Title: The Crossroads
Author: Caitlin
Email: Caitlin@teenagewildlife.com

The Crossroads


Night.

Black night in a club, 1:00 A.M. relieved only by the watery and transparent neon pulse that filters through the holes in the expanse of the looming ceiling. The club is in the basement of a burned-out building, so most of the light is lost in the charred and rusted skeleton of steel that towers the seventeen story high club into the stretches of a grey night sky. But some light filters through, crimson red and flat.

Night in a club. Made to look like a dive, walls painted black, scorched in spots, crawling with arcane graffiti, spiky insignia, dripping band emblems sprayed in coarse gold and red, but it cost a lot of money to make this place. The club is located a few blocks from the edge of inner Los Angeles, once home for the poor, the drunks, the prostitutes, the murderers. Streets screaming raging crime and death. And a brief highlight in that blackness were underground clubs where gothic rock bands played heavy music which lifted people from their sorrowful lifes into ecstasy. Cheap but to the point.

And it hasn't changed one single bit, it just became fashionable.

Maybe everyone just got fed up of squeaky clean safe lifes. Wanted that edge, that danger. But still wanted to be able to leave it all behind. And so yeah it's missing the point when these superficial sluts get to go home every night and every morning. But these roads don't care, as long as they get their money, their fame. They get the money to change these places into fantasy palaces with thumping music, streaked lights causing the walls to tremble with excitement. Energy and life buzzing in the air, sweat and blood filling every breath. Filled with the darkness and the danger the sluts crave.

And they're willing to give it to them, these roads.

They'll give it to them soon tonight.

On the large stage, lifted like a sacrificial altar high into the heavens, separated from the dance floor by strands of coarse wire, members of a snuff rock band are packing up in the masking shadows. Putting away the cords and effects, the violin bows and bone saws, the guitars and drums, the ampules of blood the audience thinks is fake. They mix it with alcohol, tonight some cheap vodka the club had too much of, just to stop the blood from coagulating too quickly.

They are the most famous attraction in this nightclub, the most famous now in Los Angeles, the one for which most entrance is sought. Only open a few nights a month now for the superficial sluts, but still the ultimate event. But for the inhabitants of the streets, the deep dark underbelly of the city and their victims, they're always open.

Glimpses of the band are given in the sparking neon lights, but they are eerily calm amidst the fervour and the energy of the club. Their faces are smudged stark white, dark creases which look like scars line their foreheads and they wear their hair in pony tails held severely in ties, making their cheekbones look like razors you'd slit your wrists on and cut straight through the bone at the same time. Their eyes are ringed in black mascara and liner, eyebrows are curved harshly and unnaturally. Their lips are still glossy from lipstick and blood. The band wouldn't wear makeup but that's how their audience, well the sluts at least, like them. It's not so scary when they look like them, be it their real image or not.

They still bleed from slashes made by the singer's chrome-tipped whip upon their hands and faces and naked pierced chests, but they're healing fast.

Meanwhile on a steel bench to the back of the stage, covered in the welcome blanket of the suffocating shadows the band's singer sits on a steel bench. He looks perhaps twenty and is too thin for his height, but instead of looking sickening he looks eretheral. Fragile. His face has a cool ivory beauty, the high sharp cheekbones sweeping towards his temples, the pools of dark eyes flicker beneath his lids as he tries to lose himself in his dreams and fool himself that he is anywhere but the stank mundaneity of this place.

The heavy air of the club and mortal scents presses heavily on his delicate skin, heavy with the neon light and the dull neon energy of these people, which only occasionally give him any interest. These humans who think that they live dangerously, that they play cards with the devil and cheat death. Well finally they will get their wish.

There were only a few left now, beacons of pumping pulses, dripping with sweat and drunken or high. The rest had left buzzing with the danger of the club, eager to return. About thirty remained.

It was enough.

Still not opening his elegant lashes, as long and thin as the icy sinews of winter, he felt the gaze of those high above, awaiting his command. Awaiting the climax of the night. He could almost feel their palpitating hunger and eagerness for that single gesture. Slowly, still not opening his eyes, he nodded.

The music changed it's beat.

He had chosen the music specifically. He had chosen everything specifically. Calculated every part of this place. Of these nights.

The beginning notes of the song, a metallica track he had fallen in love with when he'd first heard it.

Where the Wild things Are.

The beginning notes, misleading in their gentle softness begin.

The people of the streets, the demons below wrapping the humans up in their heaving dancing crowd, know this as their sign and lick their lips hungrily. They begin to call excitedly and roar, anxiously awaiting the violence, the screaming, the blood.

But the figure with his eyes still closed above on the stage, does not move. He isn't hungry, he is bored. Numbed by the routine of it all, the predictability. For the demons it's a satisfying blood fest, for the humans it's adrenaline fueled danger.

He sighed, for him it is only dull.

Even the blood that dripped like rain from the looming ceiling above into the awaiting mouths of the demons, drenching them all including the terrified humans, is tinted grey and hollow for him.

Amidst the blood bath, squeezed between snarling demons and vampires the humans eyes were wide open and petrified. When they sink their teeth into their throats or gouge their eyes out, not realising that their blood curdling screams made it even more fun, the humans finally have their danger.

That was what he wanted, his own danger.

Meanwhile above still lost in boredom the singer thinks of one hope, probably futile. Brought on as a spark amidst this dull blood and numbing screams, a hope of something more interesting then what this had become, he didn't know. But something told him that he would get his danger soon. He smiled, a fool smile, almost like a feral snarl and fiddled with a picture of a petite girl with blonde hair between his long fingers, loving how stray drops of blood caressed the picture lovingly.

And down below the floor writhed as if a squirming snake had been slit from his beady glistening eyes to it's pointed tip and it's insides were still jolting with the last essences of life. White glassy eyes of the victims, open and dead, stared upwards, soon becoming tainted with the furious blood drops pelting down on the demons, fuelled with the life of the human and animal blood. They roared deafeningly to the thudding notes of the rock music and snarled between eachother for the flesh and final blood of the mortals. The strobe lights flickered on them piercing through the crimson liquid in symphony of the club. The air was thick with sweat, thick with music, thick with neon lights, thick with drink, thick with blood.

And in the thick bloody air they danced.

Welcome to the most dangerous and exciting club you've ever stepped foot in.

Welcome and prepare to have the time of your life.

Welcome to the most popular night club in Los Angeles.

Welcome to the Cross roads.

'Attack of the killer tomatoes?'

'The blob?'

'Oh, um..... I know, I know!' Anya shot out of her seat excitedly, 'ET!'

Xander spread his fingers wide and pursed his lips, 'It's Jaws you,' he shook his head trying to think of a suitable insult, 'Non-normal person with really bad taste in movies.' He finished lamely with typical Xander fashion.

Anya pouted and slumped back down onto the arm chair, 'Well I was close.' she muttered.

Xander raised his arms in the air incredulous, 'Killer tomatoes, does that look like a killer tomato?' He tapped his drawing angrily with the marker, 'Since when did killer tomatoes swim in the sea and have sharp pointy bits? Any normal person can see that's a shark. Aren't I right Buff?'

He tore his annoyed stare from a still sulking Anya to Buffy who was still staring quietly out of her living room window, 'Buffster?' He inquired.

She jumped before turning to look at him, 'What, um..no it's okay I don't want any pizza.' she mumbled, her tone subdued and forced a slight smile. But her eyes were still detached and it was obvious she hadn't paid attention to anything but her thoughts for quite a while and obviously hadn't a clue what Xander was talking about.

'Message to Buffy Summers, care to join us in the real world? It's quite cosy you know.' he quipped.

'I am paying attention, I was just,' she swallowed and straightened herself on the window seat, 'Cleaning the window, it was all smudgy and icky. ' she replied defensively chewing on a pink bottom lip, before puffing on the window theatrically and rubbing furiously the pane clear with the bottom of the dark red rollneck she wore.

'Right,' Xander replied dubiously but let it go, 'So guess the movie.' He gestured to his drawing on the stark white board. with the pen.

'Ermm...' She raised a puzzle eyebrow, 'Godzilla?' She replied hopefully.

Xander threw his arms up in the air and threw the marker onto the floor. 'That's it, I give up. My drawing can't be that bad.' He sank into the seat next to Anya and gazed into nothing still shaking his head in disbelief. Anya rearranged herself half on his lap her legs splaying out on to the rest of the sofa.

'It's okay honey, I still love you even though you're no Picasso.' She pressed a kiss to his cheek.

'It's not that bad.' Xander said defensively before capturing her mouth in another kiss.

Over on the window seat a brief smile touched at Buffy's lips, but it was weighed down with guilt and other heavy emotions which tugged at the corners of her mouth and finally the smile was ripped from her features and replaced by a blank expression. Sighing gently she turned to gaze out into the dark night once more, liking how empty and quiet it was. Her fingers played nervously with the hem of her jumper and she swallowed deep. She was tired. Mainly from having to keep up the pretense that she was fine, which was what she was doing now. Even though Xander and Anya wouldn't admit she knew they were meant to be 'Slayer sitting.' Looking after her just to check up on her after Riley's departure, even though it had been two weeks.

But she really needed to just be by herself, get things sorted in her head before she could move on, not play the happy little survivor Slayer. It wasn't that she didn't appreciate all the concern her friends were lavishing her, but the only time she had been by herself this last week was to go to the toilet. But all she really wanted to do was carry on like normal and forget this ever happened. Everybody was so sympathetic about Riley even if they might have thought otherwise. Even Xander hadn't said anything mirroring their discussion about her last relationship. But they probably knew as well as she did, even if they wouldn't admit it, that she was partially to blame.

She'd been stringing Riley along. Never really in love with him. It wasn't hurt and betrayal that played in the pit of her stomach making her feel nauseous, but guilt. Guilt that in trying to kid herself that she could be normal, that she could have a proper, open and loving relationship with another human being had hurt someone else. Someone who didn't deserve it. Maybe Riley was right, maybe he wasn't fangy enough for her. Or maybe she just wasn't meant to have relationships at all. All fate had given her was this humungous responsibility and in trying to ignore it and make out like it didn't matter she had hurt Riley. Wow, she really had a shining record when it came to relationships didn't she? What strong relationship had she ever had?

Before she could answer that question a sharp ring of the doorbell sounded.

After a few seconds no one had moved to go towards the door, Dawn was fast asleep upstairs and her mum likewise. She looked over at Xander and Anya who were busy necking and rolled her eyes as she rose.

'No that's okay. Don't worry Buffy I'll get it.' Sarcasm traced her voice as she passed, but they two didn't respond still too involved in eachother.

The doorbell still rung insistently as she made her way down the hallway

'Okay, okay I'm coming,' She snorted as the ringing still didn't cease up, 'Jeez somebody's cranky tonight and who the hells ringing my door bell now anyway,' She muttered to herself.

Pushing her hair behind her ears so that she looked at least respectable she sighed before unlocking and opening the door. She gasped when she saw who was there.

'Angel!'

'You all seem a bit shocked that I'm here.'

'No it's not that it's just that I wish you'd called, so I could put myself in visitor mode.'

Buffy twiddled her thumbs nervously from her chair and smiled at Angel who was sat across from her. They sat in Buffy's living room. The atmosphere tense and unsure and so heavy it could be slit with a knife. Bright images flickered on the TV set sending occasional flashing lights across the room which played on the dark shadows growing rapidly as the night edged onwards. Xander fiddled with the remote control from the other side of the room, trying to choose what to put on and not even sparing a look at Angel.

'Or pretend we're not here mode,' Xander, who wasn't particularly thrilled at his arrival, muttered before he was jabbed angrily in the side by Anya.

If Angel heard the comment he didn't show it, just licked his lips slowly and leant forward so that his elbows rested on his ends of his thighs and clasped his hands together. His eyes were focused only on Buffy and she knew him well enough to know that when the man who was usually the epitome of calm had anxious lines etched around his deep eyes, something was up.

'I didn't realise that I was such a stranger to you now,' Buffy thought she identified regret in his eyes which he attempted to brush away in a short pause, but she didn't get a chance to say anything before he spoke again, 'But I had to speak to you in person rather then over the phone.'

Buffy forced a smile, a knowing smile, and shook her head 'This doesn't sound good if you came all the way to Sunnydale to speak to me.'

'That's because it's not.'

Angel swallowed, 'Something big's going on in LA, really big,'

'Something that Angel investigations can't cope with, wow that has to be big,'

She couldn't help but let sarcasm creep in and old feelings, Angel stared hard at her, his brows low. She looked away before rearranging herself so that it looked like she was actually taking him seriously, 'Sorry.' She mumbled.

Angel averted his gaze to the television set so that he could look anywhere but her, it was easier that way. Things were still unsaid and unresolved between them, but now was not the time. It was getting too urgent.

'This isn't just LA's problem anymore. Soon it'll be every major city in the country and who knows even the world's problem if we don't stop it now.'

There was a deep pause and Buffy took a long drawn out breath before Angel finally brought his eyes to meet hers again.

'I need your help Buffy.'

'With what?' Buffy asked suspiciously, suddenly feeling uneasy at how serious he was being. A strange nervous feeling nestled in her stomach, nagging at her like it always did when there was an impending apocalypse or some big bad who was even badder then before.

Suddenly Angel got up and walked towards Xander his boots thudding on her carpet floor, he snatched the controller from where it lay next to Xander on the settee.

'Hey!' He exclaimed but Angel ignored him, instead he flicked through a few channels searching until he finally found CNN. Satisfied he turned up the volume a few notches so all could be heard.

On the TV set a Chinese woman in a dark brown conservative suit spoke into a microphone from a dark street. Behind her people in extravagant outfits and other party clothes lined up along a red carpet, waiting to go into large double doors, which looked to be a harsh mesh of stone and steel in the fading light, with grotesque figures of gargoyles and vines carved into the frame.

'Despite rumours surrounding the disappearances of individuals after visiting the club it still proves to be the most popular event in the Los Angeles night calendar with every event selling out far in advance. But the mysterious owner of the Crossroads franchise is not content with bringing his blend of rock music and strange gothic attractions to Los Angeles only, it was announced today in a press conference that eventually several of the clubs will be found in every major city in America and after that even the rest of the world. It seems certain that eventually everyone will soon be dancing at the Cross roads. This is Pauline Yagasaki reporting for.....'

Angel looked at them all expectantly as he turned down the volume as the report continued. His face was lined with sobriety, and Buffy narrowed her eyes wishing for once he wouldn't be so cryptic and would actually get to the point.

Xander frowned bemused his mouth curving into a smile, 'Oh yeah Buff you better get to Los Angeles quick people are actually having fun and soon there might be no where left to brood.' He mocked screamed before snorting and moving to grab the controller from Angel.

Angel's nostrils flared he was obviously frustrated, 'Look at the people in the club, look at them all.' He said insistently.

Xander looked like he was about to say something until he realised that Anya's mouth was agape as she stared at the television, 'Holy Cow.' She mumbled.

Buffy edged over to the TV to get a closer look at what they both stared at and soon her jaw was open too.

'Demons, they've got footage of demons,' she lowered her eyebrows so that her forehead creased in perplexion, 'Don't they know that their demons?' She spread her fingers wide on her upturned and questioning palms and gestured wildly as she spoke. Angel looked only slightly smug that he'd finally gotten their attention.

'Now are you going to listen to me when I say something big is going down in LA and that these clubs are at the centre of it?'

He shot a look at Xander just daring him to make a comment but he raised his hands in mock innocence. 'Hey I'm all ears.'

Heavy green night. Pine branches bending low to sweep the gravel path and quiver above rotting tombstones, to caress the dying grass and the trash in the ditches. A shaky night and still riotuous from the last wind that had swept through the small town of Sunnydale, the same wind that now feeds the trembling branches.

The moon hangs gravid in the sky above, nearly, but not quite full. Waiting to be satiated with the final curve of a crescent, but not tonight. But still it limps in the sky, suspended by an invisible thread, teetering in the heavens threatening to casacade downwards and shatter into a million shards on the gravel path of the cemetery. As the icy black sinews of storm clouds cover the moon like a dark graffiti scribble the moon seems to shudder and convulse. As if it were a pond and someone had placed their finger into the still placid depths of that hanging water and disrupted the peace. Sending poisonous harsh ripples across the once smooth silky surface of the peaceful water.

But then after drinking more alcohol for even a vampire everything seems to quiver.

Tossing an empty blood bag onto a nearby grave Spike wobbled slightly as he attempted to remember where exactly his crypt was. Getting frustrated not just because he couldn't remember where the hell he lived, but also because he couldn't walk in a straight line without falling flat on his arse he paused and leant against a nearby tree, his hands deep in the pockets of his duster searching for his cigarettes. He fumbled around with the objects he found there, a few notes torn and folded that he'd forgotten to spend on booze, an old ace of spades he'd found on the dead grass at the end of his crypt, water marked and crusted with dirt and then there was that. That damned photo of that picture of the Slayer, the picture worn and creased from the infinite number of times he stared at it in his hands. But still no damn cigarettes.

Cursing he brought out the picture and when he stared at it he immediately regretted the action as he realised it just made him want a fag even more. For a second he contemplated ripping it apart and letting the pieces flutter to the ground, but he'd thought this so many times that he didn't waste any time convincing himself to do it as he knew in the end he didn't have the balls to do it. Briefly he traced the outline of the face, trying to focus on her features in his drunken state, before refolding it and placing it back in his pocket.

Calling himself a wanker he stared upwards at the moon, trying to sober up a bit so he could remember where the fuck he lived. The alcohol and dead blood sang in his ears and as he stared into the sky, the moon highlighted the short peroxide blonde spikes of his hair. Although the night was grey and hollow, the moon's light was still strong enough to hurt his eyes, and he closed them quickly. But still the moon shone through. Engraving blood red on the dark comfort of his heavy eyelids. A nagging reminder of the fact that he had got to go back to an empty headed twat as tonight's shag rather then the Slayer.

Well, he thought, beggars can't be choosers. And that's what he was becoming a fucking beggar.


Please R & R Please!!!