| who. | Faith Lehane, Willow Rosenberg | what. | While patrolling, Faith has an encounter with Willow. How ironic. | when. | Late at night. | where. | Local cemetery in Cleveland | locked. | Willow | progress. | Incomplete

Quaint crimson moon marked the inky black canvas, littered with faint celestial lights. Milky haze of thick clouds, hefty smoke jeopardizing a dry night. The dull tones enhanced with violet delights, painting a more appealing picture to attract an audience. The mechanical lights of Lisbon, threatened to diminish the comets, and stars, and pigments—leaving behind the crescent moon that refused to be frightened away by technology. It hovered highly in the sky, blood of the moon with a faint amber light outlining it's unique shape. Blood of the moon. Cleveland wreaked of death, catering to this theatrical night. Prostitutes littered the streets, offering nothing interesting but amateur tricks that would please any lonely man. Those unlucky, escorted by the Devil, disturbing screams followed afterwards which drew no audience, assuming it was strictly out of pleasure, and none otherwise. Naive. Cryptic, smoldering eyes glued to her, as if there were no other coordinates to take into account. Faith Lehane. Her outfit was genteelly suggesting she traded her temple—her body—for tricks Leather was egregiously a misleading material—as if the apparel was a uniform to prostitutes. She was promiscuously, but a whore wasn't a word she catered to. She didn't have to sell her body to the market to receive cash. Take, want, have. Wasn't that the usually saying? That was a former Faith. But a bit of that girl was glimmering back, piece by piece, like a puzzle.

Denial wasn't the word for it. She thrived on the attention, aware how attractive she was to the naked eye. She had the goods, and why let that go to waste. She was built for greatness. Slayer, and a lover. Love. The word made her quiver, yet ironically she envied those who harbored a stalwart ardor. Buffy and Angel were the perfect examples. Star-crossed lovers. She never lied when she said she wanted a puppy. Something to love. She was over the fact that girls like her weren't gifted with such things. No, she had to be inspiring, adoring, and lovable like Buffy to be granted such precious gifts. A part of her still felt bitter about it, but the other part couldn't care less anymore. Redemption is a road she amiably agreed to take. It was so easy, too easy to just alternate that steering wheel and head back to the other—where her former mottos weren't just mottos, they were a way of life. However, that'd be too easy. It was more challenging to play for the good guys, and she loved a challenge. It was a slayer thing. Why dust the vampire now, when it was far more fun giving them an opportunity to switch the tables? Though she was soiled with negativity and impatience. She disobeyed authority, and never believed the grass was greener on the other side. She lived in reality, and that will always dispatch her from the others. Even being a woman who maneuvered her way from death's callous, cold hands on several occasions, and defeated an army of vampires without any complications, she wasn't optimism. World is what it is. And as the blood drank the moon, she oriented herself into covenanting mischief. The cemetery. She could no longer tolerate the scouts, or researching on this new 'Voodoo' killer. Was it so hard to believe some masochist rapist was out there stalking prostitutes for kicks, and killing them afterwards.

( If you're gonna play with fire, then you're going to get burned )