Spoilers: Spoilers upto ‘Buffy the Vampire Slayer’ season 4
Content Rating: 15
Type: Drama
Characters: Willow, Spike, Marcus, Giles, Mrs Rosenberg
Summary: This is best described not as a prequel to Buffy the Vampire Slayer, but more a character study of Willow before she found her niche in life. Spike's there as well, but as pure indulgence, what with him being the coolest member of the un-dead ever created.

Disclaimer: All characters and concepts from the television series Buffy the Vampire Slayer are the intellectual property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy Productions, and other relevant parties. No profit is being made from their use here, and no infringement of copyright or trademark is intended.

I wrote this in 2000, when I was 16 - I hope my style’s come on a bit since then, but I'm still quite proud of my first piece of ‘Buffy’ fiction at length. So without further ado, here's the beginning. Any honest feedback, positive or negative, is of course greatly appreciated

London, England
July, 1996

“And now, providing another line-up of celebrity insight, Terry Wogan.”

“Wanker.”

Spike fumbled tersely for the remote control, and hurriedly terminated the BBC’s intrusion into his world. Out of all the evil and depravity he’d suffered and instigated over his 121 years on the earth, he found that man to be one of the most despicable creatures of them all.

Perhaps I’ll drain the bugger someday, Spike ruminated vengefully. Everyone had their favourite revenge fantasy, and that high on his current list.

He made his way wearily to the fridge, and extracted himself a freshly chilled Heineken Export. Returning to the chair, he prepared to slump down and drown away the day’s sorrows. Not that there had been any sorrows of worth, he noted contemptibly. Just a late bus, (he’d drained the driver at the route’s end) an obnoxiously inebriated man on the tube, (who he’d left nursing an inflamed crotch) and that supercilious bitch at the museum (she was saluted in the appropriate manner).

“So we’re not allowed to touch the exhibits, are we?”he muttered dejectedly, reclining into the seat. “Never mind the fact that I’d had a piss in the bleedin’ thing before the interfering old cow was even born.”


Apathy, nothing but stinking rotten apathy had saturated Spike’s existence ever since he’d returned to his native land the previous year. Dru was off drinking and shagging in Prague, and here he was nursing his sorrows in a truly dilapidated London bedsit.

Lucky thing, the vampire thought enviously. Off have the time of her eternal bleedin’ life while yours truly has the population of this stinkin’ Isle to contend with.’

The creaking outside the door interrupted his depression. It started softly, but swiftly increased in volume until it beat an unnerving crescendo around the room.

Unnerving that was to say, for anyone except Spike. He bolted to his feet, the demonic visage morphing onto his face. As his tongue played against the newly-emerged fangs, a thin smile crept to his lips. Finally, something to dispel the tedium. Hopefully some young toerag come to break in - someone who would not be missed.

Already contemplating hours of uninterrupted torture, the vampire slid himself furtively towards the source of the sound; anxious he might scare away his intended victim. His gaunt hands traced the passage towards the doors handle, and the vampire prepared for the strike.

“One-two-three-four, I hear a bugger at me door,” he muttered. “Five-six-seven-eight, he’ll soon be on my dinner plate.”

The door was thrown aside, Spike lunged forward ... and realised he’d just made the single biggest mistake of his life. Surpassing even that incident at the Turkish brothel in 1943.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he slurred, as the hands shot forward to grasp his worn leathers.

He felt the pressure amounting on his jugular, and knew the apathy was finally at an end.

© Byron, 2000