101 - A Perfect Sky; A Storm

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I know I just surrendered to the heavy embrace of sleep—but I can see now, with perfect clarity, the unmistakable London skyline before me. Well, as clear as the smog-filled city will allow me to see. I stand atop a seven-story parking garage that offers a breathtaking view. The sun hovers on the brink of the horizon, painting the sky in shades of violet and orange as it settles into bed.

A flicker of movement catches my attention. My eyes track the shadow in my peripheral vision, careful not to give away that I've noticed it. I wait, letting my senses tell me who it is.

The smell of cigarettes, masked mostly by amber, hits me before Faith appears at my side, brushing my left arm.

Feeling her warmth so hot on my skin makes me glance down at where we touch, and I realize I'm wearing my pajamas, not slay-wear: A worn black tank top (that I usually cover with a hoodie even while I sleep) and matching sweatpants. My tattoo—the one act of teenage rebellion with daddy's money—is on full display, the bakunawa's dragonlike head inked just below my left clavicle, her serpentine body snaking over my shoulder and then coiling down my left arm, around and around; the tail delicately lays across my forearm, ending just beneath the elbow. A permanent, inanimate companion perched upon me just as a living serpent might.

Mamumuno sa bulan, Ate Lorilaine called her. Moon-Eater. Except she used the Cebuano word for "assassin."

"What're we doing up here?" I ask. How did we even get here? I lean into Faith's warmth, noting her usual earth-toned tank top and jeans. Her brown hair grazes me, tickling; the black tribal tattoo banded around her upper right bicep kisses the shaded wings of Moon-Eater.

I scan the sprawling city below in search of our headquarters amidst the labyrinth of buildings. Faith doesn't answer, equally lost in her own search of the city, but she spots her mark almost immediately.

The sun sets the next instant; there is no twilight. The sky goes from lavender to black in the blink of an eye, and the city vanishes into the shadows, with only lighted windows to dot the blackness like stars. But there are no actual stars out tonight.

Everything lacks a certain sense that makes me believe I'm in the Slayer Dreamscape: a psychic web linking all slayers' subconsciouses. It began as just premonitions of impending apocalypses—until every slayer was activated. Then it evolved into a subconscious realm where slayers can interact with each other from anywhere in the world. In all the time since I've been Chosen, I haven't cared to explore the realm as much as other slayers have. Buffy and Faith are the two to frequently walk our dreams, seeking out slayers in need. There is so much unknown about the Dreamscape that I worry someone may see what lies beyond my surface if I stay in it too long, revealing all the secrets that I've sworn to keep for the Organization. Still, so far, I've managed to keep a closed lid on my psyche whenever Faith drags me to her never-ending rave—forcing me to mingle. To let loose.

To get out of my head.

Otherwise, I just let the dreams come to me. Like tonight.

A sudden burst of light pierces the darkness, forming a focused beam that illuminates London. Echoes of screams carried by the wind reach our ears, and I start toward the source.

Faith stops me before I complete my first step. I don't see her mark; I don't even sense it at first. But soon, my insides are stirring, alerting me to the danger.

Tracing her gaze, I finally discover a lone vehicle on the road below: a van; its rusted navy-blue paint nearly washed out by the beam's light, but unmistakable. It careens recklessly, heading straight toward us and eventually disappearing into the garage entrance below.