Another Thirteen Steps

Blue

Y’know, it really didn’t hit me till—

The alarm clock goes off, completely derailing my train of thought. I flinch. And no wonder. It makes this shrill buzzing sound. Like Brundlefly huffing helium. I resist the urge to bury my head under a pillow. It’s the last thing I want, but I sit up and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. Both actions take way more effort than I’ve got to give.

I groan and rub my eye, peering blearily up at the stupid clock. The profane number five mocks me from the first column. Profane? I snicker. Yeah, pretty twisted. It twisted around, facing the other way since last time I looked. Rising, I stagger across the room and shut it off. Chucking it out the window sounds like a better plan, but…

I stretch instead.

Groggy pretty much covers it. It’s been a while since I got much more than a single z. No plural z’s for me. One’s plenty. It’s fun. It makes you do crazy stuff. Like try to put your pants on backwards.

See, fun…

Witness me having fun.

I take advantage of the temporary aloneness, scratching my lower back and regions slightly south as I trudge to the shower. Give it an hour. I’ll be up to my neck in teenage girls. And while that sounds great in theory…

Actually, it sounds like the answer to a prayer and a fantasy all rolled into one. One really naughty fantasy.

It’s not.

It’s funny how many things just seem to work that way. You look at the box, or worse—the commercial—and you think, man that looks good.

I turn on the shower and stare blankly into the tub. At least the water swirls the right way here. There’s some comfort in that swirl.

Attractive packaging. There’s so much of it.

Like, take the Big Mac. They look great on TV. But when you get there and actually pay the pimply-faced kid for the two pieces of thick black cardboard covered in slimey green stuff that might’ve been lettuce in a former life, slathered in chunky, vomit-pink paste and sandwiched between three pieces of hard golden-brown Styrofoam—it’s, umm…

This might be truly pathetic, but I could go for a number two. Super Size it.

Nah, it’s McDonalds. Worse than cigarettes…and probably just as carcinogenic.

There should be a patch.

After testing the water, I slip off my PJs and climb into the shower. And again with the effort…

The hot water does something—not nearly enough—but some of the thick haze lifts. It’s like my head depressurizes. Despite how that sounds, it’s a good thing.

I pick up a sponge. As I pour some soap and lather, the shower fills with the smell of pine.

Almost…

Mechanically, I wash myself and shampoo my hair. Mid-lather, another shrill sound destroys any glimmer of hope I might’ve had for a good day. It’s another day—like the days before it.

Time to make the doughnuts…

I used to just get them. Now that the shine’s worn off the promotion, I think I liked it better that way. But I was too stupid to see it. I didn’t understand that the ones in the know are pretty much as much in the know as the ones that know nothing.

Now, I just don’t know.

Quickly rinsing, I turn off the water, spring out of the shower and slip.

Sliding…

My arms windmill. Stuff crashes. It’s morning.

I catch the door jamb and don’t bust my ass…this time. Reaching back through the doorway, I grab a towel and run to answer the phone.

Crap!

I’m awake now. And shivering.

I quickly swab my ear with the towel and grumble, “Hello.” If hello won’t work…

As I towel my hair, Renee announces, “Mister Harris, we need you in ops immediately.” Somehow, I’m not surprised.

After wrapping the towel around my waist, I ask the obvious, “What’s up?” letting the formality slide. It’s way too early to give her the satisfaction.

Renee offers, “Detective Comics number eight-thirty-five?”

I struggle with the reference. Wow. I may’ve just been out-geeked by someone not Andrew.

When I murmur a noncommittal, “Uh-huh,” she goes on, “Remember how the Scarecrow escaped Arkham?”

Oh, shit!

That’s the lame book where the Scarecrow hypnotizes everyone. No wonder I didn’t remember. Exceptionally heavy on violence and mayhem, obscenely light on plot and grammar; it’s one of the worst Batman books ever, with or without the Boy Blunder.

It figures we’d rate the worst.

She tries to say something, but I cut her off with another, “Uh-huh”—this one’s lots more wigged—and stammer, “I’ll be right down,” rushing to hang up the phone.

Great!

I hope the girls are okay. I’m sure they are. Renee would’ve sounded lots more freaked if…

But you can pretty much bet Amy’s history.

Yup, it’s gonna be another day.

I roll my eye.

Dressing at warp eleven-point-five, I come dangerously close to the pants on backwards thing. But it’s all good.

I can hardly wait to talk to Buffy. She makes Captain Willard look like a model of mental stability.

This is gonna be even more fun. The I should sell tickets kinda fun.

I don’t even kill myself when the phone rings. There’s a better solution. I ignore it this time.

It’s not like things haven’t been rotten enough. Not to mention confusing. We really don’t need this too.

One day she’s flirting with me. Or at least, I think that was flirting. It’s hard to tell with her.

Tempting.

And, minor miracle, I even remember to brush my teeth.

Like I’d go there now. Good thing too, ’cause next day…I’m dangling from her bedroom door.

Her baggage really needs its own postal code.

Uh…

Yeah…

No.

I made that mistake once. It nearly got me killed. Think I’ll skip the second feature.

I rush out my door, only to turn right back around. I forgot my stupid eye patch. I don’t give a damn what the doc says. I do all the stuff I’m supposed to. There’s a list. The speech—it wasn’t fun. But I’m not gonna show this piece of crap off. I don’t care if it is a perfect match. It still looks weird, in an unpleasantly dead sorta way. And there’s plenty of that to go around. I don’t need to add to it.

Collecting my eye patch off the nightstand, I step in front of the dresser mirror to put it on. The eye that’s not my eye stares vacantly back at me for only an instant. That’s long enough. Once it’s covered, I bail, heading for ops at top speed.

It’s really no wonder things are so weird. There isn’t a single one of us that hasn’t seen too much. And just for kicks, grins and giggles, the too much keeps on coming.

Yet here I am.

It’s just…pounding nails gets kinda dicey without depth perception. So…

As I round the corner that leads to the stairwell, I run into a slayer patrol. Three of the younger girls, making the rounds on the shift nobody wants. Go figure, I’m here too. I put my hand up in greeting. They smile, sidestepping me before I get the chance.

Huh…

Maybe my sense of self preservation’s finally kicking in. That’d be just spiffy. And about damned time. Out of the five, mostly demonic, women who’ve shown an interest, only three have really gone out of their way to kill me.

The only one who’s alive is Faith. I still remember the look on her face.

It’s a great theme…paving the way to too much Patsy Cline, Schlitz and titles like Man Servant. Good times!

My jaw muscles tighten, forming a hard scowl. They give a light throb, the first symptom of the headache that’s bound to follow.

I keep waiting for Renee to try to kill me.

Or die.

I pause on the stairs for just a sec and take a deep breath, squeezing my eyes shut as I force myself to relax.

I need to keep moving.

So I do.

I turn the corner and jog down a flight of stairs. At the next landing, another well needed reason to dread comes to mind.

Willow.

I’m not sure which one worries me more. I’ve never seen her like this. And that’s saying something. She—she’s, uh, I dunno…

One minute…

I grumble.

It’s like hot and cold running Willow. Just like Buffy, there’s something really off. The most disturbing part is that I can’t even put my finger on what.

Will’s always been a little flakey. It’s one of the things I love about her. But now she’s super duper, amazingly, extra flakey, with a side of nuts. I might even use the word addled, if I used words like addled. I’ll leave that one for Giles. It’s a much more Gilesy type of word.

At the landing, I turn left and dash down the hall.

And then she’s not. Then she won’t say a word. It’s like she’s mad, or hurt, or depressed… She only gets quiet when there’s something really wrong.

I don’t get it.

I pause outside ops, drawing in another deep breath. All the fun I’m not having ties my stomach in knots. Once I locate my poker face, I push the doors open and step inside, giving Renee an expectant glare.

The glare doesn’t last long. I fixate on the surveillance video playing out on the large screen behind her as she explains, “I’m sorry, sir. That was a bad example. I tried to tell you no one was hurt, but you hung up. And you didn’t answer when I called back.”

The timestamp on the video reads: four-forty-six. It’s only been a little over forty-five minutes.

A portal forms in Amy’s cell directly in front of the slayers. Gina and Jody, I think. With over two-hundred girls here, it gets kinda hard to remember who’s who. They continue to talk like nothing’s wrong. Situation normal…

It’s kind of surreal. I study the animated gestures, giggles and gossip as Renee reports, “The girls are both under observation. The mystics gave them a clean bill of health, but this worries me. It worries me more than—”

I interrupt her by mumbling, “I get it.”

These girls weren’t hypnotized. Or I don’t think they were. They just don’t see what’s happening. It’s like they’ve been blinded to it. Maybe it’s hypnosis. Sounds like hypnosis. But they’re chatting too casually. The conversation’s just so normal.

You’d think there’d—

Without tearing my attention from the view screen, I ask “Did the mystics sense anything? I mean, besides the portal?”

“No, sir.”

A tall redheaded woman steps through the portal. There’s this look about her that just isn’t right. Not that it matters. The not right sort of goes without saying.

Thing is, just like men, there’s stuff women do because they like it. And there’s stuff they do because we like it. The way she looks is like the latter gone horribly wrong. A sausage casing would be more comfy. The unmeshy part is her boots.

Gah!

Now I sound like Buffy.

But she’s wearing flats and they just don’t match the, my pimp poured me into this look. Weird.

The irritating strumpet even winks at the camera before grabbing Amy’s cage and stepping back through. It’s like she knew.

How could she know?

Simple enough. Whatever happened, she did it, or had something to do with it. But it wasn’t magick. Really weird.

I mumble, “Drugs?” more to myself than to Renee.

She answers anyway. “They were clean, sir.”

I’m not surprised. Lacing their food, or whatever—it’d take an inside man, er…inside woman. I’m the only man here. And it wasn’t me.

Well, at least that part’s comforting.

The rest—the entire idea of a double agent—

While it makes for a great video game, I’m gonna come down firmly against it. It’d be a mess of monumental proportions. And probably all too simple to pull off.

Yeah…that’s really comforting.

I say through a sigh, “Alright, well.” Picking back up seconds later, sigh-free, I remark, “May as well get this over with. See if you can raise the others,” as I cross the room. I grab up my headset from the charger by my workstation and put it on.

Another day, another…not nearly enough.

Renee asks, “Should I contact Buffy?” Boy, she sounds as thrilled as I feel.

I really need to learn to delegate. They say that’s the secret to happiness in positions like this. And right now, I’m completely in touch with that. But I still can’t do it. “Nah, I’ll handle it,” I reply.

After taking a seat at my desk, I dial the extension. The phone rings. I ignore the creepy-crawlies that skitter down my spine. There’s no reason…nothing valid anyway. I just hate bad news. Being the bearer always makes me feel like I’m headed for an execution.

Or at least raised voices and PG-13 violence.

Buffy finally picks up, but refuses the request for a video feed. No surprise there. Her, “Hello,” sounds as bad as mine did. Maybe worse.

“Hi, Buff, it’s Xander. Sorry for calling so early, but there’s been a problem,” I state. Short, sweet and to the point.

She asks, “What?”

And I continue the theme, bluntly admitting, “Amy escaped.” My voice doesn’t even waver. I’m getting better at this.

Waiting’s the worst. I hold back the cringe, or almost. I give it my best shot. It’s kind of half a cringe. Really more of a faint shrug. As victories go, it’s damned pathetic.

There’s this hollow noise when she puts her hand over the receiver. A few moments pass. I can almost hear them, but not quite. Finally, she says, “I’ll be right down.” The phone goes dead. I hang up and let go the breath I was holding. I have no clue if that was the worst of it. If so…

The thing is, this isn’t hard math. Anything we might’ve learned just walked out the door with Amy. We’re back at square one.

I feel bad for Will. I hope she’s alright. She paid way too much for a whole lot of nothing. I wish I could do something, but there’s nothing to do unless she lets me. And it seems pretty unlikely she will.

Maybe Buff will be able to get through to her, or she’ll get through to Buffy. Either way would be dandy. I’m not picky. I’ll take anything positive right about now.

And the nothing…

All we’ve really got is that the army wants us dead. That went swell last time.

And there’s another squiggly, pretty much meaningless symbol. Those are always fun.

This reeks of Big Bad.

I wonder if our Bad doodles. I can see them—him, her, or whatever—sitting around, bored. Maybe it’s just me, but I’m picturing Moons Over My Hammy, stale coffee and a paper napkin.

They draw a swishy arc, a straight line and a star. Uh…no, this’d be better with a four-pointed star. Scribble, scribble…

Oh, that’s good! Now all I have to do is find a bunch of idiots dumb enough to carve this into their flesh and I’ll be in business.

I know! There are lots of idiots in the armed forces.

Huh.

Not exactly a beautiful sunset, but it’s almost a theory.

And y’know what? Little Miss Mood Disorder…she was Ginsu-free. That is, unless it was buried somewhere between the mountains of cleavage. I wonder if that means something.

She might be the artist. It wouldn’t be hard to get a bunch of grunts to follow a chesty redhead.

Or she and Amy could be working for someone else.

Oh, now there’s a cheery thought. More than one psycho that wants us dead. I’ll pass.

And quickly moving on, I’m sure I can find another disturbing thought before Renee reaches Giles.

But I don’t need to. There’s plenty to be disturbed by without my help. Robin Wood does an exceptional job of illustrating the point when I look up. He looks like death on burnt toast.

Next to Wood, but not really next to him, is Andrew. Andrew’s nearly a polar opposite. He wears a red silk smoking jacket and a big silly grin. It looks like there was a party in Rome last night and he hasn’t bothered to sleep yet.

Must be the life. At least one of us is having a good time.

I can’t help but grin. It’s the split screen. It always makes me think, Brady Bunch from Hell. It’d be funnier if I could convince them to face each other. Maybe look around a little. No such luck…

Yet.

I stand up from my desk and walk to the center of the room, next to Renee. My grin’s still there, all lopsided and intentionally quirky, when I say, “Morning.”

It works. Even Wood cracks a smile, but it doesn’t last.

Trying to be friendly, I ask, “Anything new?” I hope he answers. He looks like he could stand to talk.

Go figure, Andrew beats him to it. “Carla managed to sneak in a call last night. She says the Immortal’s been behaving strangely.”

I nod. It’s pretty unusual to hear from Carla. She’s been on deep cover assignment for over a year. Almost everyone believes Buffy’s in Rome because of her, including Angel.

“I’m not sure what the deal is, but he’s definitely up to something. He’s had several closed door meetings. And last night Carla said he snuck out. She tried to follow him, but he gave her the slip,” Andrew explains. Appearing pensive, he takes a deep breath. This is bad. He’s building steam. Andrew, in top form, can out-babble a highly caffeinated Willow. And not one to disappoint, he starts up, “You don’t suppose it was some sorta clandestine rendezvous? Like Mission: Impossible. On the water front, all gritty and a little bit sexy—kinda Film Noir—with guns and everyone’s shooting. Oh, and Tom Cruise—”

Thankfully, Wood interrupts, “That’s exactly what I think.” He doesn’t look impressed. Andrew takes a clue and backs down.

“If someone shot the Immortal, they’d make my Christmas card list,” I remark bluntly. “Not that it’d do any good. But it’d annoy him.” Smiling at Wood, I add, “It’s the thought that counts, y’know?”

He cracks another brief grin and replies, “It really is,” sighing before he goes on. “We’ve got a local vamp here, calls herself Kako. It’d be easy to laugh—maybe crack a few tasteless Star Trek jokes—if she wasn’t so damned frustrating. We’ve been hunting her for months.”

“Yeah, I think you’ve mentioned her. Kakoboyla?” I cut in during a pause, hoping he’ll continue.

“Malice,” Andrew mumbles.

Wood nods. “Yeah. She specializes in using the inner city gangs to do her dirty work.” He takes a sip from his mug and wipes the corners of his eyes. Looking a little more alert, he continues his report. “Unlike most vamps, she has a knack for getting people to work together. Standard stuff: promises of immortality, money and infamy. Her people are zealots.”

Andrew cuts in, “I think I’ve read about her. The girl’s seriously got it going on.”

And it’s always helpful when we get a hankering for the evil dead. Like that’s worked out well for any of us. Maybe Andrew should take a hint.

“Yeah, that doesn’t help,” Wood admits, “She’s actually got the full package—looks, charm and a gift for language—but the worst part is, her people aren’t gun-shy. It’s been pretty rough.”

A Giles square joins the other two, taking position above Andrew to the right. He remains silent.

I’m not sure Wood even notices. He’s kinda lost in thought, staring into his cup as he recounts, “Her followers took another run at the Hellmouth last night. They abducted some girl off the street. We only just managed to stop them.” After sipping at his coffee, he mumbles, “Without a squad leader, the team’s not quite on par. Facing an extremely organized opponent—”

Giles doesn’t look impressed. He interrupts, “What has become of Faith?” stopping Wood short.

“She hasn’t returned since I sent her to Hough. Remember that nest we talked about?” he replies. The honesty hurts. He takes another drink from his coffee cup to cover it.

“Very well. I’ll look into it,” Giles responds coolly.

This day just keeps getting better. I love it when Giles gets that crinkly thing going on. He’ll have his glasses off and be clamping the bridge of his nose before we’re done.

I nod to Renee and say, “It’s been a barrel of laughs here too. Now that Giles is with us, there’s some more footage you guys should see.” She walks over to her console and cues the surveillance video from late last night. Andrew, Giles and Wood all move into small framed boxes to the left and right of the display.

Now I’m really thinking Brady Bunch. I’d hum the theme if I didn’t think Giles’ head would explode.

The background is filled with a large image of Willow being sucked into the portal. The timestamp says midnight, on the dot.

The next piece of footage is from twelve-forty-eight. A portal crackles to life and Willow flies out of it. She’s closely followed by a huge, scary looking, green fireball. It engulfs the entire room for few seconds. The concussion shakes the camera and everyone goes sprawling. Everyone except Buffy. It’s really hard to see, but she jumps into the fire and catches Willow. They both smash into the wall. It looks extremely painful.

“That was so cool!” Andrew exclaims. We all ignore him, but I have to secretly admit he’s right. I may need to keep a copy of this for my collection. It makes most of the garbage Hollywood puts out look weak.

The view changes to camera two, focusing on the wall where Willow lays on top of Buffy. It takes a minute for anyone to move. I use the time to explain, “The source of the blast is still unknown. We’re waiting for Willow to report in.”

Buffy moves her leg and slowly sits up. She rolls Willow away, carefully laying her flat. Once they’ve seen that the girls are alright, or sort of alright, I nod to Renee. She queues the next video and I comment. “She didn’t return alone. Giles, you should recognize the rat.” The display fades to the abduction footage I watched a few minutes ago.

Giles appears mildly amused when he mumbles, “Amy,” for everyone’s benefit.

As Catwoman passes into Amy’s cell on the feed, the door to ops opens. I glance over my shoulder and Buffy trudges into the room. I thought Wood looked bad. Her face is gaunt. She’s really pale, all except the dark circles under her eyes. If I didn’t know her better, I might be tempted to think she looks sick.

She hangs back out of the line of sight until the show ends. The gaunt and bad all sort of add to the pissed off. She looks positively evil when she steps into view. It’s an impressive feat for a petite California blonde. As she meets my gaze, I mouth, “I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t you, Xander,” she replies frankly. Turning to face the others, she announces in the same matter-of-fact tone, “We’re gonna figure out who this woman is. Okay? And when we do…” trailing off into thought. It looks like there’s an internal debate going on involving the merits of evisceration verses flaying.

Giles tries to offer, “Buffy, while I understand how upset you are—” only to be cut off.

In a heartbeat, she goes from garden variety pissed to utterly furious and snaps, “Do you?” As I reflexively put more distance between myself and her, she rages, “’Cause I’m not sure I do. Maybe you can help me out. I just know, I’ve had it up to here…” she slashes the air above her head “…with all this bullshit. I’m sick of the stupid little symbols and all of the petty, childish games.”

She steps forward. I glance over at Renee. The monitor to her left shows our feed. It’s a close up of Buffy’s face. She must’ve played with her marks. Either that or it’s the best dumb luck ever.

“But you know what I’m most sick of?” she growls.

Giles doesn’t waver. If she were looking at me like that, I’d be all over wavering. Actually, I might even find a little skedaddle to go with my waver.

Her voice drops to a low, raspy hiss when she answers. “The people I care about getting hurt over this crap. They want me, so they hurt my friends. Tell me there’s sense in that?”

“I’m afraid there is. And what’s more, you know it. From a tactical standpoint, it’s perfectly sensible. It upsets you and makes you behave irrationally,” Giles replies, like it might help. Silly British man. The furrows in his brow deepen. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he’s actually annoyed. At what, I’m not sure. There’s kind of a list.

Renee backs the video up, freezing it to give us a good look at our new playmate. Actually, Catwoman’s a really good nick. She’s seriously trying for the look. Her hairstyle’s more Halle Berry from that horrible Bond movie. Pierce Brosnan just shouldn’t be Bond. Ever. It’s a little longer, but it looks good. She has the bone structure to pull it off.

Okay, so…

Time out!

For the record: I’m scraping dangerously close to Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. The slayerettes are rubbing off on me. And not in a good way. I seriously need some male friends. Immediately. Like, I should start looking today. Put an ad in the paper—maybe something on the internet.

On a hopefully manlier note: I’m on the go Buffy side of things. When the time comes, I’ll cheerfully help with the rending.

She opens her mouth to speak, but Giles interrupts, “Yes, I believe we’ve seen everything necessary to begin research. Perhaps we should adjourn until cooler heads prevail? Willow can file a report through interoffice mail easily enough.”

“Hold up, Giles,” Buffy snaps. Again, if I didn’t know better, I’d say that sounded like an order. And oh-boy…it does nothing to improve the imagined anger Giles isn’t displaying. I’m glad these two aren’t in the same room, ’cause getting between them…

Things haven’t been the same since Giles went behind her back to try to kill Spike. I’m still thinking bravo, Giles. Doesn’t mean I have to say it. In fact, saying it’s the last thing…

But after Anya died, if Spike had still been around, I would’ve taken him out myself or died trying. I don’t care what Buffy thinks. There’s no love lost between Spike and me. Never has been.

And Buffy could care less what Giles thinks. Intent upon speaking her piece, she continues, “Willow told me some stuff I need to pass on. She apologizes for not being here herself.”

But that wasn’t it. Yeah, Spike always was a festering sack of shit. It’s just…rape’s the one thing I can’t excuse or forgive.

Even an attempt…

And I could care less about his goddamned soul. Buffy acted like that somehow changed everything.

Well, Jeffery Dahmer had a soul too. See how much good it did him.

As she comments, “This isn’t gonna be a cakewalk,” Buffy takes a step away from the camera. “She said the base is underground. She wasn’t sure where. Just that it’s huge. There’s at least a company stationed there, led by some general.”

Andrew and Wood listen with interest. When it becomes clear that the rant’s over, Giles chills. It almost feels normal. I have to wonder what’s gonna break next. But that’s me.

She casually combs her fingers through her hair. “The explosion was caused by her taking out their portal generator. A lot of good it did. They obviously have a spare. But from the sound of things, they have lots of spares.”

Her attention turns to Wood when she remarks, “The woman on the video is named Riah. She’s a slayer. If that rings any bells, I’d like to know. I want a word with her.” Pausing, she gives the others a moment to think, then concludes, “’Kay, well, that’s about it.” She’s almost out the door before I realize she’s leaving.

I raise my hand, giving her a wave and say, “Buff, wait up.” She doesn’t stop, but I have to try. I need to know. Turning to Renee, I ask, “Would you mind?”

“Not a bit,” Renee replies with a smile.

I ask the others, “Anything else?” They unanimously dismiss me and I make a break for the door. Worse comes to worst, I may be able to catch her before she reaches her room.

But I don’t even have to run. When I leave ops, she’s at the end of the hall breaking up a fight. She stands between the two girls, holding them apart with her arms.

Before I reach them, the larger of the two takes a potshot at Buffy. It’s kind of funny. She picks the smaller, mousy-haired girl up by the front of her shirt, swinging her around as she hooks the bigger one’s leg. The tall, dark-haired girl topples over backward like a domino. Buffy plants the arch of her foot across the girl’s throat.

Giving the smaller girl a shake, she asks, “We done? ’Cause if we aren’t…”

When the dangling girl manages to get out a shaky, “Yes, ma’am,” Buffy tosses her.

She hits the wall and Buffy snarls, “Get out of here before I forget I’m in a good mood.” Nothing about her even remotely suggests good mood.

Smart girl, she takes off running toward the dorms as Buffy turns her interest to the one on the floor. She’s struggling, scrapping at Buffy’s calf. I’ve seen smarter moves. Buffy puts a little more weight on the dark-haired girl’s throat and turns to me to ask, “Think you can find something to entertain this one?”

I nod and reply, “I’ve got just the thing.”

She levels her attention on the girl again and says, “There are two-hundred and eight bones in the human body.” A wolfish grin settles in. The evil’s back. “I heard that in a movie once.” But she’s chipper, almost friendly. It’s like she might be talking about the latest sale at Macy’s or something. “Not really sure if it’s true, but I’m pretty sure you can guess where it’s leading.” Defying the sudden streak of kindness, she puts more pressure on her foot.

The girl flails her arms and legs, desperately struggling to get up. There’s this sort of sickly blue tinge to her skin when Buffy finally lifts her foot. I help the girl up and set off toward housekeeping. As Buffy steers her along with us, I ask, “What’s your name?” I feel kinda bad asking, but…

When the girl supplies a hoarse, “Alice,” I fill in, “Alright, Alice, I’m gonna introduce you to Susan and she’s gonna find something for you to do. You’ll spend the day working off some of that angst, or I’ll have Buffy continue the anatomy lesson. We clear?”

“Clear, sir,” Alice rasps.

Susan and I have an understanding. She’s an interesting character. I couldn’t believe it when she came to me and said she wanted to contribute. She’s a slayer. That makes the contribution pretty much automatic. She’s also damned sneaky. Without any other real skills, I gave her housekeeping. And now she’s the one that really dishes out the punishment around here.

Did I mention mean? She’s totally mean. Sort of a cross between your stereotypical army drill sergeant and Gina Torres.

Just before we reach Susan’s office, Buffy hangs back. Susan’s reading her email. A soft knock gets her attention. She offers a chipper, “Good morning, Mister Harris,” as she sizes Alice up. The young, dark-haired slayer says nothing. She’s really withdrawn, morose even. At least her color’s a little better.

I roll my eye. That’s it. I’m gonna kill Renee.

Sensing the annoyance, Susan cracks a grin.

“Morning, Susan,” I reply with a thin smile. “Would you mind keeping Alice busy today?”

“Not at all,” Susan says as she stands.

With the platitudes out of the way, Susan doesn’t waste any time making Alice completely miserable. She grabs a pair of rubber gloves, a bucket, a bottle of cleaner and a toothbrush, passing them off to Alice. Then she leads us down the stairs into the basement. We pass through a labyrinth of dank, dimly lit hallways.

When we reach our destination, she swings the door to a bathroom open. I didn’t even know this was here. Filthy kind of begins to describe it. It looks like it hasn’t been used in years.

After pushing Alice inside, Susan commands, “I want this room spotless by seventeen-hundred.”

I smirk when she shuts the door. On the way upstairs, she remarks, “You’d be amazed how many of those there are. This place is pretty huge.”

“Yeah, I’m kinda getting that,” I reply.

A few moments later we arrive at Susan’s office. I thank her—like I need to—then catch up with Buffy. She’s hanging out in the alcove where we left her, appearing extremely bored. I’m surprised she waited…glad, but kinda surprised.

As we stroll past ops, I ask, “What happened?”

A contemptuous hiss slips out. She shakes her head and replies, “Hell if I know, Xander. Two-hundredish teenaged girls, all under the same roof, it’d be simpler to ask what hasn’t happened.”

I consider interrupting, but let her finish before clarifying, “With Will.” She’s in a crappy mood and it’s just safer that way.

Quickly wising up, she gasps, “Oh…” I glance over as she rakes her fingers through her hair. The gesture seems almost evasive. It’s no real surprise that she answers, “I don’t know much more than you do.”

The brush off’s not gonna cut it. I don’t care where she hangs me. I deserve some answers. Persistently, I prod, “Anything would be better than nothing.” I try to add, “She’s my friend too,” but Buffy takes off. I have to run to keep up. It takes me a sec to clue that she’s headed for the stable. Once inside, she perches on Bernadine and I pull up a crate to sit on.

“Sorry, I just don’t like all the cameras,” she explains. When I nod, she continues, “I really don’t know what happened. The last thing I remember is you leaving last night. I just don’t think the others need to know that.”

Looking up at her, I reply, “I can see that.” She looks a little better, less pasty.

“I woke up like I am now. I don’t remember dressing for bed. Yet here I am,” she says with a sweep of her hand. The fact that she hasn’t bothered to change out of the sweats she slept in is really un-Buffy. But I suppose, given the morning we’re having, it’s not all that shocking.

She says in a soft, thoughtful voice, “I had to seriously beg to get her to talk. She finally gave in and told me what I told you in there. The only thing I withheld was that Amy and Riah were trying to put something inside her.”

And damn me. Actually, damn her! Visions of Catwoman and Amy flood my mind. They have Willow strapped to a table. It’s bad. I shut my eye and blink it open, trying to clear the disturbing image.

Not quite reading my mind, Buffy grins. It must be the look on my face. I clear my throat and say, “Would you mind rephrasing that?”

The grin fades and she clarifies, “They had some sort of device, like a rock or something. They cut into her eye and were going to put it into her.”

Whoa…’kay, so…the whole eye cutting thing—not much better.

She grows more sullen. I could swear she needs to cry, but she doesn’t. Instead, she asks, “Have you ever seen someone that’s been shot with a bulletproof vest on, Xander?”

I answer, “Yeah, on television.” I don’t really need any more. I get it.

What I need doesn’t enter into it. She needs to talk, so I let her.

Staring at her laced fingers, she reflects, “I needed to know. I mean, Will kinda took care of me for years, so I figured…” She looks up, meeting my gaze. “She won’t go to the hospital. I’ve tried.”

Her expression hardens. She lists off Willow’s injuries in a matter-of-fact tone. “She’s got at least three cracked ribs and a broken collarbone. Her left wrist is badly sprained. And it’d take me days to list all the bruises. I’m not even sure I saw them all.”

Squeezing her eyes shut, she wipes them before she continues. “Her collarbone’s partially healed. She has really limited use of her hands this morning. It’s gonna take time…” she hops off her bike, motioning for me to follow “…at least a few days. And that’s with me helping.” I match her pace as she heads back to the castle. “Think you can keep the others off my back?”

“I think I’ll manage,” I reply. I’m not sure why she wants to keep this between us, but I’m not going to question it. The one thing that’s certain is she’s telling the truth. She’s as much in the dark as I am. Everything she told me, except her lack of memory, is something I could’ve figured out on my own.

The funny thing, she doesn’t seem to care. I’d be a little worried about the memory lapse considering Will’s history.

But that’s the thing. That’s Buffy—how she is. Their relationship was pretty strained last I saw. Now, all’s forgiven. Just like with Spike. I can’t forgive him, but somehow, she can.

It’s because of the need. She can’t stand to see someone she cares for suffer. That’s just who she is.

As we approach the front of the castle, she stops and whispers, “I’m really sorry.” It takes me a sec to get what she means. About the time it occurs to me, she adds, “For the other night. It’s just been…” Her voice fades.

As I finish her thought, “Lots of fun. Heaps even,” she takes my hands, turning me to face her.

Sighing, she murmurs, “Isn’t it always?” A sad little smile betrays her, revealing just how confused and vulnerable she feels.

I return the smile and confirm, “Always.”

This is insane.

Y’know about the time I think I have some glimmer of insight—some idea what the heck goes through their heads—they pull a major switcheroo that leaves me mystified.

Women.

Talking sense was worth a shot. Actually it was pretty useless, but I tried. I talked, they ignored and here we are.

I tune out all the movement around me and fixate on the main display panel. There are six squares, one for each member of the team. Buffy’s camera is directed at Will. I stare at her face.

Whatever’s going on, it’s a total one-eighty in less than five hours. And seeing them…

Not really helpful. You’d think it would be. That maybe there’d be some underlying sense of…

Well, sense.

There isn’t any, but there might be some solidarity. I get the impression that Buff was blindsided too.

All she wants is to protect Will. That much is obvious.

And Will’s having none of it. Her expression’s utterly blank. She must be in pain. I can’t even tell that. She’s like chiseled-Willow. An ice sculpture would probably give me more to go on.

I really don’t get her.

Why now?

As the helicopter banks, I switch my attention to Satsu’s camera view. I get a glimpse of the ground through the window behind Buffy before focusing on her face. She’s wearing a mask too.

I rub my face, brow to cheek, lingering to massage my temple. What a day.

It’s funny. When I first met Buffy, I couldn’t understand why someone like her would be interested in Will and me. Truthfully, it made me a little nervous. I thought maybe it was some sort of elaborate scheme to humiliate us that Cordy cooked up. I half expected an, oh, by the way…

That’s how the in-crowd worked. It wouldn’t’ve been above Cordy to con some new girl into feeding us to the lions as part of some insane rite of passage.

Ah…

I miss the good old days.

Almost as much as I miss my parent’s basement.

…Or my parents for that matter.

That’s not how it went. She didn’t and we didn’t. Instead, something happened—something really special. Buffy was supposed to be this lone warrior, Hellmouth guardian person. Like Kwai Chang Caine without all the aimless wandering. Boy, the Council was really under-whelmed when that didn’t work out.

Irony doesn’t get much deeper.

The closer she got to that first thing, the more she pushed us away. It almost seems fickle when I put it that way. Like the less rebellious it was…

But that’s not exactly fair. I get that she got hurt. She got hurt lots. We all did.

Again, not fair at all. She’s the only one of us that died. Not surprising that it made her a little intense.

Not to mention jaded.

Thing is, right here, right now, she has something that would’ve made the Buffy I first met—she’d be really happy—ecstatic even. Instead, what she is…

She’s become exactly what the Council wanted in the first place. Too bad C.O.W. got barbequed by the First.

Yet somehow, a moment of silence later, I find I’m not all that torn up over the loss.

She works with the others, but only because she has to. There’s no doubt that she’s the one. A very singular entity. Even with body doubles and the occasional sex bot. I roll my eye. And everyone around her does everything they can to reinforce the separation.

I take another long, hard look at Will. The image is really grainy. I ignore it, staring through the fuzz into her eyes.

Uh…

Well, I’ll be damned.

That’s it.

She doesn’t want to be here a second longer than she has to. She’s doing exactly what she needs to do right by her people. Then she’s gonna bail.

I can’t be sure, but I think it’ll wreck Buffy. She hasn’t reached out to anyone since Spike. At least I don’t think she has. If Will takes off, Buff will probably dig in even further.

I just wish I knew what the heck was up with Will. Why would she do that? If she’d talk to me, I could…but she’s—

There’s no time for this now. They’re landing. I key my mic and say, “Alright, let’s do this by the numbers.”

Yeah…that’ll help. This’ll go like usual. We actually have a rule book now. Buffy helped write it. Doesn’t mean she follows it. She plays until something hits her hard enough to piss her off, then she ends it.

I focus on Buffy’s camera as she watches the team disembark. Satsu climbs out with a bucket in hand. Will’s directly behind her. Stooped down, they approach Buffy.

Backing away from the wind and the noise, she raises her voice and directs, “Satsu, you stick with Will. Whatever happens, don’t engage. Your only mission is to keep her safe, ’kay?” When Satsu nods, Buffy turns, mid-stride and takes off across the field. Motioning for everyone to follow, she says, “The rest of you, you’re with me.”

Satsu brings up the rear. They reach the hill and the team moves single file up the rough path, passing between rocky outcroppings.

“Remember, don’t make eye contact with the demon,” Willow asserts. She’s not moving very well. Satsu hangs back, making sure she’s okay.

It doesn’t take Buffy long to pick up on the problem. She slows the pace to accommodate, but eventually, the inevitable happens. Willow stumbles. Satsu doesn’t let her fall.

Buffy turns, weaves past the others and sweeps Willow up. Leigh takes point and they set off, slowly picking their way up the narrow dirt trail. I focus on the image of Willow while Buffy reflects, “Y’know, Will, I totally get the why. Now that we know what to do, helping Dawn is really important. I even get why now. You’re right, we may not get another break for a while. But I still don’t understand why you’re here. The team could’ve handled this.”

Willow grows progressively angrier as Buffy speaks her mind. It surprises me that she doesn’t interrupt. After a short pause, Will retorts, “I’m here because you need me.”

The subtext couldn’t be clearer. At least I think it couldn’t. Maybe she does understand.

I hope.

Renee gives me a sideways glance, appearing amused. She’s right, the drama is funny. But not really.

She points and I firm up. Satsu’s camera view shows a heavy canopy of vines and brush to her left. They just walked right past the cave. Before I can say anything Willow grumbles, “Put me down, please.” When Buffy obliges her request, Will turns around and walks back to the cave. The look on her face is priceless.

I don’t have to see Buffy to perceive the eye roll. Sight unseen, it’s there.

Point, set, match…

Round one goes to the witch.

Snagging Buffy’s arm as she passes, Willow whispers, “We’ll wait for thirty seconds before we enter. That should give you plenty of time to get up to your neck in trouble.”

Grumbling softly, Buffy shakes her head and pushes the vines aside. When she steps into the dark cave, the cameras automatically switch over to thermal imaging. There are three heat signatures at the far end. The one in the middle’s much warmer, showing up in shades from red to white. Our demon.

The other two are partially obscured by the succubus’ wings. It takes me a sec to figure out what’s going on. When I do, I hold back the eww, giving Renee a disgusted glance instead.

Buffy pauses, allowing her eyes to adjust. I don’t interrupt. There’s no need unless the demon moves. And so far, it’s staying put. The two humans lying with it are far more active. I’d say preoccupied, judging from their movements.

It might be a little hypocritical for me to think eww, but at least I’m not alone. When Buffy adapts, she mutters very matter-of-factly, “’Kay, that’s just gross.”

At the sound of her voice, the two men spring to their feet and charge. She sidesteps the first attacker. As he passes, she lands a blow to the back of his head with the broadside of the scythe. He crashes into the wall behind her.

While Buffy handles the first minion, the second lunges at Leigh. He gets soundly thwapped for his trouble.

I feel like I should clear ops. This is just a little too R-Rated for some of our younger viewers. Neither man has a stitch on. And they’re both sorta…

Uh…

Yeah…

Distractions.

And the distraction works. Before any of us gets what hit us, Rowena spins and attacks Leigh. Keying my mic as the succubus lunges at Buffy, I snap, “Take her down!”

This is heading south quick.

Sharp talons swipe at Buffy. Leathery wings beat the air. She dodges the attack, but something’s not right…

I stare in disbelief at camera one’s portion of the display. The milky gray skin of the demon transforms, turning creamy, smooth and light-brown.

It makes no sense.

I glance at Renee. Does she see this too?

God, I hope not!

It’s her. I don’t—I mean I’ve never seen her naked, but if I—

Imagination just sucks!

As my face flushes hot, the view from camera one changes.

Falling, it pans down the length of the beautiful, bare…

Turning, I catch a glimpse of Leigh parrying a blow from Rowena’s staff.

And hitting the ground, clawed feet stand poised over Buffy.

In a voice thick with stress, Renee orders, “Satsu, make it quick! Leigh, quit playing and finish her. Everyone else, get on the demon now!”

The demon snarls, “Pitiful little girl…” snatching Buffy up by her throat “…you think yourself immune to me?” As cold black eyes turn warm, brown and full of life, the words, “I know what’s in your heart,” cut through me.

I move forward, pressing my hand against the monitor. I want it to feel…but there’s nothing there. The textured plastic membrane of the plasma display is all…

Suddenly, the eyes vanish. I long to see them again.

Sickening swirls of gray and black whiz past, bouncing, spinning and crashing…

Blackness.

Heartbroken, I rest my cheek against the display.

Renee barks, “Xander?” She smacks my arm and spins me to face her. I blink to clear the fog. She drags me away from the display panel and turns me to face it.

Camera one’s dead, but there’s jumble of movement in the remaining five frames. I piece together what I can see. Leigh and Rowena are still fighting furiously. I can’t tell who’s winning. Their frames weave back and forth. I catch glimpses of their faces. All I get is they both look really miffed.

Alana and Sandy are trading blows with the demon. But Sandy’s moving sluggishly, like she might be hurt. The demon’s bleeding profusely from a gaping wound in her side. The image makes me sick. I still see…

I squeeze my eye closed. I can’t look.

When Renee commands, “Sandy, get Buffy out of there,” my eye snaps open. I focus on camera five. Sandy leans down. Buffy’s bleeding pretty badly from three gashes across her chest.

Before Sandy can touch her, Willow yells, “No!”

I jump.

Where the hell is Willow? I scan the screens trying to figure it out. That’s it! Next time we do this, Will’s getting a damned headset.

As Sandy backs away from Buffy, Willow orders, “Satsu, get in there and help. Stay on the demon’s six or this is over. Okay?”

With a curt nod, Satsu draws her katana and steps through the tattered canopy. She sprints toward the fray. The gap closes in a blink.

Willow’s voice echoes through the cave. “Leigh, lead Rowena out here.”

Sandy turns and rejoins the fight. Her kick is followed by a couple of things that look really painful. Alana brings her staff down against the demon’s neck. That would probably smart a little. But it’s the tip of Satsu’s katana poking up through the demon’s right breast that really makes me cringe. It wouldn’t be so bad if it didn’t look like Renee.

The piercing scream is drowned out by a loud clap. I can only assume that was Willow. Either that or not a cloud in the sky and it’s going to rain. I sure hope it was her.

Leigh stoops over Rowena. She’s pretty badly beaten up. I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen her without a ball cap. Leigh glances up at Willow. What I expect to see and what I actually see don’t mesh at all. The last time I saw Willow she looked positively sick. Now she crackles with power. Her brow is knit with concentration. Commanding authority, she reassures Leigh, “She’ll be fine. Get in there and help the others.”

It’s no surprise that Leigh does exactly what she’s told. She dashes back inside, slipping past Buffy’s limp form as it floats out of the mouth of the cave. But the fight’s practically over. Satsu managed to dislodge her weapon while Will was slipping Ro a mickey. Or whatever that was.

The demon’s on the ground. Satsu swings and ends it. A sickening crunch brings the high-pitched wail to an end.

My mangled nerves thank her.

I sneak a glance at Renee. She looks positively pale. I don’t think either one of us has ever seen a mission go so sideways.

Breathing a sigh of relief, I focus on camera four, Rowena’s headset. Her head’s turned toward Buffy. Willow kneels beside her. The power she radiated moments before is gone. She looks really frail.

I feel like a peeping tom as I watch her. This is none of my business. There’s tenderness in her touch. Will cares. And not just average cares…she really, really cares. Now I really don’t get it. Why does she want to leave so much if…?

And what in the hell was that all about? I thought that stupid succubus could only charm men? Will made a federal case out of it when I asked to come along. She called me a threat to the mission. The way I see it—me going off the deep end—small potatoes compared to Buffy.

And what about Buffy? She wigs and gets dropped like a new recruit. Then she stays down. She doesn’t get taken out like that. In fact, that’s exactly the sort of thing that usually pisses her off.

I mean, I get why Will needed to stay out of it. That thing playing puppet master to her? I don’t even need to imagine how bad that’d be.

And what’s up with the warning Will gave Satsu?

Has everyone lost their minds?

Y’know what, never mind, I really don’t want to know.

To make matters that much better, Renee has this really annoying grin on her face.

Shaking my head, I walk over to my workstation and flop down.

I’ll just be over here feigning ignorance. It’s safer that way.

As I glance at my watch, Dawn groans, “But that’s not it at all, Xander.” She paces the lawn in front of me in frustration.

Eighteen hours.

I ignore the tension in her voice and lean my head back. It thumps into the tree I sit against.

Throbbing.

I’m way too tired for this. It’s been the day from hell. I shut my eye.

She draws closer and stops. “Xander?”

I really don’t want to open my eye. I think I’ve seen enough for one day. Maybe tomorrow.

She whispers, “I didn’t do this on purpose.” In spite of the delicateness of her voice, she sounds annoyed.

This is like some bad private joke. I should really ask, but I think it’s gone too far for that. I just play along. Pretend I get it. It’s much easier that way. But if I asked, I might know what to expect.

Dawn as a centaur?

Worse, Dawn topless!

Nah, the eye stays shut. I don’t need to see any more. I really don’t need to know any more. My head might explode.

Will said this wasn’t really a cure. It just speeds things up. Dawn’s gonna change again some time tonight.

Into God knows what. Stupid me, I really should’ve asked.

I just didn’t think. Actually, I didn’t want them to think I was stupid.

“Xander, look at me,” she pleads.

I can’t.

Moments slip by. The hurt builds. I really hate hurting her. Finally, she mumbles, “Y’know what sucks most?”

I have a list. Odds are, she does too. “What?” I give her permission to share her list.

She speaks though a despondent sigh. “Not having permission.”

Her answer surprises me. It’s not at all what I expect. I don’t get it. My eye snaps open. I search until I meet her gaze. But I’m pretty sure, judging from the look on her face, that there’s irony there. And not just in the shared thought—double-wordiness.

She smiles.

It’s disturbing.

It’s also totally wrong.

I shouldn’t find her attractive. But my inner geek just can’t resist. It’s like looking at something from a fantasy.

And what’s worse, I think she knows it.

As the smile fades, her expression turns harsh. “Think about it,” she challenges. Searching my face, she goes on. “I was fifteen the day I was born. The same age Buffy was when she was called. What bothers me most isn’t that she ignores me.” She folds her arms and turns away. “Yeah that’s hard. But what really sucks is that no matter what I do, I can’t seem to grow up.”

She walks toward the castle. Following her eyes, I look up. I’m not sure, but I can guess that my attention and hers rest on the same thing: a light three stories above us. I stare at the window, listening to her whisper, “I think it’s that I was given to her to protect. It’s perception. The world around me changes. Everyone else sees me changing with it. But here, with the people that should matter most, I’ll always be fifteen.”

Her hooves shift, pawing irritably at the ground. It’s surprising how graceful she is. After only a few hours, she’s completely comfortable in her new skin. You’d think the learning curve would be steeper.

“Kenny actually treated me like an equal. Not like some afterthought. Or worse, a burden,” she mumbles, shaking her head. “My life’s a joke.” A bitter laugh bubbles up. “It’s like I’m the brunt of one mystical punch line after another.” She turns to face me, giving me a piercing glare as she asks, “You really think I’d do this on purpose?”

She has a point.

I admit, “No, I guess you wouldn’t.”

I sure didn’t.

Of course, it’s not like I got my Supernaturally Transmitted Disease playing hide the salami with a coed. There was just a musty hole in the ground and some really wrathy, annoyingly sympathetic, indigenous ghosts.

But from the sound of things, neither did Dawn.

Being able to relate…not exactly priceless.

Breaking eye contact, I stare past her over the battlements of our home. It’s a pretty night. The sky’s full of stars. There’s a slight chill in the air. As I take it all in, the soft timbre of her voice blends with the sounds of the forest. “I’m not fifteen. I’m four, going on twenty.”

The light goes out. My gaze travels down the castle wall. I shift focus to her. She looks so serious. Earnest for someone to understand.

And I think I do. Dawn and I have a lot in common. Neither one of us is especially gifted, despite her past. We’re both just sort of us. Us, trying to compete for attention at Professor G’s School for Gifted Girls.

“I really thought I could talk to Willow, but so much has changed.”

I nod.

Curious what she thinks, I ask, “What’s changed?” It’s kind of a weak question, but I’m sure she’ll go somewhere with it.

I climb to my feet. If I don’t move, I’m gonna go to sleep. Staying parallel to the castle, I stroll leisurely across the yard.

She matches pace and asks, “What do you mean?”

“Willow,” I respond, “You’re right, there’s something really different about her.”

Slowing, she mutters, “Oh.” She sounds distant and preoccupied.

When I turn to look, she isn’t moving. Her face tenses with pain. She clutches her stomach and folds over. An agonizing scream tears from her as I close the gap between us.

I have no idea what to do. It’s not like anyone gave me a handbook on coping with mystical transformations. The only thing I can think is to hold her. So I do. I lift her upright and put my arms around her.

She clings for dear life. It’s not quite as bad as a bear hug from Buffy, but Dawn earns a close second. She begs me to make it stop. There’s nothing I can do.

Trembling, she staggers to her knees, taking us both down. I sorta forgot that she outweighs me by several hundred pounds. I land on my ass with my legs pinned underneath her. It hurts, but I hang on. I haven’t got lots of choice.

Clammy and wet, her hair sticks to the side of my face. I close my eye. Feeling’s bad enough. I don’t need to see. As the weight gradually lifts from my legs, she slumps forward, on top of me.

This really shouldn’t feel good. Not after that.

She sits up, straddling me. Just guessing, but last I knew all she had on was a tee-shirt. And uh…

Yeah…

This really, really shouldn’t feel good.

“Xander?” Her voice is kinda gravely. From screaming, I guess. It makes my skin tingle.

She shifts her weight and rises awkwardly to her feet. The instant she breaks contact, I feel like begging.

God, she smells good!

There’s a special Hell for people like me.

I keep my damned mouth shut. She doesn’t move. It’s the last thing I should do, but I lift my head and open my eye. I look at myself first. There’s no mistaking the fact that I’m happier than I ought to be. Lots happier.

My cheeks flush hot. I scramble backwards.

A flash of something shiny catches my eye. It’s somewhere where shiny shouldn’t be. I blink and look away.

“What’s the matter?” she asks. The question carries an innocence that makes me blush more.

Damning myself for not shutting my eye, or turning away, I stare at her legs. In the low light, it’s hard to tell what’s wrong. But something’s wrong. Really wrong. Her skin tone’s too dark and kinda…

Green maybe?

Green?

Huh…

“Xander, this’ll probably freak you out. Call it T.M.I. or whatever helps you sleep, but I like sex,” she purrs.

My mouth falls open. I clamp it shut, hoping to spare my dignity. It’s totally useless.

I watch her legs. She closes the distance between us.

Wow!

She’s got great legs. Why am I just now noticing?

For God’s sake! I helped raise her after Joyce died.

My stomach knots up.

Special Hell!

Buffy’s gonna kill me and send me to the special Hell! And I’ll deserve it!

She murmurs, “Kenny wasn’t the first. Willow wanted to think that, so I let her.” I can hear the smile in her voice. She lets out a mischievous giggle before she asks, “Why ruin a good thing?”

No reason I can think…

No!

Stupid!

This can’t be Dawn. Not the Dawn I know. She’d at least try to cover herself. She did earlier with the—

She moves closer and I scramble, trying to spring to my feet. Only halfway there, I lose it and freeze.

See? This is what I get! I knew I should’ve kept my stupid eye shut.

I stare at a small tattoo inside her left hip. There are two crescent moons, back-to-back, staggered and touching. The top of the right one almost reaches the center of the left one. Where they meet, they’re pink. The color shifts in a smooth gradient to blue on either end.

I want to scream and rage at her about how she’s not old enough. But then…

She’s four, going on twenty. I really can’t argue. It’s not like she needs parental consent.

I could yell at her about the Mark of Eyghon. In no way was that fun. Thing is, this is way more witchy, lots less demony. And Dawn’s just not that epically stupid.

Besides, we have Giles to set that particular bad example.

Damn it!

I keep my stupid mouth shut. Actually, I have to shut my stupid mouth. It kinda fell open when that other tiny detail caught my eye. The one that caused the big freeze, Xander-statue, I can’t move sorta thing.

I debate whether I should look again. I think I’d rather claw my remaining eye out.

And yet, she just stands there letting me look. Modesty’s a lost art. It has to be the demon. Green skin. She’s a demon, right? I’m gonna say yes. Green skin’s probably—definitely a demon, not Dawn thing.

My knee throbs, not to mention my wrist. Hunched over, half-standing isn’t a good position. Worse, she’s just inches from my face. She still smells…

My now shut mouth waters. Oh, that was truly helpful. Thanks bunches!

Uh…

She’s still not moving. I focus on the neatly groomed patch of tight, dark curls. This is insane. My gaze travels down to the small silver ring.

I’m not gonna ask. The obvious question is, didn’t that hurt?

Obvious and really, really moronic.

I want to, but damn me!

And damn her, she starts talking. “My roommate has—”I am the very model of a modern Major-General. I’ve information vegetable, animal, and mineral. I know the kings of England, and I quote the fights historical, from Marathon to Waterloo, in order categorical “—I’ve ever spent.”

That does it! She’s switching dorms if it’s the last thing I do!

I flop backward onto my butt.

So lemme get this straight.

Buffy’s not straight. Or at least she’s less straight than…

Eh?

Actually, at least half the Alpha Team’s, umm…

And uh…

Yeah…

To combat her family-imposed Peter Pan syndrome, Dawn’s become, uh…

Uh-huh.

That’s just the sweet, gooey frosting to conspiracy theories, branches of the military wanting us dead, psycho slayers and—damn it all to hell—Amy. I could’ve lived another couple of lifetimes without seeing her again and been just fine.

I need a vacation.

My mouth turns pasty and dry. I swallow. It doesn’t help.

The damnedest thing is, she still hasn’t moved. Not an inch. She’s just staring at me.

Well, I’m not sure about the staring. I haven’t had the nerve to look up. But she’s staring. It tracks.

Her hand’s on her hip. The tee-shirt—I wish she’d untie it from around her waist. It might cover…

But really, she may as well take it off too. It’s drenched and stuck in places—

That does it! I’m going to bed!

Alone!

I can wake up in a couple of hours to another disturbing phone call and forget any of this happened.

It was all just a bad dream.

Buffy will be straight and not crazy. Willow will be crazy—the good kinda crazy, not the world endy kind—and not straight. We like her that way. And Dawn will be Dawn. Shy, naive little Dawn…

One great big, happy, severely dysfunctional, all too matriarchal family.

It’ll be great!

I slap my hands against my thighs and stand up. This time I actually stand. I may reward myself with a cookie.

“Good night,” I announce. My voice is just a little too chipper. I sound kinda stupid, but…

As I turn, she meets my gaze, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. I can’t move.

Her eyes glow an eerie yellow.

Her hair—why’s…?

Writhing?

So cold.

I need—

A dark spot forms in the center of my eye, like I stared at a camera flash.

Shivery, frigorific non-fun.

My muscles burn.

I try to scream.

The dark spot grows. It keeps growing, wicking out like blood on a tissue. Everything turns foggy and gray.

She’s not smiling anymore.

Panicked, she shrieks my name, sounding muddy and distant.

I struggle, desperate to answer.

She touches me. It feels wrong.

Distant.

Freezing.

More wailing joins the murky chorus.

Not my name.

Who’s there?

Help me.

Hel…

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