3. Humanity

Spike stretched out on top of the sarcophagus in his crypt, hands tucked underneath his head, cigarette dangling from his lips. The more he thought about it, the clearer the events of last night became. And as the memories drifted back, he began to dismiss the dream he'd had as temporary lunacy brought on by imbibing to the extreme. Rarely, if ever, did he get drunk enough to forget things. Last time had been after Prague. Huddled in a boxcar, Dru's head cradled in his lap, trying very hard not to break. The next afternoon, he found himself sprawled on the dusty floor of a root cellar, his dark princess curled against his side, and the bone-dry bodies of what he assumed was the family scattered around them. Sighing, Spike flicked the long column of ash that had accumulated on his cigarette and took another drag. These used to be fond memories, but anymore they were excruciating... felt as if the Slayer was standing over his shoulder watching every kill with the revulsion written plainly on her face. He tried to remember how things had been in Prague. Thought he was a god then, untouchable. Spike allowed his mind to wander for the first time in ages.

He found himself, wrapped in shrouds of the past, standing atop Charles Bridge, a chill wind whipping around him. Then all was still. Nothing pierced the silence, not even the soft lapping of the Vltava against stone.

Suddenly, a sound, the hideous clatter of a thousand boots marching in even staccato rhythm filled the air. When Spike turned, he saw the flag waving proudly against the night sky, a red and black stain that had infected the whole of Europe. Nazis. All shining boots and weaponry; stoic, hardened faces of boys not even old enough yet to be called men, stared out from under perfectly aligned caps. For all the death and destruction he'd dealt out in his century of existence, these killing machines still sent a shiver across the back of Spike's neck. And for a moment, everything moved at a blinding speed, most of the soldiers retreating into the mist. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a column of smoke rising from the Jewish Quarter of town, blocking the soft light of the moon.

This too was soon gone, as was the heavy hum of machinery. Not one electric light or gas-powered engine. Spike stared as two large geldings drew an ornate carriage across the bridge in front of him. A hawkish-featured man peered out between silken curtains, dressed in finery even the vampire only remembered from history books.

Faster, furiously, the sights invaded his peace. Music of the ages thrummed against his eardrums. People dressed in all manners, sometimes crawling, dancing, and running over the bridge.

Heavy military tanks, running roughshod, rolled over the pavement, breaking it. Riots erupted around him, swallowing his body into their midst, devouring him with their fevered yelps. This he knew. Prague Spring. Chaos. Destruction.

The emotions of the throng surrounding him invaded his nostrils, dancing over his tongue until he could taste them - fear, anger, desperation. And they didn't excite him. Blood and gunpowder leant their stench to the air, completing the cornucopia of human suffering. And it didn't enthrall him. Didn't make him wild with glee. In fact, the more Spike watched, the more his undead heart twisted in his chest, rising up to form a sizable lump in his throat.

When they all turned to stare at him, he felt ready to leap from the bridge into the river. Thousands upon thousands of eyes, human eyes, bore down on him, each pair holding a lifetime of memories in them.

They crowded him, intent on voicing their stories to the only one left who could hear - Spike. Such agony and ecstasy. So many dreams and failures. Such humanity. He closed his own eyes in an attempt to block their invasion. Pressing his palms to his temples, he gritted his teeth together and willed himself not to scream. After a few moments, his eyelids fluttered open again, a blissful sigh escaping his lips as empty air greeted him. With shaking hands, Spike removed a cigarette from his pack and lit it, bracing himself against the side of the bridge. Brusque footsteps sounded out against the cobblestone, and he groaned in response. And then she was in front of him.

"You have seen what was needed." Dru's knowing smile only earned a derisive snort from the vampire. "The memories will continue to come, mind you. However, they will likely be less disconcerting than this was."

"What the hell are you doing to me?" Spike countered, his unease giving the words a sharp edge.

"Nothing has been done to you. This is all the result of actions you took of your own free will, whether you were aware of the consequences or not. If you truly want to know what is happening to you, you might begin by asking the right questions." Her words brought a flash of recognition to his face, and he shook off the thoughts of that back-alley conversation. She moved towards him then, and settled herself atop the ledge he was leaning against. "Now, let's try this again." The corners of her mouth twitched, and Spike watched as she crossed her ankles and swung her feet like a little girl, clutching her hands in her lap.

"Right then. What divine purpose was that rot back there supposed to reveal to me? That I can feel pain and joy, just like every other sodding being on the planet? Too late, princess, already knew that." He began to pace, the frustration bubbling forth. Spike continued his diatribe, not noticing the annoyance painted clearly on the woman's face. Crossing her arms over her chest, she waited, knowing he would take his time. Bitterness dripped from his lips, as he pressed onward, "Maybe you could put in a good word, eh? Got someone back home that can't quite wrap her mind around it. Thinks lacking a soul means I don't have the capacity for it. Emotion, that is. Rich, ain't it? Just bloody rich." He punctuated the monologue by roughly flicking the butt of his cigarette into the water below.

Silence greeted him. She wasn't answering. He felt a bit out of sorts talking to her about the situation with Buffy. Logically, he knew it wasn't Dru.but part of him couldn't deny the familiarity of her body, her face. Granted, the fact she wasn't talking to the stars made it a bit easier to differentiate. Spike drew himself out of his contemplation and looked at her, waiting for his answers.

"So?" he asked. "What exactly was it that I needed to see, because frankly, pet, I'm drawing a blank here."

"Humanity."

She was met with the raising of a scarred eyebrow and a puzzled expression. "What of it?" he asked. "Been 'seeing' humanity for over 120 years now. I think I know quite well what it looks like."

Sighing and shaking her head almost imperceptibly, she reached out to wrap his hands in hers. "Not really. For more than a century they were cattle to you. Happy Meals with Legs, was it?" Spike smirked. "Indeed," she whispered, "Only recently have you viewed humans as anything more than dinner. Your implant has seen to that, fortunately."

Choking, he blurted out the first words that came to mind. "Fortunately? For who? I hope you don't mean me, because I don't see anything fortunate about having this bit of wire and silicon shoved in my head changing who I am."

She squeezed his hands roughly, trying to keep him from another tirade. "It was fortunate for you," she sighed. "And for us. Without the implant you likely never would have realized your potential. You certainly never would have stepped foot on the path you tread now. The chip gave you time among humans... time to learn how to care for them and about them. Still, your concern seemed limited to a select few." She released his hands and stood, staring at him, through him, her voice low and serious. "What you needed to see was that all these 'Happy Meals' have names, families, and dreams. For now, that is enough." The woman turned on her heel, striding off purposefully into the mists. Spike barely heard her parting comment as she tossed it back over her shoulder. "Great things await, William." And then she was gone.