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prodigalwatcher191 - Where do you see yourself in twenty years?
As if I could possibly expect to last that long.
England, the Cotswolds.
Wesley stops and takes a deep breath of the bitingly chill night air. It smells of cold earth and of the frost that will form on the branches and grass in just a few hours when it's morning proper. As he resumes walking, Wesley's progress makes a curious three-part crunch through the dead leaves strewn over the ground, one sound for each foot and one for the cane. Only for balance, he always insists, not because he's infirm... not yet.
As if to prove his own insistences true, Wesley moves with alacrity toward a small clearing. He stops again, noticing a particular tree. It is wide enough around its ancient, gnarled trunk that a half dozen men, arms outstretched, could not surround it. Its bare, twisted branches reach up toward the clear, moonlit sky even as its roots reached deep beneath the earth.
He sees the tree but does not acknowledge it. Of course Wesley knows the tree, and knows what lays deep, deep under its bulk. Even with gray at his temples and flecking his hair, his Watcher's mind is still as sharp as ever. Wesley remembers the vampires' story of what they found and the painful, awful truth that was revealed. He remembers being willing to pay a price too terrible to contemplate, and that is why he turns away from the tree and keeps moving.
As soon as Wesley reaches the clearing, the night's quiet is broken. The frantic sounds of pursuit: the crunch and rustle of leaves, the heavy rapid breaths of both prey and hunters, the scattering of bodies amongst the cover of the forest. Wesley stopped, waiting at the opposite end of the clearing from the noise, and checked his watch.
Finally, three figures burst into view from out of the trees. All three were young women, each of them wearing whatever clothes they were able to hastily assemble before the chase began, and all of them bore the marks of heavy exertion. Seconds behind the trio came a half dozen larger figures, clad in black and carrying a variety of weapons ranging from staves to daggers to a single automatic pistol. The last had been at Wesley's instruction, naturally.
The clearing was, at best estimate, two hundred metres wide. The first of the young women fell to a swinging staff blow behind the right knee, the second to a flying tackle by one of the pursers. Wesley's cool blue eyes met the wide, frightened brown of the last young woman. He could see the relief of reaching her goal begin to touch her expression, just before one of the black-clad men threw his dagger, catching the girl in the back of the head with the pommel. She crashed to the ground at his feet.
Wesley glanced at his watch once more. "Fifteen minutes, thirty-seven seconds," he announced. The voice was clear but low and rough, and the sound of his disapproval was unmistakable. "And none of you even managed to cross the finish line."
Reaching into the pocket of his battered leather coat, Wesley extracted a small remote control, held it up towards the group and touched a button. The black-clad attackers let go of their captives and marched away as one. The Slayers picked themselves and dusted themselves off, angry.
"What the hell kind of test was this, anyway?" one demanded. "You throw us out of bed in the middle of the night and tell us to run for our lives, and you sic your robot bad guys on us? How is that fair?"
Wesley shook his head. They were so damn young. "Fair," he said, the sarcasm turning his voice raspy. "No one ever promised you fair, least of all me."
Turning his back on the girls, Wesley set his cane and began making his way back to training facility.
(654)
OOC Note: Ficlet section of this response is not based on any canon.
As if I could possibly expect to last that long.
England, the Cotswolds.
Wesley stops and takes a deep breath of the bitingly chill night air. It smells of cold earth and of the frost that will form on the branches and grass in just a few hours when it's morning proper. As he resumes walking, Wesley's progress makes a curious three-part crunch through the dead leaves strewn over the ground, one sound for each foot and one for the cane. Only for balance, he always insists, not because he's infirm... not yet.
As if to prove his own insistences true, Wesley moves with alacrity toward a small clearing. He stops again, noticing a particular tree. It is wide enough around its ancient, gnarled trunk that a half dozen men, arms outstretched, could not surround it. Its bare, twisted branches reach up toward the clear, moonlit sky even as its roots reached deep beneath the earth.
He sees the tree but does not acknowledge it. Of course Wesley knows the tree, and knows what lays deep, deep under its bulk. Even with gray at his temples and flecking his hair, his Watcher's mind is still as sharp as ever. Wesley remembers the vampires' story of what they found and the painful, awful truth that was revealed. He remembers being willing to pay a price too terrible to contemplate, and that is why he turns away from the tree and keeps moving.
As soon as Wesley reaches the clearing, the night's quiet is broken. The frantic sounds of pursuit: the crunch and rustle of leaves, the heavy rapid breaths of both prey and hunters, the scattering of bodies amongst the cover of the forest. Wesley stopped, waiting at the opposite end of the clearing from the noise, and checked his watch.
Finally, three figures burst into view from out of the trees. All three were young women, each of them wearing whatever clothes they were able to hastily assemble before the chase began, and all of them bore the marks of heavy exertion. Seconds behind the trio came a half dozen larger figures, clad in black and carrying a variety of weapons ranging from staves to daggers to a single automatic pistol. The last had been at Wesley's instruction, naturally.
The clearing was, at best estimate, two hundred metres wide. The first of the young women fell to a swinging staff blow behind the right knee, the second to a flying tackle by one of the pursers. Wesley's cool blue eyes met the wide, frightened brown of the last young woman. He could see the relief of reaching her goal begin to touch her expression, just before one of the black-clad men threw his dagger, catching the girl in the back of the head with the pommel. She crashed to the ground at his feet.
Wesley glanced at his watch once more. "Fifteen minutes, thirty-seven seconds," he announced. The voice was clear but low and rough, and the sound of his disapproval was unmistakable. "And none of you even managed to cross the finish line."
Reaching into the pocket of his battered leather coat, Wesley extracted a small remote control, held it up towards the group and touched a button. The black-clad attackers let go of their captives and marched away as one. The Slayers picked themselves and dusted themselves off, angry.
"What the hell kind of test was this, anyway?" one demanded. "You throw us out of bed in the middle of the night and tell us to run for our lives, and you sic your robot bad guys on us? How is that fair?"
Wesley shook his head. They were so damn young. "Fair," he said, the sarcasm turning his voice raspy. "No one ever promised you fair, least of all me."
Turning his back on the girls, Wesley set his cane and began making his way back to training facility.
(654)
OOC Note: Ficlet section of this response is not based on any canon.
