*Disclaimer: All of the characters and places in this story are the creation of Joss Whedon and his team. All I have done is insert my little story into his blank spot.
*
A dim light flickered within the small basement as he rested upon his knees, beads of sweat dripping from his forehead. His body shook a bit harder as he pushed himself; it was not time to finish, not yet. His hands moved down slowly to the sword that rested upon the floor and he sighed; he could barely stand. His entire body seemed to shake from the exhaustion that had taken him; the need to rest was great but he pushed on.
Raising the blade he began to move, his body shaking with each step; his arms felt as though the weight of this blade would tear the limbs from his form. Closing his eyes he sank his teeth into his bottom lip as he stepped again, the blade swinging with as much force as he could put behind it in his current state. He cursed himself under his breath as he fell again and sighed.
Shaking a bit he stood once more, nearly falling again his hands moved to use the sword for support. He was weak, but he shouldn't have been, he had only been training for four hours; he sighed. 'How time flew when he was having fun', he whispered under his breath with a soft laugh. This wasn't what he wanted to do, no it was what he must do.
Shifting again he began to move, pushing himself forward harder. His body shaking with each step, his eyes wide, his legs nearly giving way but he did not try to stop it, not this time. Taking in the room, he noticed something, the walls; were they always spinning like that? He couldn't recall.
His body fell, the sword gliding from his finger tips as it drifted along the floor, his form lurched forward as his mouth parted; he could not hold it back. His throat extended as he shook and he felt it, his lunch hitting the ground, he sighed and saw the pizza he had eaten; shaking his head he forgot that he had missed dinner.
Letting out a sigh he lifted up a mop and moved, cleaning up the mess and shaking his head; his form was coated in a cold sweat. His body was shaking beyond control and each step he took felt as though it would be the last.
Biting into his lip again he placed the cleaning utensils into the closet and stepped up the stairs, his arms holding onto the railing trying to support himself. Sighing once more he pulled his leather jacket onto his bare chest and reached into the closet grabbing a small canister before heading outside.
A soft splashing sound could be clearly heard with each step he took, the contents of the liquid splashing within the canister as he walked. Sighing he stopped at the gate within the cemetery and looked about, his eyes shifting, body shaking. He could sense it, someone ready to rise.
Shifting towards a fresh grave he stopped and bent forward reading the name Emily Jackson, a female; he hated doing this to women. Lifting the canister again he let the contents spill out onto the grave and stepped back; pulling a cigarette out of his pocket he placed it upon his lips.
The Zippo he kept close in his pocket came out in a 'Silver Flash' and the flame kissed the end and he inhaled deeply. He waited, knowing well that leaving the grave was a taxing experience and was quite disorienting to the newly undead.
Stepping back he let the ashes fall on the grass before he saw a hand appear digging out of the earth. Licking his lips he waited, watched, wondered and saw the head, then the torso. Turning he tossed the smoke away, it was only half used but he didn't care, he wasn't in the mood to finish it.
A scream could be heard coursing through the graveyard as the smoke hit the dirt, the gas that had been poured on the grave shooting up in a hot flash. The soft smile that had touched his lips curled into a wicked grin, he enjoyed this, loved it. He did not know why but there was just something arousing about it.
Grinning he began to move away and smiled, just listening to the sweet sound of her screams until they ended, he knew what was left, just a pile of dust. He let out a sigh; she was lovely, her beauty had been immortalized by her sire but he took that way. It was not something that he wanted to do but he did it anyway.
He was who he was, a lone warrior - a - what had Wesley called him, a rogue demon hunter. He let out a laugh at the comparison of him to Mr. Price, but he didn't care. It was time to go, time to head home, to get some rest; there would be another rising tomorrow and he intended to meet her with a warm welcome.
She sat within the graveyard resting upon a tombstone, her flowing brown hair drifting along her back as she smiled to herself; she was in the mood for a bit of fun. Hopping to the earth her eyes drifted, hands brushing a bit of dirt off the blood red leather pants she wore. Her fingers gliding up towards the halter top she was ready for a night of fun at the bronze. Her lovely form moved through the small paths, a smile touching her lips as she went; she had no fear.