SUMMARY: The distance from Kampala to Sunnydale is approximately 10,000 miles. For Spike, it's far greater.

Ten Thousand
by wisteria

1. The Cave

The first thing he noticed was the quiet.

It seemed to echo around the cave, like all the air had been vacuum-sealed out. He took a tentative breath and discovered that yes, there was still air around. Just not much of it. And hot too. Hot air, and he rather wished he could sweat to take the edge off it.

"You there?" Spike called out, but his voice echoed like the quiet.

Nothing.

This wasn't a surprise. After the laying-on of hands earlier, Lurky had literally vanished into thin air. Once Spike's eyes had readjusted from the, well, afterglow, the other demon was nowhere to be found. Spike couldn't say he missed him much, either.

He began to test his muscles, one by one. Sore, but nothing he hadn't managed in the past. The only unusual things he noticed were the bright spots still dancing in his field of vision, and a very sore chest. Electrical burns from the re-souling? Maybe. He stared down at his chest. A claw print was seared into his flesh. Hurt like a bitch, and he knew when something was going to leave a rare scar. Glory be.

Body checked out, at least. Now, onto the next part.

He closed his eyes and began to breathe. Didn't need to, but it helped to focus his mind.

Since he didn't have an adequate frame of reference, he thought of everything he'd imagined or feared would happen with a soul.

Slaughtering half the village outside. Hmm. Not very appealing. 'Course, none of the townsfolk looked very appetizing anyway.

A spot of torture before bedtime, maybe chaining up everyone who'd ever pissed him off. Okay, that had a certain appeal, but he didn't think it had much to do with the soul.

Seeing Buffy's face when he told her what he'd done for her. Oh, that made him smile. Then again, it had been making him happy ever since he'd kick-started the bike and headed out of town.

So, things didn't seem much different. Where was the big bolt-of-lighting change he'd expected? Wasn't he supposed to be huddled in a corner, tearing at a hairshirt and sobbing his guts out?

He felt pretty damned fine. And very, very tired.

Just a quick nap....

+++++

The next thing he noticed when he awoke was a low bass thud.

One hand flew to his chest, searching for a heartbeat. None there, thank God. Last thing he wanted was unexpected side effects besides the damned scar. Touching it was bad enough. Wincing like that made him feel like a fool.

He skulked along the wall toward the cave opening. Daylight had arrived outside, so he angled himself carefully in order to see what was going on. A grizzled woman, maybe twenty feet away, tapped on a drum. Felt like a heartbeat.

She looked up at him before he could pull back into the shadows. Just stared, a serene look on her face. He stared back.

Then she raised an eyebrow and made the universal sound of "Ah."

"What?" he bellowed.

She stared for a moment more, then turned back to her drum.

Spike ground his teeth and searched his brain, finally coming up with, "Wangi?"

The woman continued to beat on the drum, then she said something he didn't understand. He repeated the question, but she ignored him.

"Sod off," he muttered.

She glanced up quickly and grinned. One front tooth was missing, and when he looked closer, he realized she didn't look as old as he'd thought. Maybe forty, give or take. Weathered face, but that was probably to be expected if all she did was sit in the sun and beat that damned drum all day.

He tried another phrase. "Wano waliwo amanyi olungereza?"

She shook her head 'no', then got up and walked away. Spike growled. Stupid to think anyone here would speak English, anyway.

The sun was warm and didn't look like it was going away anytime soon. He sighed and pulled from his pocket the Lugandan/English phrasebook he'd nicked at the airport. Best learn something besides how to say "What?", "No", and "Do you speak English?"

Spike sat close enough to the mouth of the cave to catch some of the ambient light.

Gonna be a long day.

+++++

The third thing he noticed was familiar words. In English. Brilliant!

"Is anybody in there?" The voice was female and heavily-accented. Young, maybe. Couldn't be the same woman from earlier.

Spike stumbled to his feet, noticing that his legs weren't being very cooperative. His walk became a wobble when the sprained ankle from Flamey flared up. Not makin' much of a first impression, he thought.

Sure enough, the woman was young and wore blue jeans and a shirt that hugged her curves in all the right places. Long, dark braids and bright eyes. He might be Buffy-whipped, but he still knew how to appreciate an attractive bird.

"Who are you?"

Standing out in the late afternoon sunlight, she stared back at him. People here seemed to do a hell of a lot of that.

"Hello? Speak English, do you?" Spike narrowed his eyes. This was getting ridiculous.

The woman narrowed her eyes right back. "I'll have you know that I've spoken English since I was an infant. Everyone does. It's the national language."

Spike laughed at her. "Could've fooled me. And what are you doing here, anyway?"

"You've passed the trials, so I have brought something for you." She had something in her hand, but he couldn't make it out. Didn't offer it to him either.

He clenched his fists; didn't do much good to punch a gift horse in the mouth, no matter how annoying she might be. And then there was the whole chip thing to consider. "Well? Get on with it. I'm not registered at Souls 'R' Us, but I hear they have some charming four-piece table settings."

Finally, she held out a styrofoam coffee cup, foil stretched over the lid. She didn't look pleased to be handing it over, but he had no qualms about taking it anyway.

And he damned near did a happy dance when he peeled off the lid to see blood. Glorious blood. As he took a swig, his whole body relaxed. It'd been a long time since he'd finished off the last bag back in Kampala.

She continued to stare at him, apparently not knowing how to do anything else. The set of her jaw and disdain in her eyes was so much like Buffy's that his stomach churned in spite of the blood. Damn, his mind cursed. Can't escape that attitude of hers even ten thousand miles away.

Looking away, he tipped the last of the blood down his throat and crumpled the cup in his hand.

Behind him, she spoke again, her voice softer this time. "That was left over from the animal we had for our meal today. I was told that a vampire was in this cave and that he was worthy of the blood."

"Thanks ever so." He squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath to push away that mental image of Buffy, then he turned back around. "So, what's your name?"

Disdain flashed over to veiled fear. Oh, he could smell the endorphins even from six feet away. He knew them well, had lived on them for over a hundred years until The Chip Dynasty.

And as her panic washed over him in waves, something else churned in his gut and slithered up his spine to push at the space between his eyes. Not a migraine from the chip, no. Something different.

Had to be the blood, he thought. Been too long, body's readjusting. That's gotta be it.

Through the chaos in his brain, he heard her say as if from a hundred yards away, "Forgive me, but you are a vampire. I'd rather you not know my family name or where we live."

Ah, more like it. "Is that right? Afraid I'm going to sneak in and go all Bogeyman on you?"

Her panic abated a bit. In a louder voice, she replied, "I don't understand what a Boogie is. Also, you cannot come into my house unless I invite you, so I'll thank you for not threatening me."

This would've been a great time to get into game face and put her in her place, but Spike's heart just wasn't in it. Too damned tired after the trip and whatever the hell Ol' Lurky did to him.

Charm might work better, anyway. It'd served him well in the past. He plastered a smile on his face and began to approach her. "So, love, since that blood hit the spot, any chance I could get a nice, thick blanket? Maybe an umbrella to go with it?"

For all her steely resolve earlier, the woman in front of him melted in the hot sun. She looked all of seventeen now, not nearly as mature and self-assured as she'd seemed just a few minutes earlier. Eyelashes even fluttered, and Spike couldn't help but give himself a mental pat on the back. Still got the touch, ol' boy.

"I shall bring one by later, after I escort my brothers home from school. Will you need anything else?"

"That'll be just fine, pet." He kept the smile, though his cheeks were beginning to hurt. Still, it'd gotten him what he needed, so he could deal for a few more minutes. When he heard her footsteps recede, he remembered something else. "Oh, and a map of the area would be appreciated, if you've got one."

She raised a hand in acknowledgement as she walked away, her hips sashaying.

Yeah, feeling pretty damned good today.

+++++

It grew close to dusk, and Spike watched it from the same corner of the cave where he'd spent most of the day. The paintings along the walls were only interesting for about an hour, and the rest of the cave wasn't nearly as big as it looked. All in all, it was just dank and depressing, and it reminded him of his crypt back home. Funny how it had felt homey for two years, but now it was almost repulsive. Maybe when he got back he'd look into finding someplace else. Buffy would like that. She used to complain about the caviness of it all. God knows he'd do anything on earth to please her.

All he could do right then, though, was sit and wait until he could leave the cave. The blanket was flimsy, and Spike could tell that it wouldn't do much good out in the sunlight. The sunset was already starting, but it didn't hold much appeal. The ones in California were much better.

He wished he'd brought a book or something. Getting lost inside his mind wasn't what he'd expected of the first twenty-four hours of souldom.

Come to think of it, that was what he'd expected, but it hadn't played out quite the way he'd thought. He never did learn exactly what had happened to Angelus in those first moments. Spike had an idea, though. One minute they had been approaching the camp, singing drunken bastardized versions of Romanian folks songs. When he'd caught back up to Angelus after the melee, the git had been all snively and quiet. Gave the idiotic excuse that one of the peasant wenches had landed a kick to his head. Spike had seen the lost, empty look in ol' Granddaddy's eyes, all the same. It hadn't bothered him at the time; he had been too busy painting obscene caricatures in blood on Drusilla's face. Glorious times, those.

Things were never the same afterward; at least, not with Angelus.

A hundred years hence, and Spike still remembered. The little things passed him by, flickering in and out of his brain like mosquitoes, unworthy of commemoration. The big things, though? Well, you don't forget those, especially if you're a vampire who can play moments over and over in your head for years to come.

Spike sometimes thought he should've kept a diary or whatnot. All the big things were great, sure, but he kind of wanted to remember the first time he'd seen Istanbul, the time when Drusilla nicked one of her dozens of companions for Miss Edith, or even the first hints of a smile playing across Buffy's lips when he made love to her. He'd had such high hopes in those early days with her. Thought he'd be seeing more smiles in the future.

Yeah, things were never the same afterward.

Last night - the whole way from Sunnydale, even - he'd psyched himself up. Had to get that steely determination in place so that he could endure whatever Lurky tossed at him. Spike had known it was necessary, because once he got the soul, the fall would be awful. Was ready to take it on, no matter how bad it would be.

So much for that. No mirrors nearby, not that they'd do much good, but Spike knew he didn't look lost because he didn't feel lost. Couldn't say he felt great, yet he didn't feel awful either. Mostly, he just felt sore and flinchy, what with the burns and bruises. And confused. Definitely confused.

Ever since Local Girl dropped the blanket inside the mouth of the cave a few hours ago, he'd been forced to sit and stare. Nothing else to do, except watch the village blokes go about their daily routine out in the sun. He started naming them, but gave up after he couldn't come up with anything more creative than "Bastard 1", "Git 2" and so forth. Not that they all looked alike, just Spike's buggering myopia. Specs tended to ruin the Big Bad image.

Once that proved tiresome, he'd started trying to conjure up some old memories. Began a list of "Ten Best Nights with Drusilla", getting up to number seven before it depressed the hell out of him. Maybe that was the soul. Dancing over the body of some drained peon just didn't hold the same magic that it used to.

It was getting dark, but not dark enough yet for him to be able to go outside. He was itching to leave. The forced introspection held little charm, and Spike had never been one to sit around and do nothing.

At least the coming sunset skewed the shadows such that he could edge closer to the cave entrance. Bastards number 9 and 21 were building a bonfire on the beach. Probably to cook something or boil water. Whatever. They didn't seem much like the beer bongs and bikinis sort.

Spike stood up and stretched his legs and arms. The bruises were already fading, and his chest wasn't as sore as it had been earlier. A claw print still showed. Maybe it'd leave a scar. When he finally got back to Sunnydale, he could pull open his shirt and press Buffy's palm against it. See what I did for you, love? Was it enough?

Buffy.

His four hours of deliberately not thinking about her were now over. The first memory that flashed into his mind was her face as she screamed at him in her bathroom, after he'd done... that. God, no. Mustn't remember that. There be monsters, it screamed in his brain like a warning scrawled in blood.

It was too much. Way too much. Lightning crackled in his veins and he smashed his fist into the cave wall. The pain in his bloody hand took the edge off the pain in his heart. Right. Good, he told himself. Hurt yourself so you can stop thinking about hurting her.

Was that the soul? While he wiped his hand on his jeans, he considered that. He finally decided no, since self-flagellation of both the physical and emotional variety had become a standard routine for him ever since he'd left Sunnydale a week ago.

Once the spots stopped dancing over his eyes, Spike looked up and saw the bonfire blokes staring at him.

"Bugger off!" he yelled at time. They didn't flinch, so Spike added a dozen more choice phrases since Local Girl had said they all spoke English.

Then the men had the gall to start laughing. Spike gritted his teeth and skulked back into the recesses of the cave. Shit. He was already going to be the laughingstock of the vampire world with this new soul of his. Now he'd get to expand his horizons to include the human world too.

For the thirtieth time, he asked himself why the hell he'd subjected himself to this.

Buffy.

Everything always came back to her.

"Well, Spike," he said aloud, psyching himself back up. "Not gonna do much good getting broody, now is it? Look what it did to ol' Angelus. Ain't many worse fates than turning out like him, all grimaces and bad hair. You can still be a badass vampire, no matter what that poncy demon said last night. The soul's just window dressing. Right? Right!"

It almost worked. He could feel his chest puffing up, even as he winced from the burns.

As the shadows continued to shift into night outside, he started making a new list: Ten Times I Saw Buffy Being Happy.

He began the list in a pretty good mood. Got all the way to number six, then he hit a roadblock when he couldn't think of any more examples. That brought on the Brood Fairy. Spike wondered if the list's failure was because she was never happy these days, or because she was never happy with him.

He closed his eyes. It was too much to think about.

Yeah, that was the soul.

"Fuck all," he muttered to himself. It was finally dark enough outside for him to leave. He shoved his wad of money far down in his pocket, pulled on his shirt, and checked his back pocket for his forged passport and keys to the bike.

Time to get the hell out of Dodge.

END, Chapter One.

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