Doing Favors
Well, the Strip was...well, a little less strippy these days. One would suppose a near-apocalypse would do that to a towering, shining landmark of American gluttony.

Was a shame, too; Spike really liked a couple hands of blackjack after a rough night of fighting off the baddies. Then again, watching the sky open up and threaten to swallow everything up from Vegas to Phoenix was enough to kill just about anyone’s gambling buzz.

Even a vampire with a soul.

Spike hadn’t done much in the big battle, aside from ride a cyclops and have a brief conversation with this freaky-ass lady who looked like she either belonged at a cosplay convention of the last disc of one of those Final Fantasy games. And as amazing as his little episode the night before had been, Spike couldn’t shake a general feeling of dread.

It was confusing, feeling so timid after the end of the world had been sidestepped. Spike thought he’d seen enough near-misses to not be phased by them, but this was different. Maybe it was that woman; Spike recalled getting a big case of the heebie-jeebies the last time they’d crossed paths, and he wasn’t too tickled about possibly having to find off the inner demon again.

It was hard enough on his own; he didn’t need help from any self-proclaimed “Corrupter.”

Tristan felt little regret as he disposed of what was left of Jessica's corpse. That was one bonus to the destruction of the Strip. Another body here or there, and no one was the wiser. Not that Tristan would care one way or another.

Getting rid of a body with only a motorcycle was a problem, however. He'd had to 'borrow' an open box truck. The garbage collector wouldn't miss it though.

Tristan sighed and leaned against a wall in the alley. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve, his thoughts turning inward. Was this all there was to eternity? Immortality wasn't always what it was cracked up to be.

Spike stopped in his tracks, an unlit cigarette hanging from his lips, his silver Zippo hanging open, the flint waiting to be struck. The Champion’s eyes narrowed as the stench of new death crossed his nostrils. He figured there were still dead among the remains of the Strip, but this scent was different.

This scent was fresh.

The vampire closed his lighter, stuffing it in the pocket of his coat before taking a look around, following the scent around the corner and down what Spike guessed was once an alley. There he found a garbage truck and a dark figure disposing of what looked to be a body. Looked like a pretty crappy job, if Spike did say so himself, and with a smirk he put the cigarette back in its pack before deciding to confront the figure.

“Strange hours for garbage pickup,” he said to the dark. “Or is this an off-the-books job? Something the city doesn’t know about?”

Tristan sneered and pressed his hands into his leather jacket. "Not sure it's none of your business," he responded.

Tristan's gaze took in the figure before him. Vampire, that was obvious. But there was something different about this one. It was almost as if Tristan could sense...warmth? No, that wasn't quite right.

The hairdo left a lot to be desired, though. "You do know punk rock went out in the eighties, right?"

Spike could only smirk, having heard lines of the sort for so long he didn’t even bother with retorts anymore. The only thing keeping the other vampire alive at this point was the fact that he hadn’t compared Spike to Billy Idol yet. All vampires who committed that sin were met with swift and vicious stakings.

But as Spike got a better look at the body the vampire was dumping, his look darkened, and he started to wonder if maybe that swift staking wasn’t such a bad idea anyway.

“I take it you’re not so hard up for food you’re picking up leftovers from McApocalypse,” Spike offered, cocking his head to the side.

"Trust me, I did this girl a favor," Tristan said with a shrug. "And what do you care? You don't appear hungry. I'm not on your turf or anything, just...dumping here."

It would appear this guy had no clue who Spike was...yet he seemed awful fond of the hair gel. What was it with vampires and their inexplicable need for hair that stood straight up? Did the pretties find it attractive or something? Spike would never understand the appeal behind Angel-hair.

But if this guy had no idea who Spike was, that gave the Champion an advantage. Most of the time, his reputation proceeded him, and that led to either exuberant adulation or instant deathmatches.

The latter got old really fast.

“How do you figure?” he asked, squinting his eyes. “Favor, I mean?”

Tristan's eyes moved towards the trash pile where the body now rested. "I made sure she didn't suffer. I took the pain away, actually. She doesn't have to put up with this sorry world, and the sorry people in it. She can rest now."

Spike’s eyebrows lifted. A melancholy vampire...oh, bloody hell, again?

“Right,” he said, trying hard to suppress a sarcastic chuckle. “And this has nothing to do with your being stuck in eternal damnation, the only thing saving you being the sun or some pissed-off teenage girl with a plank of wood.”

"You forgot to mention bitches with Uzi's and caves from the twilight zone," Tristan snorted. He turned, ignoring the other vampire. "Help yourself to the remnants. No skin off my nose."

“Not here for a snack,” Spike said in a serious tone, taking two steps toward the other vampire. His hand was in his pocket the entire time, keeping hold of the stake he kept hidden for occasions such as this. The Champion hadn’t expected to find so plentiful a hunt tonight–he’d already staked four vamps and beheaded a slime demon–but he wasn’t about to turn down a fight.

Especially if he could avenge a young tart’s death in the process.

“You obviously don’t know who I am,” Spike added. “Otherwise, we’d already be three rounds deep into Ali-Frazier by now.”

With that, Spike rammed his fist into the back of the other vampire’s head, growling and feeling his face change into its demonic mask. Fangs shone under the lone streetlight still standing, and Spike snarled with his fists cocked and ready for the inevitable retaliation.

“Float like a butterfly, sting like a...something that stings.”

"What the?" Tristan fell forward a bit at the other vampire's attack. Jolted and surprised, he quickly spun and kicked out at the legs of his attacker. "Bee, asshole!" Tristan used an uppercut aimed at Spike's chin. He had no idea why this vampire would attack him, and suddenly, he was very very pissed about it. His brow furrowed and his fangs elongated.

Spike grunted and stumbled back a bit from the force of the hit, wiping blood from his lip with his thumb and grinning at the other vampire. “Right,” he said. “Bee. Guess I’m not Ali after all.”

But what Spike was, he was a Champion. A do-gooder, vampire with a soul, all that crap. And he helped the helpless. Never mind that the helpless in this case was already dead and drained, but Spike always had a thing for the young girl. It used ot be, he’d have his way with her and kill her.

Now, he saved her. Or avenged her, if he found her too late.

“Nah, I’m Spike,” he said, punching the other vampire in the face, reaching in and grabbing him by the collar before forcing his knee into the Tristan’s stomach. “Nice to meet you, mate.”

"Oof!" Tristan grunted at the force of the knee into his gut. He slammed his head backwards, connecting with Spike's windpipe. He pushed himself back up and landed another punch at Spike's ribs. "Spike did you say? Never heard of you."

Spike gasped for needless air and stumbled back again, blood dribbling down his chin as he regained his voice. “You’re the minority,” he said, grabbing a tuft of Tristan’s hair and ramming him face-first into a nearby brick wall. “I’d tell you to look me up in a Watchers’ Diary or something, but you look a little too 90210 to know what a book is.”

Tristan's vision went black for a moment, and blood started to pour down his face from a gash above his eye. He twisted himself around in Spike's grasp. "Why are you so sore at me?" Tristan asked, confused and a bit hurt sounding. That's when he aimed a kick at Spike's knee.

Spike grinned, sidestepping the kick before socking his fist into Tristan’s face, tugging harder at his collar, his face inches from the other vampire’s. “Let’s just say I have a problem with vampires who randomly kill off pretty little tarts for no reason,” he said, headbutting Tristan for effect.

Tossing the other vampire to the ground, Spike produced the stake from his pocket. “At least be a little bloody original.”

"Original? You, the Billy Idol wannabe, is telling me to be original?" Tristan spat out a wad of blood and saliva onto the ground. Then he licked his lips, tasting his own blood and giving Spike a smirk. "You're a wanker of a vampire, aren't ya? Mate?" Tristan mocked him in a very poor British accent.

Billy Idol. The fucker called Spike Billy Idol.

Oh, that did it. Spike snarled into a growl before lunging at Tristan, tackling him to the ground before pinning him to the trash pile by ramming the stake into his chest. Spike was nowhere near the heart, but that wasn’t his intent just yet. No, Spike wanted to teach this Nancy boy a lesson.

“You wouldn’t know,” Spike said, content to continuously punch Tristan in the face once he felt the other vampire was sufficiently pinned. “Seeing as how you’ve never heard of me.”

Right fist cracked Tristan’s nose. “Sunnydale Hellmouth. Ever hear about that? I closed it.” Left fist busted open the vampire’s lip. “Circle of the Black Thorn. Ring a bell. Bleeding stopped them, we did.”

Another headbutt, blood pouring down Tristan’s face. “Yeah, I’m a sodding hero. Got me a soul and everything.” Spike paused, grabbing the other vampire by his hair again and yanking out the stake. “Now do you know who I am?”

And all this over a Billy Idol reference....

Tristan remained mute. He merely nodded. He couldn't fight back anymore even if he wished too. A part of him wanted the stake. He just looked at Spike, something dejected in his eyes. His body leaned forward, opening up for the death stab. "Do it," he finally gasped out in a harsh whisper. "Just...do...it."

Spike blinked, momentarily frozen. Did...did this guy just ask to be staked?

“Oh, bloody hell!” Spike exclaimed, backhanding the vampire before grabbing him by the collar again and pushing him up against the wall. “You have any idea how pathetic you sound right now?”

Spike should know, considering how he was once reduced to tears asking Buffy to stake him. The First had its hold on him, reducing him to talking to rats in the basement of the high school and killing off all manner of people–ideally potential Slayers. That was one sad state Spike had been in, but that was a combination of Big Bad intervention and the newfangled soul.

What was this guy’s excuse?

“And I thought Angel was big with the woe-is-me,” Spike bit off, snarling in disgust at the other vampire. “I’ve half a bleeding mind to rip those fangs out, make you go through unlife unable to bite anymore.”

Be a lot funnier than staking him.

Tristan wiped at his face as best he could. He shrugged at the other vampire. As usual, he had no control. He never had, and he never would. His fate was sealed.

"What's it like?" Tristan asked him, blood stinging his eyes. "To have a purpose? To know...why, about everything and about yourself? To be so sure? What's that like?"

Spike gave the other vampire a confused look, so baffled and taken aback by the whole turn of events that his face shifted back to its human state, fangs and feral eyes giving way to normal, if not pronounced, facial features. Shoving the stake back in his pocket, the Champion cocked his head to the side, squinting.

“Get yourself a soul,” he suggested. “Then you’ll find out. But I can’t answer that for you.”

What was with this guy? At least when Spike started questioning his lot in unlife, he’d had the all-encompassing excuse of being in love. Being in love and realizing you’re a monster was a pretty powerful vehicle for change, but Spike wasn’t sure if that was the case here.

“I don’t know what you’re deal is,” Spike said, wiping the drying blood from his chin. “Nor do I really care. But I catch you munching on the helpless around here again, I’ll stake you good and proper.”

Spike reached for his cigarette again, lighting it before glancing Tristan’s way again. After standing in silence for what seemed like minutes, Spike got out another cigarette, placed it in Tristan’s lips and lit it.

“Just in case you decide to wait for the sun,” he said before turning tail and heading off into the night.