Payback’s a bitch, right?

Well, guess I got paid back.

How’d you like to accidentally kill someone, be tossed away like trash by your so-called friends, go batshit insane, hook up with an evil fuck who thinks he’s your daddy, do some real evil shit, and then end up stabbed in the gut by the one person you actually wanted to give a fuck about you? Then let’s top it all off by taking a dive off a building ‘cause dying’s a lot more fun than what the stab-happy bitch has in store for you.

I know, right? Well, that’s me.

It’s been five days since I took that swan dive. Slayer healing’s got me pretty much normal again, but the white hats don’t know that. The Boss put up some major mojo at the hospital, and everyone thinks I’m in a coma. It’s actually kind of funny: If B used her fucking brain for a moment, she’d figure that as nasty as my injuries were, they shouldn’t have put me out. If I’d have been a little more with it, I’d have dove head first, but hey – I’m alive, and hindsight is always twenty-twenty.

Guess she’s glad I’m gone. Sunnydale can go back to being Buffy Summers’ town, a One-Slayer-Only town, and good ol’ Faith can just lie there and rot.

It’s a good thing, though. Why? ‘Cause it showed me something I never thought was true: Mayor Richard Wilkins III, His Fucking Honor, major evil asshole extraordinaire, loved me.

Honest to fucking God, he loved me. A little selfishly, sure – he was evil. But only love works for this sitch. Nothing else makes any sense.

See, I spent these five days in a safe-house way the hell away from Sunnyhell. Got better, talked with the Boss a lot before he went off to do his Ascension thing. Buffy stopped him – had to have, since the news has been quiet. But while he was here, I learned a few things:

That I was adopted, and could use Wilkins as my last name instead of Lehane if I wanted to. Probably won’t, but there it is.

That I was legally emancipated, so I’m my own woman at seventeen.

That my criminal record’s been purged, including all the juvie shit. I also ‘graduated’ from Sunnydale High, and have a SAT score of 1300. Not bad for a girl who dropped out as a freshman and hasn’t touched a book since. Go figure. Guess one day I might try college. What’s that word? Oh, yeah: Masochist.

That the Boss was a couple hundred years old, and he had fucking billions in investments and property, to say nothing about wicked ass magic items and books and shit. He burnt a fair bit of that wealth on his Ascension, but there was still tons to go around. Most of it was piled into the property I’m at right now, and the bank info’s an inch thick.

That he left it all to me.

Mindfuck? Yeah, exactly. The white trash drop-out slut, the second rate Slayer, the backstabbing evil bitch that sold out the only people that could tolerate her presence … is now a fucking billionaire with resources the goddamned Watcher’s Council would be jealous of.

So here, I am, stuck out at a safe house with all my treasure, alone.

Yep, payback’s a bitch.

Fast forward a few days: I’m no longer sore, Sunny D’s peaceful again, and B and the Scoobs are all into their summertime plans.

Me? I’m sitting here by the wreckage of Sunnydale High, the place where the Boss tried to Ascend. Guess he did – he was a huge fucking snake, to hear some of the vamps talk about it. But he died pretty damn quick, blown to bits along with most of the school.

It’s the closest thing there is to a grave to visit. No one’s going to give the man a proper burial. No one but me.

I’m in the fucking place for an hour before I find what I want – a fang. A snake’s fang. It’s big, and it’s enough for me. It’ll give me something to bury, to remember the man I loved.

I dig a grave back at the safe house, big enough for a man, even though all I’m tossing in is the fang. I top it off with a grave stone. I don’t know what to put on it, so I leave it blank. When inspiration strikes, I’ll come back to it. Right now, all I can do is weep in front of it, saying my goodbyes to the closest thing to a father I’ll ever know.

He told me why, too. Said that I was starving for love – which I guess is true – and that he was looking for one last person to love, really love, before he lost his humanity. We kind of found each other.

He said he’d have sent me away even if everything went well. He didn’t want me around him as a heartless demon. He had tons of shit prepped for me, and now – now I guess I need to figure out what to do with it all.

I have a plan forming in my head. It’s not great shakes, but it’s enough. There’s another Hellmouth in Cleveland. If I tell the Watcher’s Council that I’m setting up shop there to be a proper Slayer again, they’ll leave me alone. Might take a bit of convincing, but I’m up for that. All that’s left is saying goodbye.

Goodbye to people the hate me.

You know what? I can come back for that. Time to put my wealth to use and get myself gone.

Fast forward another a week and a half: It’s June now, and I’m all the way across the country, signing papers and moving into my swanky new digs. Money moves things fast – only takes a couple days to set everything up. I leave most of the sensitive shit at the safe house for now. There’s still a guy who takes care of the place, and no one important knows about it – security by obscurity, right? I’ll move stuff slowly out to Cleveland; until I’m set up, it’s mostly useless.

Cleveland is one ugly fucking city. Not the city itself, I suppose, but the Hellmouth is just filthy, and it’s choking the city to death. The vamps are weak and reckless, but there’s so fucking many of them that I’m being mobbed all the time. Twenty kills a night is par for the course. I drag my ass home every night completely spent and exhausted. Fucking painful. Fucking amazing.

There ain’t anything noteworthy about my slaying nights. They’re busy, and the fighting’s pretty intense, but it’s also very one-sided. I’m a big girl now, honest. I’m also very aware that I’m alone. That means that I go in carefully and with some planning; I make all the kills as boring and anticlimactic as possible. Somewhere between the Mayor taking me in and Buffy stabbing me I kind of lost the need to showboat.

Like tonight: Every kill’s a variation on Spot, Sneak, Stab; then run like hell ‘cause there was probably witnesses. That’s what I miss most about Sunnydale: No witnesses. When I finally make it home, I collapse onto the sofa, done with life for the night. Ain’t no hungry and horny now, just tired. Once I can move again, I fire off my one-line email to Travers: ‘21 vamp kills, no events.’ Now it’s bedtime.

Oh, yeah. Travers.

Travers is an asshole, but given that the world needs Slayers I knew he’d back down. We threatened each other like we were exes; man has a sharp tongue. I’m pretty sure we’re cool, though. Still, got my head in some spell books and a couple guns around all the time now. If Travers sends people after me, I intend to pop them first. I tolerated a visit from a local Watcher and Potential for a few days to check out my story, but that’s it. Girl’s cute, and she gushed all over me, but I still sent them on their way. They patrol Pittsburgh, and that’s close enough; Cleveland’s mine.

So, a day in the life of Faith: 7 am comes too damn fast. I force myself up and into the shower as quick as I can, and get ready to work my ass off. Found this guy, Mark Preston, who’s just shy of a Tae Kwon Do grandmaster. Doesn’t have a dojang of his own yet, so I hired him on the spot to be my personal trainer from now till whenever. Does a good job of putting me through the paces. Knows his shit, too: Tae Kwon Do, Hapkido, a bunch of weapons, even archery. Probably not as varied as someone like Giles, but I don’t have the G-man and I don’t want a Watcher.

Before Mark, though, it’s workout time.

The only thing about being a Slayer that sucks is that you can’t use a public gym. None of the weight machines have a setting high enough to challenge me. Free weights work, but I can’t push that kind of weight around without drawing some serious attention. So I spent a small fortune and got a huge set for myself.

My place? Penthouse-style condo in the heart of downtown, on top of a ten story apartment building. The shipping guys hated me.

I pump 1220 on the bench press, just for an idea of how much weight we’re talking.

Let me set the picture for you: The world record for bench press and deadlifting – set by insane men with fucking enormous muscles who do nothing but train all day – is somewhere just over 1000 pounds. I am casually working out with 1220 and no spotter. My max lift is 1600-ish. Depending on the exercise and body part, the numbers can go higher than that. I fully expect these numbers to get way bigger as I focus on training.

It takes me a good hour to exhaust my muscles, then I punish myself on the treadmill. I can top 40 miles an hour right now on a 5 mile run, and can make close to 60 on a sprint. The treadmill does not like me impersonating a cheetah very much – I think I’ll be replacing it a lot.

Once I’m good and tired, it’s time to put some fruit and water down my throat and see Mark. Its 10:00 am by the time I get to his place, he’s all set up and I’m recharged and good to go.

“Good morning, Faith. What did you have for breakfast?”

I roll my eyes. “Banana, two apples, bunch of raw seeds and nuts in yogurt.” He nods appreciatively. He’s a big health nut, and he’s gung-ho about passing it on. I figure it can’t hurt – I mean, how many square meals a day have I ever had? May as well take care of myself. Got nothing better to do.

We get into things – he shows me stuff, I practice it, and then we get to sparring. We keep it light – by that, I mean that I don’t leave him as one big bruise and he lectures non-stop for me to twist my body more and fix my footing. It helps – my technique’s way better than it used to be, and it does seem like it takes less to knock a vamp out these days. Any tiny thing to make the nights go smoother is absolute gold in my book.

It’s two in the afternoon by the time we finish up. Four hours of high-intensity training is pretty much Mark’s limit, and it’ll even keep me tired for a couple hours, too. I get myself home for lunch – yay, more vegan healthy shit – and a shower. I proceed to piss away the afternoon playing video games and looking up a good club to hit up if it’s a quiet night, letting my energy build up for tonight’s patrol.

I have a small dinner as the sun sets, then I’m off: Stakes, knives, a bow, a Glock and studded gloves are my arsenal. The gun is for humans; nothing makes gangsters back off quicker than seeing that you’re carrying. I suppose it might work for some demons, but I’d rather not find out. Gunshots draw cops like flies to honey. Slaying should be quiet most of the time. Speaking of which: I do a small spell consisting of a prayer and a rather stinky pouch around my neck to keep people from noticing details. You know, sort of like a mystical ninja suit to keep people from gawking at the Rambo chick running around town killing people. Cleveland is not Sunnydale, and you better believe that when twenty-ish people a night disappear without a trace, even lowlifes and bums like a lot of vamps are, neighbors ask questions and the cops poke around.

The night is good: I call it quits around midnight. Nineteen vamps and a demon I don’t recognize; good tally for the night. Easy fights, no injuries. Too any arrow kills though; still have some energy, so I clean up and head for that club. They let the hot chick in leather through the back door, and straight to the dance floor I go.

A few drinks in, I notice this chick. Tiny little blond thing, reminds me of Buffy. I’m not getting the tingles, so she’s just a human. Not a vamp or demon anywhere near here. Not even a witch. The chick’s eyeing me up like a prize stallion, which makes me think she’s gay. Not my usual fare, but she’s pretty hot, and I’m tipsy enough to not really care who I get it on with.

Takes less than five minutes before we’re grinding against each other on the dance floor, and a half-hour later we’re a little drunker and back at her place getting naked.

She’s pretty good, too: Goes a full hour before she’s too tired to keep going. I got three orgasms out of the deal; she got five. I won’t lie, it was mostly me; not many people got skills like I do. Still, she was far from a pillow queen. Wish her tongue was a teensy bit longer, though; she kept missing the good spots.

It’s three by the time I get home. I got her name and number, too. I shove the piece of paper in the drawer by the phone. If I’m ever so desperate I need to make booty calls, I’m sure ‘Tina’ will be up for it.

4:00 am and I’m staring at the ceiling. Little Blondie got me thinking about Buffy, and how she’s doing. It’s way too early to go back to Sunny D – I’d like a few months to myself. My brain’s a different creature, though. It can’t help but put Buffy’s face on Blondie’s body, and suddenly tonight’s action seems a lot hotter. Funny thing is, I’m stone-cold sober right now.

Hmm. I didn’t think I swung that way. Interesting.

It makes some of my time with Buffy a little different in hindsight. Is it even possible to be attracted to someone without realizing it?

Meh. Deep thoughts. I’m not much for thinking. If it’s true, it’s true. One more fantasy to get off on. B ain’t exactly an ugly picture to have in my head.

Fast forward: Train, eat, slay, sleep. Repeat. Mix with a tiny bit of partying on the nights I’m not completely tanked or injured and you have the recipe of my new life.

First month trickles by. 614 vampires, 45 demons of various types. I’ve probably tripled my lifetime kill count already. My fridge and pantry is all nuts and fruits and veggies, now. Almost feels wrong to look at a McDicks sign. I’m showing the difference, too. Smoother skin, shinier hair, I think I lost a wrinkle, and my muscles are growing like crazy. I think I’m even an inch taller. Almost time for new clothes.

The health kick’s working for everything, too: Stronger and faster, of course, but my slayer senses are way sharper, too. I can smell a person from a couple blocks away, and hear things you wouldn’t believe. Eyesight’s sharper: If it’s a nice, sunny day and I squint, I can read street signs from my rooftop deck, and I’m ten floors up. This makes my life as a Slayer not just better, but completely fucking different than ever before. I know where vamps and demons are almost three city blocks from where I’m standing. That means I can scan entire apartment buildings just by walking by. It’s a damned Slayer safari now.

I can feel Buffy.

No shit, I can feel Buffy in Sunnydale from fucking Cleveland. All the way across the goddamned continent.

Is that a trip, or what?

I think I heal a bit quicker, but I’ve always healed fast, and I haven’t really taken a serious injury since I got here. Pretty sure it’s improved just the same, and I’ll probably be grateful for it. I’ve been lucky for a month now, but I’ve already been shot at a few times, and a lot of the vamps are armed – clumsy, but armed. It’s just a matter of time.

The downside to all this is the fucking Slayer dreams. They come hard and fast, and a lot of them are about B – those aren’t so fun, since they tend to revolve around her stabbing me. Some of them seem prophetic, though. Those ones I email to Travers.

There’s this nasty recurring one where death – pale horse, pale rider shit – Stalks me from the rooftops of buildings. I recognize downtown Cleveland, but seeing a horse on a building makes it surreal. Then, just as I’m walking past a jewelry store, he comes flying down at me and slashes at my head. He’s fast, too – wicked fast. There’s nothing I can do as the sword carves into my brain. I always bolt awake gasping and sweating.

Second worst nightmare ever. Still not as bad as seeing B glaring at me hatefully as the knife comes down. The tears streaming down my face and the ache in my gut tell me I’m definitely not ready for Sunny D yet.

Fast forward. By the end of month two, the penthouse is really decked out with furniture and other shit now, and I feel like it’s pretty much done. Changed out my entire wardrobe because I’m not only seriously a couple inches taller, but I’m a hell of a lot broader. Can’t help but show the muscles, now. Doesn’t take much to pop the veins on my arms, either. The six-pack is always visible; don’t even have to flex. I never thought that I’d feel sexy like this, but I really do. Still slender and curvy, but I’m a good thirty pounds heavier, and I feel fucking awesome.

I also figured out that when you have a rooftop deck, you can tan in the nude without pissing off your neighbors. I may work the graveyard shift, but I think I’m done being white as a ghost. The Cleveland sun’s strong enough to give me a damned good tan in only a couple weeks.

Speaking of Cleveland, I think it’s mostly cleaned up. The kill count is down to five or so a night, but after 1300 vamps and over 100 demons, I’m grateful for the vacation. The cops have way less of a crime issue now, and the city’s night life has picked up. Everything just looks cleaner now, even in the daylight. All that’s left now is keeping a lid on things.

Mission Accomplished. Insane kill count. Didn’t die. Saved the city from fucking imploding from the weight of so many vamps needing to feed every couple nights. To top it all off, I did it with practically no help whatsoever; just a regular human trainer that doesn’t know shit about what I do. Mail me my goddamned Medal of Honor, already.

I feel fulfilled, like I’ve paid my dues. I’ve killed two people: Sunnydale’s Deputy Mayor, Allan Finch by accident; and Professor Lester Worth from UC Sunnydale as a hit. I hurt a whole bunch of other people too, mostly B and the Scoobs. The assassination of the professor bugged me the most, though. My first Watcher, Diana Dormer, was a professor at Harvard. I called her the Prof all the time. My killing Worth made me feel like I failed Diana, no matter how much it helped out the Boss – which, in hindsight, wasn’t a hell of a lot.

Now, I feel like I’m something again – that Diana’s proud of me again. I feel like if I died tomorrow, Finch, Worth, and Diana would all line up and greet me with hugs and smiles, and welcome me home.

You ever had one of those days where you wake up and everything’s just different and better? Like you had some major epiphany or something? Yeah. That’s me right now. I don’t dream about Buffy anymore. That’s pretty much its own reward right there.

Alright, enough sappy shit.

I’ve managed a few spells in that time. A couple of stealth spells, a protection spell, a weak barrier spell. I’m no witch, but a Slayer’s energy’s good enough for the small shit, and Mark’s advocacy of health and meditation and shit have only helped. Makes slaying even easier, and makes the perceptive and hard-to-reach targets more accessible. Mostly for those pesky demons, especially ones that can work magic of their own. When your target of the night can incinerate you with a glance, best that he never sees you coming, right?

In non-slaying news, Mark’s getting married next week. His girl, Sara, has been coming to our workout sessions off and on since I hired him. She wanted to meet her man’s employer, and I think she also wanted to mark her territory. I mean hey – wicked hot single chick works out for hours one-on-one with your man almost every day? Yeah, I sympathise with her completely.

After two months, she and I are pretty solid. I even agreed to be a bridesmaid for her. The dress ain’t the prettiest I’ve ever worn, nor is mauve my color, but it’s decent. Coffee with the Prestons and their friends has worked its way into my evenings, too. Mark and Sara make Cleveland bearable for me – it’s nice to have friends of my own. I kind of wish I did that in Sunnydale. Buffy had her friends, and instead of horning in on their group, I should have found my own.

Ah, fuck it – let’s face it, I had nothing going for me in Sunnyhell. Being independently wealthy carries its privileges. Free time to make friends and money to spend on them helps. I mean hey – I met Mark by offering him more than a hundred grand a year to train me. Plus I have to thank the Mayor – the Boss is the one who clued me in on needing people.

He also got me addicted to high-rise living, thus my super-expensive penthouse condo. But fuck it, you only live once, and I couldn’t spend all my money if I tried. Having some luxury won’t hurt me. Eventually, I’m going to have to find some way to put my wealth to use. For now, though, I’m happy to be slaying full-time.

Damn; sidetracked again. So anyways: Sara was quick to induct me into her group of friends. They’re all decent people, so I don’t mind. She works as a nurse in the local hospital, so her hours suck, but all her friends are nurses, hospital techies, and doctors. It took a few get-togethers before we were all friendly, but we got there. That’s a pretty good outcome, considering that while Sara likes me, she was still doing some of this to keep me off of Mark. Smart woman, Sara. Everything’s worked out fine, though: I’m in their wedding party, and I’m pitching in to send them on their honeymoon later this year, once Sara can get time off work.

They’re the only people I’ve actually invited back to my place so far – fuck if I’d ever show off my money to the guys I fuck. It gives me a reason to use the den and my huge TV, cook a meal or two in the kitchen, and lounge on the deck. After a get together with the ladies, my place actually looks like someone lives there. It feels nice. Almost like a home.

Mark’s friends I’m less interested in, mostly ‘cause they’re guys, and I won’t fuck Mark’s buddies – I respect Mark too much for that. That makes spending time with them awkward, ‘cause I’ve never met a guy that didn’t give me the once over and grow a boner – well, excluding old folks like Giles and the Boss. Even Wes, stuck up bastard that he was, walked pretty funny around me. And Mark? Mark, too. He’s way to straight-laced to act on it, but I’m sure Sara has me to thank for a couple of wild nights.

A lesson to all boys out there: Yes, the girls always know when you’re staring, and yes, we appreciate you more if you keep it polite and discrete. But we know.  We can count every time your eyes flick down to our tits. A few times is fine; most of the conversation is not. You’d think all of you guys would know this shit, but I’m sure all the intelligent guys have girls, and I get the leftovers. I sometimes wish I had exotic eyes like Buffy; B’s eyes are captivating the way they shift colors from their normal hazel to grey when she’s pissed off, to almost green when she’s really happy. My eyes are so dark they’re almost black – not exactly riveting shit to keep your attention off my chest.

Whatever – I suppose it doesn’t matter. As long as my night’s entertainment looks good, doesn’t know me, has more than four inches and packs condoms I’m happy. Get some; get gone is still in effect.

I’ve seen Tina a couple more times, too. I keep it spaced out – don’t want her to get attached, and I really do prefer a nice, thick dick between my legs when the hornies strike. Still, being able to smell her arousal and hear her heart racing; to be able to taste multiple things when I kiss her or eat her out; and to be able to feel Buffy half a country away while we’re fucking?

Holy shit, those were some satisfying nights.

Let’s step on the fast forward. Train, eat, slay, sleep; train, eat, slay, sleep. TESS. TESS. TESS. Going to get a dog and name it Tess.

I’m happy more than disappointed when Tina calls in September to say that she’s got a steady girlfriend now. I’m just as much at risk of being addicted to that sensory overload. She’s the only person I’ve fucked more than once in this city, so her being out of the picture is probably healthier for me.

I think Tina’s legs were smaller than my arms are, now. I could so pull off a Wonder Woman costume for Halloween. Still soft and curvy, but my arms and legs are really well-defined now, and I’ve got that wide-shouldered Olympic chick thing going on. I was afraid the weights would make me huge and ugly, but apparently you have to do wicked nasty workouts for ever and ever to make that happen.

My hair’s down to my shoulder blades, and I’m debating keeping it dyed dark, or letting it go natural. I like my dark look, but Sunnydale’s on my mind, and I wonder if a new look might help with Buffy and the Scoobs.

Fuck it. I like dark. Black leather everything. Even a nice black cross on a leather choker. Why? Because I look fucking awesome. That’s why.

In other news, I got my Ohio State driver’s license, as well as the endorsement for motorcycles. If I get the chance, I’m going to take classes to get my commercial licence with as many endorsements as I can get, then look into piloting. What can I say? I like my toys.

TESS. TESS. TESS.

October comes, and with it Mark and Sara’s delayed honeymoon. They’ll be gone for a week, which gives me the perfect opening to pay Sunnyhell a visit. Everyone should be into their school year – college now, I guess – and they’ve had a few months to deal with me being gone. Time to make amends.