Escape and defiance consumed him. He made it to the staff bay outside of the containment cells before the security doors locked him in. After that, what little freedoms he’d had were restricted. He’d spent a good deal of time stewing and staring at the ceiling, ignoring the tainted blood bags in favor of running through his kill list. Slayer was still on top. For all he knew, she was in cahoots with these government types. In his darkest, quietest moments, unable to distract himself, Spike entertained the thought that this underground hellhole might be where he’d dust. Inglorious, unknown and unremarkable.
Sometimes, usually while under the butcher’s knife, he felt sorry for himself and wished for his family again. Pathetic. He always hated himself afterwards for getting to that point. Angelus was as good as dead and Darla definitely was gone. Dru obviously didn’t care enough about him to stick close. A rescue, even if the pixies whispered to her her childe’s woes, was farfetched at best.
No, as usual, Spike was on his own. Becoming part of an esteemed vampire bloodline as a fledge had been due to sheer luck and Dru’s fancy. Couple decades together--long enough to learn the ropes--and then losing Angelus, and therefore Darla, had left Spike young and guideless in a still-new and fathomless world. Drusilla, his sire, would have normally been the one to take the lead of their lives, if they’d decided to carry on together, but as was the case, Spike took the lead. He bowed to her wishes, of course, but he steered their course and kept them safe. Dru was no shrinking violet herself--until Prague anyway--and together they were a fearsome, unconventional team. In this way, Spike became the youngest master vampire in history--circumstance forcing him to rise to the occasion, instead of following the usual stunted growth that vampires achieve in the shadow of their elders. Youngest master vampire, slayer of slayers. Feared around the world in demon and demon-wise communities. Master of his fate, unpredictable, uncontrollable….trapped. Useless. Alone. Where death row was an operating table, his body a puppet for his captors. So yeah. Spike is pissed. And he comforts himself with visions of blood. Or he did until the Slayer showed up in the cell next door.