Fuck, Faith
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For a short time after looping back, Xander couldn’t see a point in continuing. He laid in his horrible-smelling bed, staring up at the yellow stain on his ceiling, and fuming. Buffy had been his hard theory for escaping the time braid, and despite being in a loving and committed relationship with her, he’d still looped back. Xander wanted to feel like a victim in a dangerous world—like a lost little lamb—because if he could suffer just enough, he fantasized someone would undoubtedly come and rescue him, and he wouldn’t have to keep trying, struggling, and failing over and over again. Xander could simply be saved and finally live again.
However, Xander was far too irritated to truly believe that, much less accept such a dream. Maybe in previous loops, he would’ve laid in bed, deathly still, for what could’ve been hundreds of day-loops, fantasizing about someone rescuing him from his hellish time prison. But his mind kept replaying Faith’s callous assertion of him.
‘What she really can’t see is that you’re just a quitter. You’re nothing but a quitter,’ Faith’s voice would repeat over and over.
“Why would she say that?” he obsessively asked, tossing and turning.
In that loop, Xander had yelled at her to get out of his house and pretended to be above it, but deep down, he knew he should’ve yelled something else at her—something more heinous. Something that would hurt her as much as she hurt him. Though he had planned on becoming a world-wide terrorist for fun, Xander found enough of a reason to get out of bed: To tell Faith she was a cunt.
And he didn’t want to say she was a cunt because she had just as shitty of an upbringing as he did. He needed her to understand she was a cunt that deserved her shitty life. Xander knew that would do the trick. However, the exhausted teen refused to dedicate a lot of his invaluable time waiting months before she entered their lives. He would wreck her within the week-loop.
Xander slogged through the mind-numbing routine of the day-loop—ignoring his friends and family—purchased the scratch-off tickets, sold them for several thousand dollars, and bought a one-way plane ticket to Boston. Surprisingly, the farther away from Sunnydale and the torture of its monotony, the more energized he felt. The closer he got to Massachusetts, the more he eagerly dreamed of the look on Faith’s face. SHe wouldn’t remember him, but he was fine with that, so long as his words hurt her.
When Xander landed at Boston Logan Airport, he took a taxi to Roxbury in South Boston. It was a gloriously sunny day without a cloud in the blue sky, but the neighborhood of Lower Roxbury was the epitome of crime, blight, and poverty. Many of the littered areas his taxi drove through were sketchy and often traversed by the homeless, jobless, or criminally associated. From their past conversations, he knew Faith lived in a two-bedroom apartment complex on the top of a hill, and the multi-unit row homes leading up to the brown apartment complex looked as if they were built in the sixties—old, faded, and in terrible states of disrepair.
Faith’s apartment looked as hideous as the rest of the street, but Xander ignored it. Getting past her building’s minimal security was child’s play to him, but looking through the many advertising junk mail left on the floor for the Lehane household took longer than expected. If her alcoholic parents were anything like his alcoholic parents, they threw their junk mail on the floor too, and after twenty minutes, he found Faith’s father’s name with their apartment number.
As Xander walked through the gang-graffitied hallways with flickering lights above, he recalled Faith telling him she didn’t live in the best area, but eying a dead-beat bum unabashedly shooting heroin into his veins was staggeringly worse than she described. The gray walls were yellowing or tagged where they weren’t chipped or scraped off, and the brown carpet was stained with nearly every step.
“Fuck,” he cursed when he learned the elevator wasn’t working. Taking the stairs, he mumbled, “I thought I had it bad.”
On the third floor, Xander ignored the curious tenants eying him as he walked down the hall. He was dressed in simple jeans, boots, and a black shirt, but considering how clean he looked, he could understand if he stood out. When he finally reached Faith’s apartment, he knocked on the door, then continued walking past it. When no one opened the door, he repeated the knock-and-walk before concluding no one was home.
With a standard lock picking set he’d bought at the local hardware store, Xander used Sherlock’s knowledge to easily break into the apartment. With his very first step, his nose flared when his olfactory senses were assaulted. His eyes squinted next as the alcohol smell made them water. The worst part of being in Faith’s home was that it eerily reminded him of his home, only smaller.
Walking through the disorderly apartment, it was messy in the best areas, filthy in the worst, and filled with empty beer cans and liquor bottles. The air was thick with a stale gag-inducing smell. The trash can was filled beyond the brim with takeout boxes and had cockroaches running to and from it. Except for alcohol and condiments, the fridge was virtually empty. Faith’s room was just as similar to his; messy with clothes, magazines, and food on the floor, but cleaner than the rest of the place.
“At least it doesn’t smell as bad,” he muttered as he started looking through her things, hoping to find a clue as to where she might be.
Other than discovering what school she went to, Xander found nothing that narrowed down his search. While he believed her school was the next likely place she’d be, he didn’t think he could make it there before the school day ended. Sitting on her bed, Xander waited patiently for her. When her parents returned home, he hid under her bed and continued to wait. Xander waited for two more days like this—only leaving to buy food—before he concluded she wasn’t coming back anytime soon.
With four days left in the week-loop, Xander decided on taking drastic measures. He took a taxi to Dearborn High School, one of the worst schools in Boston, according to the talkative, yet oddly well-informed cab driver.
“Ranked 310 out of 330 in the state, with over two thousand rugrats,” he said in his thick Boston accent. “A worse school, you will not find in all of Boston, my friend.”
When Xander was let out in front of the three-story, U-shaped building, he observed the drudgery of the entire area, and a despondent Xander whispered, “…A wretched hive of scum and villainy.”
The school was made of weathered brick walls and timeworn wood frames. The windows were hazy and most of the building’s ground level was covered in graffiti. Dearborn high school looked more like an old coal factory than an institute of higher learning. The brownish grass of the courtyard in front of the steps wasn’t maintained and even had a tire on it. Xander ignored the grungy exterior of the school and entered the building, but it wasn’t much better.
“Fucking hell,” he muttered, looking around and growing more annoyed.
The security guard—dressed in khakis and a dark polo shirt—was seated on a stool, leaning against the wall and snoring loudly. The unpolished floor was a patchwork of old and new tiles, many of which were cracked, and the walls were brick painted with their school’s colors or tatted drywall. The Californian saw the same banners and fliers warning of drugs, alcohol, and teen pregnancy in the hallways, only they were much older than those in Sunnydale. Xander couldn’t imagine attending this school could actually fill any students with a sense of pride. Dearborn felt more like a deterrent to believing in a brighter future.
Classes were already in session, but he didn’t want to walk from room to room—through three floors—looking for Faith. The taxi driver had said two thousand students attended the homeless-looking public school and she might be cutting class, to begin with. It would only be a waste of time.
Following the signs above, Xander made his way to the main office, passing another school security guard and a uniformed Boston police officer, complete with gun and bullet-proof vest.
Pointing behind him with his thumb, Xander told them, “Uh, that guard at the door is sleeping.” The men sighed and shook their heads as Xander added, “What if a crazy man walked in here? You might as well hang up a sign that says ‘All Psychos Welcome.’”
The security guard asked, “Where are you headed?”
“Main office,” Xander answered. “I’m new here.”
“Down the hall on the right,” the guard told him.
The school’s main office was just like any other, with a reception desk in the front, several desks and cubicles behind it, and file cabinets lined against the white walls. The fluorescent lights added a grayish tint to everything, as if the room was decomposing. The only real color was the green from an aloe plant on one of the desks.
“At least it’s clean,” Xander muttered to himself as he walked to the empty reception desk.
A plump woman with red-framed glasses—either a teacher or office aide—stood up from her desk and walked up to him, dully asking, “What can I do for you, hon?”
Xander ignored her to look at the cabinets and offices. He was hoping to spot the word ‘Records’ or see letters, such as, ‘L - M,’ anywhere. However, without his ring, he couldn’t zoom his vision closer to read the small white labels on their filing cabinets.
When the teen hadn’t responded, the dark-haired woman leaned in closer, looking at him over her red glasses, and rudely called, “Helloooo? Any day now.”
Unable to locate what he needed, Xander returned, “Sorry. I think the address on my student file is wrong. My parents never got my report card mailed to them.”
“What about the copy we give you?” she asked.
“Would you believe they thought I forged it? As if I couldn’t get an A in math by myself,” he huffed, acting vexingly offended.
The plump woman with small eyes wasn’t amused, but asked, “Name?”
“Xander Lehane,” he answered. “Well, Alexander Lehane.”
“Lehane?” she repeated, looking at him oddly. “You wouldn’t happen to be related to Faith Lehane, would you?”
‘I guess Faith has a rep,’ he thought before adapting. Playing aghast, Xander asked, “That troublemaker?” He waved away her query, assuring her, “Pfffftt! No way! My parents would be rolling in their graves if they thought I was hanging out with her… And if they were actually dead.”
She eyed him for several seconds before shaking her head and walking away. Dragging her feet toward her desk, the older woman seemed bothered by his words—either by his lack of an accent or any prior knowledge she had about Faith. She removed a key from the drawer and walked toward the right wall of cabinets. Another woman entered the room then—auburn-haired—and likely a teacher, judging by the pace she was moving, as if she needed to get back to class.
The plump receptionist stopped walking toward the cabinets and called, “Mrs. Sullivan? Mrs. Sullivan? Would you be a doll and help Mr- …Hey! Hey! Get down from there!”
As Xander only needed to narrow down the location of Faith’s student file, he hopped the reception desk and walked straight to the section of cabinets the receptionist was headed toward.
“Stop! You’re not allowed back here!” The larger women yelled, but Xander ignored them.
Pulling on the handles, he learned they were locked. Turning to the plump woman, she realized what he wanted and hid the key behind her back. Xander sighed, but took out his lock picks and had it unlocked five seconds later. The first drawer had last names that began with the letter K. Dropping two more drawers, he found the letter L. However, two more teachers from the back offices arrived.
“Marty!” the plump woman called. “He’s stealing files!”
“Janet, call security!” Marty ordered. “And check if officer Whitmore left yet.”
Janet ran out of the room.
When the two male educators were within five feet of Xander, he stopped looking for the name Lehane, and stood up. Though he’d lost his Super Soldier level of strength, he still had over a century of fighting experience and the highly-tuned muscle memory that came with it. So, even against adults with bigger muscles, Xander didn’t hesitate to draw power from his feet’s stance, add more force through the rotation of his hips, and sucker-punch the first man with a clean hit to the chin. It was technique and experience—more than raw strength—that made the teacher’s bald head swivel like a bobblehead toy, before he dropped to the ground, unconscious.
The plump woman screamed as Marty instinctively tried to grab Xander. Far too experienced, the teenage looper effortlessly grabbed Marty’s hand and twisted it as he pulled in, getting the educator off balance before expertly elbowing him in the chin. Xander casually returned to continue his search as Marty dropped to the floor, unconscious. After another couple of minutes, Xander finally found Faith’s student file. However, before he could look through it, two of the school’s security guards and the uniformed Boston police officer—Whitmore, he recalled—rushed into the room with Mrs. Sullivan, ready to subdue the delinquent.
With a mildly annoyed expression, Xander sighed and slumped his shoulders before walking straight to them as they yelled for him to stop. He ignored their commands as the three men cautiously approached. Officer Whitmore was in front of Xander, and the security guards were moving to either side of him. Their tactic of surrounding him didn’t matter to the teen warrior.
Xander simply kept walking calmly toward the officer until the security guard to his right reached out to grab his shoulder. He rotated his right arm twice: one to shove the guard’s out-reaching hand away, and the second to counter with a clean hook to the chin, making his head spin and brain bounce horribly in his skull. The guard dropped like a sack of potatoes.
The remaining security guard dashed forward to tackle the teenager from the side. However, Xander hopped away as he brought his leg up and kneed the man trying to spear him in the chin. There was a meaty crunch before the security guard hit the ground, screaming in agony as he cupped his likely broken teeth. Shocked to witness grown men on the ground between a bored teenager, officer Whitmore whipped out his baton, fully extending the metal implement.
The officer swung two… three… four times as he advanced on Xander. However, the bored teen stepped back three times, evading each swipe, before extending his foot forward and using the tip to catch the officer’s boot as he stepped forward. Xander pulled his feet back and forced the officer’s feet to glide on the floor, taking away his ability to stand and making his legs split with the drop of his heavy weight, as if he’d slipped on a banana peel. The teen used the opening to kick him in the face as he fell. Officer Whitmore wasn’t unconscious, but he was bleeding heavily from his broken nose and far too disoriented to chase after Xander.
The distraught Mrs. Sullivan ran from the room, and the plump secretary was gone as well, allowing Xander a moment to finally open Faith’s student file. He wasn’t surprised to see she was a year behind, not that he cared. Armed with the knowledge of the classrooms she should be in, he ripped the school map off the wall and left the main office, though he winced as he did. Pushing his untrained muscles to accomplish such dexterous and agile movement built a lot of lactic acid.
Disorder descended the school’s hallways as students were being evacuated. Xander casually walked through the chaotic halls, looking from the map to his surroundings, hoping to spot Faith or her classroom. Despite his weaker body, Xander dropped another two teachers before they left him alone as he searched. Having fought demons and vampires—even in his weakest state—humans were nothing against his experience and muscle memory.
All the students were gone as he made his way from her first period to her sixth, nor had he seen her. However, he looked through the teacher’s attendance books before leaving each class. Xander learned that Faith had stopped coming to school for the past six or seven weeks in all but two classes. Rifling through the English & Science teacher’s desks, Xander found out the male teachers—Luca Bronson & Owen Mardyke—were not only giving her perfect attendance, but a passing grade, which gave him a sinking feeling in his stomach.
“Please don’t be what I think it is,” Xander groaned in the empty classroom, growing more annoyed by the stark realities of her life.
Cutting through the silence, Xander could hear police sirens in the distance, moving closer. With a sigh, the teen walked the emptied halls back to the main office. The school was mostly vacant, with no less than two people always watching him from afar, likely reporting his location. They watched him enter the main office, walk to the furthest office, and kick open the principal’s office door. Of course, Principal Olom had already evacuated.
The police sirens were much closer, alerting Xander to the few minutes he had to quickly rifle through the personnel files of the faculty. He found the home addresses for Bronson, Mardyke, and Principal Olom and stuffed the sheets in his pocket before leaving. Xander ran to the entrance doors and looked out of the window.
Thus far, there were only three police vehicles parked on the sidewalk and courtyard. There was quite a crowd and four of the six officers—along with several teachers—were urging the students and nearby onlookers to move back. The remaining two officers were by the lead car, aiming their guns at the door. Xander assumed these patrol officers were the first responders and that more police were on the way. Even still, six was too many if he had any hope of not being shot.
Xander turned and sprinted to the school’s rear exit, hoping they hadn’t covered that route. His optimism was dashed when he saw through the door’s window a police Ford Bronco parked on the pathway between the gymnasium and the parking lot fence. There was no way past the two officers, but Xander felt confident he could take them out without dying. He only needed to get close enough.
The teen looper shoved the door hard as he ran through it, forcing the metal to hit the door stopper hard and make a loud banging noise. Xander looked behind him as he frantically ran forward, hoping to give the impression that he hadn’t seen them and that he was running away from the police in the front.
“FREEZE!” Xander heard, and immediately raised his hands in the air as he finally noticed the two cops in front of him. He acted flustered and surprised as he noted the small crowd of students and teachers gathered many yards behind the police Bronco.
“Keep your hands where I can see ‘em!” the officer in charge yelled, keeping his gun trained on Xander. He was a large black man—6’5”, at least, with broad shoulders—and his partner seemed rookie-young. “Do not—I repeat—do not move!”
Xander pretended to be afraid, and with his shaky hands raised as high as possible, he wailed back in fear, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to!”
“Control-984, we have eyes on a single, male—possible suspect—exiting the rear of the school,” the rookie said into his shoulder radio.
The curious crowd of students and teachers in the back watched the officers order Xander to turn around, then walk backward toward them, and finally to get on his knees. All the while, Xander sniffed and wailed apologetically in hopes of giving them a false sense of security. The lead officer was to the side of Xander and well out of arm’s reach. The young partner cautiously walked up behind him and grabbed Xander’s right wrist, followed by the left wrist, and forcibly positioned his arms behind his back. It took the young one several attempts to handcuff Xander, but after doing so, he lifted the saddened teen to his feet.
The rookie was on Xander’s right with a hand gripping his elbow and nodded to the lead, stating, “Secure, sir.”
“Control-984, we have one in custody,” the lead said before holstering his sidearm. As they walked back to the Bronco, the lead officer approached Xander on his left and demanded to know, “What’s your name, son? Are you a student here?”
‘Think flexible thoughts,’ Xander jokingly told himself as he relaxed his body.
With his mastery of harmonious muscle movement, Xander jumped with just enough strength to lift his knees to his clavicle without elevating himself above the officers. As the tips of his feet scraped his cuffed wrist passing over them, the teen jumped-roped his manacled hands so seamlessly, it appeared as if he were simply walking beside them. The moment the officers realized his cuffed hands were now in front of him, they paused, and in that split-second of disbelief, Xander grabbed the lead officer’s gun.
The rookie pulled on Xander’s elbow to get the teen away. However, from the vague memories Xander gained from when he dressed as a police officer, he’d already unhooked the security clip and pulled the weapon out. The rookie tried to draw out his sidearm, but fumbled as Xander calmly pointed his 9mm at his face. Both men felt ready to rush him, but Xander stepped back to make them rethink that action. The distant crowd groaned and scattered after witnessing the three-second altercation.
No longer acting distraught and pathetic, a calm Xander kept his gun trained on the only officer with a gun. The teen could see in the young officer’s green eyes that he was scared, but held it in and kept his senses.
“Easy man,” the larger senior officer calmly voiced. “This doesn’t have to end in a bad way.”
Xander understood their worry but he simply wanted to continue finding Faith, and calmly told the rookie, “Hands up.”
“You don’t have to-”
“Shut up,” Xander interrupted. “Come on. Bring ‘em up.”
The rookie hesitated, however, the veteran ordered, “Do it.”
“You too, Big Guy,” Xander ordered the senior without looking at him.
Xander nodded his head, and though hesitant, they both moved toward their Ford police SUV. The veteran officer tried to talk Xander into giving up, but the teen simply told the rookie, “Slowly, I want you to press the retention clip with your right hand and pull the gun out with your left. If you deviate from my instructions or go faster than I like, you’re taking two to the chest.”
Though Xander was several feet away, he wasn’t sure if the vest could withstand the impact. He hoped they had the sense to not endanger their lives, because at this point, Xander was curious enough to wonder what it’d feel like to kill in cold blood.
“Go on Danny,” the veteran said with his hands still raised.
After Danny had his sidearm in his non-dominant hand, Xander ordered, “Toss it in the passenger side.”
Though reluctant, the rookie followed directions. Now that neither officer could shoot him, Xander casually unclipped the magazine and cocked the glock’s slide back to eject the bullet in the chamber relatively high. The officers looked confused as Xander casually caught the bullet. The teen tossed the gun on the floor as he answered their unasked question.
“Lucky for you guys I’m not here to kill cops,” Xander said. “Plus, I’m not big on guns.” Cracking his neck, as if preparing himself for a brawl—despite still being handcuffed—the teen added, “Come on. I don’t have all day.”
When Xander raised his right knee to his chest to stretch his quads the two officers whipped out their batons before rushing him. With his mind-boggling wealth of combat experience, the young warrior wasn’t concerned. He very nearly felt a rush at the elevated level of difficulty. However, even without his hands, Xander made quick work of them. Neither of the uniformed officers—armed with their batons—could withstand the teen’s fast flurry of kicks.
Kicking the rookie in the chest propelled him toward the veteran. With supreme aim and balance, he kicked the larger man in the neck. Despite taking a hit to his leg and shoulder, Xander bounced off of each man like a ball in a pinball machine, kicking them in the face, neck, knees, or chest in rapid succession. Xander was a hurricane of kicks, evading most of their swipes, until the veteran was on the floor, wincing in terrible pain as he gripped his knee, and his unconscious partner was right beside him.
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As Xander wasn’t sure how much time he had before their backup arrived, he ignored the throbbing pain of being hit in the head, and moved quickly. He grabbed the key to the handcuffs and removed them. Quickly snatching the veteran’s gun and magazine, he tossed them in the Bronco before jumping in and racing off of the property.
Recalling the hazy experience gained after he dressed as a race car driver, Xander sped through intersections, back alleys, and even drove on the wrong side of the road to get far enough from any possible pursuers. After successfully escaping a safe distance away, Xander used the map in the glove compartment and a sharpie to highlight the route to all three addresses. Fortunately, they weren’t far apart.
The two teachers, Luca Bronson & Owen Mardyke, had single-room apartments while principal Olom lived in a nice three-bedroom home in a suburban neighborhood. Upon picking the locks of the apartments, Xander learned the middle-aged English teacher, Mr. Bronson, lived a relatively good life. He was an average-looking Caucasian male, of average height & weight, with sandy blond hair and blue eyes. Bronson also had a girlfriend—judging by the photos on the walls—and at the sight of a wedding magazine on the coffee table with tabs sticking out of it, he assumed they were also engaged. Without the man or clues, Xander left for the next address.
Breaking into Owen Mardyke’s home, Xander noted how different he was from Bronson right away. The science teacher’s entire apartment was spotless and mostly white, with beige accents. The walls, carpet, chairs, and sofa were all white, while the dinner table and frames were all a golden oak color. Stranger than that, neatly hanging on every wall, were dozens of framed insects pinned on white paper. As if that didn’t assault his senses enough, the entire space stung his nostrils with the smell of formaldehyde.
From the three photos he found of Mardyke, the, roughly sixty-year-old man was balding, short, and obese. He wore thick glasses and had an overall appearance that screamed serial predator. Going through his meticulous files, Xander noted he didn’t seem to do anything else but teach, clean, and shop from mail-order catalogs. After setting everything to the way it was, Xander left for the last address.
Principal Olom’s house wasn’t quite as easy to break into since he was a family man and his wife and two daughters were home. Fortunately, he saw all three in the living room watching the breaking news about an officer-involved shooting at Dearborn high school. Xander quietly scaled the backyard wall to the second floor and went from window to window until he found one that was unlocked.
He entered the home through the daughter’s room and silently made his way through the second-floor rooms. He found nothing of note in Olom’s bedroom, and after sneaking his way to the study downstairs, found nothing that could help him locate Faith. However, there were some check stubs written out from a student services fund to Olom’s wife. He could be wrong, but it appeared the principal was embezzling funds from a student and activities program and lining his pockets with it.
“FFFFFFFuuuck this place,” Xander gasped, feeling astounded by how many horrible things were happening here.
“Who are you?” Xander heard a small voice behind him ask.
He turned to see one of Olom’s brown-haired daughters at the door—ten years of age, judging by the sight of her.
Xander sported his friendliest smile and sweetly answered, “I’m your mommy’s underage lover, sweetie.” He set down the folder and walked toward the door. He patted her head as he walked past and said, “Tell your daddy that your mommy moans like an Albanian field wench.”
Xander walked past the living room, making the wife scream and run to her daughters as he calmly left the home. She was likely calling the police, but as he jogged to the police Bronco, he couldn’t care less. It was already three in the afternoon, and he was no closer to finding Faith than when he started.
As Mardyke seemed the creepiest, Xander returned to his apartment and picked the lock once again to gain entry. To his great fortune, the heavyset, balding man was inside, sitting on his white couch, watching a home video of children playing on the jungle gym in some park. Mardyke had on wired headphones, and didn’t hear Xander sigh audibly, shaking his head in exhausted disgust. The teen calmly walked to the kitchen, swiped the chef’s knife from the set, and returned to the living room.
Mardyke was so focused on the perversion on the television, he hadn’t noticed Xander until his chin was grabbed and yanked to the side and the sharp edge of a big knife was pressed against his flabby neck. The old man instantly stiffened in surprise, screaming through gritted teeth. He started hyperventilating when Xander pressed the blade deeper into his skin, drawing a single trail of blood. The fat teacher was shaking like a leaf, breathing heavily, and it was amazing how fast he began to sweat.
Though terrified, Mardyke yelled, “Take anything you want! Please, just- just d-don’t hurt me.”
Rather than answer, Xander elbowed the back of his head, sending the man rolling off of the couch and onto the floor. After the teen leaped over the couch, he got on top of the round teacher and punched him in the face several times, until a crying and bleeding Mardyke was begging him to stop.
Pressing the knife to his neck again, an irate Xander said, “Faith Lehane. Tell me everything. And if you even think about lying to me…” Xander poked the man several times in his chest with the tip of his kitchen knife, drawing dots of blood and making the man grunt in pain. “You’ll get more than just a pinprick, ya get me?”
The crying man yelled, “I-I-I d-didn’t do anything w-wrong! I promise! I didn’t!”
“Woah, woah! I haven’t even asked you a question yet!” Xander yelled back. “You’re lying to me already?!”
“N-n-no! I-I-I swear, I-I-I didn’t!”
Xander slapped Mardyke in the face—hard—yelling, “Listen!” He slapped him again and again, yelling, “Listen!” When the sweaty man finally became submissive, Xander eased his assault to ask, “Mr. Mardyke, are you listening?”
With a knife to his flabby skin, Mardyke yelled, “Yes! Yes! P-P-Please! I’m- I’m listening!”
“Good,” Xander replied, gently patting his fleshy cheek. “The first thing I need you to understand is: I’m not the police or any form of law enforcement.” The terrified teacher just listened, blinking so hard his entire head flexed to do it. “I need you to understand that because it means I’m not here to serve an arrest warrant, charge you with something, and hope the law convicts you to a lifetime of getting butt-fucked by a big guy named Bubba. I’m not bound by any laws that would otherwise prevent me from gutting you like a pig right here. Ya get me?”
Mardyke shivered, cried, and nodded all at the same time.
“So, since I don’t care if you live or die,” Xander continued. “Worry less about going to jail, and more about seeing tomorrow, because if you don’t answer me honestly, I promise you it’ll be your last night on earth. Do we understand each other?”
“Yes! Yes, please! J-Just- Jussst d-don’t k-kill me,” the whimpering man begged.
“Good,” Xander grimly said with a smile. “The rules are simple. Tell me everything you know, and I leave. Lie to me again and I dye the carpet with your blood.”
The old man frantically nodded his blubbery, sweaty head, and told him everything about his involvement with Faith and what they’d been doing together. Xander quickly felt sick to his stomach. The abominable teacher took advantage of her, propositioned a passing grade, good attendance, and some money in exchange for oral sex, feet sucking, and shaving off her pubic hair so she’d look more like a child.
“But I swear, I didn’t do anything else!” he bellowed. “I swear it on my mother’s life, I didn’t!”
Restraining the urge to throw up or stab him, a furious Xander forced himself to ask, “Were there other girls?”
“No!” he yelled, shaking his chubby face. “No! I couldn’t! L-Look at me! Fat! Ugly! Old! There’s nothing I could do! Not even with the girls that’d go that far for a free pass!”
“So, there were others?”
“Yes! But I never-”
“Who!” Xander interrupted. “Who told you to do it with Faith!”
Xander didn’t like how long it was taking the sweaty and scared fat man to answer. With masterful control over the chef’s knife, he smoothly cut a long gash down the sick fuck’s left cheek. Then he sliced the man’s shoulder skin and forearms as the hollering man tried to defend himself. None of the injuries were life-threatening, but it scared the man enough to yell, “Mark Bronson! M-M-Mark Bronson! He- He was the one who told me.”
“Why?!” Xander yelled.
“I c-c-caught him,” Mardyke hastily returned. “I c-caught him with a different student! I was going to get him fired, but-but-but he offered me a girl! He offered me Faith! And-And-And I’d never- with someone so pretty- so young-”
“You sick sonofabitch!” Xander cursed, raising the red-edged knife.
“Wait, wait, wait!” he yelled, hiding his face under his pudgy arms. “I swear, if it wasn’t for him, I never would’ve done it! I never would’ve done it!”
Recalling the same rage he felt during his angry phase, Xander—without thought or hesitation—pierced Mardyke’s frail stomach with the kitchen knife, burying five inches into the older man’s large gut. The teacher’s eyes widened with every inch of the razor-edge slicing into his flesh. It was only when Xander stopped that the man passed out from the shock. In his comatose state, Xander tied him up with the lamp’s cord before calling the police.
“Hey, police? Yeah, I stabbed this pedophile in the stomach with a big knife,” Xander said. “If you want him to live, I guess you can dispatch an ambulance. I wouldn’t recommend it though.”
Xander left the receiver on the counter before leaving the apartment and driving straight to Bronson’s apartment next. Parking behind the six-story building, he grabbed the shotgun from the squad car and broke into Bronson’s apartment. The middle-aged teacher was on the phone when Xander rushed in and kicked the shocked man square in the solar plexus. The man was knocked clear off his feet and hit the wood floor hard, clutching his chest as he struggled to breathe. The heaving Bronson only looked up when Xander planted his boot on his chest and cocked the long-barrel firearm before pointing the muzzle straight to his face.
What was, likely, most unnerving for the petrified teacher was how calm Xander’s face looked as he demanded, “Faith Lehane: Tell me everything. And when I say everything, assume I’ve already talked to your pervert-in-crime, Mardyke. So, if you fucking lie to me…”
Xander tilted the muzzle to the side and squeezed the trigger. The explosive blast was deafening, echoing in the room and making the man shiver and cry as he turned away from the blast. Hot pellets destroyed the wood floor, splintering wood pieces everywhere and even cutting Bronson’s cheek. The neighbors certainly heard—meaning it wouldn’t be long before the police arrived—but the threat of death got the attitude from Bronson that Xander wanted.
Bronson hurriedly confessed to everything. Targeting young girls from bad or unstable homes, offering them help, taking advantage of them, then blackmailing them with video recordings he secretly took of them. He had done it to seven girls, one of whom was Faith. Xander demanded to know where the videos were, and Bronson showed him where he stashed the secret tapes.
Xander shoved the muzzle of the shotgun against the crying man’s temple and demanded to know, “How do you contact Faith if she doesn’t go to school?”
“I- I- I- I don’t- don’t,” he cried. “I haven’t seen her in months! Sheee g-got a boyfriend a wh-while ago! Told me he’d kill me if I e-ever laid a hand on her ag-again.”
The thoroughly irate Xander demanded, “What’s his name?” When Xander heard sirens approaching, he knew his time was nearly up. He shot another round at the floor, stating, “I’m not going to ask you again.”
A sniveling Bronson quickly confessed everything else he knew. “I never got his n-name. But he was wearing Trip O colors. They’re organized—deep Irish mob roots. Even police don’t mess with them, so I left her alone. I swear, that’s all I know! I swear it on the Christ Almighty!”
Certain he was telling the truth, Xander asked, “Where?”
“A-All of Roxbury Heights,” he quickly answered. “Off of Pontoon by the park.”
With little time left, Xander didn’t hesitate to point the 12-gauge shotgun at the filthy excuse of a human’s foot, and as Bronson yelled, he pulled the trigger. Eight hot lead balls exploded out of the barrel. The sharp CRACK echoed throughout the room as searing pellets ripped through his skin, muscle, and bone like a hot knife through butter. At close range, the pellets were tightly grouped together, so the entire floor wasn’t blown off. However, the blast scattered bits and pieces of a screaming Bronson’s foot across the floor, and the teacher’s entire body went rigid as he attempted to grab his shredded foot.
Xander ignored the screams of agony and put on one of the VHS tapes for any police that entered. Then he quickly made a sloppy tourniquet out of the man’s belt and tied it around his leg before rushing out of the home, leaving the apartment door open for the authorities. The teen ran to the fire escape and took it to the alley below. The Bronco burned rubber escaping the scene moments before police cruisers screeched to a halt at the front of the building.
Three miles away, Xander stopped at the parking lot of an outlet marketplace. He grabbed all the weapons and ammunition in the SUV and put them in a black duffel bag before taking a taxi to the housing projects deep into Triple O territory. It was on the drive there that Xander had a moment of peace to process everything he’d learned about Faith and the revolting realities of her life. Realizing she didn’t have the option to alter her circumstances with a time loop—like he did—forced him to feel painfully humbled.
Anytime he had ever talked to her about her past, she’d always downplayed how bad she had it. Thinking about his home life and how little he brought it up to his friends—or joked about—he thought about the many times he’d done the same thing. Xander still wanted to yell at Faith, and call her a cunt, but he wasn’t sure he could say she deserved the hand life dealt her. Being raped repeatedly by Bronson and Mardyke for however long they did made him want to hurl. Banging his throbbing head against the window, Xander regretted not shooting their balls off.
The cab let him out in one of the worst areas he’d seen yet. The buildings—businesses or residential—were faded brick and old slats, built on littered streets. People went about their day like they were zoned out and aimless, or hustling with their heads on a swivel. Walking around the rough neighborhood with a black duffle bag over his shoulder, Xander was certain he stood out like a sore thumb. However, he had two things going for him: he wasn’t a cop and he had nothing to lose.
Entering a rough-looking park with plenty of sketchy characters around, Xander spotted a group of young gangsters, each of whom wore Trip colors: green and white.
He walked up to them and asked, “I’m looking to offload some product.” Xander shook the duffle bag, allowing them to hear what he meant. “Any takers? I’ll give you a sweet discount if you’re Trip O.”
One of the four, raised his shirt to scratch his stomach, showcasing his 9mm Smith & Wesson pistol tucked in the waistband of his jeans.
As the other three menacingly stepped closer, the leader said, “Why don’t you go ahead and leave that there. We’ll find a place to offload all that.”
Having expected it, Xander nodded and slowly dropped the heavy bag on the grass. The bag was facing them, and they backed away when they read the three letters printed on it: B.P.D.
In their momentary distraction, Xander raised his shirt and removed his 9mm glock before stating, “Great. Glad to hear it. I mean, you may have to be careful where you use them because I’m sure the city will hunt you down to get them back. Anyway, let’s talk price.”
The four gangsters declined to talk trade and backed away, viewing him as a larger risk than previously anticipated. Xander looked around the area and he could tell he was being watched. He imagined some look-out was reporting his presence to someone big enough to intercede. Thus, Xander left to buy a sandwich and waited on a park bench. Less than an hour later, six larger, older gangsters showed up and insisted he join them.
Xander let them take the duffel bag, and was led to a nearby corner store, where they took him down into the shop’s basement. Three were in front of him and the other three were behind him. When they reached the small room, Xander saw a chair in the center with a lot of dried bloodstains on the floor. Clearly, the place was where they were going to interrogate him… roughly. However, Xander was in a rush and didn’t want to deal with the gang’s long process of vetting him before allowing him to talk with whom he needed.
As they neared the chair, Xander heard from behind him the sharp scratching of a shoe on the cement floor, and knew the biggest of the six was about to grab him from behind. The exact moment he saw hands enter his peripheral vision, Xander gripped the left wrist, slipped underneath the larger man’s armpit, and pinned his left arm behind his back, surprising everyone.
At that moment, Xander pulled the gun that was at his back and shot the two mobsters nearest him in the gut—which he expected would be excruciating but had a higher chance of survival—before the others began shooting. The teen hid behind the larger, quaking man getting filled with hot lead. Shots were popping like firecrackers for several seconds. Xander was tagged in the leg and shoulder, skimming the skin and sending fiery pain up his limbs to his brain.
When the large meaty shield Xander held up by his jacket dropped to his knees, the teen feared he wouldn’t make it. However, when the gangsters paused to reload, Xander leaned out, and due to the close range, accurately fired three shots at three guts. Xander quickly left his cover and shot two more in the arm when they tried to raise their guns. Fortunately for his plan, five were still alive.
“Well, that was invigorating,” Xander said, looking between the flesh wounds at his left shoulder and right calf muscle.
The teenager kicked all of their weapons away before waving his gun for them to sit against the brick wall. Xander grabbed the chair and moved it in front of the leader before he demanded to know who in their gang roughed up a teacher for touching high school girls. He gave them all the specifics Bronson confessed, but they weren’t sure.
While pointing the gun at them, he said, “If y’all want to live, I suggest you start making calls before you bleed out.”
They began calling underlings from the phone in the basement while Xander threatened them with death if they tried to tip off their colleagues. They kept their inquiries simple after Xander shot one of them for being too talkative. All they asked, in their thick Boston accents, was, “Have you heard of one of ours roughing up a Dearborn teacher for diddling high school girls? Yeah, in Roxbury.” If the person on the phone hadn’t, they’d ask, “Do you know who might know?”
It was just after midnight when they got the right gang member on the phone and handed it to Xander, which was a relief. Three of the five had passed out and Xander wasn’t keen on the idea of hunting down Trip O gang members all night just to find the one he was looking for.
“Listen carefully,” a sluggish Xander started. “Your captains already told you to tell me everything you know. If you’re lying, I shoot one and let the others live so they can tell the rest of the gang you’re the reason…” Unsure of their names, Xander pointed to one and asked, “What’s your name?”
When the man didn’t answer, Xander didn’t hesitate to shoot him in the calf muscle, making him scream before yelling his name, “P-Pe-Petey! It’s- It’s Petey!!”
Returning to the phone, he was about to speak when Petey’s wailing became overbearing. Xander turned to the other gangster and told him, “Make him shut up or I shoot you next.”
Nervously, the larger man cleared his throat before muttering, “Sorry, boss,” and clamping his meaty hands over Petey’s hollering mouth.
“Thank you.” Returning to the call, Xander continued over the heavy breathing of the wounded men. “I hope you heard that. Keep in mind if you lie to me, Petey dies, and the others tell the gang it was because of you. Now, tell me everything you know about Faith Lehane.”
The dutiful young gangster told Xander what he knew: How he met Faith in a bar, hit her up, and took her to his place where they hooked up. Their romp sessions happened often enough for her to tell him about the problem she was having, and he took care of it.
“Then she left and I haven’t seen or heard from her since,” the voice on the other end finished.
“Do you have her number?”
“No,” he promptly answered.
“Fuck,” a tired, injured, progressively annoyed Xander cursed. “Where’d she go?”
“I don’t know,” the young gangster answered. “I heard she’s hooking up with some drummer.”
“I need a name,” an irritable Xander demanded. “Petey’s life’s on the line here.”
“Alright, alright, you crazy ffffuck,” he hotly complied. “There’s a deadbeat I know, Ronnie, stools at O’Malley’s. They were a thing once, but that’s it, alright! That’s all I know!”
“What’s Ronnie’s number?”
“I don’t know! I barely know the guy.”
“Goddamnit!” Xander yelled. “You better tell me something before I start flat-lining your friends!”
“Alright!” the voice yells. “Just let me make a call.”
“You got five minutes,” Xander ordered. “But no pressure.”
Xander shot the wall to make sure he understood, then hung up. Four minutes later, the phone rang and the young gangster gave him the number to O’Malley’s, confirming Ronnie was there. Xander then called the bar, and the bartender handed Ronnie the phone.
“Ronnie?” Xander asked. When he confirmed, he continued, “I’m looking for Faith Lehane. Know where I can find her? I’ll pay your tab. You can even drink the good stuff if you want.”
After assuring Ronnie and the bartender that the tab was on him, he told Xander that she’d been hooking up with a drummer named Kenny.
“Pretty sure he’s playing over at Claddaghs tonight, on Marmadukes,” he said.
Xander had the gangsters call an ambulance before thanking them for their time, and commandeering one of their cars—the keys that had the Mercedes logo. He grabbed his duffel bag of weapons and limped out of the cellar before racing to Claddaghs in a silver ‘95 Mercedes Benz, S-Class. When he got to the bar & club, he bribed the bouncer with a hundred, then walked around the large room, asking for Kenny. He also used a hundred to enter backstage and see the band in the green room. There were at least fifteen bodies in the small room, mostly young girls in slutty dresses.
As Xander didn’t have a face to go with the name, he called out, “Yo! Kenny! …Kenny! I got that bottle service!”
When the drummer moved a girl out of the way at the sound of his name and free liquor, Xander smiled before aiming his glock directly at his handsome face. All the girls in the room screamed as everyone moved as far away as they could in the small room. Xander walked closer to Kenny, making the terrified man unconsciously back away and up the couch he had been sitting on—frighteningly focused on the gun—until he was pressed flat against the wall.
Calmly, Xander demanded, “Where’s Faith?”
The mid-to-late twenty-year-old with long, sandy-colored hair pissed his pants as he eyed the man pointing a gun between his eyes. Xander had dried blood around his nose and mouth. His left eye had blood in it from the baton that had hit his head. He had blood around his left shoulder and right calf. But above all, Xander’s eyes were cold and intensely resolute. Kenny had no doubt he’d die if he didn’t answer. Thus, he revealed everything he knew about Faith and where she should be.
Eager to avoid shooting anyone who wanted to play ‘The Hero,’ Xander left the room and ran out of the club before anyone outside of the green room learned what happened. He ran a block down the street to the handicap space he parked the Benz. The parking lot was full of cars but it was devoid of people. It was silent until a loud CRACK rang out, and he felt his arm being shoved back. Confused, Xander looked down at his right biceps and was mildly impressed to see a dark hole with blood freely flowing out.
Without hesitation, Xander ducked, pressing his body against the Benz as a rain of bullets hailed from the darkness above him. The windows of the Benz were blown out as the car was riddled with bullet holes. Sharp metal snapping and glass shattering filled his ears. As Xander wasn’t sure how many were shooting at him or their locations, he knew his best strategy was to flee. He shot back to either side of him to keep anyone at bay when he suddenly felt a painfully sharp pinch on his stomach.
When he saw red, he ignored the blood and shot ahead of him, forcing the hidden man to take cover. From his low position, he pulled on the driver side door handle, opening enough to dive in. However, he felt another agonizing burning stab in his thigh. He knew he was shot once again, but took out the keys, all the same.
As bullets tore through metal and glass, the little transparent razors cut his skin as he focused on starting the car and occasionally shot back. When the car finally started, he threw the gear in reverse and slammed on the gas. Unable to see, he crashed into a solid a second later, and assumed it was another car. Recalling the layout of the parking lot, Xander put the car on drive and turned the wheel as he sped away. He took a chance to look over the dashboard and narrowly avoided hitting a telephone pole.
Fortunately, the engine was still running and none of the tires were shot. Ignoring the agony swelling his body—like millions of hornets stabbing his organs—and his blurring vision, he raced away. Xander expected a few to follow him, but after running three red lights, causing one of them to get T-boned by a truck, he lost them. Xander could drive to the address Kenny gave him in relative peace of mind.
Each step to the three-story apartment building was a struggle to overcome. Agony ripped through him as he slowly made his way up the stairs, holding his injured arm against the bullet wound in his stomach while he left a trail of blood on the floor behind him. Even still, he wouldn’t be denied his prize, the very promise that brought him to Boston in the first place.
Heaving and bleeding, Xander weakly knocked on the apartment, and after a minute, a girl’s voice asked, “Who is it?”
Xander’s voice was weak and raspy as he answered, “I’m looking for Faith.”
Before Xander left the green room, Kenny had confessed to him that Faith had been his regular hook-up until their band got a new singer.
“Faith took a liking to her and left me for her,” Kenny fearfully confessed. “When it didn’t work out with Liz, she left the band and Faith went with her. Been staying at her place the past couple of weeks.”
Kenny gave Xander the address before stating, “Sucks for Faith, tho. Liz don’t swing that way.”
From the other side of the door, Xander heard Liz claim not to know Faith, but Xander shot the lock off the door before agonizingly kicking it open. The way his body was feeling, he knew he only had minutes. He found Faith inside with a pretty blonde girl, and they were in the corner of the studio apartment. They were wearing shorts and tank tops and Faith had a bat in her hand, ready to use it.
“I don’t know who you are, but stay back, or I will cave your skull in!” Faith yelled.
Slowly, Xander lifted the suddenly incredibly heavy gun and waved for her to drop the bat. Though the brunette beauty complied, she stood defensively in front of the frightened Liz, glaring at the beaten and bloodied boy. Xander limped toward them, making them incredibly nervous, but rather than hurting them—or yelling—he slumped in the chair facing them. He was sweating heavily, his eyes were droopy—one was red with blood—and he felt no energy left in his body.
Even still, he mustered up what remaining strength he had to say, “My name is… Luke Skywalker. I’m here to rescue you.” He didn’t know if she was a Star Wars fan or not, but she clearly got the joke, looking mildly less afraid and more annoyed now.
The heavy pistol slipped from his slack fingers to the hard floor with a loud clatter. Faith looked at it a moment before rushing to grab it and pointed it at him.
Xander didn’t care as he told her, “Fuck you, Faith…”
“How do you know my name?!” she demanded. “Who are you?!”
They heard sirens in the background, but it was too far away to disturb him as he continued. “You think… I’m a quitter? How could you… say that? To me!”
“Faith, who is he?” Liz desperately asked.
Shaking her head, the brunette returned, “I don’t- I don’t know you!” Turning to Xander, she demanded to know, “Who are you?!”
“Fuck you, Faith!” Xander yelled, sapping a lot of his little strength. With a weakened neck, his head swayed as he stated, “Don’t you know… how badly… I want to get out? How much… I just want to stop… and let it all pass me by? But then… you called me… a quitter! A… a coward! And that… got to me!”
His head fell back, forcing him to look at a clean ceiling above, and wished with all his heart his ceiling was just as clean. Tears streamed down his eyes and strands of saliva stuck between his lips as he continued.
“But why’d your life… have to be so… so shitty?” he cried, recalling the misery of the day. “Looking for you… I saw… it all… your life… and- and… it was… shit… from top to bottom. I hated… what you said… but… your whole life… just the single… one you have… wass just sooo… It makes me feel… so… sooo… Fuck! I hate whaat you did… Faith. N-now… I have to… keep… g-going… because of you!”
Xander forced his head up to look at the distraught girls before telling Faith, “Fuck you… Faith. Now… I… c-can’t… quit…”
Darkness took his blurry vision. Xander woke up on Halloween morning, still angry, and hating Faith for exposing him the way she had. He wanted to stop trying and failing as much as he wanted to prove her—and his hellish circumstance—wrong.
“One more time,” he muttered to himself.
However, despite deciding to postpone his conquest of Earth to try once again, he understood he had to do things radically different, beginning with killing Xander completely.