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Remember Me - Chapter 6

Okay, not going too badly. Got handed over. Got taken back. Got shut in a small, windowless holding pen. Being shipped out tonight. Can’t believe this pathetic plan is actually going to work. Haven’t seen any sign of a remote control device though. I still can’t hurt anyone.

And hey! ‘Anyone there...hungry here!’ Fuckers.

God this is boring. I’m seriously tempted to call Angel and have phone sex with him again. That was fun. But it’d be tempting fate. They haven’t searched me very thoroughly and they didn’t find my phone. It’s just a little lump in one of the numerous poachers' pockets of my duster. I touch it every so often; just to reassure myself it’s still there. That Angel is only one call away. I'm tempted to turn it back on, just in case he's trying to phone me, but I can't risk it ringing at an inopportune moment. I start playing with his ring again, moving it from one finger to another, spinning it on the floor. It’s just something to do.

After what seems like an eternity sitting on my backside in this totally featureless room, I hear the sound of the lock turning.

Thank, God. Action. Food. Who cares? Just something different.

‘Hello, Hostile 17.’ Uh huh. Farm boy and his minions. Was this part of the plan I wasn’t listening too? Cus I don’t remember, him, being any part of this at all.

‘He’s got a tracer implanted under his arm. Dig it out and flush it.’

Oh fucking shit. They rip my coat and shirt off and one of the soldier boys gets out a knife, feels for the lump, and just...digs it out. No point in even struggling. Then I’d have a pain in my head as well as one...shit, that hurts...under my arm. Farm boy nods and the others leave. I shrug back on my stuff with difficulty, deliberately turning my back on the git. Won’t give him the satisfaction of thinking I’m scared of him. But...shit...this seems very familiar and I don’t like it.

‘You don’t remember, do you?’

‘What, Mate? Your Birthday today or something? Anniversary of when you had your cock enlarged? What don’t I remember?’

‘You don’t remember me...us...in here. Last time you were here.’

Not liking the, ‘us’ bit of that. Cus, ‘us’ seems more familiar every minute.

‘You must remember, Spike. I know you were heavily sedated all the time, so we could adjust your chip, but surely you remember...the hunger. Don’t you remember how hungry we made you? We didn’t feed you for three weeks. You started eating your own arms. Don’t you remember?’

We must look like some bizarre form of dance routine, he advances on me and I back off. Around and around the room. I feel hypnotised by his words, I feel myself sinking back into that lethargy I was in before LA. Is this what started my disappearance? Is this why I did all that stuff afterwards? Is this why I fucking tried to stake myself and...all that other shit...because of what happened here?

‘You’re lying. I’d remember. I’d remember you, you fat farm shit.’

‘You didn’t think I was a shit when I offered you this, Spike.' He bears his neck right in front of me. 'After three weeks of tearing your own flesh and sucking on it, you didn’t think I was a shit at all. You tried to devour me. You cried for me. You begged me.’

‘You are fucking insane, Mate, if you think I’m gonna believe you let me feed on you. What; cus you loved me so much? I don’t think so!’

‘No, Spike. Cus you loved me. Whenever I wanted you to. Whatever I wanted you to do. You give really good head, Spike, anyone ever tell you that before? I’m a Marine, I should know. Yeah, really good little sucker, Spike, even with a broken jaw.’

Oh, God. He’s just punched me hard on the side of my face. That ain’t gonna even dent the jaw, but another ten or so like it might.

I sometimes wonder, when I’m in an idle moment, what the early Christians thought when they saw the lions coming. Did they try to run, screaming for someone to help them? Or did they stand still and think, ‘bring it on, then,’ cus there was nothing they could do. Death, incredible pain: inevitable.

Well bring it on, farm boy, cus I ain’t running. There’s nothing I can do. I can’t raise a hand to you, to protect myself. So, bring it on. Get it over with quick. Ain’t gonna hurt any less by trying to hide from it. So I just stand there as he hits me. Well, stand until I can’t stand anymore. Then when I’m down, he takes to kicking me. And shit those military boots can do some damage.

‘How does it feel, Spike? Not such a pretty boy now, are we? Fucking demons walking around like real men. Kissing human girls. I’ll kill you, I’ll fucking kill you.’

I would engage him in a debate about just who he thinks I’ve kissed, and why me kissing humans is bad, but me sucking him apparently isn’t, but by now my jaw is definitely broken and I’m having trouble staying conscious. Not sure he’d appreciate the debate anyhow.

I’m not too proud to admit that now I’m curled up in the corner of the room and trying to protect my face from anymore kicking. He's mumbling more to himself now, than me: weird incoherent shit about me being too strong, about him never being able to hurt me. It takes me a few minutes to realise that it's not me he's kicking, but the Slayer. Buffy. Jesus.

But suddenly he stops and stands panting above me. He falls to his knees and roughly puts a hand on the front of my jeans, squeezing my cock: digging his nails in. His face is wild, red...he looks completely out of control.

‘I know who she is thinking of every night I lie with her. I know what she wants. She wants this doesn’t she?’

Does she? News to me.

‘Doesn’t like it human: doesn’t like it male. Wants a fucking dead, cold, loathsome...creature. I know. I found out. Yeah, she lost it to a fucking Vampire. Face of a fucking Angel I was told...so real easy to work out who that was...wasn’t it? Not so pretty now though, are you? Don’t look so much like an Angel now, do you, Spike?’ He traces his fingers over my broken face as he hisses his vitriol at me. ‘Oh yeah, how she must have loved these cheekbones, this perfect, never changing skin. Can’t compete can I?’

Err...big mistake here. Give me back tongue, lips and a jaw I can actually speak with and I’ll tell you a slightly different story about ‘Slayer Loses Her Virginity’, shall I? But I don’t think he’d be in a mood to listen, even if I could speak.

‘Let's see what she thought was so good, shall we?’

Err…let's not.

‘Oh...you fucking bastard. Don’t matter how big it is...it’s still dead meat, isn’t it. But oh, such a tight fucking ass. We never got round to your ass last time, did we Spike? You fucking escaped, just as things were getting interesting. How’d you like to fuck with another human then, you shit?’

I guess that’s not a rhetorical question. Can I at least choose who?

‘Oh, yeah! Really tight. But, let’s open you up a little bit, shall we?’

Fuck. I thought the tracer being cut out hurt. I know the punching and kicking hurt, but fuck...his finger jammed roughly into my dry hole hurts like hell. Don’t help when he starts jabbing it up. Fortunately, I tear on his nail and the blood coating the walls, eases the pain. Makes it easier when he pushes the next finger in. And the next. He pushes me into a sitting position against the wall with my knees bent up, feet spread. He watches my face intently the whole time. I’m not sure what he is looking for: fear? If it is, he’s not going to see it. All he will see is contempt.

‘Oh, real slicky and smooth, ain’t ya. Oh they’d love you down in the lines, you’d be flavour of the month...we’d keep you going for hours of fun and games. How does this feel then...?’ Not good, if you must know. ‘...like all these fingers then, Spike? Bet you’ve had some really interesting things up here in your time...hey?’ Actually, no. Some humans in a bar, all too recently and that’s it. But I’m not going to tell you that. 'Shit, I wish I'd done this last time you were here, hey? Oh, yeah, ass as good as your mouth.'

‘Guess what, Spike? I think you’re so good at this; you can take a little more. How’s...that...oh, don’t scream...no one's going to hear you...and if they did...they’d only enjoy it!’

Did I scream? I didn’t think I was going to give him the satisfaction. Guess I was wrong again. I didn’t think anything could hurt like that. It’s...inside sort of hurt...the sort of hurt that makes you sad: about yourself. But then he has managed to get his whole bloody farm-fist in and he’s using it like a battering-ram. And he’s getting so excited. He’s panting as if he’s going to choke; he’s rubbing the front of his combats with his other hand. I’m resigned now. It’s inevitable where this is going. When he finally swaps fist for cock, I’m beyond caring. In fact, cock is much more comfortable. Especially as it’s not big and slightly flaccid. He puts both hands on my shoulders to brace himself. It’s so intimate, as if we were lovers. I half expect him to put his mouth to mine. I don't know where to put my hands. Can't use them to defend myself, don’t want to use them in any other way, so I just close my fists gently and rest them on my knees. No involvement in this at all. As if I'm not here. Shit. Did I start to do this before?

He don’t last long.

He collapses against me, his face pressed into my shoulder, his cock leaking out of me. The smell of rancid, human male is overwhelming.

But the very worst bit of this whole experience? Not the punching, not the kicking, not the fisting, not the rape...the worst bit, was what he said. As he thrust his hot seed into me, he laughed and whispered in my ear. 'You really believed it, didn’t you, Spike? You really thought there was a way to turn it off.'

Oh. I have an eternity to endure, in which I can never protect myself from this happening. But I still won’t let him see my anguish and fear. He will still only ever see contempt from me, whatever he does.

He rolls off me and stands up, readjusting his clothes. 'Sort yourself out. Can't have my guys seeing you like that. They'll want their money's worth too. Everyone wants to fuck the demon that fucked the Slayer. Jesus, I hope she got better value than I just did.'

Uh huh.

When the silent one, the one with the evil, narrow eyes, came in, I decided to fight it. Why not? I bet one or two of those good fisher-folk had a go at the lions. I would have done. Nothing to lose. Maybe got it over a bit quicker for them too. Doesn’t work quite that way for me. But at least I was unconscious by the time he actually entered me. Maybe, if I get to have my eternity, and I start to lose my faculties, I'll blame it on this: on the frying of my brain as I tried to fight him off. It took eight consecutive, searing jolts of pain before I collapsed. I think he was badly hurt though. Not so much that he didn't leave me with a few reminders of his pain.

So the next one I didn't fight.

After that? When the others came? I didn't care one way or the other.

And you know? It's all coming back now. Now they've all gone and I'm alone in the dark, all the forgotten time is starting to come back. So I don’t only have current pain to enjoy, I've got months of remembered pain too. I remember the starving now. I was so hungry I did start drinking my own blood. I was so hungry I would have done anything for blood. So when he offered me his neck? I've have sucked the demon cocks of hell for one small bite. I begged him to let me suck him, every time he visited me. I got on my knees and crawled to him, begging him. I unzipped him whilst he laughed at me. I made him cum and I swallowed him, every time. And as I fed? I let him play with me. But bit-by-bit, I started to fade away. I started to put myself in a better place, away from these acts I was being forced to participate in.

No wonder I lost it a bit when I got out. No wonder I lost my sense of myself. No wonder I tried to disappear. No wonder I felt so much better every time I got on my knees to strangers: felt like I was being fed again. Felt like I was being saved.

Must have been partially the drugs though, cus I repressed the memories. But I let them eat at me, till I was the fucking mess Angel found in LA.

Well, there are no drugs now. Just pain. And what do humans know about pain? This ain't gonna break me again. Nah, this is just something to be endured till I get out of here. I've got something much better than this planned…and these fuckers are just delaying it. I’ve got a TV to buy and a Vampire to love. And I might even change the order I’m gonna do those in.

Ain't gonna let them know that though. Best tactic is always, surprise. They should know that. They're the fucking military. What do I know? I'm just one pissed off, very sore Vampire with a lot of cum leaking out of his backside.

When farm-boy comes back, I feign worse hurt than I really feel. If he gets hard again hearing me moan? Well, just adds to throw him off balance a little bit more. Blood rushing to his dick ain't gonna be helping his thinking processes.

'Get ready to ship out, scum.'

'Where am I going?'

'Fucking, shut up.' He hauls me to my feet and propels me towards the door. I'm giving the impression I'm a lot slower and more damaged than I am, but I can't see any means of escape from these endless, white corridors and elevators. At last we come out at a loading bay where a truck is backed up ready to receive its cargo. My last chance. I lunge at the git, knocking him off his feet. Fighting the pain in my head, I leap off the bay and start running. I have absolutely no idea where to run to, but it feels good, just going somewhere. I don't even know what hits me. I guess it was one of their stun guns. I hit the deck so hard I go out, like a proverbial light. One moment freedom, the next: nothingness. I come round in the back of the truck with my arms bound behind me at the elbows.


I don't even know how long we've been driving for. Could be hours, could be minutes. Could be years I guess, what the fuck do I know? I'm a stupid, sodding Vampire who wanted to fucking help humans and got himself stuffed for his troubles. Literally. Okay, I only wanted the controls to this chip, but I would have been helping humans too. Serendipitous outcomes of helping me! But I'm still fucking stupid for believing him. Well, guess I believed the Slayer and the Watcher. They believed him. I almost feel sorry for the Slayer. Hah, both her boyfriends have wanted to fuck me! One actually has: one is going to soon, if I have anything to do with it. Must remember to tell her that, next time I see her. If I see her.

I really don’t want to open my eyes. But it's worse, not knowing who's looking at me and what they are doing. I very slowly and cautiously take a peek, so I am just looking through tiny slits. Hum. Interesting. Farm boy is in the back with me and he's clearly relieving that bulge I seemed to give him earlier. He's totally occupied, head thrown back, hands on cock, very near coming I should think, looking at the copious stream of precum dripping down onto the floor. I really hope that's not me he's picturing as he does that. Please let it be the Slayer.

There is only so much being irresistible I can take in one night.

What an ideal opportunity though to…I fling myself up and forward, ramming his head back into the strut behind him. I am SO tempted to stomp on his cock for good measure, but I have a feeling my brain would instantly fry me, for giving him that much pain. The chip fires off anyway for just pushing him, but I stagger to the rear of the truck and just…flop over the tailgate onto the road.

Good plan.

Or it would have been a really good plan. It would have been good if we hadn't have been traveling at about fifty miles an hour. It would have been even better if we hadn't have been the first truck, in a convoy of three. The third one may have run over me as well, but I don't remember, by that time, I was unconscious from the second one hitting me. They don't call those fucking vehicles, 4-tonners, for nothing.

I don't come round from that little escape attempt till it's light outside the truck. This time they've chained me to the strut of the seat as well. Needn't have worried. I'm not going anywhere. I can feel one arm completely useless, the bone in my forearm sticking up through a tear in sleeve of my duster. My other arm is shattered at the wrist and elbow. One knee is completely 'exploded' looking, crushed by the truck: my jeans saturated with blood.

I bring my hands around to try and ease the pain a bit. And that’s when I see it. Or rather don’t. The ring is gone. It was always loose even on my thumb. It must have fallen off in the impact. Shit. I hated the poofy thing though, didn’t I?

But the worst thing of all? I feel pretty sure I fell on the pocket with my phone in. I feel pretty sure the last thing I heard, before the truck hit me, was the tiny sound of my lifeline to Angel, being severed.

When I try for the third time and still get the message that his phone is turned off, I call Giles. I don’t care that it's only been a day since I last phoned him during the night…just to talk. I'm still worried.

'Giles, it's me, Angel. Have you seen, Spike? I can't raise him on his phone.'

'Oh, he's working on a case for us. I expect he's out of range. He's probably underground, no signal I expect. Nothing to worry about. We have it all under control.'

'Wes! Cordy! Get the car. We're going to Sunnydale.'

My friends have the good sense not to try and engage me in idle conversation in the car. They sense that this is serious. I so need them along. I think I would kill someone when I get there, if I didn't have their expectations to live up to. It's never seemed such a long drive before. It's agonisingly slow, and every minute puts my beloved Childe in more danger and further away from my protection. Why did I acquiesce to this ridiculous plan to let him, 'find himself'? I was humouring him. I was…I was doing what he wanted, what he needed, and that wasn't wrong. No matter what the outcome, it was the right thing for us both to do: to have space. We both needed time for making this level of commitment. I could sense that in him. I could sense reluctance to trust me: huge reluctance to need me. And it's not as though I was exactly confident about it all. I still don’t really know how we will work it all out. The reality of Spike living with me in LA will, no doubt, be far removed from the fantasy I have come to rely on.

Whatever happens now though, if I get him back, if he is still alive, I will not let him go again. If he needs space: well he can go to the park. I'm not going through this again.

By the time we get to Sunnydale, things are clearly not going as well as they were before. Giles takes his usual pedantic time telling the story. Even Wes is fidgeting. I'm fairly calm until Giles tells me about the tracer. Not that they thought to put one on him: but that they tracked it to the sewers where it had been flushed.

'I am so sorry, Angel. It appears that this chap, Riley may not have been as straight as we thought. We found the tracer only hours after Spike was taken. Minutes after I spoke to you actually. There is no way they could have found it that quickly unless Riley had told them. It looks like it was a set up from the beginning. I have no idea why. What could they possibly want Spike for?'

'Get your car. Go and pick up Buffy and Xander. Meet me at this Riley's place.'

'Angel, it's no good. He could be anywhere now. We think they've been shipping chipped demons all over the country.'

'Giles, unlike you, I look after the things that mean the most to me. He has a tracer on him.'

'No, Angel…you're not listening. They found the tracer: they flushed it – rather meant to be a childish sort of 'up yours', I think.'

'Giles. Shut up. I gave Spike a tracer as well. It's in his new phone. Get your car. Meet me where I said. NOW!'

I pick up his signal easily. He's underneath the school, somewhere in the Initiative. I can only pray he's still alive and I'm not reading a signal from a phone lying by a pile of soft ash. Stop it, Angel. You need to focus. Stay calm. Concentrate on the task in hand. There is no way we can get down there and attempt a rescue. Buffy confirms the labyrinth of tunnels and concentration of military hardware down there. We can only sit tight and wait for them to try and move him. Buffy comes and sits in the car with us.

'Angel. I'm really sorry. I…I trusted, Riley. Maybe he was bugged? Maybe they overheard us about the tracer and found it and maybe he tried to stop them, but he's hurt now and maybe…'

'Buffy, it's not your fault,' yes it is, 'you couldn’t have known,' could have used your eyes, 'Spike knew what he was getting in to.' Except…he didn’t. He'd have done anything to prove himself to you all. That's all, THIS, has really been about. Spike, needing to prove himself to the very humans who brought him down. I know. You've done it to me too. Every time you look at me, Watcher, I hear the name Jenny, echoing through your head. Every time I look at you, Buffy, I hear my mocking of you and your…virginity. It brings you down after lifetime of hatred and mistrust. Sometimes I even look at Wesley and Cordelia and hear the echoes of Angelus' mocking of them. Vampires: humans, basically incompatible.

'It's moving, Angel.' Wesley has the base unit of the tracer.

'Which way?'

'South, it appears. But, Angel, what if it's just the tracer, what if it's not with…Spike. If you see what I mean.'

'I'll stay here, Angel, and try to make contact with Riley. If Spike is still here, I may be able to find him.' I somehow think Buffy values proving Riley innocent, more than she values finding Spike. But Giles agrees to stay with her and that leaves only Xander to come with us. He seems surprisingly willing to help.

I swing out from the curb, and follow Wesley's directions.

Once we spot the trucks it's easy…Wesley puts the unit away. I follow at a discrete distance. The trucks look the worse for wear. Even at this distance we can make out what looks like fairly major accident damage to the rear two.

It's very disturbing knowing, Spike is in one of those vehicles. I hope he's okay and enjoying playing soldier boy for the night. We start trying to come up with a plan. Wesley wants to let it play out - as the original plan – to find the other chipped demons. I say a polite version of 'fuck that' and Cordelia agrees with me. Trouble is neither of us can think of a plan to rescue him without more information about what is happening here.

Reluctantly I agree to go along with Wesley's plan.

I want to leap from this car, drag broken soldiers from trucks, find my boy and save him. I have to be content to sit quietly, following. Someone is going to pay for this: eventually.

Some time later, my revere is broken by Wesley’s quiet coughing. ‘Err...Angel, it’s getting towards dawn.’

‘I know.’

‘I think you will have to stop. We will have to drop you off somewhere and go on ourselves. We can’t risk you...this car isn’t protected enough.’

‘I KNOW.’ God, don’t make the sun come up just yet. Just a little longer, please. But I bow to the inevitable and allow them to drop me off by a motel. Great. Just great. I now have to sit out the day whilst others attempt to rescue my Childe. And not one of them, not a single one of them cares about him as I do. How much would they risk to save him? I would risk everything.

But I won’t be there.

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