am only human so there's a good change a few mistakes survived the massacre. If you find any, send them back to be dealt with accordingly.
My other fics have not been abandoned. I got sick, my son had a bunch of appointments and my mental health took a nose dive. I've been writing here and there but I am currently working on 10 different stories as my brain won't decide which it likes best.
New chapters for RotWQ and TMYMM are coming sometime before Christmas, I promise! I ended up not liking how RotWQ was heading so I have been reworking a couple of things for the next few chapters.
Author's Chapter Notes:
shoutout to D.B from the FB Fanfic writers group for pointing out two mistakes that had made into my fic and have since been corrected.
Chapter End Notes:
Feedback helps me improve my writing. Let me know what you think or if you found any rogue mistakes!