Categories > TV > Buffy the Vampire Slayer > Returned to Active Duty
Prologue - Predecessor
0 reviewsPost Chosen and Not Fade Away: As Willow's relationship with Kennedy rapidly disintegrates, Tara is resurrected by the Powers that Be. But, of course, things can never run smoothly in the Buffyverse
0Unrated
Title: Returned to Active Duty.
Author: Paul aka Darth Pacula ( I'm a Star Wars freak, so sue me )
Distribution: Knock yourself out, just ask first. ( That means yes if you're not sure )
Feedback: Go nuts. Email is darthpacula@hotmail.com if you want.
Disclaimers: I own diddly squat, except the original characters. Otherwise the show would still be going and Tara wouldn't have died ..... yadda yadda yadda. Obviously, I make no money from this. I do it because I'm obsessive.
Summary: As Willow's relationship with Kennedy rapidly disintegrates, Tara is resurrected by the Powers that Be. But, of course, things can never run smoothly in the Buffyverse.
Rating: Lets say R for occasional excessive violence and bad language.
Timeline: Post Chosen and Not Fade Away
Author's Notes: Despite the fact that this is fanfiction, none of the characters from the show appear until the 1st chapter. The prologue serves to introduce my main other character.
Thoughts are in /italics/.
Prologue. - Predecessor.
Brisbane, Australia.
The moon hung full and heavy in the night sky, not that anyone would be able to tell for the bleak, heavy cloud cover and the driving rain that swept down like tears from heaven. The man who sat slumped upon an ill-kept tombstone in the Dutton Park Cemetery neither noticed or cared about the pounding rain. The cruelty of the elements didn't really compare to the aching pain in his heart.
He raised the half empty bottle of whiskey and swallowed another mouthful, scowling as the fiery alcohol scorched its way down his already traumatized throat. A handful of similar bottles lay scattered at this feet, a mute testament to the duration of his drunken binge.
Returning his bleary eyes to the grave before him, he idly swept the rain-soaked fringe of long, greasy hair out of his field of vision. His blood-shot eyes focused upon the simple words engraved into the tombstone at the head of the grave. A name, Dana Forman, and a pair of dates. She'd only been twenty-seven when she had died.
Not much to show for 27 years/, he thought bitterly. /She helps to save god knows how many lives, and this ... pathetic little monument is the only acknowledgment of her entire goddamn life/. /What was the bloody point, huh?
Staggering off his uncomfortable perch, he glared up at the storm-torn sky with a hate twisted expression on his unkempt face.
" Ten years! " he bellowed at the uncaring heavens. " She gave you ten fucking years, you unfeeling bastards! She deserved better! Better than this! "
Scowling, he returned his gaze to the grave once more. They wouldn't pay any attention to what he said. Never had, never will, never would. After all, he was just the Keeper, their dog, their faithful hound. He wasn't the Champion, the one that mattered. She was snug and secure in her grave, rotting away peacefully.
" Bloody wankers." he muttered sullenly, taking another swig of whiskey, draining the rest of the bottle in one gulp. He stared morosely at the empty bottle for a second, then hurled it full force at the woman's grave.
" And you! You bloody, stupid cow! " he snarled, before continuing in a pain-filled whisper. "Of all the god-damn stupid reasons to die. Trying to save me! Fucking silly, emotional idiot!"
His hands clenched into fists, knuckles cracking and whitening under the strain of his anger. The rage, the pain, the grief, it all boiled up from the pit of his stomach like a volcano of pure anguished emotion, and he lashed out with a kick that snapped Dana's tombstone in half. He swore, and he ranted, pacing in the rain, straining to contain the desire to rip, tear, destroy. He didn't care what, or who, he just wanted to hurt something.
When he came to his senses, he was huddled on his knees at the foot of her grave. His champion, his cause, his mission, his friend. And she was gone, snuffed out as surely as if her life had been a candle.
But I go on/, he sourly thought. /I always go on. It just never bloody well ends, does it?
"Bugger this for a game of soldiers, " he muttered. "I'm done, finished, finite." He glanced upwards. "You hear me! I'm done! Find another schmuck to be your lackey!"
He struggled to his feet, slipping in the mud. But even as he turned to leave, he felt it. That familiar, oh-so-hated pressure in the back of his mind, the burning of the slashed semi-circle tattoo about his left eye. He knew all too well what it meant.
"Are you bloody kidding me?!" he yelped. "Were you not listening at all? I'm done! I quit!"
He strode towards the cemetery's exit, trying desperately to ignore the growing sensation in the back of his skull, trying to stop the knowledge filling his brain, trying to stop the bond from forming.
He had barely taken a dozen steps when it hit him like a lightning bolt. Their punishment, their displeasure at his disobedience. Not a literal lightning bolt of course, but it might as well have been for the effect it had on him.
He screamed, long and loud, his voice a testimony to agony itself. His vision vanished in a blinding haze of pure light, and he crashed to his knees as if pole-axed. He fell to the ground face first, twitching and spasming as the full force of their displeasure coursed through him like acid.
When he finally came to his senses, he gingerly lumbered back to his feet and stood, swaying as if he were still drunk, as if the pain hadn't swept aside the comfortingly numbing blanket of alcohol.
"Right. No quiting for me," he muttered beneath his breath. "Not allowed. I kind of forgot about that."
He slumped his shoulders in defeat, and let the knowledge come. /LA/. That was where his new champion would arise. He waited for a second, hoping for something, anything else. Nothing.
Would it kill the bastards to be little more forthcoming once in a while?
He resumed his stride out of the cemetery, his mind racing as he felt the Purpose, the Mission, once more fill his being.
Who do I know with enough mojo to teleport me to LA? I've got a dead girl to find.
Author: Paul aka Darth Pacula ( I'm a Star Wars freak, so sue me )
Distribution: Knock yourself out, just ask first. ( That means yes if you're not sure )
Feedback: Go nuts. Email is darthpacula@hotmail.com if you want.
Disclaimers: I own diddly squat, except the original characters. Otherwise the show would still be going and Tara wouldn't have died ..... yadda yadda yadda. Obviously, I make no money from this. I do it because I'm obsessive.
Summary: As Willow's relationship with Kennedy rapidly disintegrates, Tara is resurrected by the Powers that Be. But, of course, things can never run smoothly in the Buffyverse.
Rating: Lets say R for occasional excessive violence and bad language.
Timeline: Post Chosen and Not Fade Away
Author's Notes: Despite the fact that this is fanfiction, none of the characters from the show appear until the 1st chapter. The prologue serves to introduce my main other character.
Thoughts are in /italics/.
Prologue. - Predecessor.
Brisbane, Australia.
The moon hung full and heavy in the night sky, not that anyone would be able to tell for the bleak, heavy cloud cover and the driving rain that swept down like tears from heaven. The man who sat slumped upon an ill-kept tombstone in the Dutton Park Cemetery neither noticed or cared about the pounding rain. The cruelty of the elements didn't really compare to the aching pain in his heart.
He raised the half empty bottle of whiskey and swallowed another mouthful, scowling as the fiery alcohol scorched its way down his already traumatized throat. A handful of similar bottles lay scattered at this feet, a mute testament to the duration of his drunken binge.
Returning his bleary eyes to the grave before him, he idly swept the rain-soaked fringe of long, greasy hair out of his field of vision. His blood-shot eyes focused upon the simple words engraved into the tombstone at the head of the grave. A name, Dana Forman, and a pair of dates. She'd only been twenty-seven when she had died.
Not much to show for 27 years/, he thought bitterly. /She helps to save god knows how many lives, and this ... pathetic little monument is the only acknowledgment of her entire goddamn life/. /What was the bloody point, huh?
Staggering off his uncomfortable perch, he glared up at the storm-torn sky with a hate twisted expression on his unkempt face.
" Ten years! " he bellowed at the uncaring heavens. " She gave you ten fucking years, you unfeeling bastards! She deserved better! Better than this! "
Scowling, he returned his gaze to the grave once more. They wouldn't pay any attention to what he said. Never had, never will, never would. After all, he was just the Keeper, their dog, their faithful hound. He wasn't the Champion, the one that mattered. She was snug and secure in her grave, rotting away peacefully.
" Bloody wankers." he muttered sullenly, taking another swig of whiskey, draining the rest of the bottle in one gulp. He stared morosely at the empty bottle for a second, then hurled it full force at the woman's grave.
" And you! You bloody, stupid cow! " he snarled, before continuing in a pain-filled whisper. "Of all the god-damn stupid reasons to die. Trying to save me! Fucking silly, emotional idiot!"
His hands clenched into fists, knuckles cracking and whitening under the strain of his anger. The rage, the pain, the grief, it all boiled up from the pit of his stomach like a volcano of pure anguished emotion, and he lashed out with a kick that snapped Dana's tombstone in half. He swore, and he ranted, pacing in the rain, straining to contain the desire to rip, tear, destroy. He didn't care what, or who, he just wanted to hurt something.
When he came to his senses, he was huddled on his knees at the foot of her grave. His champion, his cause, his mission, his friend. And she was gone, snuffed out as surely as if her life had been a candle.
But I go on/, he sourly thought. /I always go on. It just never bloody well ends, does it?
"Bugger this for a game of soldiers, " he muttered. "I'm done, finished, finite." He glanced upwards. "You hear me! I'm done! Find another schmuck to be your lackey!"
He struggled to his feet, slipping in the mud. But even as he turned to leave, he felt it. That familiar, oh-so-hated pressure in the back of his mind, the burning of the slashed semi-circle tattoo about his left eye. He knew all too well what it meant.
"Are you bloody kidding me?!" he yelped. "Were you not listening at all? I'm done! I quit!"
He strode towards the cemetery's exit, trying desperately to ignore the growing sensation in the back of his skull, trying to stop the knowledge filling his brain, trying to stop the bond from forming.
He had barely taken a dozen steps when it hit him like a lightning bolt. Their punishment, their displeasure at his disobedience. Not a literal lightning bolt of course, but it might as well have been for the effect it had on him.
He screamed, long and loud, his voice a testimony to agony itself. His vision vanished in a blinding haze of pure light, and he crashed to his knees as if pole-axed. He fell to the ground face first, twitching and spasming as the full force of their displeasure coursed through him like acid.
When he finally came to his senses, he gingerly lumbered back to his feet and stood, swaying as if he were still drunk, as if the pain hadn't swept aside the comfortingly numbing blanket of alcohol.
"Right. No quiting for me," he muttered beneath his breath. "Not allowed. I kind of forgot about that."
He slumped his shoulders in defeat, and let the knowledge come. /LA/. That was where his new champion would arise. He waited for a second, hoping for something, anything else. Nothing.
Would it kill the bastards to be little more forthcoming once in a while?
He resumed his stride out of the cemetery, his mind racing as he felt the Purpose, the Mission, once more fill his being.
Who do I know with enough mojo to teleport me to LA? I've got a dead girl to find.
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