Chapter Text
I'm very disgruntled now
I want a way out, now...- Funkadelic
"Not that I'm completely opposed to getting away from it all? But a girl can only look at so many trees before you reach for your lighter." Faith does just that, the flick of her Zippo serving as punctuation. "How long until we're all recivilized?"
"Let's worry about that after we're done here," Willow replies. In this case, here is the lower part of Ohio. Their last few weeks of travel have been spent meandering north through the Appalachians, the hills and valleys finally beginning to level out.
"Feels like we're goin' in circles." Faith is currently given to long periods of letting an unlit cigarette dangle from her lips, James Dean style. Maybe to stretch her smoking dollar. Or for the extra cool.
"Since we came back to the states? We kind of have been." Willow checks her mileage. They're still on the same rental car, but she's thinking of replacing it. For variety's sake.
"Sure it wouldn't be faster throwin' darts at a map?"
Willow assesses the level of complaint and judges it trivial. The Slayer sounds more a victim of boredom than a shining Jack Nicholson. She often wonders, in idle moments, just what it might take to get Faith to snap and go off into cloud-cuckooland, never to return.
"Until we get an actual assignment from Giles, it's basically follow your nose. Well -- my nose." Willow tries for a Tabitha-type wiggle and frowns. That trick never works.
"So where's the Bloodhound Gang headed this week?"
Willow glances over. "Is this a bad touch joke?"
"You know, I'm not all about the rock and roll." Faith's irritation appears minor, but Willow knows better than to jump to conclusions.
"I used to watch that stupid show in reruns. Before I started going out and committing my own crime." The Slayer rolls down the window and lights her cigarette, careful to keep stray ash from flying in Willow's direction. "I was gonna be a detective. Like Vikki."
Willow tries to recall the dramatis personae of this particular eighties relic. She can almost envision Faith, torn jeans and grimy cheeks; settling for educational TV as a last resort.
"Vikki Allen? The black girl?"
"She had the cutest little puffy pigtails --" Faith coughs, wiping the smile of recollection from her face.
"Besides -- I got you to do the Nancy Drewin'. Give me somethin' to hit, I'm good to go."
"Poor baby." Willow grins as she slows for the curve. "You haven't had a decent fight since those wanna-werewolves. No wonder you're trying to wear me out."
"When I'm tryin'? You'll know."
Willow ignores the smirk. "I'm just saying -- all sex and no Slay has got to be at least a little bit stressful."
"Want me to rustle up some grub?" Faith chuckles. "I could take the bow out. Grab us a Bambi."
(accept our humble gratitude, for your offering...)
"Or I could wrestle a bear." Faith doesn't appear to have noticed Willow's momentary fugue, the troubled expression the witch hastens to conceal.
"Maybe you are going stir crazy from the great outdoors." Willow casts about for a safe distraction. "Tell you what. If this doesn't check out, and we don't need to be anywhere else -- we could head up to New York. As long as we're still on the east coast..."
Faith frowns, staring at the passing countryside. Willow hesitates.
"Is something --"
"It's cool." Faith shrugs. "Spent some time there a while back." The Slayer takes a final drag, pitching her filter out the window. Willow doesn't even protest at this atypical act of littering.
"It was after my Watcher...Diana..." Faith swallows, looking more angry than sad. "That fucker Kakistos...killed her right in front of me, and I booked. Hopped the first bus to the big apple -- two, maybe three weeks snatchin' purses and pickin' pockets -- I had my ticket to Sunnydale. Never looked back."
"Bad memories?" Willow ventures.
"Kinda short on good ones." Faith plucks at her seatbelt as she glances over, almost shy. "Makin' up for lost time."
"Then we're definitely going." Willow reaches out for an emotional hand squeeze, careful to keep both eyes on the road. "Ooh! I've got relatives there --"
"Well, we're here now." Faith is quick to change the subject. "So let's get her done."
Willow sighs, not too loud.
"Grab my notebook? Not the laptop --"
"Like you're gonna surf and drive," Faith snorts. She rummages through the bag at her feet and fishes out a tattered, spiral bound wad. "What section?"
"Green -- wait." Willow frowns in concentration. "When did I explain my color coding system?"
"You didn't." Faith flips open to the proper spot, skimming down the page. "I was lookin' at it last night. While you were sleepin'."
"Oh, really." Willow is mildly taken aback.
The Slayer shrugs again, sounding distracted.
"I was bored." A hint of defensive irritation. "Not like it's a diary --"
"No -- you're right." Willow searches for a way out of this pit. "The map should be right there --"
"Got it." Faith unfolds the map and orients herself. "So where the hell is this place?"
"That's one of the funnier things. As in funny peculiar."
"Not hearin' a laugh track." Faith squints at the garish bands of color. "What's with the psychedelic freakout?"
"That's what happens when you try to print high-res on a cheap rented kiosk at the strip mall." Willow hits cruise control, allowing her cramping calf some rest and relaxation. "Even with a magnifying glass -- there's too many dashed and dotted lines. The boundaries are really fuzzy."
Faith scrutinizes the legend. "Population?"
"Even fuzzier. Apparently, this region has one of the worst census return rates in the country." Willow rolls her eyes. "Paranoia strikes deep in the heartland."
"You think it's just the billhillies? I got this great bridge. Built on a swamp and everything." Faith snorts, shaking her head. "Someone comes round in a uniform askin' questions, any halfway sane person's gonna be all who wants to know?"
"Maybe in your world." Willow's retort holds just enough affection to soften the blow. "I know, I'm white bread suburbia --"
"Hate to break it to you, Will. Officer Friendly's long gone, if he ever existed." Faith's own humor is as cynical as ever. "Sorry to burst your bubble. But when a cop -- or anything close -- comes knockin'? I'll bet you can't find one in ten that ain't scared to open that door."
"Because it's a slippery slope from counting bathrooms to Arbeit Macht Frei?" Willow can imagine her mother berating her for insensitivity.
"Mock the Macht all you want." Faith doesn't sound overly grumpy, but she's using My-Mind-Is-Made-Up Voice. "I know what I know."
"Well...there was that little matter of census data being used to round up Japanese-American citizens." Willow's brow wrinkles. "And it's not directly related, but that reminds me -- can't forget good old Prisoner Code Eight."
"What's that?"
"Same period, more or less. During World War Two? The Nazis used these IBM punch card machines. They were like the big iron of their day. Major computing horsepower." Willow grimaces. "Code Eight was for a Jewish person."
"No shit." Faith's lip curls in disgust. "Efficiency uber alles."
"Helped keep the trains running on time..." Willow tries not to sound too relieved. "Oh hey, fruit stand!"
Faith is clearly skeptical, but doesn't pursue this, and Willow sends out a silent thanks to the universe at large. Escaping conversational minefields unscathed is difficult enough without her still learning how to change subjects with some degree of grace.
"You folks get a lot of business?" Willow inquires, sorting through bins and baskets. The couple reclining behind the table in their frayed and clanking lawn chairs exude the air of ease only achieved by a lifetime of togetherness.
"Enough." The man accepts her twenty with one wrinkled hand, carefully counting out change from the rusty lockbox under his chair. "Not a lot of new folks."
Willow lobs an apple at Faith, standing by the car. The Slayer doesn't look up from the map as she raises one hand, fruit smacking into place.
"We're...kinda new." Willow tries not to wince at the man's raised eyebrows, the wet crunch from behind as Faith bites down.
"Business or pleasure?" The question sounds casual as the man eases back and adjusts his straw hat. His wife appears to be asleep, her own headgear pulled over her face.
"A little of both, actually. I'm taking some time off school -- road tripping, taking pictures -- but I've been thinking of doing a history paper." This last part is so close to true that Willow doesn't even feel the usual pang of guilt. "You know...try to work in everything we see along the way."
"Sounds like a fine time." The man nods, apparently satisfied. "We don't get out much, do we?"
A grunt comes from beneath the woman's hat. The man chuckles.
"You folks take care."
His smile remains as Willow climbs back in the car, joined by a wave as the tiny two-door pulls out onto the road, disappearing around the bend. The man turns to his companion.
"You want to?"
Another grunt, more akin to a growl. The man heaves a sigh.
"Didn't think so."
He rises stiffly from his chair with a stretch and a creak. His companion ignores him as he walks over to the side yard, toward a barren and rusted flagpole.
He kneels, ignoring protesting joints. The smallest key on his fob unlocks a door set in the base of the pole, and the man removes a square of black and yellow cloth.
Affixing it to the ropes, he begins to pull.
The severed snake rises overhead, fluttering in the breeze.
**