prodigalwatcher: (Rogue Demon Hunter)
253 - Awesome

It was, in retrospect, a ludicrous idea, I know that now. How I ever got into my head that I was qualified to strike out on my own as a "rogue demon hunter", I've never been sure. Even on my worst days, I was never really that deluded about my physical prowess at the time, no matter what weapons I had at my disposal. (Which, incidentally, consisted of a small one-handed crossbow and a fishing knife.)

But I suppose that decision had less to do with carrying on the good fight even after breaking with the Watchers than it did with freedom.

It isn't a very long drive between Sunnydale and Los Angeles. Depending on the time of day, the traffic conditions and one's propensity for speeding and for aggressive driving, the trip can be made in as little as an hour and a half. Taking the coast highway, though adding at least another thirty minutes of travel time or more, is also a hundred times more scenic. That was the route I took on my motorbike while following my first lead.

Driving at just after sunrise, I pulled to the side of the road to rest my legs. There was nothing in particular around except the hills behind me and the rocks and the sea before me. Waves crashed, and I stood beside my bike, considering the metaphorical road that had brought me there.

Standing before the awesome expanse of the Pacific Ocean and seeing nothing but long, winding open road ahead of me, I knew I had made the right decision. No more Watchers Council. No more willful Slayers. No more disrespectful teenagers. No more Father.

I swung my leg over the bike and revved it, pointing it down the highway and never looking back.


(297)
prodigalwatcher: (Rogue Demon Hunter)
66 - "It seems to me you're doing excellently without any assistance." - 'It Happened One Night'

I ran into one of the Watchers' operatives during the months after Sunnydale and before Los Angeles. I've never been entirely sure what the man was doing in that highly disreputable bar on the edge of Laughlin, Nevada, but the moment I realised just who he was, I was already in far more trouble than I could handle.

The end of my tenure with the Council came abruptly and with little fanfare and, as far as I'm concerned, even less courtesy and sympathy. A typed letter with a rubber stamp signature informed me that given my refusal to follow Council edicts and at the least to return to England, I was being dismissed. Honestly, I knew it was coming and had no qualms about ending my association with them.

Thus began my short-lived, if highly informative, career as a rogue demon hunter.

Having already tasted the satisfaction of doing good for those in need-- I cleared out a restaurant's infestation of mischievous pixies in Tucson and tracked down a pair of mysterious produce thieves in Bakersfield (all right, those turned out to be a couple of local teenagers, but the check in the win column stands)-- I knew that I had discovered my true calling.

So, once my travels brought me to the purportedly just-as-exciting-as-Las Vegas city of Laughlin, I was delighted to find myself in a demon bar, next to an especially odiferous Rinner demon who was bragging loudly about his plans to crash a bus full of retirees for dinner.

In retrospect, I suppose the combination of demons, alcohol and it being a dive bar should have immediately equaled "uncontrolled donnybrook" in my mind.

Scrambling out of the way of more than a few hooves and talons, I spotted the operative calmly still seated in his booth, sipping quietly at a gin and tonic.

"A little help?" I asked the man.

"It seems to me you're doing excellently without any assistance, Mr. Wyndam-Pryce," he said, laughing. The operative set down his drink and walked out.

I followed not long after, but via the quicker path of being bodily thrown out the door.

(354)

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Wesley Wyndam-Pryce

February 2014

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