Disclaimer: Obviously, I don’t own Buffy, Angel, or any related characters from either series. I also don’t own Biker Mice from Mars, or any number of other trademarked things listed in here. Including the story and chapter titles (they’re Less Than Jake songs).
Spoilers: Everything is fair game, since this takes place at least fifteen years after the end of the series.
Summary: A teenage Slayer named Hunter is having a heck of a year. Her friends are all in love with each other, people keep getting electrocuted, the new girl from Canada is paying way too much attention to Greg, and oh yeah, she got kidnapped.
Notes: This is a response to gidgetgirl’s ‘Slayer, 15, Charming but Insane’ challenge, which follows.
Based off of the book "Girl, 15, Charming, but Insane" (a fun, fun read, by the way).
A fifteen year old slayer finds herself in the middle of the following problem: her gorgeous best friend is dating her crush's best bud, the slayer's falling for her best guy friend, and her best friend (yes, the gorgeous one) is secretly head over heels in love with the same guy friend! Love triangle? More like a love hexagon.
At least two of the players (out of the slayer, the gorgeous best friend, the crush, the crush's best bud, and the best guy friend) must be somehow related to the Scoobies.
One of the players must be a werewolf.
The slayer must have divorced parents.
Someone 'slaying' a water bra
A high school dance
Chapter One: Growing Up On a Couch
“MAIL CALL!” one of the teachers shouted from down the hall. I groaned loudly at the thought of trying to make my way through the crowd of super powered teenagers, and promptly choked on a mouthful of toothpaste. I have the worst sense of timing in the universe, I swear to God. Every single day I’m caught taking a shower, or brushing my teeth, or in the middle of breakfast or getting dressed when mail call comes around, and I have to wait practically an hour before I can get any letters. And then there’s the whole groaning in the middle of brushing my teeth thing. Bad timing all around. For me. Bad timing all around for me. See, it’s confusing because ‘all around’ is generally used when saying that everyone in a group – and I’m digressing.
Spluttering and coughing, I made my way to the sink as the other three girls in the bathroom finished brushing their hair and applying make up before running out. Another girl, Jessica something, blinked after them in confusion. She had come in Saturday afternoon with the batch of new students from Canada. I took pity on the poor confused girl. “It’s mail call. There’s about a hundred and ten of us in this building, and classes start at eight.” I waited for a moment as she checked the time and then did the math, and then she was gone. Like the wind. Whoosh.
I wasn’t in a rush, Mr. Tylers never showed up for the first period economics class until twenty after, anyway, so I could stand being late for breakfast. But I’d have no one to eat with. Hm. I finished washing out my mouth and spit before heading out to the hall – and then to the stairs, sometimes living on the fourth floor sucked.
I was halfway to the first floor rec room (currently known as “place from which to get mail, yo”) when someone ran into me. Thankfully, it was a Watcher-in-Training who forgot to watch where the heck he was going, and not a Slayer-in-Training, so I didn’t get any lasting injuries. “Tony!” I hollered as I slid along the newly-waxed (or possibly newly burnt, they had switched to some new floor material that just got shiny when the Wiccan brats got out of control with their fire) floor.
He landed in an undignified heap next to me and gave me a sheepish look, something which he all but had a patent on. “Sorry about that, Hunter-the-Slayer!” He grinned. Everyone thinks my unfortunate name is sooo funny. I’m just waiting for the child of Slayer fanatics to come here as a werewolf and be called ‘Slayer-the-werewolf’. I swear I’ll laugh. Or possibly join forces with this newcomer and take over the world, depending on how cute he is.
In the meantime, I picked myself off the ground before Tony could scramble to his feet and offer his hand and then apologize profusely and volunteer to do my laundry for the next month. You think that a seventeen year old would be over the whole “chivalry” thing (especially when he was raised around Slayers), but not Anthony Miller. “Where were you headed in such a rush, anyway?”
He thought for a moment, and the paled as he remembered. “I forgot to do my physics homework! And we have a test all period in English!” And then he was off again, to do whatever worksheets he had forgotten. People really did seem to be running from me today, didn’t they? I’d worry about it later.
I was about to try and breach the teeming crowd spilling out of the rec room when I was hailed by someone. A someone who was currently jumping up and down and had his head cocked at an odd angle and was waving a stack of mail way too large for someone whose mail goes to his uncle first. “Gregory Wells, did you steal my mail again?” I called out cheerfully as I elbowed my way across to the corner that he had sectioned off by pushing some couches together. I read more than heard his reply of “Borrowed, but what in the world are you subscribing to, anyway?”
Most of the time he’ll head straight to the food since he doesn’t need to brave the crowds at all, but occasionally he’ll get so caught up in everyone flooding out of the rooms and won’t remember that he doesn’t get mail until he’s halfway through the line. Then he’ll get my mail so I don’t bitch at him throughout Research and Strategy about him getting the best stuff for breakfast. He has remarkable self-preservation instincts. He’s also Tony’s roommate.
Greg handed me my mail with a particularly woeful expression – as if someone had killed his favorite puppy (granted, with his family history, there was a good possibility that one of the Slayers had killed his favorite puppy). I raised an eyebrow at him. “And what’s wrong with you?”
He turned mournful eyes on me. “Tony knocked my GameStation over again and my uncle refuses to ask Willow to fix it for me again.”
I should have known. The only thing that ever effects Greg’s emotions is his GameStation. A conglomeration of every major game system marketed in the last five years, Greg got himself electrocuted putting it together and therefore had been banned from screwing around with its wiring. Of course, having the clumsiest boy in school as a roommate didn’t help the poor game system’s chances.
“That’s the fifth time this term!” I chided him, flipping through my mail. Greg rolled his eyes and then opened his mouth to speak – and I threw my hand up to stop him, staring at the only letter I had received that wasn’t inviting me to participate in a beauty pageant. I shoved the rest of my mail back into his hands and ripped it open, skimming the first couple of lines.
“What what what?” Greg asked, jumping around a bit, his poor lamented GameStation now forgotten in his insane curiosity.
“Well,” I started grinning, “I guess I won’t be spending this summer lazing about the school…”
He waited for me to continue, but I am a master at baiting that boy, and it only took five seconds for him to start bouncing up and down again. “Where are you going to be, then?” he demanded. I traded the letter for my pile of junk mail and got busy separating them into trash (which I put into the recycling bin) and things I should probably keep (which I folded up and put in my back pocket) as he read the letter.
His eyes widened, and a moment later he glanced up. “You got into the Penn State summer science thingy?” he asked enviously, before remembering that he hadn’t gotten his mail yet. “Hey! Maybe I got in too!”
I just barely managed to bite off my sarcastic reply before it left my lips, and I wrapped my arm around his neck in a friendly manner. “Let’s go get us some breakfast, then we’ll run over to Mr. Wells’ classroom before first hour.”
Greg and I have been friends since I was four and he was six, and we were two of the five kids under the age of ten at the School of the Supernatural – the unofficial title of our wondrous school, its official title being something clunky and invariably dealing with the word ‘gifted’, because everyone knows that it’s impossible to have an undercover school without the word ‘gifted’ in the name. Two of the other three were demons, and while they were nice enough, a four year old who was still equating demons with Biker Mice from Mars did not a good friend make.
The final was a five year old super witch, the last leg of our less than extraordinary Three Musketeers. Although she usually goes by Lyra for short, the principle was the same. Of course, she didn’t like going by the name Lyra, which she blames on the fact that her father is a famous dancer. And a witch. Her mother was too – the witch part, not the dancer part. Which was probably the reason why Lyra is a crazy powerful Wicca. Or is that Wiccan? Wiccix? I have no idea. I’d ask Lyra, but she’d just laugh at me. And I’d ask one of the magic advisors, but I don’t trust Greg’s uncle to pronounce anything right and I’d be way too embarrassed to ask Willow or any of the others who might know.
Two and a half hours later, I burst out of the biology lab with a shout of happiness. It wasn’t that I disliked biology – it was one of my top three favorite classes, easy – it was that Kayleigh Wells had been singing the Electric Slide at the top of her lungs for the entire hour. And in economics before that, and who came up with the idea that it would be great fun to have the classes separated by age, anyway? I can understand roommates (Kay’s my roommate as well), that just makes sense. But classes should be based on skill, not on age! Only I, Tony Miller, and Tony’s best friend Logan argue that point. Me because I hate being stuck in all my academics with Kay, Chrissie Mack, Eliza Mack, and the psycho Brady Bunch-esque Kry’wlskn kids year after year after this-is-the-eleventh-bloody-year-and-I-n
I slept through the next two hours, Demon Physiology and Psychology, since I had long figured that if you’re going after something that doesn’t die when you behead it, you’re going to have researched it ahead of time, and I never got the point of the Psych class. They’re two of the Slayer-only classes, so the presence of older Slayers-in-training kept Kay from annoying the hell out of me any longer. She’s as bored by the classes as I am and doesn’t mind biding her time until after lunch, when she gets to spend two whole hours in classes with her big brother. It’s a sibling thing, I guess, the way she likes to annoy no one more than Greg. I wouldn’t know, I’m not an anomalous Slayer like her.
Currently, of the recorded Slayers (one thousand eight hundred and ninety three at last count, four hundred and four of which reside at the school), five aren’t only children. All the rest of us? Only children. Whether it be chance, or whether the Powers That Be thought that it would be simpler for Slayers not to have meddling sibling types, the world may never know. Like a Tootsie Pop. Only not.
The good thing about lunch is that Kay’s friends who she just MUST lunch with (what the rest of us like to call the Mack Attack) live in the Blue dorm, the rest of us (except Lyra) live in the Green dorm (Lyra lives in White), and it’s a rule that you have to eat in your dorm cafeteria. The bad thing about lunch is that I’m stuck with three boys. Three teenage boys.
And then there’s the crush thing.
Tony and Lyra have been going out for a while now, more out of boredom than anything. But they’re both teenagers, and eyes wander. Constantly. And currently Tony’s eyes are wandering towards Kay (Lord knows why). And so are Logan’s. Something that Greg is six kinds of uncomfortable about. And so am I. One boy with my best friend, two boys crushing on my roommate, and the only boy left being the closest thing to a brother I have. The tension, she is thick.
Them being boys, their rivalries and dislikes are masked by arguments over various sports teams. I zoned when they started talking about soccer. I don’t know a whole lot about sports, so I tend to not care unless they’re talking about a sport in which I have a favored team. And soccer? Not on that list. Sooo not on that list.
I had gotten to the point where my only entertainment was found in flinging globs of ketchup across the cafeteria at Lucky Reynolds, the poster child for justice, the American way, and that other thing I can never remember.
Pictures are here, end of the page. This is only the first part of the first chapter.