101 - A Perfect Sky; A Storm

10

It's daybreak. I'm standing atop the parking garage, gazing out at the sprawling city below. London is cast in a milky haze. It doesn't look like natural fog or pollution; more like a thick layer of sleep weighs on my eyelids, and no matter how many times I try to rub them, it doesn't fade.

Faith is near me, but I don't see her. Only feel her, like a warm ghost tracing the bakunawa inked into my arm. Oddly, I don't feel the October breeze, its chilly temperature only evident by the smell of crisp air.

A blue dot catches my eye, rumbling toward me up the ramp. The van.

I get a sense of déjà vu; everything plays out as expected: The vehicle growing nearer yet not actually swallowing the distance between us; the speed at which it feels like it's going but can't possibly, given how it hasn't reached me yet.

The morning sky splits open, and a beam of light pierces down into the center of London. Even miles away, I can feel its heat, its power, burrowing deep into the core of the earth.

The van revs on, closer now. I shut my eyes, bracing for the impact of the aluminum grill, but to my surprise, I feel no pain, no impact.

My face is still set in a cringe, praying that the van miraculously skidded to a silent halt to spare me, when my eyes open to find myself standing outside the window of the Doctor's building. It appears empty.

Curiosity getting the better of me, I walk up to the front entrance. It's locked tight. One effortless, calculated kick sends the door crashing down, and I lift my fists to brace myself for a fight on the other side. The thud echoes back to me as the door hits the ground. I expect someone to rush in to investigate the commotion, but after a moment with no sign of anyone, I relax from my stance and step inside.

Even knowing I'm in the dreamscape, everything feels so real: the musty-dusty air, the sound of my boots scuffling on the concrete, and the feel of the wood trim as I run a hand along it. It makes it easy to forget.

The thought flees from my mind when my attention drops to the floor, my blood turning to ice.

Lying there, carefully arranged and perfectly posed side-by-side, are the twins, their arms crossed over their chests in a macabre embrace. Their fair skin has lost all vitality, their mouths agape and faces frozen, as if their last sights were on the ugly mugs of Der Kindestad or a Grimslaw demon. Their vacant eyes, once as vibrant as glacial ice, now stare emptily at the paneled ceiling.

Two holes mar their throats—a stark reminder of the inevitable fate that awaits Slayers and those who follow us into the fray. Or at least I can't help but see it that way as they lay before me, their very essence mercilessly siphoned away.

On the other side of Kai lay Sineya's skeleton, exactly as Moira had laid her out in the hotel lobby.

Two dead twins and the remains of the First Slayer...

No, this can't possibly be a warning.

Though I know it is a dream, my eyes still burn with the threat of tears, and it singes away that comfort in my next blink.

Whatever reason that's got my eyeballs watering, I swallow it down. I'm no stranger to death, having experienced plenty of losses, dealt plenty of killing blows in the past four years... But seeing the twins like this turns my insides over in a way I wasn't expecting.

My swallowed dread is heavy in my gut as I push myself across the room.

At the far end is a desk, and upon it sits an open laptop; I go to it. Despite my tech-savviness, I can't get the screen to turn on; it is black and unresponsive to my touch, no matter how many buttons I push—and trust me, I am techy. My father made sure of that.