DarkWillow(f/m)
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A Buffy The Vampire Slayer Tickle Fic
This takes place during the Season 6 finale, titled "Grave". The original teleplay was written by David Fury. I went in a… rather different direction. This is set-up, the payoff comes later. Hope you enjoy a nice yarn.
She looked him in the eye, not noticing the blood that trickled from her nose. He had come out of nowhere, by way of England. And he had pushed her to the ground like a schoolyard bully. Pushed her with his mind, granted, and with temporary power on loan from Goddess-knew-who. It was that other power though, the one he had always had over her, that made her feel like a weakling. It was that helpful mentor BS that now antagonized her, that superiority thing. She had once thought of him as her teacher, but she had nothing left to learn from him.
She had considered him her friend, but now she only saw betrayers. Hell, he'd been a schoolgirl crush once, before she learned that those of the less fair sex were hardly worth her time. It had taken college to show her that-- no, it had taken… Tara.
That deep fiery pain, which had nothing to do with her fall, flared up again, and Dark Willow stood and faced her old mentor.
The two studied each other from across the floor of the Magic Box. Giles, grave, his magick-wielding hand outstretched defensively. Dark Willow with an arrogant smirk that nevertheless barely covered her embarrassment at being caught off guard. "Uh-oh," she said with slightly wavering sarcasm, "Daddy's home… I'm in wicked trouble now."
Buffy viewed both of them apprehensively from her vantage point on the ground, where Willow had hurled her moments before. Anya stood with her back pressed to a line of shelves, clutching a spell book that had been providing her with some momentarily protective counter-spells. But now those two were merely spectators, waiting to see the results of this clash of the spell casters.
"Willow, you have to stop what you're doing," Giles warned in that soft, sincere way that drove her nuts.
"Uuh, sorry. Can't do that," she smirked. "I'm not finished yet."
The old man forged right ahead with his 'play nice now' routine. "Stay on this path and you'll wind up dead." Buffy spoke up.
"Willow. Listen to him. I don't want to fight you anymore."
"I don't want to fight you either," she explained, bored with the lecturing. "I wanna fight him." She stepped forward, raising her arms and summoning up all the nasty energy at her disposal. She wanted to hurt him, to put a stop to his stern warnings and his excruciating kindness.
But before she could do so much as open her mouth, Giles uttered a single, guttural exclamation and from his hand threw a line of green energy. The emerald magick wrapped itself around the witch's midsection like a boa constrictor, pinning her arms to her sides.
'Wow,' she thought, 'that's a pretty effective—'. The line flashed, abruptly cutting off her train of thought and replacing it with the quiet calm of oblivion.
Worlds within worlds, circles within circles. Deep, pulsating darkness. A distant cry, a wail of pain. She heard the cry, and knew it was her own. A cry of loss, and furious anger. Her lover was—
"NO!" She emerged from the darkness with a desperate cry. Blinking at sudden daylight, Dark Willow found herself… someplace else. Scrub brush and hardpan stretched toward a horizon that seemed infinite. She was in the desert, but not like the one that lay on the outskirts of Sunnydale. She wouldn't be surprised if that bastard Giles had sent her thousands of miles away. Dark Willow sniffed derisively. Only a temporary setback to the inevitable, like that time she poofed Glory the hellgod into the stratosphere. The old man was clearly getting desperate. With a flick of her wrist, she could be right back on track to extracting her revenge. Just as soon as she figured out why she couldn't move.
Dark Willow coolly surveyed her immediate surroundings. She was seated in a wooden contraption, her arms resting on padded boards with shackles that kept her hands firmly in place; her legs were perpendicular to her body. She noted with some vague interest that her ankles were kept in place by a latched pillory. What kinda Renaissance Faire crap was this?
And what happened to her threads? In the Magic Box she had sported much more imposing and dependably utilitarian black leather pants, shirt, and jacket. Now, in place of these, there was a sleeveless ebony dress with a plunging neckline. Her boots were also gone, as near as she could tell, replaced by slippers. On a thin chain around her neck hung a slender quartz bauble, which twinkled in the sun. It was the kind of getup Willow might have worn to a mystical ceremony. This gave her pause.
Is that what this was? Some kinda prelude to a ceremony? She didn't have time for this, she had fish to fry- 'Maybe literally,' she thought darkly- back in Sunnyhell. Intent to waste no more time, Dark Willow muttered, "Libero," to break down the contraption holding her. Nothing happened. She tried again, her voice louder and firmer this time. Nada.
She was about to try a third time when the air was filled with a low hum. She glanced around, seeking out the noise. The sound grew louder, and she could identify it as voices, the murmuring of an untold number of people. The blue skies began to dim, though the sun was still high, and clouds were nowhere to be seen. Dark Willow was apprehensive, her confidence in her magical abilities a little shaken. She blinked, as dim figures emerged like heat haze from the desert. With a sound like a sigh, the figures solidified into robed beings, the hum ceasing. They stood silently, six of them, their faces all hidden under dark hoods, their hands covered by the fabric of their sleeves. The center figure stepped forward, and Dark Willow locked her suspicious eyes on this one.
"Welcome," the figure croaked from the darkness of its hood. It was the voice of an ancient crone, she thought, a mystical wise woman. But the hands that appeared now from the crone's sleeves were young and fair, the fingernails painted crimson. These hands reached up to the hood, and pushed it back. Long, dirty-blonde hair fell in a cascade. Some crone.
"Well, crap," was the first thing to come to Dark Willow's mind.
Dark Willow floated above the floor of the Magic Box, unconscious, the line of green energy flowing strong around her.
"So, wait, she's not really here right now?" Buffy was confused.
"Well, physically, yes, but her unconscious mind has been transported into a sort of… mystical-psychological construct," Giles explained, with more detail than clarity. Buffy and Anya regarded him blankly. "It's like that film The Matrix," Giles sighed. Buffy and Anya "ah"d, getting it now.
"What'll happen to her now?" Buffy asked Giles as she followed him into the back room that served as her training area.
"The coven that imbued me with their powers have prepared a way to extract hers," Giles explained, leaning against the balance beam at the edge of the mat. "Without killing her, of course," he quickly added.
"They can do that? I mean, not to doubt the skills of the witches who gave you that impressive green stuff, but Willow's on a whole other kind of power trip."
"They can. I can't admit to knowing all of their methods, but… they're trustworthy, if enigmatic. Their practices have been perfected over hundreds of years, yet kept in strictest secrecy. Willow is with them in the spiritual realm. She will accept their treatment, one way or another, and be restored to… her former self."
Buffy looked him in the eye. "Can you be there to make sure they're successful?"
Giles shifted uncomfortably. "I- I wish I could, I really do. But… I must respect the Coven's desire for privacy. I would only impede their progress."
Well, that was that, then. Buffy turned back to peer into the main shop, where Anya was busying herself with cleaning the debris from Hurricane Will.
"I hope they know what they're doing," she said after a moment, her eyes worried.
"What the hell are you doing?" Dark Willow growled. Her eyes were narrow slits, staring daggers at the robed witch that stood before her.
Amy Madison coolly matched the gaze of her former friend.
"Oh Willow, I'm here to help you," she intoned with mock sincerity. "What with all the big, bad magicks you've been using, it's time for an intervention."
"Screw off, rat-face," Dark Willow spat. It was intended as a slap in the face to the woman who had spent several years spinning around a plastic wheel in Willow's bedroom, before Willow had finally reversed the spell that had put her there. But Amy barely blinked at the jibe, only clicking her tongue in admonishment.
"You're only going to make this whole thing harder on yourself," she warned, all mock empathy. Dark Willow rolled her eyes.
"So bring on the whips and chains already," she yawned. "I get it, you hate me. Let's move forward." Amy sighed, and approached the bound sorceress.
"This is not about hate. It's about power. You've always had all the power, long before you even knew what to do with it. Just came so easy for you." As Amy spoke, she slowly circled the wooden contraption, idly playing with the shackles on Dark Willow's wrists.
"The rest of us," she said, indicating the five silent beings that watched them from beneath dark hoods, "we had to work twice as hard to be half as good. But no one cares about how hard you work. They just care about cute, sweet Willow." She punctuated this with a patronizing pat on the head. "Even when she tries to kill them, they send her off to Wicca fat camp to be 'cured'."
Dark Willow glanced around the desert, glowering. So that's what this was supposed to be. But the dumbasses hadn't counted on the grudge-bearing Amy intercepting her on her way through the astral plane.
"But they don't know how weak she is." Amy's voice came from Dark Willow's left. Fingers spidered up her bare arm. She flinched, in revulsion. The cooing, taunting voice continued. "You've given in to evil… stuff unimaginable. You're well on your way to destroying your friends. And yet everyone keeps on loving you?" Amy was right at her ear, speaking in hushed tones. "So I figure, what's wrong with having a little fun, huh? Taking the 'Dark Willow' down a peg or two?"
Through clenched teeth, Dark Willow uttered two venomous syllables. "Bite me." Amy moved until she was eye-to-eye with her.
"Maybe later. First, I'm going to have some fun."
Amy gave a single, curt nod, signaling to the mute coven members. Two stepped forward, flanking Dark Willow on each side. She regarded them coldly as they grabbed her shoulders in a vice-like grip, undid her wrist shackles, and forced both arms above her head. Her wrists were re-locked in place on the wooden backrest.
The corners of Amy's mouth curled deviously. Dark Willow yawned.
"What's next?" she asked, nonchalant.
"Next... you scream!" Amy, her eyes dark as onyx, hissed. "Morsus!"
Emerald energy crackled from her fingertips, hitting Willow like a homing missile. Shrill screams cut though the desert air. But when the mystical dust settled, the captured witch was grinning from ear to ear. Amy, on the other hand, stood doubled over in pain.
"Is that your best attack spell?" Dark Willow asked. "'Cause other than a nice set of goosebumps, my flesh is pretty un-flayed."
Amy stood erect with a start, eyes wide with confusion and rage. That wasn't supposed to happen.
"This isn't a joke, bitch!" Amy's dark eyes flared. Dark Willow shrugged.
"It kinda is."
"Fine, slight change in tactic." With a flick of Amy's wrist, a gleaming metal knife appeared in her hand.
"Ooh, nice hardware," Dark Willow observed, not sweating it in the least. "Things finally getting serious between us?"
Amy was done with retorts. She slashed the blade against the pale flesh of Willow's face.
"Agh!" came a tortured scream... from Amy. Droplets of blood trickled down her cheek. Dark Willow's smirk was holding fast, her flesh unharmed.
"Hmm. Looks like I am rubber and you are glue. All those times I said it in grade school, never thought it'd actually work," she laughed, enjoying Amy's misery. Her captor, fear and rage burning like embers in her black eyes, wiped the blood away with a less than steady hand.
"I- I told you. Don't laugh at me."
"But it's just so. Damn. Funny," Dark Willow deadpanned. "You're trying everything to torture me, and yet your nastiest hexes just kinda tickle."
Amy's eyes narrowed. Regarding her captive with cold mirth, she crept toward the pillory with renewed menace.
"So," Amy began, "Just to recap for the slow witches in the audience…" She indicated her minions. "Any injury I inflict on you comes back to me threefold."
"Not to mention what I'll do to you when I get out of this."
"Mm, right. And my usual juju does little more than… I think the word you used was 'tickle'?"
She was right back at the dark sorceress' side, taking in the sight of her bound body, calculating.
"Honestly, now. You're sure you're not even a tiny bit gay?" Dark Willow offered with a withering glance.
"Shut up and laugh, Rosenberg." Amy dug her crimson fingernails into the concaves of Dark Willow's pale underarms, wiggling them furiously.
Hooded coven members turned to each other, confused. Amy was tickling with fierce abandon. Dark Willow was staring at her, wide-eyed, mouth agape… but not a single giggle escaping. Just utterly caught off guard.
Amy noted with some frustration that she wasn't getting the reaction she wanted. Pressing on, she concentrated on kneading the flesh at the sides of Willow's stomach, a spot that Amy found nerve-wrecking on her own body.
"Have you gone mental, rat brain?" Dark Willow exclaimed, as Amy began frantically scribbling her nails on the witch's belly. But the captive had not the slightest of ticklish reactions. The would-be torturer stepped back, throwing her hands to the air.
"God, what is it with you! You're barely human!" Amy cried.
"Face it, you've got a crappy sense of timing," Dark Willow explained, contemptuous. "My sensitivity went out with my natural hair color. The age of weak little Willow is the past."
Amy's eyes lit up. Another idea. One that might actually work. She turned once more to her captive. Approached the pillory with hands raised. Dark Willow just kept her bored scowl.
"Give it up, Amy. Unless you've got a Delorean that goes 88 miles per hour…"
Amy wrapped her palms around the side of Dark Willow's head, locking eyes with her former friend.
"Don't worry, Red. Where we're going, we won't need roads."
There was white light. And then silence.
To Be Continued...
This takes place during the Season 6 finale, titled "Grave". The original teleplay was written by David Fury. I went in a… rather different direction. This is set-up, the payoff comes later. Hope you enjoy a nice yarn.
She looked him in the eye, not noticing the blood that trickled from her nose. He had come out of nowhere, by way of England. And he had pushed her to the ground like a schoolyard bully. Pushed her with his mind, granted, and with temporary power on loan from Goddess-knew-who. It was that other power though, the one he had always had over her, that made her feel like a weakling. It was that helpful mentor BS that now antagonized her, that superiority thing. She had once thought of him as her teacher, but she had nothing left to learn from him.
She had considered him her friend, but now she only saw betrayers. Hell, he'd been a schoolgirl crush once, before she learned that those of the less fair sex were hardly worth her time. It had taken college to show her that-- no, it had taken… Tara.
That deep fiery pain, which had nothing to do with her fall, flared up again, and Dark Willow stood and faced her old mentor.
The two studied each other from across the floor of the Magic Box. Giles, grave, his magick-wielding hand outstretched defensively. Dark Willow with an arrogant smirk that nevertheless barely covered her embarrassment at being caught off guard. "Uh-oh," she said with slightly wavering sarcasm, "Daddy's home… I'm in wicked trouble now."
Buffy viewed both of them apprehensively from her vantage point on the ground, where Willow had hurled her moments before. Anya stood with her back pressed to a line of shelves, clutching a spell book that had been providing her with some momentarily protective counter-spells. But now those two were merely spectators, waiting to see the results of this clash of the spell casters.
"Willow, you have to stop what you're doing," Giles warned in that soft, sincere way that drove her nuts.
"Uuh, sorry. Can't do that," she smirked. "I'm not finished yet."
The old man forged right ahead with his 'play nice now' routine. "Stay on this path and you'll wind up dead." Buffy spoke up.
"Willow. Listen to him. I don't want to fight you anymore."
"I don't want to fight you either," she explained, bored with the lecturing. "I wanna fight him." She stepped forward, raising her arms and summoning up all the nasty energy at her disposal. She wanted to hurt him, to put a stop to his stern warnings and his excruciating kindness.
But before she could do so much as open her mouth, Giles uttered a single, guttural exclamation and from his hand threw a line of green energy. The emerald magick wrapped itself around the witch's midsection like a boa constrictor, pinning her arms to her sides.
'Wow,' she thought, 'that's a pretty effective—'. The line flashed, abruptly cutting off her train of thought and replacing it with the quiet calm of oblivion.
* * *
Worlds within worlds, circles within circles. Deep, pulsating darkness. A distant cry, a wail of pain. She heard the cry, and knew it was her own. A cry of loss, and furious anger. Her lover was—
"NO!" She emerged from the darkness with a desperate cry. Blinking at sudden daylight, Dark Willow found herself… someplace else. Scrub brush and hardpan stretched toward a horizon that seemed infinite. She was in the desert, but not like the one that lay on the outskirts of Sunnydale. She wouldn't be surprised if that bastard Giles had sent her thousands of miles away. Dark Willow sniffed derisively. Only a temporary setback to the inevitable, like that time she poofed Glory the hellgod into the stratosphere. The old man was clearly getting desperate. With a flick of her wrist, she could be right back on track to extracting her revenge. Just as soon as she figured out why she couldn't move.
Dark Willow coolly surveyed her immediate surroundings. She was seated in a wooden contraption, her arms resting on padded boards with shackles that kept her hands firmly in place; her legs were perpendicular to her body. She noted with some vague interest that her ankles were kept in place by a latched pillory. What kinda Renaissance Faire crap was this?
And what happened to her threads? In the Magic Box she had sported much more imposing and dependably utilitarian black leather pants, shirt, and jacket. Now, in place of these, there was a sleeveless ebony dress with a plunging neckline. Her boots were also gone, as near as she could tell, replaced by slippers. On a thin chain around her neck hung a slender quartz bauble, which twinkled in the sun. It was the kind of getup Willow might have worn to a mystical ceremony. This gave her pause.
Is that what this was? Some kinda prelude to a ceremony? She didn't have time for this, she had fish to fry- 'Maybe literally,' she thought darkly- back in Sunnyhell. Intent to waste no more time, Dark Willow muttered, "Libero," to break down the contraption holding her. Nothing happened. She tried again, her voice louder and firmer this time. Nada.
She was about to try a third time when the air was filled with a low hum. She glanced around, seeking out the noise. The sound grew louder, and she could identify it as voices, the murmuring of an untold number of people. The blue skies began to dim, though the sun was still high, and clouds were nowhere to be seen. Dark Willow was apprehensive, her confidence in her magical abilities a little shaken. She blinked, as dim figures emerged like heat haze from the desert. With a sound like a sigh, the figures solidified into robed beings, the hum ceasing. They stood silently, six of them, their faces all hidden under dark hoods, their hands covered by the fabric of their sleeves. The center figure stepped forward, and Dark Willow locked her suspicious eyes on this one.
"Welcome," the figure croaked from the darkness of its hood. It was the voice of an ancient crone, she thought, a mystical wise woman. But the hands that appeared now from the crone's sleeves were young and fair, the fingernails painted crimson. These hands reached up to the hood, and pushed it back. Long, dirty-blonde hair fell in a cascade. Some crone.
"Well, crap," was the first thing to come to Dark Willow's mind.
* * *
Dark Willow floated above the floor of the Magic Box, unconscious, the line of green energy flowing strong around her.
"So, wait, she's not really here right now?" Buffy was confused.
"Well, physically, yes, but her unconscious mind has been transported into a sort of… mystical-psychological construct," Giles explained, with more detail than clarity. Buffy and Anya regarded him blankly. "It's like that film The Matrix," Giles sighed. Buffy and Anya "ah"d, getting it now.
"What'll happen to her now?" Buffy asked Giles as she followed him into the back room that served as her training area.
"The coven that imbued me with their powers have prepared a way to extract hers," Giles explained, leaning against the balance beam at the edge of the mat. "Without killing her, of course," he quickly added.
"They can do that? I mean, not to doubt the skills of the witches who gave you that impressive green stuff, but Willow's on a whole other kind of power trip."
"They can. I can't admit to knowing all of their methods, but… they're trustworthy, if enigmatic. Their practices have been perfected over hundreds of years, yet kept in strictest secrecy. Willow is with them in the spiritual realm. She will accept their treatment, one way or another, and be restored to… her former self."
Buffy looked him in the eye. "Can you be there to make sure they're successful?"
Giles shifted uncomfortably. "I- I wish I could, I really do. But… I must respect the Coven's desire for privacy. I would only impede their progress."
Well, that was that, then. Buffy turned back to peer into the main shop, where Anya was busying herself with cleaning the debris from Hurricane Will.
"I hope they know what they're doing," she said after a moment, her eyes worried.
* * *
"What the hell are you doing?" Dark Willow growled. Her eyes were narrow slits, staring daggers at the robed witch that stood before her.
Amy Madison coolly matched the gaze of her former friend.
"Oh Willow, I'm here to help you," she intoned with mock sincerity. "What with all the big, bad magicks you've been using, it's time for an intervention."
"Screw off, rat-face," Dark Willow spat. It was intended as a slap in the face to the woman who had spent several years spinning around a plastic wheel in Willow's bedroom, before Willow had finally reversed the spell that had put her there. But Amy barely blinked at the jibe, only clicking her tongue in admonishment.
"You're only going to make this whole thing harder on yourself," she warned, all mock empathy. Dark Willow rolled her eyes.
"So bring on the whips and chains already," she yawned. "I get it, you hate me. Let's move forward." Amy sighed, and approached the bound sorceress.
"This is not about hate. It's about power. You've always had all the power, long before you even knew what to do with it. Just came so easy for you." As Amy spoke, she slowly circled the wooden contraption, idly playing with the shackles on Dark Willow's wrists.
"The rest of us," she said, indicating the five silent beings that watched them from beneath dark hoods, "we had to work twice as hard to be half as good. But no one cares about how hard you work. They just care about cute, sweet Willow." She punctuated this with a patronizing pat on the head. "Even when she tries to kill them, they send her off to Wicca fat camp to be 'cured'."
Dark Willow glanced around the desert, glowering. So that's what this was supposed to be. But the dumbasses hadn't counted on the grudge-bearing Amy intercepting her on her way through the astral plane.
"But they don't know how weak she is." Amy's voice came from Dark Willow's left. Fingers spidered up her bare arm. She flinched, in revulsion. The cooing, taunting voice continued. "You've given in to evil… stuff unimaginable. You're well on your way to destroying your friends. And yet everyone keeps on loving you?" Amy was right at her ear, speaking in hushed tones. "So I figure, what's wrong with having a little fun, huh? Taking the 'Dark Willow' down a peg or two?"
Through clenched teeth, Dark Willow uttered two venomous syllables. "Bite me." Amy moved until she was eye-to-eye with her.
"Maybe later. First, I'm going to have some fun."
Amy gave a single, curt nod, signaling to the mute coven members. Two stepped forward, flanking Dark Willow on each side. She regarded them coldly as they grabbed her shoulders in a vice-like grip, undid her wrist shackles, and forced both arms above her head. Her wrists were re-locked in place on the wooden backrest.
The corners of Amy's mouth curled deviously. Dark Willow yawned.
"What's next?" she asked, nonchalant.
"Next... you scream!" Amy, her eyes dark as onyx, hissed. "Morsus!"
Emerald energy crackled from her fingertips, hitting Willow like a homing missile. Shrill screams cut though the desert air. But when the mystical dust settled, the captured witch was grinning from ear to ear. Amy, on the other hand, stood doubled over in pain.
"Is that your best attack spell?" Dark Willow asked. "'Cause other than a nice set of goosebumps, my flesh is pretty un-flayed."
Amy stood erect with a start, eyes wide with confusion and rage. That wasn't supposed to happen.
"This isn't a joke, bitch!" Amy's dark eyes flared. Dark Willow shrugged.
"It kinda is."
"Fine, slight change in tactic." With a flick of Amy's wrist, a gleaming metal knife appeared in her hand.
"Ooh, nice hardware," Dark Willow observed, not sweating it in the least. "Things finally getting serious between us?"
Amy was done with retorts. She slashed the blade against the pale flesh of Willow's face.
"Agh!" came a tortured scream... from Amy. Droplets of blood trickled down her cheek. Dark Willow's smirk was holding fast, her flesh unharmed.
"Hmm. Looks like I am rubber and you are glue. All those times I said it in grade school, never thought it'd actually work," she laughed, enjoying Amy's misery. Her captor, fear and rage burning like embers in her black eyes, wiped the blood away with a less than steady hand.
"I- I told you. Don't laugh at me."
"But it's just so. Damn. Funny," Dark Willow deadpanned. "You're trying everything to torture me, and yet your nastiest hexes just kinda tickle."
Amy's eyes narrowed. Regarding her captive with cold mirth, she crept toward the pillory with renewed menace.
"So," Amy began, "Just to recap for the slow witches in the audience…" She indicated her minions. "Any injury I inflict on you comes back to me threefold."
"Not to mention what I'll do to you when I get out of this."
"Mm, right. And my usual juju does little more than… I think the word you used was 'tickle'?"
She was right back at the dark sorceress' side, taking in the sight of her bound body, calculating.
"Honestly, now. You're sure you're not even a tiny bit gay?" Dark Willow offered with a withering glance.
"Shut up and laugh, Rosenberg." Amy dug her crimson fingernails into the concaves of Dark Willow's pale underarms, wiggling them furiously.
Hooded coven members turned to each other, confused. Amy was tickling with fierce abandon. Dark Willow was staring at her, wide-eyed, mouth agape… but not a single giggle escaping. Just utterly caught off guard.
Amy noted with some frustration that she wasn't getting the reaction she wanted. Pressing on, she concentrated on kneading the flesh at the sides of Willow's stomach, a spot that Amy found nerve-wrecking on her own body.
"Have you gone mental, rat brain?" Dark Willow exclaimed, as Amy began frantically scribbling her nails on the witch's belly. But the captive had not the slightest of ticklish reactions. The would-be torturer stepped back, throwing her hands to the air.
"God, what is it with you! You're barely human!" Amy cried.
"Face it, you've got a crappy sense of timing," Dark Willow explained, contemptuous. "My sensitivity went out with my natural hair color. The age of weak little Willow is the past."
Amy's eyes lit up. Another idea. One that might actually work. She turned once more to her captive. Approached the pillory with hands raised. Dark Willow just kept her bored scowl.
"Give it up, Amy. Unless you've got a Delorean that goes 88 miles per hour…"
Amy wrapped her palms around the side of Dark Willow's head, locking eyes with her former friend.
"Don't worry, Red. Where we're going, we won't need roads."
There was white light. And then silence.
To Be Continued...
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