Josiah Markowitz had barely finished his live interview before Faith’s television smashed against the wall, bursting in an explosion of sparks and glass. The high-definition set fell to the floor, irreparably damaged as the Slayer stomped her foot through what was left of the screen.
Pouring the rest of her Miller Lite over the busted TV, and for the moment ignoring the flames birthed by the mixture of alcohol and sparks, Faith growled, crushing the bottle in her hands and cutting her fingers.
“You slimy little prick!” she shouted, beginning to pace in her room. “I knew you’d backstab us like this! I could read it all over your pasty little face!”
Why had Faith trusted this man enough to sign on for his little government project? Why did she give Uncle Sam her name and control over how she spent her nights? What Faith once thought was a good chance to get out on her own and make a difference turned into a massive PR nightmare, followed by a cover-up of epic proportions.
Until the very man who recruited her snitched.
Markowitz hadn’t named anyone other than the higher-ups, but that did little to quell the Slayer’s fear that anyone and everyone was going to come after her now. Faith already had a questionable reputation, and every once in a while still had to dodge an overzealous police officer, but if someone “normal” found out what and who she truly was? That was a level of bad the Slayer didn’t feel comfortable understanding.
“You’re dead, Markowitz!” Faith bellowed with a rage she hadn’t felt in years. “If someone doesn’t get to you first, I will twist your arms off and beat you to death with them! You’ll beg for me to … for me to …”
Suddenly, the rage lifted, and Faith found herself staggering back onto the worn mattress she called a bed. A cold sweat ran down the Slayer’s forehead, a black bra strap draping over her arm. Faith took several deep breaths, her eyes wide and frantically searching the room.
Reality set in, and Faith realized what she had just said. Never mind the fact that someone would probably silence Markowitz on their own – most likely someone in the government in a desperate, unsuccessful attempt to keep the project under wraps. Faith had wanted to kill someone. For the first time in over a decade, Faith felt the urge to take a human life.
And the thought of it sickened her.
Faith hunched over the edge of the bed and threw up, coughing and wiping her mouth as she noticed the fire starting to grow. Staggering to the fire extinguisher, the Slayer took care of the fire and shook her head. She’d have to pay for the TV, so it was a good thing she was still getting checks from the Council. That government pay had been nice, but it was long gone now.
Faith sat back on the bed with a sigh, running a shaky hand through her hair. The Slayer couldn’t remember the last time she’d been truly scared; perhaps it was when Wesley broke her out of prison and she had to bring in Angelus. She’d never seen that side of Angel before, and though she tried to play it cool like always, Faith admitted only to herself how much it scared her.
Even closing the Hellmouth hadn’t been that bad.
Panic was already running through the public; with each passing day, it seemed more and more people were beginning to believe the reports. Markowitz’s little stunt only poured gasoline on the flames, and no amount of government spin was going to stem the tide. Panic was going to turn into full-out rioting, and fear would become even more commonplace than it did after the Sept. 11 attacks.
“Fuck you, Josiah,” Faith blurted out. “If I wind up in jail or dead, I’m blaming it on you.”
The Slayer had virtually no choice now but to go out on the run again. If the government was to silence the guy who actually talked, what was to stop them from silencing those who might yet talk? Having already spent the better part of her life on the run – from Kakistos and the Council and the police and to some extent Buffy – the prospect of hightailing it again wasn’t exactly appealing.
Picking up her phone, Faith hit her speed dial. Growling when she heard the voicemail pick up, the Slayer bit her lip nervously.
“Spike, pick up your goddamn phone! We are so boned. If you haven’t seen it, Markowitz just blabbed. To the world. On national TV. We are fucked. Like, royally.”
Hanging up, Faith tossed the phone onto the mattress before grabbing one of her bags and stuffing it with everything she owned. Clothes and smokes were pretty much all she had aside from her weapons bag, which was already full and tucked under the bed. Flinging the bag of clothes over her shoulder, Faith grabbed the weapons and busted through the door.
Let the guy running this motel find her and ask for the money for his TV. Right now, Faith had more pressing concerns.
Loading everything onto her bike, Faith paused once she straddled the seat. Again reaching for her phone, Faith called the only other person she could think of.
Her old Watcher.
“Hey, Cor … it’s me. Listen, I know we’re not, ya know, partners anymore, but … I’m screwed. Like, big-time screwed. I’m bolting, but before I do, we need to talk.”
A flick of the wrist and the bike’s engine roared to life. It wasn’t a long drive from Vegas to Searchlight … maybe after talking to Corbett, Faith could continue on to Los Angeles, or San Diego.