My current WIP

[estepheia]

Rating: Could go up to NC-17
Spoilers: AtS up to 4.09 – Rain of Fire; Buffy up to 7.10 – Bring on the Night; I am wildly speculating with regard to future events; since I am heavily crossovering and since I don’t expect Mutant Enemy to do anything like that, you’re probably safe.
Genre/Warnings: AtS; Darkfic; vague femslash vibes; profanity, angst, crossover
Author’s Note: Although Angel 4.09 – Rain of Fire aired on November 71th , we are never told what the date is in terms of the story-line. In this story the events of that episode take place November 15th. Many thanks to mikelesq and nautibitz, who gave great advice. Also to firehorse, ladycat777 and all the other poor people who had to listen to me whine while I wrote this.
Summary: A story about Faith and Cordelia


UNTITLED

November 13, 2002
4:14 am

The one thing Faith has learned from being in the joint is that there are some things she has to do silently. Like dreaming, touching herself or talking to dead people.

Never mind the bad-ass don’t-fuck-with-me vibe and the fact that she’s able to lift 220 lb at the gym (without breaking into a sweat) - if the others find out that she’s frightened, that she’s weak, they’ll turn into vicious harpies. So, when Faith dreams of running scared through foreign streets that reek of gasoline fumes and garlic, dreams of fighting foes obscured by robes and cowls, dreams of crescent shaped daggers piercing her flesh, ripping and tearing the life out of her – she never makes a sound. And when she wakes, the metallic taste of defeat and death in her mouth, her heartbeat drumming like a techno track, all she can do is just silently lie there, stare blindly at the ceiling and wait for the sharp terror to settle into a dull dread.

The other thing she doesn’t telegraph is when she’s horny. She doesn’t want the other women to get any ideas. Or the guards. She just quietly slips her hands between her thighs and does her thing. Not that there aren’t any women around who she could get it on with, but getting into relationships – or between relationships just never works out. She’s kicked a few asses, broken a few bones and gone on file as difficult, so now she tries to keep her nose clean.

It’s the talking to dead people that kinda threatens the whole fragile balance of power.

Tonight, when she wakes up, he’s there. The memory of the nightmare is still tangible in her mind. Her whole body seems to remember: the sharp pain in her back where the knives tore into her, the feeling of a well waxed wooden parquet floor underneath her cheek and the smell of blood obliterating the smells of musty books and leather upholstery. She’s still trying to get her pulse to come down, when a cheerful voice startles her:

“Surprise!”

For a moment she wonders if she’s still dreaming. Like that one time, when he took her for a picnic (“Now eat your sandwich.”), or when they went to some amusement park, where he paid for more game tickets than the teddy bear she’d set her eyes on was worth and where he bought her cotton candy (“Now, don’t forget to brush your teeth when you get home, Faith!”). But this is different. Faith can smell the unmistakable prison smells, hear the muffled sounds of dozens of sleepers, can feel the coarse fabric of the bed linen on her skin – and she knows: she’s awake.

It’s really him! Half obscured by darkness, but immaculately dressed in conservative suit, vest and maroon silk tie (one she stole for him a lifetime ago), one hand in his pocket. He’s giving her one of his wide smiles, not just the vote-for-me kind that suckered people into calling their firstborn sons Richard, but an expression full of affection and fatherly concern.

“You’re dead, Buffy killed you,” she says, surprised at the strange hurt she’s feeling. But Faith has no reason to doubt that somehow he has found a way to see her. Her first visitor in over a year.

“I’m afraid so, my dear,” the Mayor answers. “Well, look on the bright side, at least where I’m now I don’t have to worry about germs anymore.” He chuckles at his own feeble joke, but then he grows wistful. “My my, look at how you’ve grown. You’re a beautiful young woman, even in those rags.”

Faith sits up on her bunk bed. In the bed underneath, her cellmate stirs.

“Yeah, must be the wholesome chow and all that fresh air. So, what’s the occasion?” Faith asks, trying to sound indifferent. But she can’t help it, part of her feels flattered that he came all the way from the grave or hell - or wherever he’s now - to talk to her.

“Shut your yap, stupid cunt!” A voice from two cells down cuts through the night.

“Watch your language, missy,” the Mayor shoots back, his voice raised. “Even a prison sentence is no excuse for bad manners.” But then he laughs and winks at Faith. “Just kidding. She can’t really hear me,” he explains. “Only you can. But they can hear you. You’ll have to keep your voice down, Faith. We don’t want people to think you see things that aren’t there.” He looks around, pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket, absentmindedly wipes his palms and sighs. “This sure is no place for a young woman like you.”

“You’re the only one who thinks so.” Faith whispers.

“Now now, Faith, don’t sound so negative. You tried to do the right thing. And it was a very brave thing to do. Not quite what I expected, but heck - if you’re happy, I’m happy.”

“Happy? Yeah, this place is a stronghold of happiness.” Faith’s mask of indifference cracks - just a little.

“Positive thinking, that’s the spirit!” Mayor Wilkins exclaims, choosing to ignore Faith’s sarcasm. “Hold on to that and you’ll be out of here in no time, you’ll see.”

“Sure, cause with my rep everybody’s just dying to let me out on parole.”

“Trust me. If everything goes as planned, you’ll celebrate Christmas 2003 with eggnog and a lovely fire, far away from here, skiing I bet.”

“Really?”

“Faith, sweetheart, Have I ever lied to you?”

Faith thinks about this, then shakes her head.

“That’s my girl!” Richard Wilkins exclaims with his usual flamboyance. “And now I better tell you why I’m here.”

Faith’s faint smile turns into a wary frown. She crosses her arms in front of her chest. “What do you want me to do?” she asks.

“What? You think I want you to do something for me? Shame on you!” the Mayor scolds her, wagging his finger at her. “You should know me better than that. I’m here to warn you. Something’s coming and I don’t want my little girl to end up like me - dead.”


November 15, 2002
5:18 pm

“Big. Powerful. Clawing it’s way up through the bowels of the earth to slaughter us all. Yeah, that pretty much covers it.”

Even after taking some pills, Cordelia can feel the migraine linger. This is the first vision she’s had since coming back into the world of the lesser beings. Pain or no, she’s relieved that she’s still got what it takes to fight evil, that she’s still the mouthpiece of the Powers that be. That she still has a purpose when every other part of her former life feels as if it belongs to someone else.

“Did you see anything that could give us the location?” Angel asks.

“No just a big beasty. It’s coming, Angel, and it won’t stop until we’re all--- It won’t stop.”


November 15, 2002
6:03 pm

A clanging and groaning sound coming from the pipes is her warning. Wrapped in her towel, Faith grabs her soap and steps away from the faucets. Moments later, the shower room of the L.A. Women State Penitentiary reverberates with high-pitched screams, as a crimson tide pours from the shower heads, soaking the naked women from head to toe in luke-warm blood.

‘Carrie’ is nothing compared to this. The shower room looks like a slaughter house.

Faith stands where the flood of blood can’t reach her and watches, arms folded over her chest, as the shock turns into a mini-riot when the wardens storm in, swinging their clubs. Two of the more notorious troublemakers among the prisoners go down, before the wardens realize that the blood isn’t oozing out of one or more carved up prisoners but coming out of the faucets.

Faith feels queasy. She glances at her freshly scrubbed hands, then grows angry. Hysterical cows! It’s just blood! No reason to freak. Sooner or later the water’s gonna come back on and then they can all wash it off. It’s not like someone got killed.

At this moment, Faith feels like she has nothing in common with these pathetic women.

TBC



Suggestions for a title would be greatly appreciated.

Comments

[anniesj.livejournal.com]

First of all, brilliant idea, having the Mayor appear to Faith. Something that I didn't think of, but works in a lovely fashion. Makes perfect sense -- of course the First would appear to Faith as the Mayor. Great, great idea, and excellent execution.

As far as titles go, I love your line earlier about "the whole fragile balance of power". Maybe you could go with something like The Fragile Balance. Seems kinda Cordy and Faithy.

Thank you, Annie

[estepheia.livejournal.com]

Fragile Balance sounds good.
I was pondering Trinity since the story is also to some extent about Lilah. The women are definitely the main characters of the story. But Fragile Balance sounds better somehow...

It's a shame that the two shows are on different networks. The crossover possibilities this season are staggering. I am not entirely happy with some of the things that have happened on AtS ::::coughConCordcough::: or Buffy but on the whole the story arcs are intriguing.

Anyway, I'm glad you like the story so far. Thanks, Annie, for letting me know.

[caille.livejournal.com]

This is intriguing, Estepheia. I like it. As far as a title, I'd agree with "Fragile Balance", based on what I know so far.

Faith, Cordelia, Lilah - I am so there.

Can I make an eensy comment on a minor detail that tripped me up? Faith's wrapped in a towel. Then she's got her arms folded over her chest. So immediately, I'm hit with mental images of Faith's towel falling right off of her. This is not a bad thing, understand. But it made me pause and think, wait a minute: she can't do both.

I told you it was eensy. Anyway, keep us posted on your progress. Thanks....

[estepheia.livejournal.com]

Um, if I wrap myself in a towel I wrap it around tightly underneath the armpits and then I tuck one end in, so it stays up - unless I move around to much. Hmm, maybe I should change the description.

Thanks for reading and commenting. :-)
I will post the next section soon.

[abbylee]

Steffi, I'm with you on the towel; I can wrap one around me and then wander around no problem. But I would imagine that prison towels are similar in size to hotel towels, which I've always found to be useless as singular items, so in the end I have to agree with Caille's initial reaction :D

This is a wonderful start, I'm very intrigued to see where you take it. Your writing has improved so much in the past year, you just sweep me away :D

[estepheia.livejournal.com]

Your writing has improved so much in the past year, you just sweep me away :D
I'll take that as a compliment, shall I? Thanks, Abby.
Actually, when I looked at some of my earlier stuff I had the same feeling, that there's quite a difference between then and now. My earlier stuff was more spontaneous and easygoing. Now I am more cerebral but also much much slower.
I will do something about that towel. :-)
Before I archive this on my site... I promise.
(BTW, what happened to your no WIPs-policy?)