Wicked Psycho
by Witchkittyn
Rating: R for violence
Summary: X-over. On the run after escaping prison, Faith ends up at a motel.....
Takes place: Sometime after BTVS season 4, and sometime between Psycho part 2 and 3.
Disclaimer: Characters owned by the Whedon, the Frog, the Fox, the Mutant Enemy, the Sanddollar, the UPN, and Alfred Hitchcock. (Boy, no giving anything away there, huh?)
Note: It may be a dubious dedication, but hey, it's my fic. This is in memory of Anthony Perkins, who died September 12 1992 of AIDS, and his widow Berry Berenson, who died September 11 2001 in the attack on the World Trade Center. God rest them both.

~:~:~:~:~:~

The rain was smacking even harder against the glass now. The air smelled wet, even in the bus. The dim greenish light from the weak fluorescents built into the roof glared down on her, adding to the underwater feel. Drowning.

No, I haven't called the others yet. The prison only called me a few moments ago; I haven't had time.

Do you think she'll come here?

The administration said it happened late last night. I can't understand why they didn't call sooner...I requested....

Giles, don't blame yourself. Look... if she's not here yet, maybe that means she won't be. Maybe...she's had enough.

Where might she go? Back to Boston?

I don't know, Giles. I just...I don't know.

Faith turned her damp head -- she hadn't been caught in the rain, but her hair felt wet -- and stared at her gaunt, pale reflection in the dark window of the bus.

I don't really think calling Buffy is necessary right now, Cordy.

Says you! Angel, she doesn't have all the accessories she came with, if you know what I mean! What if she--

She's also not a Barbie doll. Anyway, I don't think she'll go back to Sunnydale. Faith's.... looking for something. She didn't find it here... and apparently it wasn't in prison, either.

Well where else would she go? You're the expert on finding redemption, think! Use your... detective skills or whatever!

They say it's always in the last place you look. I don't know, Cordy. Redemption... something tells me Faith's not looking anymore.

Faith blinked. The bus had come to a stop, she must have fallen asleep. "Last stop," called the driver.

Faith was the only person left on this bus. She looked down at her vinyl pants and black leather tank top, with a jean jacket thrown over against the rain. Slinky, flashy, not the kind of thing anybody in their right mind would travel in. Grabbing her torn, grimy duffle bag, she got up from the seat she'd pressed her imprint in over the past miles. Left behind in the seat was a newspaper. The headline read: Lakers win 3-2. And below that, one of the bylines: Club still closed after teen found murdered.

The red neon sign glared blurrily into the wet, dark atmosphere as the bus pulled away with a glubby roar. Faith looked around -- the place looked unreal, like a movie set. The sky was devoid of stars or city glare, they must be thousands of miles from civilization. For as large as the house in front of her was, for all the wet wormy grass that stretched out into the black, Faith felt claustrophobic, as if the house and motel and office were not outside, but inside; built in a large, black room.

BATES MOTEL, the glowing sign said.

~:~:~:~:~:~

The bells over the door jingled as Faith let herself in the office door. "Hello?" She looked around the cramped, deserted yellow room. Keys hung in neat rows behind the desk. Thunder grumbled ominously in the distance.

She glanced out the large picture window, which was taken up almost entirely by the large, black hunk of house out there on top of the rainswept hill. Lights on, nobody home. "Yo, service? Anybody here?"

The bells jangled again. Faith turned to find herself face to face with the tallest, skinniest man she'd ever seen. "Hi there," he spoke. "Gosh, I didn't hear the bus in all this rain. Things certainly have changed since they finally started running the line though here." He skirted deftly around her, shimmying in behind the desk.

Faith gave the dude the once over. Little skinnier than she liked them, a little older... though that hadn't kept her from nailing both the boss and Angel, both of whom been in their hundreds. This one even kind of reminded her of Angel, with his square brow and thin, twitchy mouth. Either Angel, or Harrison Ford on a hunger strike. The guy was encased in a black turtleneck, which made him look just a little too art-house gay for Faith's liking... but then she didn't screw people's clothes, did she?

Her red lips lifted in a smirk as she leaned her elbows on the counter, and the guy pulled out the desk ledger, talking the whole time. "On the other hand, it still hasn't brought us the business we might have had, if... the freeway--" The clerk stopped dead, his dark eyes staring down at the cleavage afforded by Faith's slinky tank.

Faith smiled. Messing with men's libidos was always good for a laugh. "No kidding," she muttered, picking up the pen. She scrawled an F-- before realizing that writing her own name in this book was not the greatest idea. What name, what name...

After some thought, she scratched down the only other "F" name she could bring to mind at the moment-- Faye. She had no idea where she'd come up with a lame-ass name like that. But directly after it she wrote the word White. Faith's favorite color was black... but if Buffy or any of the others got it in their heads to come looking for her, black would be a tip-off. Therefore, Faith went with the extreme opposite.

The man behind the counter had dropped his eyes to the book, seemingly trying to stare at anything but her breasts. The corner of his mouth twitched, repeatedly, as Faith crossed her T. "Faye," he spoke up. "That's a very... unusual name. Almost archaic. We don't get many Fayes here anymore."

Faith had been on the move for almost twenty-four hours straight, ever since busting out of prison. She was wiped out, and not in the mood to figure out whether archaic was a compliment or a slam. "Yeah. So now you know my name, what's yours?" She noticed from the date column on the guestbook that she was the first guest here since April 4th..... 1989. "Wow. Kinda out-of-the-way operation you got goin' here. Nice and private... nobody to hear the screams, huh?" She looked up at him with a grin.

The man's dark eyes stared right through her. Bored through her. She'd seen looks like that only a few times in her life, and one of them was in prison... a near-catatonic pixieface doing time for torching her house -- along with her boyfriend and most of her family. Psycho.

The man's eyebrow twitched now, the mouth one having spread. "Norman," he answered suddenly.

"Normannn." Faith nodded, her tongue thoughtfully running over her teeth. "So, Norman... there been some kind of nuclear accident around here, kept people away for eleven, twelve years?" Her chipped painted nail tapped the book. Blood red. They wouldn't let her wear polish in prison. She'd had to look at the blood under her nails every day. Now she painted over it, although she used the same color.

Norman seemed to snap out of his loony reverie. "Oh-- actually... the motel was closed for many years. I... was ill for a while... I had to go to the hospital. I'm fine now." He spoke in jittery stops and starts, his speech shooting busily along at points, stopping dead at others, as he weaved out from behind the desk. Then, as if he'd just thought of it, he went back and let his hand drift over the key rack. His hand stopped, started to move on.... and then stopped again on key number one. "They gave me a clean bill of health, and here I am. I had to do a lot of renovating, a lot of spit and polish. These old places deteriorate so quickly if you don't keep an eye on them." He handed her the key. "Cabin One. Close to the house if you need anything."

"You live here?" Faith looked around the cramped room.

"Oh... no, not here." He giggled faintly...and damn if it wasn't like being back with the boss. "That would be close quarters, wouldn't it? No, I live--" his long, wiry arm rose over her shoulder, and a bony finger pointed out the picture window. "--with my mother."

~:~:~:~:~:~

That girl's a troublemaking slut!

"Mother, don't you start again. Remember what happened last time, the last time I had to cover up what you did. Remember how long they put me in that awful institution-- how long they kept me away from you. You don't want to go through that again, do you?

You're the one who keeps offering shelter to these filthy harlots! I can smell blood all over her, she's probably one of those wild punks that likes to ride with those motorcycle gangs!

"Mother, how can you say things like that? Faye's nothing at all like the other girls-- she wouldn't hurt a fly!"

You never were smart enough to see how wicked people really are. Always falling for any sweet talk any filthy girl tells you. She's probably robbing you blind down there right this minute! If you don't watch out she's going to slit your throat while you sleep!

"Mother, don't you go bothering that girl. Just leave her alone! I won't cover up for you again, if you hurt her like you did the others! I won't clean up your messes anymore!"

You're digging your own grave, boy! If you're not man enough to get rid of her I'll do it myself, by God!

~:~:~:~:~:~

Night. Water rushing.

Clouds of steam filled the small bathroom. The shower curtain, a pale washed-out color, moved slightly in a soft moving of the acrid air. The pale, curvy, blurry form behind the curtain moved slowly, obliterated by the steamy air, the opaque plastic, and beads of water sliding down.

The plastic jerked back abruptly. Faith screamed bloody murder. "AAAUGGH!!---"

Silence. Except for the continuous rushing of the water.

In the damp shower stall, Faith drew in breath after ragged breath, slowly letting the wavering knife point drop; her grip white-knuckled on the handle. Her wet eyelashes flickered, staring around the room, as the water needled her bare skin. Her dark eyes roamed over the toilet, the sink... and the tightly shut door.

Faith drew in a trembling breath. She glanced down at the separated blade of the knife she was clenching-- the gift knife the boss had given her-- which was glistening shiny and wet from the shower spray. Rivulets of water dripped from the edge... like blood. How twisted was that? She couldn't even take a shower without bringing her knife in with her?!

Casting one last nervous glance around the empty bathroom -- nobody, nobody was there, this ain't the prison shower, you're gettin' paranoid -- Faith tugged the shower curtain closed. Carefully, she shifted the blade from one wet hand to the other.

She leaned against the wall of the stall, resting on her elbow, her fingers listlessly combing through her wet hair as the water poured down.

~:~:~:~:~

You're nothing without me.

Faith gazed down at the few meager belongings that had come with her from L.A. to wherever-this-place-was. Her knife, glinting sharply as it lay cradled in the faded flowered blanket of the hotel bed, its hardness a vast contrast to the softness it rested in. Faith's mouth briefly perked at the double entendre. Possibly if she'd graduated high school she'd have been some kind of creative writing person by now, thinking shit like that. The knife, perfect except for a tiny scuff on the hilt acquired somewhere in all its travels, being jostled in the hilt and stolen by Buffy and surviving an explosion and stolen back by Faith when she'd gone rooting through the rubble of the high school.

Neither the boss nor Buffy had ever said that to her in so many words-- you're nothing without me-- but Faith reflected that, sorry as it was, it was probably the truest thing that could be said about her at this point. Ever since becoming the Slayer, a period which should have been the free-est of her life had been nothing but a prison, just as sure as L.A. cell block six had been.

I am better than you. Always have been.

Ever since being called, Faith had found herself doing nothing except living for other people. One side or the other, Buffy or the Mayor. If she wasn't running to one, she was running to the other. If not plotting one's revenge, then plotting one's death, then begging for one's forgiveness. Always compromising herself, molding herself to what she thought Buffy or the boss had wanted.

There won't be a place for you in this world.

Even now she was doing it. All roads led back. Any sane person, anyone with sense would have been running as fast and as far away from Cali and the memories and Buffy as she could.

But Faith... just couldn't stop with the psycho killer-ing, could she.

Knock knock.

Faith jumped. She looked down at the knife-- cops? Bounty hunters? Buffy?

"Faye?"

Oh. Norman. Faith let out a sigh of relief. The most dweeby harmless hick in five counties. Still taking caution, she turned her back on the knife and edged slowly toward the door of her room. "Norm?"

She opened it slowly, positioned so that she could use the door as a deflecting weapon if she had to. But there was no one besides the hotel's owner on the other side, tall and twitchy, bearing a tray full of....

Faith stared down at the plate of cheese sandwiches, the folded napkin, and the small pitcher of what looked like iced tea. "I didn't call for room service," she felt it only fair to point out to her visitor.

Norman's mouth twitched in a flurry of apology. "Oh, I know, but-- I was just making myself a lunch, nothing spectacular, just a few cheese and ham sandwiches-- and I thought maybe you might be feeling hungry too. I know I always like to eat with friends-- if the opportunity arises-- and I figured, well, since you were here, and you might be hungry too--"

Faith had stepped back, opening the door wider, checking out her host's needly demeanor with more than a little bit of trepidation. "Yeah... okay," she muttered. "C'mon in."

Norman stepped through the door, and seemed to cast a look around as though he were walking into dangerous territory. With a glance over his shoulder-- a sign of suspicion if Faith ever saw one, and she immediately started keeping an eye out for cops or anyone else lurking out there-- Norman went to set the tray down-- first on the small nighttable, then, rethinking, on the bureau. "I didn't bring a lot," he stated the obvious, "but it's sure to cut back the stomach grumbles."

Faith was actually starving, but she gave the sandwich that she grabbed off the tray the once-over, just in case there were razorblades or something tucked inside. "Much obliged," she muttered before downing the sandwich in two bites. She really was hungry-- and scooped another off the tray, checked it first, then stuffed it in. "You do this for all your guests here?"

Norman seemed to shudder. "No-- that is, it's so rare that we even have guests here-- that is, I don't do it very often. Have lunch with... guests."

"No kidding." Faith snapped up the last sandwich, then noticed Norm hadn't actually eaten any. "Sorry... starvin'," she apologized cursorily.

Norm held up his bony, large hands. "Oh no-- be my guest. It's all for you."

Sign of poisoned food if ever she'd seen one, too; but Faith decided not to worry about it. Her Slayer constitution was more than bulletproof against any kind of penny-anny poison this guy could have laying around the house. Gulping down the final mouthful-- and still not satisfied, she suffered a smile. "Well, thanks, Norm, but I gotta get goin'."

"Where are you headed?"

That made Faith stop short. Not just because she didn't like giving it up as far as personal info, but because....

She wasn't quite sure. That wasn't true-- she knew at some point she was headed back to Sunnydale. The truth was, she didn't feel like rushing back there right this second. The inevitable was coming, she knew it-- but she also knew that unlike other fights, there was a chance she might not win this one. Not that she was looking to live to be a hundred, like the boss had-- but she couldn't face fighting Buffy again without getting up her gump good and ready this time.

She didn't feel ready.

That weakness made her sick to her stomach, so much that the cheese and bread she'd just wolfed down grinded unwelcomingly in her belly. "I ain't sure," she finally muttered in response to her waiting host. "I, uh...."

Oh hell. If she couldn't trust a perfect stranger, who could she trust? If Norman threatened to go to the cops, she'd just kill him. Can't be leaving loose ends. "....I just got out of prison... not long ago," she gave it up. "I was in for a while, and one thing you hear from all of 'em, the more ex-cons you're around, is that life on the outside takes a while to slip back into." She turned away from Norman, wishing she had a bag to rummage through. At odds with herself, she swiped a knickknack off the shelf of the bureau-- a stuffed bird perched upon a dust-covered hunk of wood-- and started picking at the bark with her chipping blood-colored nails.

The older fellow didn't seem as put off by her confession as she'd thought he'd be. "Oh.... I know exactly what you mean," he spoke slowly. "I myself was put away for a while-- not in prison, in an... institution." Faith noticed the way he seemed to force the word out, as if it tasted bad. "I found when I was released, it was exactly like you say.... very hard to slip back into... reality." His dark eyes seemed to trail off, as if focusing on something beyond the crumbling plaster wall of the room.

This was the first thing he'd had to say that Faith found kind of interesting. "'Put away'?" She snickered, gently. "What'd ya do, kill a guy?"

Those dark eyes came out of whatever haze they'd been lost in and focused on her. Faith felt, skin-crawlingly, as if she were looking into her own reflection. That same kind of dark, lost... empty.... soulless....

"I had my.... difficulties," Norman spoke evasively.

Faith shrugged. "Hey, no problem," she muttered. She could relate all to well to his not wanting to talk about whatever it was. The news that he'd been imprisoned too wasn't really a shock; she'd guessed from the start there was something a little shifty about the guy. It actually made her feel at ease-- which itself put her on edge, since she'd come to learn that trusting anyone only ended with her bloody and broken. But she shifted against the bureau she was leaning on, fingers prying a bit of bark loose, which went flying to the floor, unnoticed. "You got your secrets, I got mine." Hell, did she.

Norman shifted against the doorjamb. "There are only a handful of ways to deal with problems you find yourself in," he seemed to surrender. He was silent for an extended period. "I guess.... the way I chose to deal with mine... wasn't acceptable to a lot of people."

Faith felt as though he might have been talking about her. "Feelin' that," she agreed, her voice low and cold. "Wasn't acceptable. Even though you know if they'd been in the same sitch, no saying they wouldn't have 'handled it' the exact same way."

"Exactly!" Norman's voice held the same desolation. "They have no idea how they'd react, if the same things had happened to them. They just label you, put you away on a shelf. Lock you away where they don't have to look at you. Don't have to be reminded of what they might become."

Faith's eyes were dark with the awful feeling of complete understanding. "They want to forget you," she muttered, recalling Buffy's taunt in her mother's living room.

Norman's black eyes traveled away from his shapely, young boarder-- she's not bad, she's not; not every girl is evil like Mother says-- to the bed which was still made, if a little rumpled. He was about to ask whether she had slept last night, but his question was choked out of him almost before he opened his mouth.

The knife lay glinting upon the bed, a more elaborate and... almost beautiful knife than any he'd ever seen before. Certainly nicer than the knives in Mother's cutlery drawer. Norman felt a stab-- a painfully appropriate slash of revulsion-- of almost guilt-- of coveting someone's knife besides Mother's.

She's a filthy whore! She'll cut your throat in your sleep!

Norman's eyes squeezed shut, the raspy crone-like voice rattling in his head. But even though his eyes were closed he could see it-- the frightening two-sided blade, the sharp corners, the evil-looking scaly handle.... every knife he had ever cut himself with and that he had nightmares of every night for the past twenty years were dancing in his mind's eye; a flashing, spinning spectacle of silver steel blades and ugly red gashes spilling blood. They were all dancing around the horribly beautiful form of this new knife, with its almost feminine curves; they were all bowing down to her, worshipping her--

You disgusting little pervert!! You filthy, filthy boy! You think Mother doesn't hear what you think in the night?!

Norman's eyes popped open. He had come to stand over the bed, staring down at the glinting blade.

If you're not man enough to get rid of her, I'll do it myself, by God!--

Behind Norman's back, Faith had not bothered noticing his inner nervous breakdown. She was too busy gazing out the room's window-- and her brows furrowed at the sight of a figure coming over the yellowing, dead lawn of the motel property. She glared, not believing what she was looking at.

"Call the police," she growled, her voice low and threatening.

Behind her, Norman jumped, pulled out of his reverie. He looked up with the look of a startled bird. "The police? Why??"

Faith set the dead mounted bird down on the dresser with a bang, stalked toward the room's door, jerking it open. "Cause there's gonna be a murder," she muttered as she stalked outside.

She stomped across the wet, rainy yard, her boots sinking into what was left of the muddy lawn with every step. "What the fuck are you doing here?!" she shouted at the intruder. Xander Harris was limping across the yard.

The last few years had not been kind to him. His girlfriend Anya was dead. 2000 years she had reigned in evil, two years into her human life she was dead. On top of this, and losing his job, and getting kicked out of his parents' home, Xander had rejected Buffy and his old friends, taking off for the open road. He was no longer the sweet and shy boy Faith had raped in that other motel so long ago. Death and poverty had changed him... bittered him, to the degree where only a warped version of himself remained.

For all that, he gave her that cocky grin, and for the briefest of seconds that little boy was staring back at her. "Hey, Faith," he greeted lazily. He looked to be drunk. "Knew I'd catch up to you sooner or later. Buffy says hi, by the way."

Buffy. Faith shook off the head-spinning wave of confused, conflicted impulse feelings that the other Slayer's name brought. "Yeah, and just to be obvious, she's here too, right?" She peeked over the boy's shoulder, glancing around at the seemingly deserted road.

But unbeknownst to Faith, Xander no longer had any sentiment for the blonde Slayer that he would've paid a kidney to get down and dirty with not too long ago. He let out a hysteric kind-of cough, and Faith expected him to hurl right there on the grass. Whatever he was on must've been good. "Heh, no way," he got out in a mumble. "I don't need two Slayers trying to kill me."

At first, of course, Faith took it as the slam against her that it had to be. But something in there made her pause: Xand sounded like he was speaking from experience. For a sick moment, Faith found herself fantasizing the worst: could B have snapped, pulled a psycho on the gang? Even as she knew told herself no way... and even as Faith felt a twinge even thinking of Buffy that way-- a remorseless, psycho killer-- she had to admit, it would have been pretty damn funny. Part of her had the nagging feeling that one reason she was feeling so bad thinking about B that way was because.... Faith couldn't, actually, say that Buffy didn't have it in her.

After all, Faith used to be one of the little Scooby gang, too. And Buffy hadn't wasted any time sticking her.

But Faith didn't have time for all that, again. She shook her head, gruffly. "Yeah, well, hate to disappoint you Xand, but I don't do that anymore. You came here to do B a good deed, right? Hunt down the psycho, take me out, all in a day's work? Hell, you guys must've known about the jailbreak before I was outta town. Well, I hate to wreck your party, babe, but that break's all you've got on me. I haven't hurt a fly since I got out."

She purposely ignored the stolen clothes she was wearing right now. She hoped that Xander was too sloshed to catch the news about what went down in L.A. That was the last thing she needed right now. Damn it, running away was supposed to mean a fresh start. Why'd all her worst mistakes always have to keep following her?!

"Faye?"

She turned around then, to see that Norman had followed her outside, long legs striding over the grass. Behind her came a satisfying groan. "Oh, talk about obvious! Who are you shacking up with now?!" Xander snapped.

Faith just then had a wicked idea. "That's Norman," she said, turning to face the boy. "He's a straight-up lunatic. You think I'm bad? He murdered his whole family." Faith was lying through her teeth. It was one of her talents. "Ask anybody around here, it was all over the papers. They had him locked up in the state pen for years. He's totally psycho."

Faith couldn't see it, since her back was to him. But Norman's expression had tugged, suddenly, as her yarn had spun on and on... and at her final choice of words.

But Xander, for his part, didn't look convinced.... though it was hard for Faith to get a good line on what he looked; the buzz from whatever he was on was making everything he did look drugged. "Oh yeah?" he finally spoke out. "W-w...why isn't he in jail?"

"He was." Faith shifted, licking her upper lip. "But they let him out after, uh, some real bombshell electrotherapy shit. That's why I'm here. I'm takin' care of him, state's paying me. But uh..." she stepped forward, "he gets nervous, y'know? You don't need to be scared of me, Xand. But you hang around too long, he might just take it into his head to... y'know... " She slid her blood-red fingernail across her own throat, in a lame slasher motion.

Xander was looking more and more spooked now. Undoubtedly he was dredging through drunken memories of exactly how Faith used to enjoy spending her time. It was all too possible that she really was hanging out with weirdoes even more violent than she was.

In the background, Norman seemed to be trying to save the day. "Are-are-are--" he stammered, helplessly, "--are you looking--for a room?" he directed his question toward Xander. Even though he himself looked as though he'd rather not have any more guests anywhere near the place. "Do-- do you want--"

It was funny. The two men had almost the exact same look of trepidation of their faces. "Aw... no," Xander finally muttered, taking a step backward. He almost slipped on the muddy grass. "It just so happens.... I've already secured my sleeping quarters elsewhere." The trademark sarcasm was thick in Xander's voice. "An elsewhere slightly closer to the outskirts of nowhere. You two enjoy yourselves out here on the final frontier."

Faith's lips sneered. Xander had never been one for snappy wordplay, even when he was sober. "Live long and prosper, stud," she cracked back darkly. She actually almost laughed at the way Xander turned tail and ran-- damn near ran back to the road. He didn't have any place to stay. Even she could see that. He'd probably been hitching straight from Sunnydale. That only made Faith think wherever this place was was closer to home sweet home than she'd originally guessed.

All roads led back, all right. Her brief humor gone now, she turned sullenly back to Norm--

Except he was gone too. She saw him hightailing it up the steep, zigzagged stone steps leading up to that dilapidated wreck of an old house. The shadow of the huge hulk seemed almost too black against the grey sky. Everything was growing darker and nastier as night started falling over the land.

Faith's favorite time of day. Usually. But she had the feeling right now that if she wanted to keep her room tonight, she'd better jog up there and.... apologize, she guessed. Norm hadn't seemed to take kindly to the huge yarn she'd fed Xander.

Never a great idea to piss off your landlord. Heaving a sigh, Faith started off across the faded flat grass, gazing up at the hulking black house on the top of the hill.

She climbed the steep steps, looking up at the grey, badly-chipped house as she approached the porch. Yet more steps. She listened to the hollow noise as her boots clomped on the wooden planks. She put a hand on the front door, with its oval stained glass window, and pushed.

It was open. Faith slowly stepped inside, watching her Slayer-vision kick in slightly, adjusting to the darkness of the front parlor. Another staircase stretched up into the darkness, at her right. "Yo, Norm?"

No answer. This place looked decrepit, and yet it was still clearly lived in -- dusty old-fashioned furniture was everywhere. Faith looked to her left. A huge, sparsely decorated living room yawned there; a piano which probably didn't work crouched in one corner. At the window, looking out at the grey world, framed by the dim light, stood Norman. The dark room seemed to encompass him-- both a refuge and a dangerously creepy place to be.

Faith stepped into the living room -- heh, she'd almost said tomb there. Trying hard to push away the memory of how she'd once stood in front of a window like that, looking out at the world while the boss tried to cheer her up about the shitty turn her life had taken, Faith cleared her throat. "Hey, Norm? You all right?"

Silence.

Faith sighed. "C'mon.... I was just trying to mess with Xander's head, you know? He's from back where I came from-- small world, an' all that shit." She didn't want to think about the ramifications of the fact that somehow Xander had found her in the great big state of Cali without even trying. He hadn't been the most perceptive of the Scooby gang-- yet he'd tracked her down. If he could do it, certainly Buffy could... "I didn't mean anythin'. That was real ignorant of me, makin' fun of your... your problems like that. Sorry." Faith hated apologizing. She never sounded sincere, even to herself.

But Norman finally made a movement. His bony shoulders shrugged, and though Faith couldn't see, a weird smile was breaking over his face. "Oh... that's all right." He sounded oddly calm for somebody who'd looked so freaked a minute ago. "If a man can't laugh at his own shortcomings... he can't ever expect to be healthy, can he?" He finally turned around, and his thin face was drawn in something close to a smile.

Faith, against her better judgment and a weird pit in her gut, found herself taking a like to this guy. He reminded her of the Mayor in a way -- all weird tics and good manners. He was probably a sociopathic murderer underneath too, she thought to herself.

Well, so what? Wasn't like the so-called "normal" people had been all that great for her.

Faith tried to relax. At least that was over. She glanced around the dark, eerie room, her eyes traveling over the ancient antique crap and the peeling wallpaper. She finally stuck on the massive staircase that led up into the darkening heights of the house. "Your mom up there?" she asked offhandedly.

That was the wrong thing to say. Norman's unease seemed to come back in double time. "No!-- I mean-- she doesn't like to have visitors." He came away from the window and started toward her, as if he was going to hold her back from going upstairs, if she tried it. "She's very-- she's very ill." It sounded as though he was looking for a good excuse.

But he didn't have to worry. Making small talk with some old granny was not Faith's idea of a good time. "Hey, whatever." She held up her hands as he approached her, waving it off. "I just wanted to make sure everything was cool between us. Like I say, you got yours, I got mine."

Norman seemed to relax, ever so slightly. He nodded emphatically, and she could tell he was trying hard not to glance down at her exposed cleaves again. "Ev-everything's cool," he promised, the slang sounding wrong coming out of his mouth.

Faith gave him one of her patented come-on smiles. "So... we friends again?" She reached out and ran her hand down his arm in a superficially flirty way.

Norman's head jerked, staring at her hand, following it down his arm. He didn't seem to know how to react. He acted like he was scared to death of her. Hell, he didn't even know her. "S-sure... we're friends."

~:~:~:~:~

Almost before the door was even shut, Faith began to strip.

She pulled the black tank top off over her head, her mass of wild chocolate brown tendrils flying as she tossed the shirt on the floor. Hooking her thumbs in her brastraps, she tugged them down, her pale breasts popping forth in freedom as she wriggled the still-secured bra down over her hips, taking the waist of her pants and her black panties down with it. Nude except for her boots and socks, she leaned back against the door and raised one foot, undoing the laces of her boot so she could get the mass of material off her legs. Clunk went one boot. Clunk went the other.

She needed another shower. Pushing away from the door, she walked naked across the carpet-- on second thought she should've thought twice about keeping her socks on; no telling what kind of moldy old shit was in this rug-- and headed toward the bathroom. She paused-- and her head turned toward the bed, where her knife still lay, gleaming wickedly. Wondering if she should take it in with her again.

Knock knock.

Faith's head jerked. If it was Norm-- and it had to be-- she was starkers here. On the other hand.... Faith's lips perked at one corner in a smirk. She turned around and headed back toward the door. "Hey, Norm," she started to say, opening the door.

She damn near slammed it again.

Xander was standing on the other side.

~:~:~:~:~

Knock knock.

A dark shadow moved behind the large oval stained glass window in the front door. Agent Gregory Spears waited patiently as the door clicked with the noise of locks being withdrawn, and the door opened. The pale, drawn face of Norman Bates, ex-psychiatric patient, acquitted of murder by reason of insanity twenty years earlier, and now something of a local celebrity/bogeyman, peered around the edge of the door. "Hello there," he greeted Spears calmly. "Is there something I can do for you? Are you looking for a room?"

Spears smiled back just as calmly. "No, thanks. You Norman Bates?"

The door opened wider. "Yes, that's me. Who are you, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Lieutenant Spears." The stranger on Norman's porch held out his hand, and Norman took it with a hand that was particularly heated and too soft, the hand of a paper pusher. "I work with the local police division over in Fairvale. I don't mean to disturb you on this late evening, but I was wondering if you might be able to answer some questions for me."

~:~:~:~:~

Xander was wavering in the doorway; clearly if he'd had any money on him he hadn't spent it on getting a room of his own. "Hey, Faith," he mumbled. And then he took a look downward, not drunk enough to be able to ignore the obvious. "Uh..... wow," he spoke.

Faith had refrained from slamming the door on his face only because it would have looked like she was scared. And of all the people she'd ever had the bad luck to meet, Xander was definitely the one she was least afraid of. She sneered. "Enjoy it, it's your last look," she informed him.

Xander seemed to register that last time he'd seen her like this, it almost had indeed been the last thing he'd ever seen in this life. That in mind, he sniffed, harshly. "Well, believe it or not-- as nice as that is-- I actually can do without getting strangled tonight."

"That's too bad." Faith stood unmoving in the doorway, not allowing him to pass. "'Cause choking the hell out of a chicken shit like you sounds like a fun time to me."

~:~:~:~:~

The figure beyond the door didn't move, but Spears could almost audibly sense his hackles going up. As could only be expected, all the accusations and jail time this strange fellow had undergone in the past. "What sort of questions?" Norman asked, and his voice, though guarded, was still eerily calm. "I hope there hasn't been another-- I mean, whenever there's trouble in town, seems as though people automatically point their fingers towards my house." He shifted in the doorway, as if hearing something in the recesses of the house. "I can assure you, whatever it is--"

"No, no--" Spears held up a hand to halt any further talk. "It's nothing like that, Norman. I'm aware of your history, I know you've paid your debt to society. This has got nothing to do with that." He shuffled in his pocket, pulling out a photograph. "I'm simply here because, your motel being open for business again, there's a chance you may have seen this young lady." He showed the photo to Norman.

Norman studied the tiny replica of Faith's face, trying to remain expressionless, even though Mother's voice was practically screaming in his head. "Her name's Faith, though she might be going by another name," the self-proclaimed lieutenant went on. "She's wanted for breaking out of Los Angeles City Penitentiary, and for questioning in the murder of a young girl at a club there."

~:~:~:~:~

Xander's brown, bloodshot eyes gazed unsteadily at her, but there was something of indignation in them, even as wasted as he was. And as scared of her as any sane person should've been. "Look," he got out, "you're the last person I expected to find out here, believe me. And as far as being on my want-to-see list? You're way down at the bottom." His hand expressively waved toward the floor-- and both of them reassessed as they realized his drunken hand was way too close to her naked lower half. "Uh... but, but the fact is... you and I have more in common right now than even I want to admit."

"No shit. You kill somebody lately?"

Xander reconsidered that. "Things have changed," he muttered. "Back... in Sunnydale. Buffy's changed, Faith. Her mother's dead... she's living alone with Dawn now... they don't have their dad OR their mom now."

Faith shrugged. Tried hard not to look interested in the one thing she actually cared to hear Xander talk about. "Well hell, I wouldn't have any idea what that's like," she grumbled sarcastically. "So she's finally something besides than never-fail, never-die Buffy. Nice to hear, but it ain't my problem."

"Hey--" Xander placed his hand against the door before Faith could follow her first inclination and slam it on him, "--will you just hear me out? I was lying before-- I've got nowhere to stay."

"Bleed me a river." She hoped he got the warning tone she'd deliberately said that with.

"But I figure--" Xander's speech stalled, as he bit his own drunken tongue, "--I know, we've clashed horns in the past.... well, actually, you almost popped my head right off-- but I'm willing to forgive that. I mean, I've got no pride at this point, Faith. Things have changed, Faith-- there ain't any place for me back with the gang in Sunnydale, with Willow and Buffy--"

There won't be a place for you anymore. Faith flinched. She tried to shake the voice out of her head. "No," she said, both to the Mayor's echoing voice and to Xander's drunken ramblings. "no... no--"

She didn't want to hear. Her own inner monologue coming out of someone else's mouth, especially not from a loser like Xander. She had that particular claim staked for herself. He didn't deserve to make that whine, he didn't deserve to feel like she did. He was one of the white hats. Not even worth keeping around after a good fuck.

Faith's eyes opened as she looked away from Xander, and caught sight of her bed. The knife on her blankets gleamed suddenly, as the lamplight caught its blade.

~:~:~:~:~

"You keep glancing back at the stairs."

Spears cocked his head, gazing steadily at Norman's face. "I'm no seasoned vet, but one thing they teach you first off in training is that people, when they're hiding something, generally tend to look or move directly toward the place where they've hidden it. Sometimes not even knowing it." He headed directly toward the staircase even as he said it.

Norman was returning the agent's gaze with one of his own-- just as steady, and a good deal more disturbing. "I've got nothing to hide, Lieutenant," he spoke calmly, but the office could clearly hear the tremor in his voice. "Over the years, you people have taken nearly everything I own out of here. For evidence, or whatever other reason. All things considered, I should be the one getting suspicious. I mean for all I know, you police are really robbing my house. Undertaking some elaborate scheme to get everything you can from this place. Piece by piece."

As he'd spoken in that odd, running-commentary way, he'd stepped toward the stairs himself, as if preparing to stop Spears. "And one thing I do know, after all the searches you people have done here, is that you can't even set foot inside my home without a warrant to search. And I haven't seen you show me anything like that."

But the lieutenant had already sidestepped him. He already had one foot up on the bottom stair. He was smiling down at Norman, and something in his snide smile belied a less-than-honest aspect to him. "But Mr. Bates," he spoke reasonably, "this young lady-- I've no idea what she's told you, but the fact is she's a convicted murderer. After all you've been through in the past.... you don't want to be dragged down again by something that she's done while staying in your hotel, do you?"

I told you so, boy!! I told you that girl would bring all kinds of trouble down on us again! You never were worth the food it took to feed you!!

~:~:~:~:~

He was like the thing that wouldn't shut up. "...I thought maybe we could join f-forces," Xander slurred. "I could be like, your sidekick, and follow you around on your Slayer quest or whatever it is you're doin' here--"

Okay, this just turned into a bad WB series pilot. Faith shook her head again, and this time she shoved the boy with her heightened strength-- pushed him so hard that he slammed against the door-- and inadvertently slammed it shut. She thought seriously about shoving him right through the door, envisioned him being impaled by splintering wood-- but then reasoned there wouldn't be any door to keep him out with then. "Get out," she snapped. Even someone of his few brain cells had to understand that. "I ain't Xena Warrior Fucking Princess. I don't need a wimpy partner tagging after me."

~:~:~:~:~

Norman's foot struck the stair directly after Spears' foot left it. "You're not a police officer," Norman spoke quietly. "I don't believe you work in town. Something about your voice. To be perfectly honest, Lieutenant Spears--" his clipped, even voice took on a somewhat hard note "--you don't even sound like you're from California at all."

Spears had reached the top of the stairs in jig time, and was gazing into one open door, then another. His eyes went to the one closed door on the landing right away. "To be perfectly honest, Mr. Bates," he spoke, and this time the British accent was clearly heard in his voice, "I'm not."

~:~:~:~:~

Xander seemed to finally have had the talk knocked out of him by crashing into the door. He glared bitterly at Faith as she turned her back on him, her bare curves fairly glowing in the dim light of the room. "Sure," he grumbled, "okay. I can take a hint." He sniffled darkly, his head spinning from the booze he'd downed before coming here. "Why should I be surprised? Buffy doesn't want my help. Why should the second-stringer Slayer want me?" He shrugged away from the door, his hand flailing for the doorknob and missing each time. "You know you're some sorry bum when you can't even get a job with the leftover brigade."

Faith had been moving toward her bed, swinging her ass lengthily just to rub salt in Xander's wounds. Now, however, as she listened to what he was saying.....

She turned around, and if Xander hadn't turned to fumble with the door he might have seen the look of deadly intent on her face, the smoldering hate in her death black eyes. He might have seen the sharp shining blade in her hand.

~:~:~:~:~

The hand Spears had reached into his coat pocket withdrew a pistol, the hammer already cocked. In one fluid move he spun to aim it into Bates' chest and fire--

But the large, stainless steel knife blade lodged in his left eye socket, and stuck in the bone of his skull. Blood and half of his eyeball shot out across the narrow landing.

~:~:~:~:~

Xander's eyes and mouth dropped open as the separated blade slid through his heart, ripping ventricle from ventricle.

The first blow killed him. But Faith kept stabbing, over and over and over. Second stringer Slayer, leftover brigade.... second-best actor, never be as good as her.....

It wasn't even Xander she was killing at this point. It was everyone: Xander, Ma, Gwen Post, Wesley, Angel, Kakistos, Buffy...over and over and over she thrust into him-- into them-- until what she was stabbing felt like a wet sponge. And she still didn't give up for some time after that.

The body hit the floor with a collective thunk. Faith heaved, not needing to look down at her knife to know that it and her hand were completely coated in red. She could feel it all over the front of her, on her breasts, warm and wet like a lick from a large tiger tongue.

She looked down at Xander, staring back at her with an almost alive look of disbelief. Blood was pooling out from where he'd landed, had spattered on the bed blanket. Blood was everywhere. The stained carpet was ruined.

Knock knock.

Faith jumped. She looked down at the knife... the body... the blood....

"Is everything all right in there, Faye?" came Norman's voice.

No. "Uh.... uh, hang on!" she called out shakily. "Uh... I'm in the nudie here, gimme a sec."

Outside the door, Norman was briefly distracted from his nervous glancing toward the driveway by Faith's provocative last statement. He stared at the hotel door... Mother was telling him...

He shook his head vehemently, as the door opened the tiniest fraction of an inch, enough for him to see the young tenant's dark eye. "Yeah?"

Norman blinked, shaking off the screaming in his head. "I--I heard a noise... I thought you might be having some difficulty. Is--" Trying to be nonchalant, he rested his hand against the doorjamb -- and immediately jerked it away, hiding the raw gash on it. "Is... everything all right with your room?"

"Oh... yeah." Faith, now dressed in the ratty bathrobe she'd found hanging in the bathroom, maneuvered herself so he couldn't possibly peek in and see all the blood. "Five by five Norm, no problems here."

"Shall I come in? Do you want company?"

"No!!" Faith almost slammed the door shut, realizing that sounded more tense than she meant. "I mean... you know what I could really use right now?" She tried to calm down, gave him a sexy smile. "Extra towels."

Norman's dark eyebrow raised. "Towels," he repeated, nonplussed.

"Yeah." Faith nodded, still trying to catch her breath. "I, uh... got my womanly friend... y'know?" She raised her bloodsmeared fingers, trying to affect a sheepish grin.

Norman seemed to go into twitch overtime at that. "I'll--I'll g-go get your towels, then... F-Faye," he gulped, taking off down the hall in an almost run.

~:~:~:~:~

Norman sprinted up the hill to the imposing black shadow crouched upon the hill like a waiting demon, the shadow that had loomed over him for most of his life. He had had to check on Faye, if only to make sure that she wasn't near the house, wasn't going to interrupt him while he disposed of the not-lieutenant's body. He was not going to put the body in the same old place-- not the lake-- it would take too long, and Faye would wonder where her towels were. Worse, she might come up to the house again, and get to snooping around..... and she might disturb Mother.

If Mother was disturbed, Mother would get very, very angry.

Norman shook his head firmly. He would bury the dishonest Gregory Spears in the vegetable garden he had recently dug up in the backyard. Nobody would think to look for the so-called lieutenant there. The earth was already dug, Norman could just toss him in and shovel the dirt over him. He knew from experience that the body.... would make nice fertilizer for the carrots and peas he planned to plant.

~:~:~:~:~

Faith wondered if Norman would buy it if she told him her period was responsible for the massive bloodstains all over the carpet floor.

The first thing she did was take that shower. She shed the bloody bathrobe (she planned to burn it later) and jumped into the small standing bathtub. Scrubbing and splashing, she watched as streams of blood swirled down the drain. Sure bet that this tub had never had to wash away anything like this before.

Getting out of the tub, she caught sight of the plastic shower curtain and had a brainstorm. Ripping it off its rings, she dragged it into the front room and tackled the corpse with it, wrapping Xander's lolling, limp limbs up tight. Her knife, its blade dark red with Xander's blood, lay upon the blankets-- and those were stained too. Hell, she was gonna have to burn everything in this room to get rid of the evidence.

Faith stopped right there. That was an idea. Burn the motel down? There were only ten or twelve rooms, all made of million year old wood. Wouldn't take long.....no loose ends...

She'd solve that problem later. Right now she had to dump Xand's body.

She thought about cutting him up. Thought about tearing his limbs off, one by one, using the strength of her bare hands. Thought about flushing him down the toilet like a dead hamster.

No.... Faith assembled her stolen duds and got dressed, pulling her boots on. No, there was only one way to get rid of a body out here in the boonies, and that was to bury it. Hell, considering how deserted this place was, it was likely the next person who'd find Xander would be an archaeologist, excavating the remains of 20th century California a million years from now.

Faith smiled coldly.

Her bundle was ready. Cracking open her door-- she cast a look up and down the walkway. Wondering where Norm was with her towels, she hefted Xander's plastic wrapped body, and with another look around, lugged him out the door, jogging down the walkway. She sprinted, body slung over her shoulder, around the side of the building, back toward the darkness of the fields.

~:~:~:~:~

Norman used the handle of the shovel he'd just finished scooping dirt with to lean against, his lungs heaving. That was it. Nobody would find Mr. Spears out here, even if they came looking for him. Considering he had been lying about working for the Fairvale police, it was hugely likely that no one ever would.

Now to Faye.... if that was her name at all. If she was indeed on the run, if Mr. Spears had been telling the truth at all....

Didn't I tell you boy?! I was right about her, the same way I've been right about everything! That girl's trouble! She'll be the death of us both!!

Norman shook his head furiously. "No...." he spoke aloud in the dark garden. "No... don't make me... don't make me do it Mother--"

Don't talk back to me boy! You take care of her before she does something to destroy us! Don't you care if she comes up here and tries to kill me in my own home? Your own mother??

Norman stood rigid in the muddy field, slumped against the handle of the shovel. He knew she was right. It was the only way. Faye was dangerous.

I'm always right, boy. Your mother always knows best.

Straightening slowly, his bony fingers gripped tightly around the wooden handle, Norman slung it up over his head, perching it on his shoulder. Turning away from the grave he'd just filled in, he began walking slowly and purposefully toward the dark, waiting house.

Up in the third floor window, a single light flickered yellowly, like the flashing teeth of some ancient, ugly beast.

~:~:~:~:~

Almost exactly a minute after Norman vanished around the corner of the house, Faith came skulking around the other side, lugging her heavy load. Her eyesight was perfect in the near-total darkness, but she still was taken off guard by the patch of loose dirt that her boots sank into.

Faith looked down. "Perfect," she muttered. Probably the hick's victory garden or something. Heaving, she threw the wrapped body to the ground, hearing his head crack against a stone or something hard. Dropping to her knees in the dirt, Faith reached into her jacket and pulled her gift knife out of its hilt. It hadn't been built for digging, but it would have to do. Catching her breath, Faith set to gouging into the loose ground with the knife.

Scoops and scoops of black dirt went flying as she dug vengefully into the earth. When she first hit something dense and pulpy, her first thought was that it must be a root or something. But as she stabbed and clawed at it with the knife, as she pulled the bloodied human hand up out of the dirt--

Faith stared at the appendage, mouth caught open in shock. "Fuck," she finally got out. "There any place on this property that doesn't have a body buried on it??"

~:~:~:~:~

After she spent the rest of the night burying Xander next to whoever the mystery corpse was down there (she'd buried the two face to face, kissing up real nice to each other), Faith dropped back on the muddy dirt in her ruined stolen vinyl pants, fondling the knife she'd dug the grave with, deciding what her next move would be.

As far as she could tell, she'd had a windfall of good luck dropped right into her lap. Obviously, Norm's "institution" time had not worked, and he had knocked off some loser and buried him here. Faith smiled in the darkness. He and her were two of a kind.

So. Burning down the motel, covering up what she'd done-- none of it was gonna be necessary. All she had to do was walk up to Norm and tell him she knew what he'd done. And let him in on her little secret as well. She'd make Norm a deal-- let her shack up here, rent free, and she wouldn't turn him in. He wouldn't be able to fight her-- and if he did, she'd just park him next to Xand and his new best buddy down there.

Faith's smile vanished. She kind of hoped it wouldn't happen like that. She almost liked the poor sap.

Well, whatever happened happened. Faith got to her feet, sheathing her knife (bloody and dirty, but not a scratch on it from the digging-- hot damn), and brushed the clots of mud off herself. Looking up at the house, with its one glowing window up there-- a shadowy form was framed in it; that had to be either Norm or his mom-- Faith sneered. They'd probably even seen her burying Xander here.

No point putting it off. Faith set off walking toward the house.

~:~:~:~:~

Faith pushed the door with its stained glass window open, hearing the long, horror-movie creak echo through the darkened house. She'd pulled out her knife again, just in case. "Hey, Norman," she called sweetly, glancing into the dark living room. "Where you at, buddy?"

Her eyes traveled to the staircase. If he was anywhere, he was up there. Faith set foot on the stairs, gripping the carved wooden railing. The blood-encrusted blade of her knife gleamed redly in the half-dark. "Come out come out, Norm baby. I got somethin' I wanna talk to you about."

Above, behind the closed door of the master bedroom, a figure moved in the darkness.

You can hear her coming, can't you? Even a stupid, senseless ingrate like you must be able to hear her coming up here to get us both.

The top of the stairs was only slightly less dark than below, and Faith could see the curlicue wallpaper peeling even up here. "Yo, Norm? I found your play pal out in the backyard. Yeah, I had a visitor of my own tonight. He didn't make out too well either." She made it to the top of the landing, looking at the crack of light under the door of the one closed room on the floor. "Hope you don't mind, I used the hole you dug for yours, put mine in there with him. Reuse, recycle, all that shit." Her hand gripped the glass doorknob and turned, and the door fell open.

Almost the second she opened the door, the weak yellow light inside was flipped off. That was no problem, Faith's eyes adjusted easily to the resulting darkness. Her hand clenched around the hilt of her knife, but she wasn't planning on using it. Just part of the bargaining, that was all. She stepped into the darkened bedroom, eyes picking out the bed, the dresser, a tall partition that had to be one of those old dressing dividers, another form which didn't fool her at all; it was just a dressing dummy. Stuff no self-respecting bedroom in the last fifty years had held was scattered all over this one.

The figure seated in the chair by the window was clear to Faith's eyes, too. And to her enhanced sense of smell, and her hearing, both of which seemed to go up a notch in "threatening" situations like this, something wasn't quite right. Didn't smell right. No heartbeat. A vamp?

"Don't disturb my mother."

Faith's head turned, and there was Norman, lurking in the dark corner by the door. He was holding a knife too, Faith was vaguely surprised to see-- a rather large, but run-of-the-mill butcher's knife.

Now's your chance, boy! There's no turning back now, she knows our secret! You have to kill her!!

Norman gripped the knife in his hand as he started stalking towards Faith. His face was almost as dark and formless as the shadows around him. Only his eyes could be seen, two red-white dots in the center of his head. Faith took a look at the knife he was holding-- and sneered. "Nice," she commented pertly. "Ain't as big as mine, though." To illustrate, she held up her own knife, its separated blade glinting redly under its resin of blood and grime. She smiled teasingly at the grim figure coming toward her. "So... you're a psycho killer too, huh? Looks like we're two of a kind, all these secrets. You know mine, now I know yours."

She's going to take you away from me, Norman! She's come here to kill you, my own dear baby boy!

Faith walked easily into the room, toward the corpse in the rocking chair. She and her knife circling Norman and his. It was like some twisted version of a street fight, almost like a dance. "Yeah but Norm, maybe we don't have to get all dirty. Not like this, anyway." Faith smirked. "Maybe we should help each other out, y'know? Scratch each others backs or... something." Her dark eyes traveled the older man up and down, and her smile took on a seductive, yet threatening tint.

She's a filthy whore! Kill her, Norman! Kill her!!

Norman raised the hand wielding the knife, waveringly. "You aren't going to hurt my mother," he spoke, voice under strain. "That police officer... said you were wanted in L.A. I won't let you drag us into what... whatever mess you're in." He swallowed with some effort. "If they come here looking for you... they'll find Mother. I had a time getting her out of the hole they put her in. I won't let you put her back there."

Faith shrugged. "No problem, Norm. You just cover my back, and I'll be nice to your mommy too." She turned to look at the old lady sitting in the rocking chair--

And it was at that point Faith realized why she had been smelling death, and dust, and decay-- not because Norman's mommy was a vampire, although she wasn't too far above it. The leathery, eyeless skull face staring out from underneath a white fright wig barely gave her a jolt at all, since she'd kind of a had a hunch, and of course she'd seen much worse.

Faith's mouth lifted in a sneer. "No way," she spoke, taking in the sight of the nearly mummified corpse in the chair with a look of total amusement. "Geez, Norm, what do you, have a whole set of poker buddies set up in the dining room, to go along with your pal in the garden, and your mommy up here??"

Norman bristled at the sight of Faith stepping toward his Mother's chair. "Don't do that!" he exclaimed, cringing under the screams in his head. "I can't-- control her, don't make her angry!!--"

But at that point, the tidal wave became too much, and as Faith's hand touched Mother's rotting shawl, Norman was swept away and swallowed by the deafening roar. His hand gripped the knife, and it raised into the air, as a deranged leer spread over his creased face. "You.... take your filthy hands off me, you disgusting little whore!"

Faith looked up at the sudden frenzied pitch that had changed Norman's voice. She struck out just in time, blocking and deflecting Norman's knife arm with her own. Gripping his shoulder, she flung him to one side, allowing her to get into a better position behind him.

But Norman suddenly seemed to have gained an extra degree of strength. Possibly the adrenaline surge that docs always talked about. His eyes glinted wildly, and Faith could see that something in him had unhinged-- she thought he looked a lot like she herself had felt on some of her worse days. "You aren't the first wayward little slut I've had to keep away from my Norman," his voice came in a throaty, scraping bark. "And if I know his dirty mind, you'll not be the last!!" The knife flashed as he raised it again, readying to jump.

Shit. He thought he was crazy? Faith had seen crazier stuff in her slop in the mess hall. She raised her own knife, threateningly. "Don't make me do it, man, I'll shred you, I mean it!" she screamed at him.

But Norman cleaved toward her. His blade caught Faith's, right between the two separated blades. And then-- before Faith's eyes, as if by magic-- the two blades of her knife sealed together, and snapped the stainless steel blade of Norman's knife in half.

A howling noise came from outside. Norman's head jerked toward the corpse, briefly shocked out of his psychosis. For a horrible moment, he thought Mother's sewn mouth had actually ripped open-- that she was actually making that god-awful noise--

But Faith knew better. If she couldn't tell the sound of police sirens by now, she never would. The rippling red lights outside the window gave it away, too. Faith leered up at Norman. "Well," she huffed, "hate to clip your manhood and run, but that's my ride." Shoving him in the chest, she turned around and rushed out toward door of the bedroom.

Her knife slipped out of her hands. It clattered on the floor, and Faith was momentarily held up scrabbling around, looking for it. Her eyes found it-- somehow the blades had gotten wedged under the toe of an old, leathery, orthopedic shoe heel. She scooped it up blade first, feeling it cut into her hands as she hastily turned it around, gripping the hilt, and jumping toward the door again.

Unfortunately, the second she reached the top of the stairs was the exact same minute that the cops appeared in the open front door. Since it was aligned perfectly with the stairs, they had a perfect view of the young murder suspect/escaped felon they'd been told to keep an eye out for-- running toward them, waving a huge, wicked-looking knife. Also unfortunately, their first officer had a wide open shot at her, which he took. The loud BANG of his gun shot earshatteringly loud in the musty house.

Faith took the middle of the staircase shoulder first, her jean jacket causing her to slide unhindered over the stairsteps. She knocked into the three officers at the bottom, spilling them like bowling pins. And though she tried to scrabble to her feet and get away, the bullet wound hindered her escape. Two, three, four officers piled on top of her, and though she fought and struggled like a wildcat, the blood she was losing over the wooden floor caused her to lose consciousness after a while.

At the top of the stairs, Norman watched the bloody proceedings with an expression of aghast horror.

~:~:~:~:~

The police found the two bodies buried in Norman's garden almost immediately. They seized every bloody item from Faith's room and tagged it for evidence. They even identified the bloody, muddy clothes she was wearing as those that the young raver in L.A. had last been seen wearing. In all the commotion, even though Norman's past was common knowledge, nobody thought to look upstairs in the bedroom.

It seemed obvious to the police force that the escaped felon who had been doing time for murder in Los Angeles could be the only one responsible for these two new victims. However, they had good reason to suspect the owner of the motel she had been staying at. After all, he himself had been tried for the murder of his own mother and her lover nearly thirty years before. He had been institutionalized, rehabilitated, and released, and had promised to make a new life for himself, but there was always a chance he had relapsed. Searching for the identity of the two new victims was no help at first, because the older man-- a Gregory Spears by his I.D.-- seemed to have no recorded history. It was only much later that the police would find that he did in fact have a history-- in London, England, as part of some secret society called the Watchers' Council.

But it was only when they IDed the younger victim as Alexander Harris, and traced him to a town nearly 70 miles west called Sunnydale, and got in touch with friends of the deceased, did the police finally get what they felt was the final word on who was guilty of the murders. One miss Buffy Summers traveled in from Sunnydale, and upon getting her first look at Faith, she nodded. "That's her. She did it."

Buffy stood in the hallway of the police station, gazing grimly at the dark, bandaged head of the Slayer sitting alone in the holding room. She had been keeping one eye open for days, looking over her shoulder, just in case Faith showed up again-- but now that the rogue Slayer was firmly under lock and key again, and even though she had killed Xander, Buffy couldn't help feeling.... sorry.

The (real) police lieutenant of Fairvale county tsked, unconvinced. "Miss Summers, are you absolutely sure? I mean-- I've read this girl's case history, they've sent us stacks of paper about her record from L.A. But--" he coughed, "....you don't know this Norman Bates' history."

Buffy shook her head numbly. "Maybe not.... but it can't be any worse than Faith's." She shuddered, sickened at the fact that Faith had apparently proven herself psycho, beyond all repair. "Believe me, officer... you've got your killer right there."

She stood gazing at the dark, hunched form of her old partner only a moment more. Wondering what it had all been for. Wondering how Faith had ended up like this. Simply becoming the Slayer.... simply having a bad childhood... simply getting a few tough breaks....

Buffy turned away then. She didn't want to think about it anymore. Didn't want to contemplate.... what she herself might have become.

In the other room, Norman was being shuffled back home by police escort. He had been in holding, but now that the girl had been fingered as being the sole culprit, he was being set free. "I really can't understand it," he spoke to the officer accompanying him. "She seemed like a perfectly harmless young girl."

And back in the holding room, Faith sat alone, the bandage covering where she'd taken the bullet. She sat hunched over, arms crossed, staring grimly into the cement wall. Her dark eyes flickered up at the window, up at the walls briefly.

Yeah, they wanna believe it. Why wouldn't they? Who wouldn't believe little miss Buffy Summers, golden Slayer? She even had you believing for a while.

Faith's head bowed again. Curtains of dark, tangled hair closed around her pale face, her black eyes. The voice in her head was too loud to ignore now. The bandage on her head throbbed.

They've got their perfect scapegoat right here, all right. But they don't know. They don't know what you've gone through... what makes you do these wacky things.

Nobody knew. Nobody could understand.

They wanna take you back kicking and screaming. Well, we're just gonna trick 'em, by gosh. You almost tricked them once, with your good behavior days... you'll do it again. You'll show them.

Faith smiled, staring at the floor. And then she slowly looked up, smiling eerily into space.

That's my girl.

The End

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