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BtVS: Sinister Simulacra (2/3)
Title: Sinister Simulacra (2/3)
Characters: Wesley/Fred, Dawn
Timeline/Continuity: Set between “Smile Time” and “A Hole in the World.”
Rating: PG
Summary: Wesley, Fred, and Dawn resolve some forgotten plotlines.
Previous part is here.
Sinister Simulacra, Part II
Ever since the Iverna Massacre of 1876 which had wiped out the entire native Muscovite populations, the Tryren demons had been know to inhabit only one location—the Samuel R. McKelvie National Forest in Nebraska. There was, after all, no accounting for demonic taste.
And so he found himself sitting in front of a campfire, holding a stick with a marshmallow on the end and watching Dawn and Fred sing campfire songs.
The marshmallow caught fire, and Fred laughed and grabbed the stick, pulling it out of the flames of the campfire. “You can’t just leave it in there forever,” she said, blowing out the flames, although Wesley saw little reason why he couldn’t do exactly that.
But Fred insisted on him making a s’more out of the marshmallow, and then eating it, and he reluctantly agreed.
“What’s next?” he managed to ask once he had swallowed most of the marshmallow. “Are you going to tell ghost stories?”
Dawn shook her head. “I think we get enough of that in our everyday lives.” She yawned. “I think I’m going to turn in. We still have quite a bit of hiking to do tomorrow.” She got up and left the campfire ring, entering one of the two tents they had pitched earlier.
Wesley and Fred were left in front of the campfire, watching it as it burned away,
“What are you thinking about?” Fred asked after a while, placing a hand on his shoulder.
“Dawn,” he said, looking at the tent she had just entered. “So much rests on her shoulders for someone so young. I don’t envy her position.”
“She seems to manage,” Fred observed.
“She has to,” Wesley answered. “She knows what will happen if she fails.”
“Come on,” said Fred, pulling his arm. “Let’s go to bed.”
* * * * *
They were up at the break of dawn the next morning, broke camp, and began to continue their hiking deep into the forest, into the heart of Tryren territory.
Dawn stopped, disturbed. “It’s too quiet,” she said. “Where are the Tryren songs?” Tryrens, Wesley knew, emitted a high-pitched sound with sounded suspiciously like a fat woman yodeling. It was a distinctive sound and Dawn was right: it didn’t make any sense that they hadn’t heard it already.
“You won’t hear it,” a voice answered. Wesley turned to see—where he would have sworn there had been no one—a young woman dressed in short and simple diaphanous brown dress. She was barefoot, and she leant against a tree. “They were massacred, every one of them, after being forced to give up their secrets.”
“Who are you?” asked Fred, giving words to the question they had all been thinking.
“I am a spirit of the trees,” she said simply.
“A dryad,” Wesley whispered.
“The forest calls out with their pain and suffering,” she said. “They were a part of us, and now they are gone.”
“Do you know who did it?” asked Dawn.
The dryad nodded. “He has constructed a fortress of stone north of here. Keep on walking and you will not be able to miss it. The goodwill of the trees goes with you.”
* * * * *
The stone castle, built in the middle of a national forest in Nebraska, was, as the dryad promised, difficult to miss. Oddly enough for a fortification made of stone, the front gate was open.
“Well, there’s nowhere to go but inside,” Dawn said, taking off her backpack and resting it against the castle wall. She pulled out a sword and then, tentatively, stepped inside the fortress. Wesley and Fred followed.
After passing through several levels of (open) fortifications, they entered what seemed to be a massive courtyard, full of robots fashioned into all sorts of shapes and sizes. Some were fashioned to look like celebrities, others various politicians.
And one was shaped in a very familiar shape indeed.
“Hey Dawn,” it said. “You’re my sister. I love you very much despite frequently finding you annoying and have not seen you in a very long time.”
“It’s . . . a Buffybot,” Dawn said.
“A what?”
“Someone built of robot of Buffy a few years ago,” Dawn explained, staring at the simulacrum of her sister. “It looked exactly like this, sounded like it. Only, it was destroyed and the person who built it is dead.”
“There’s death,” a male voice cut in, “and then there’s death.”
* * * * *
“The body of Warren Mears is dead,” the man said, grinning mischeviously at the trio, “murdered by that bitch of a witch. But I had contingency plans. The important part of me—my mind—lives on.”
It was Dawn who actually said it. “You’re a robot!”
“No shit, Sherlock,” Mears said. “Took you long enough to catch on.”
“Good,” said Dawn, raising a sword. “Then we won’t feel so bad when we kill you again.”
Mears only laughed. “Kill me again?” he asked. “Take a look around. What potential battle are you talking about?”
Wesley looked around. They were surrounded by robots, he realized, and didn’t stand a ghost of a chance.
TBC. . . . here
Characters: Wesley/Fred, Dawn
Timeline/Continuity: Set between “Smile Time” and “A Hole in the World.”
Rating: PG
Summary: Wesley, Fred, and Dawn resolve some forgotten plotlines.
Previous part is here.
Sinister Simulacra, Part II
Ever since the Iverna Massacre of 1876 which had wiped out the entire native Muscovite populations, the Tryren demons had been know to inhabit only one location—the Samuel R. McKelvie National Forest in Nebraska. There was, after all, no accounting for demonic taste.
And so he found himself sitting in front of a campfire, holding a stick with a marshmallow on the end and watching Dawn and Fred sing campfire songs.
The marshmallow caught fire, and Fred laughed and grabbed the stick, pulling it out of the flames of the campfire. “You can’t just leave it in there forever,” she said, blowing out the flames, although Wesley saw little reason why he couldn’t do exactly that.
But Fred insisted on him making a s’more out of the marshmallow, and then eating it, and he reluctantly agreed.
“What’s next?” he managed to ask once he had swallowed most of the marshmallow. “Are you going to tell ghost stories?”
Dawn shook her head. “I think we get enough of that in our everyday lives.” She yawned. “I think I’m going to turn in. We still have quite a bit of hiking to do tomorrow.” She got up and left the campfire ring, entering one of the two tents they had pitched earlier.
Wesley and Fred were left in front of the campfire, watching it as it burned away,
“What are you thinking about?” Fred asked after a while, placing a hand on his shoulder.
“Dawn,” he said, looking at the tent she had just entered. “So much rests on her shoulders for someone so young. I don’t envy her position.”
“She seems to manage,” Fred observed.
“She has to,” Wesley answered. “She knows what will happen if she fails.”
“Come on,” said Fred, pulling his arm. “Let’s go to bed.”
They were up at the break of dawn the next morning, broke camp, and began to continue their hiking deep into the forest, into the heart of Tryren territory.
Dawn stopped, disturbed. “It’s too quiet,” she said. “Where are the Tryren songs?” Tryrens, Wesley knew, emitted a high-pitched sound with sounded suspiciously like a fat woman yodeling. It was a distinctive sound and Dawn was right: it didn’t make any sense that they hadn’t heard it already.
“You won’t hear it,” a voice answered. Wesley turned to see—where he would have sworn there had been no one—a young woman dressed in short and simple diaphanous brown dress. She was barefoot, and she leant against a tree. “They were massacred, every one of them, after being forced to give up their secrets.”
“Who are you?” asked Fred, giving words to the question they had all been thinking.
“I am a spirit of the trees,” she said simply.
“A dryad,” Wesley whispered.
“The forest calls out with their pain and suffering,” she said. “They were a part of us, and now they are gone.”
“Do you know who did it?” asked Dawn.
The dryad nodded. “He has constructed a fortress of stone north of here. Keep on walking and you will not be able to miss it. The goodwill of the trees goes with you.”
The stone castle, built in the middle of a national forest in Nebraska, was, as the dryad promised, difficult to miss. Oddly enough for a fortification made of stone, the front gate was open.
“Well, there’s nowhere to go but inside,” Dawn said, taking off her backpack and resting it against the castle wall. She pulled out a sword and then, tentatively, stepped inside the fortress. Wesley and Fred followed.
After passing through several levels of (open) fortifications, they entered what seemed to be a massive courtyard, full of robots fashioned into all sorts of shapes and sizes. Some were fashioned to look like celebrities, others various politicians.
And one was shaped in a very familiar shape indeed.
“Hey Dawn,” it said. “You’re my sister. I love you very much despite frequently finding you annoying and have not seen you in a very long time.”
“It’s . . . a Buffybot,” Dawn said.
“A what?”
“Someone built of robot of Buffy a few years ago,” Dawn explained, staring at the simulacrum of her sister. “It looked exactly like this, sounded like it. Only, it was destroyed and the person who built it is dead.”
“There’s death,” a male voice cut in, “and then there’s death.”
“The body of Warren Mears is dead,” the man said, grinning mischeviously at the trio, “murdered by that bitch of a witch. But I had contingency plans. The important part of me—my mind—lives on.”
It was Dawn who actually said it. “You’re a robot!”
“No shit, Sherlock,” Mears said. “Took you long enough to catch on.”
“Good,” said Dawn, raising a sword. “Then we won’t feel so bad when we kill you again.”
Mears only laughed. “Kill me again?” he asked. “Take a look around. What potential battle are you talking about?”
Wesley looked around. They were surrounded by robots, he realized, and didn’t stand a ghost of a chance.
TBC. . . . here