The Chosen :: A Buffy virtual series continuation





The sun shone bright and brilliant upon the campus of Trillium University, although Buffy had managed to find herself a shady spot beneath one of the elms. Sitting at a wooden table close to the corner of a building, she had an open book in front of her and a highlighter poised between her fingers. Her forehead crinkled as she read, occasionally marking a passage of text, but more often just quietly sighing. Apparently, schoolwork presented something of a challenge to the Slayer; nevertheless, the jut of her chin displayed the determination to conquer. She glanced up at the sound of a familiar laugh to see Willow approaching in the company of a shorthaired brunette wearing gold-rimmed glasses. The pair chatted animatedly as they strolled along the path and snatches of their conversation drifted in Buffy's direction.

"Could you even imagine? It's just too disturbing."

Willow nodded emphatically. "It'd be just this never-ending parade of Spaghetti-Os and cigars."

"The real kind and Freudian versions," came the swift response.

The two women laughed again at the shared joke which, given her expression of confusion, seemed to have sailed completely over the top of Buffy's head.

Willow waved as they came closer. "Hey, Buff. You remember Jessica, right?"

Buffy smiled at the brunette amicably. "Sure thing. Jessica: She Who Knows Things I Can't Even Pronounce."

Jessica shuffled her feet in embarrassment, but Willow hastened to put her at ease.

"Oh, don't worry," the redhead assured with a friendly nudge of the elbow. "Buffy can't pronounce lots of words."

Buffy and Jessica frowned as they considered Willow's statement.

"I think she just managed to insult both of us, " sniffed Buffy indignantly.

Jessica crossed her arms. "You got that too, huh?"

"Hey, look!" rejoined a nervous Willow, gesturing vaguely into the distance. "Something distracting!"

Buffy declined the bait and arched an eyebrow. "So how are things at the Brain Drain?"

"I told you to stop calling it that," Willow told her with an admonishing finger.

"And I patently ignored you," replied Buffy, arching the other eyebrow.

Willow fixed Buffy with a narrowed gaze. "It's a research group, not a- a mind-sucking monster."

Buffy simply stared innocently. It was a look that posed the question, "Your point?" With a roll of her eyes, Willow ostensibly allowed the matter to drop.

"Great," she enthused. "Better than great."

"Really great?" asked Buffy dubiously.

"Double plus unbad great," guaranteed Willow. "I'm so glad Jessica suggested me to Professor Kane. You wouldn't believe how much I'm learning!" She treated Jessica to a sunny smile, which was promptly reciprocated.

"No, probably not," agreed Buffy.

"It was really just logical," interjected Jessica. "Willow's the smartest person I know." Now it was Willow's turn to be embarrassed and a flush invaded her cheeks. It didn't go unnoticed by Jessica. "You are!" she insisted before turning back to Buffy. "It'd just be so wrong if she wasn't working with us."

The redhead continued to wallow for a moment in self-consciousness, but then her eyes flickered toward her wristwatch and a tiny frown appeared. She scrutinized the immediate area, obviously in search of something, and the furrows deepened as she failed to find it. Buffy and Jessica continued to exchange chit-chat.

"So what are you guys doing this week?" asked the Slayer.

Jessica's laugh twinkled with amusement. "Same thing as last week, and the week before that, and the week before that ... Professor Kane's superstring theories and studies on dimensional folds are—"

"Shoestrings?" Buffy wondered aloud.

"...are probably not what you really want to talk about, huh?" returned Jessica with a knowing grin.

"Oh, no, I'm interested," Buffy countered before adding, "Politely."

Jessica's grin grew broader, obviously far from offended by the honest admission. "Hint taken," she confirmed.

"Hey, where's Tara?" queried Willow, glancing again at her watch.

"She had to go to the library," replied Buffy. "She said she'd try to meet us before her next class, though."

Willow's expression betrayed her disappointment. "Oh."

"Speaking of which, I'd better go," said Jessica, tossing a smile in the dejected redhead's direction. "I'll see you tomorrow, Willow? We can maybe grab coffee or something?"

Willow brightened immediately. "Sounds like a plan."

Jessica nodded happily and, settling her booksack more comfortably on her shoulder, made good her departure. Willow's smile remained plastered and she treated Jessica to a cheerful wave as the other woman walked away. But the moment Jessica was out of sight, her mouth took a downward spiral to a visible pout and she slumped into the seat across from Buffy.

The Slayer resumed reading, twirling the highlighter between her fingers. The silence was oppressive until Buffy finally addressed Willow, although her eyes remained fixed on the text in front of her.

"You stick that lip out any more, you'll trip on it."

Willow's only response was to slouch even further into the chair. Deliberately, Buffy capped the highlighter, tucked it into the book and then closed the cover. Raising her eyes and resting her elbows on the table, she gave Willow her undivided attention.

"Okay, spill time," she ordered firmly.

Willow heaved a heavy sigh. "She's avoiding me."

"She just said you'd meet for coffee tomorrow," Buffy countered with a hopeful smile. When Willow's pout betrayed not even a hint of appreciation for the attempted levity, Buffy tried again. "I think Tara's just avoiding getting an 'F' on her first paper."

"Oh no," Willow shook her head sorrowfully. "She's avoiding me."

"I detect certainty."

Only partially focused on the conversation, Willow threw up her hands despairingly. "And why, you may ask?"

"I was getting there," Buffy agreed.

"Because she doesn't wanna talk about stuff, that's why!"

"Stuff like...?" prompted the Slayer.

"Like ... stuff!" declared Willow ambiguously.

Buffy nodded wisely. "Ah, sure. Of course."

Willow merely resumed full force sulking.

"Seriously, Will, what's going on?" asked Buffy. "Nightmares, avoidance, grumpy friends ... These are not a few of my favorite things."

With a huge sigh, Willow straightened in her chair. The pout had vanished, to be replaced by an expression of intense concern.

"I don't know," she began, "that's part of the problem. It's like there's ..." Willow leaned toward Buffy, obviously worried. "Sometimes I feel like I don't know Tara any more," she confided sadly.

Buffy blinked. "What do you mean? Like in a, 'My girlfriend's been switched for an evil doppelganger' way?"

Willow dismissed the notion with a shake of her head. "No, no bad twin. Just that ... The way we were, the way we used to be? Sometimes it was like we were the same person. I-I don't know if it was the magick, or just us, but it was like no matter what, I knew what Tara was thinking or feeling." Her distant gaze was pensive. "And sometimes it's still like that, but other times ..."

Buffy peered into Willow's wistful face. "You can't figure her out?"

"No." Willow's voice was quiet and regretful.

Buffy pressed on. "Like there's something going on in her head, but you can't tell what?"

"Uh-huh."

Still, Buffy persisted. "And it's so close, that if you could get just that little flash of insight, you'd know everything that was wrong, and how to make it all better."

"Yes!" Willow's tone was hopeful. Her earnest glance bore into Buffy's eyes for the solution. "Exactly like that!"

Buffy nodded sagely but ruefully. She reached out and placed a comforting hand over Willow's restless fingers. The redhead's expression remained laced with anxiety, but there was now an underlying modicum of expectancy, waiting for Buffy to impart the wisdom so urgently needed.

"Welcome to the wide, wonderful world of dateage, Will," Buffy told her with a tiny smile.

Willow's fingers jerked free of Buffy's grasp. "What? But I— No, I had dateage!" she vehemently defended. "Real dateage, with actual dates! A-And with Tara it wasn't like this! I mean okay, it was a little bit when I was all dark magick mama," she conceded, "but that doesn’t count! I just ... I just ..." Her desperation was tangible.

Buffy stared at Willow knowingly. "You want things with Tara to be the way they were."

"Yes!"

Almost as soon as the confession was made, Willow slumped in her seat. She hung her head, unable to meet Buffy's penetrating gaze, and looked ashamed of herself for the outburst.

She laughed humorlessly. "Not too selfish, huh?"

Buffy's smirk wasn't without sympathy. "Little bit," she agreed. "I mean, it's understandable – what you and Tara had comes along once in a lifetime, but—"

Willow sighed miserably. "I hate the 'but's."

"But," Buffy persevered, "she's not the same Tara anymore. And you're not the same Willow. The things you've both been through ... heck, what we've all been through. No way you escape all that without scars."

"No, I know," Willow reluctantly admitted. "You're right." Her chin slouched almost to her chest.

There was a brief pause, and then Buffy nudged Willow's hand to get her attention. Her smile was one of melancholy as she spoke. "Doesn't help, huh?"

"It does sometimes!" Willow replied, obviously trying to be upbeat about the situation. "Just ... not right now, so much." With an anguished breath, the redhead's cheery attempt fizzled like a pinpricked balloon. "I just want my Tara back." She swallowed the lump in her throat. "I want us together, and to get the happy ending we were always supposed to have."

Hovering around the corner of the building, unseen by the pair at the table, Tara listened, silent and unmoving.

"Why does that have to be so hard?"

At Willow's plaintive request, Tara clutched her books tightly to her chest and closed her eyes. Leaning her head against the wall, she let out a long sigh.

The house was grand in style, mirroring the magnificent architecture of its structural neighbors that had been built along Trillium's most high-class neighborhood. Behind the many tall-framed, lace-bordered windows, the town's elite ostensibly lived their sumptuous lives and existed within a cocoon of luxury and upper crust exclusivity. The vacant residence had been on the market for a while, few of the local inhabitants possessing the finances to purchase such a lavish home, but the realtor's sign on the immaculate front lawn had finally been pasted with a "SOLD!" sticker and within the house itself, there was much preparation.

In the foyer, a dozen or so figures were busying themselves in something of an ordered rush to ensure that everything was flawless. Each wore a subdued black uniform, giving the impression of a troop of worker ants readying the quarters for their queen. Emerging through the door leading to an adjoining room, the vampire who had been watching Xander strode purposefully through the ranks. His face no longer revealed his demon form, yet he maintained a sense of power about him as he cast a critical eye on the proceedings. Although the drapes had been drawn, weak sunlight filtered through the velvet and projected a pale nimbus around his flaxen hair.

"You!" he barked to an individual sweeping the floor. The vampiric flunky immediately curtailed his enthusiastic swings and straightened to attention. "Go check on the food, make sure it's still fresh." His voice dropped an octave as he surveyed the entrance hall. "Everything must be perfect," he muttered to himself.

"Sir!" came the instantaneous compliance and with a sharp inclination of the chin, the nervous lackey hastened to obey the command.

"And no sampling," came the warning.

The vampire quickly turned. "No Marcus, sir!" He bowed low before hurrying away, broom trailing behind him.

Resuming his detailed inspection of the premises, Marcus paused at a small table and frowned. Miniscule dust motes nestled within the grain. With a sneer of disgust, he raised a hand and snapped his fingers. In less than a second, the transgression was being swiftly corrected and the vague scent of lemons invaded the air. Marcus sniffed appreciatively for a moment and then continued his deliberate examination.

He moved toward a paneled wall directly across from the main door. The area was dominated by a large painting. Fashioned from sakura, the frame itself was a thing of beauty, its moldings embellished with delicate goldleaf. The canvas it surrounded was no less enchanting and Marcus considered the images gravely. The inspired brush strokes of the artist had managed to skillfully convey an atmosphere of supreme tranquility. Tree branches, sprinkled liberally with pink cherry blossoms, indicated that it was springtime. A tiny stone bridge spanned a trickling brook and a square gazebo of bamboo stood near its banks. Two small girls wearing white dresses could be seen to the side of the painting. Holding hands, the pair sat upon a carpet of lush green grass, their heads close together as though they were in the midst of sharing some intimate childhood secret. Beneath the trees, a young deer grazed upon tender shoots, unheeding and unafraid of the girls, while a tiger watched the little ones from between dense bulrushes.

Marcus studied the painting with a narrowed gaze. Reaching up, he shifted the frame slightly to the left and then stepped away. Presumably not entirely content with the angle, he moved it a little toward the right again and looked at it for a long moment, head tilting first to one side and then the other. His forehead creased with dissatisfaction as he chewed absently on his thumbnail. Uncertainly, he slid the picture back toward the left. Then, with a disgruntled grimace, stretched out his fingers once more to reposition. But fortune had apparently determined there would be no further time for fine tuning. Marcus twisted abruptly toward the front door at the sound of the handle being turned. The painting was immediately forgotten.

Upon the threshold stood a form completely backlit by the bright sunrays. Without hesitation, everyone present, including Marcus, bowed deeply to the new arrival, eyes cast reverently downward. Swathed in a richly-red hooded cloak of heavy damask silk, the features of this individual were impossible to discern, but there was no doubting the strength and power that radiated from the diminutive form. The fine gold braid which trimmed the edges and hem of the outer garment bespoke of authority, as did the symbol emblazoned upon the wide collar of the cape: a sun being eclipsed by a moon.

Moving with grace and dignity, the figure glided smoothly into the foyer. Maintaining his worshipful stance, but taking great care to avoid the shafts of direct light, a vampire scuttled forward to close the door. Small hands clad in gloves of scarlet Moroccan leather emerged from the folds of the cloak to push back the hood as a penetrating gaze swiftly absorbed the surroundings.

She was young and delicate in stature, appearing perhaps to be in her mid-teens, but with a strength that seemed to defy her age. The almond-shaped eyes, ancient in their knowledge and wisdom, missed not even the most minute of details and signaled the ability to remain unwaveringly fixated upon one single point. Her features were refined, and above all, familiar - Hitanko.

Removing her gloves, she dangled them to one side, expecting and receiving immediate attention. An auburn-haired vampire, still bent uncomfortably at the waist, hastily barreled her way through the competition, skittering forward to accept the proffered items. She cradled them carefully in her palms as though they were treasured artifacts and snarled under her breath at those who cast envious eyes upon her prize.

Without a word of appreciation to the fawning female, the girl focused upon Marcus. An expression of something akin to fondness crossed her face, but it was a fleeting show of mild affection.

"Marcus," she acknowledged.

He looked up briefly and then bowed even more humbly than before.

"Lady."

The girl appraised her surroundings once again and nodded approvingly. "You have done well." The statement was rendered with the slight hint of an accent, but nonetheless fluid in its delivery. "We should attract little attention here."

Marcus' thankfulness was apparent as his bow intensified. "Thank you, Lady," he murmured with some pride. "I ensured that all proper channels were followed. There should be no suspicions."

The girl nodded again. "And the other matter?"

"Personally attended," he promptly guaranteed, lifting his eyes just a shade to glance hopefully in her direction. He was not disappointed with the reaction. Her expression became pleased – at least to the extent that she exhibited pleasure. Again, it was a momentary display, but the infinitesimal morsel visibly boosted Marcus' confidence.

"I have arranged a demonstration for you this evening," he informed her with all due respect.

"Excellent," she replied before adding as an afterthought, "Thank you, Marcus."

Marcus dropped his eyes and bowed again as she swept past him, drawn to the picture hanging on the wall. Her gaze became distant as she allowed herself to become lost within the depths of the painted images.

"Soon there will be rest," she vowed, her glittering dark eyes riveted upon the little girls, heads so close in an intimate exchange. Her voice lowered to a whispering promise. "Soon."

There was barely an inch of vacant floor space to be found in the main training room at Slayer Central. Beneath the bright fluorescent lights, groups of Juniors were working out, mostly in pairs, some sparring with each other while others offered words of encouragement to their partners who had chosen to perfect their skills on the wide variety of exercise equipment. Beyond the tall windows, a heavily clouded evening sky hid the face of the moon and it was in front of one of these windows that Xander was diligently training Chrissie. In theory, anyway.

Wielding two swords, one in each fist, it was uncertain whether Xander had yet mastered the art of skillfully managing even one such weapon. Nonetheless, he was swinging the blades with an abundance of enthusiasm and threatening promise equal to that found in any Hollywood blockbuster. The pair circled each other cautiously. Chrissie's expression was a mixture of amusement at Xander's antics and serious concern that he might lop off his own arm – possibly both.

"So get ready," he warned. "I'm comin' atcha. Aaaaany second now. No holds barred." He punctuated his warning with a flamboyant twirling of swords.

"Okay, okay," acknowledged Chrissie, holding up her hands and wincing, "just ... just stop doing that. Okay?"

"Ah-ha!" Xander openly gloated. "Fearing my Spinning Death Steel, are you little Slayer?"

Chrissie nodded soberly, eyes riveted on the thrashing weapons. "Uh-huh."

"As well you should!" he announced with supreme confidence. "My swordplay is legend and my play swords are Nerf! Within seconds, you could well be reduced to little more than bite-sized, super-powered chunks!"

Chrissie frowned, although her fixed gaze never wavered. "I don't understand you again, Mr. Xander."

Xander's reply was dismissive. "No matter! Prepare yourself!"

As the adversaries still slowly circled each other, Xander continued to whirl his dual weapons of destruction and then, a deep crease of worry appeared on his forehead.

"You sure you're ready?" he asked dubiously. "These are really sharp."

"I'm ready," Chrissie assured.

"Then prepare yourself!" Xander cried, speaking over the top of her.

"What, 'ready' don't mean prepared where you come from, Harris?" queried a voice from behind.

Xander turned sharply on his heel, arms flailing like a maniacal windmill. He visibly flinched as an out-of-control blade almost pruned the tip of his nose. Gradually slowing the revolutions to a more manageable level, his narrowed eye focused upon Faith. Reclining atop a high stack of exercise mats, legs stretched comfortably in front of her, the Slayer leaned casually against the wall. Given her relaxed air, it seemed likely that Faith had held this observation post for some time. She puffed nonchalantly upon a lit cigarette, occasionally flicking the ash to the floor.

"Think they got Slayers not even born yet who're ready by now," she informed Xander through a cloud of smoke.

"Faith!" he greeted, ignoring the tufts of hair being shaved progressively closer to his scalp with each pass of the blades. "How good of you to stop by and bring some of that classic Faith-Brand support!"

The Slayer was much more interested in the spectacle before her, eyes following the swords with cool appraisal. "You know if you ever actually fought like that, you'd be taken down in three seconds tops, right?"

"My Spinning Death Steel?" Xander clarified as steel-spun death ever closer.

A raised eyebrow was the immediate response. "That what you call it?" Faith questioned, tilting her head to one side. "Make that two seconds," she amended.

If a hand were free, Xander surely would have brushed the insinuation aside. "Surely you jest. I saw this in an Indiana Jones movie, and unless you've got a gun—"

Xander quickly turned to Chrissie. "You don't have a gun, do you?"

"I have a water pistol!" Chrissie enthusiastically replied, only too happy to help.

"—then I'm thinkin' me and Spinning Death Steel can completely kick your fedora-wearing ass," continued Xander, favoring Faith with a satisfied smile.

For a long moment, Faith indulged in a critical once-over. "Chrissie?" she finally prompted.

Xander frowned. "Huh...?"

Questioningly, he began to turn toward his charge, only to find his field of vision suddenly filled with a bright blue sneaker. Xander only barely had time to utter a strangled cry of surprise before he found himself flat on the mats, his swords no longer quite so spinny. His face blank, he appeared content to simply stare at the ceiling, his gaze not even flicking to Chrissie as she tentatively leaned into sight.

Chrissie's expression was more curious than concerned. "Faith? I think I broke Mr. Xander."

"Don't worry," Faith assured, not at all worried. "My mom always used to say this sorta thing builds character. She never said what kinda character," pondered Faith aloud as she blew a stream of smoke from the corner of her mouth, "but gotta be better'n nothin', right?"

With a groan, Xander began to get to his feet, shooting Chrissie a thin glare as she moved to help him. The Junior immediately adopted an aura of complete innocence, as though she never considered ceasing her examination of the nearby walls to lend assistance.

Swords now thoroughly, thankfully, discarded, Xander brushed off the back of his pants. "Me an' Faith are gonna have a little chat," he told the girl. "Why don't you ... practice that thing you did. That was cool," he complimented with a grin.

The grin he received in response was three-times wider and Chrissie nodded her compliance.

Xander moved to the tower of mats, leaning his elbow comfortably near Faith's feet, even as he swatted the air in an attempt to find a spot that was less polluted. "You do know that smoking's not allowed inside, right?"

"Yeah, I heard that," Faith acknowledged, taking another puff.

"Giles'll have a fit if he sees you," cautioned Xander, glancing over his shoulder as though he expected to see the disapproving glare of Giles appear simply by thinking about it. "And trust me when I say he's in a fitting mood of late."

If the words were supposed to instill genuine concern, they failed miserably. Seeing no evidence that Faith was planning on changing her current disregard for the policy, Xander gave up.

Unnoticed over his shoulder, Chrissie propelled one of the swords airborne with the toe of her sneaker, caught the handgrip squarely in her palm as it made its descent, and then began to swing the weapon like a pro.

"So look at you." Xander gestured at Faith, indeed inviting her to look at herself. "All out and about and engaging in public humiliation of me. You must be feeling better."

Faith shrugged and flicked ash into the corner. "Doin' okay."

"Okay can work," Xander said supportively. "Nine out of ten doctors recommend 'okay' over 'fear and loathing for the whole world'."

"I can do that too," she hastened to point out. "I got layers."

"And should I ever suggest otherwise, I have every confidence that I'll be introduced to the less pleasant ones."

Faith neither confirmed nor denied. Instead, she jutted out her chin to indicate the activity surrounding them. "Looks like you're doin' good here," she complimented.

Taking the cue, Xander also regarded the Junior Slayers, unable to help but take note of Chrissie in particular. Having upgraded herself to two swords, the young girl displayed an expertise far beyond that possessed by the Would-Be-Watcher, despite her size and age. Xander didn't seem to mind.

"I try," he acknowledged, directing his attention back to Faith. "How 'bout you, though? You're pretty much the talk of this place." Xander lightly punched the side of Faith's heavy boot and grinned. "It won't be too long before you're challenging my position as Most Popular Guy in the Whole Building."

"Everythin' I ever wanted," she deadpanned.

Xander nodded as though Faith had voiced her complete agreement on every word. "Money for nothin' and the chicks for free," he sighed wistfully. "You doin' okay, though?"

"I guess," Faith replied noncommittally. "Better'n doing nothing."

As though it contained the secrets of the universe, Faith studied the glowing end of her cigarette, then shook her head. "It's weird, though."

That appeared to be all she had to say on the subject.

Xander waited for several moments, ducking his head and raising his eyebrows, like his expectant body language could physically drag the follow-up from Faith. When that failed, he settled on a verbal cue.

"Weird?"

"Just ..." The words seemed lodged somewhere between Faith's brain and her mouth, and she quickly gave up on trying to coax them into the open. "Nah. I'm ramblin'," she dismissed. "Sayin' nothin'."

"Sounded suspiciously like something to these trained ears," pressed Xander.

"S'not important."

"Well it is to me."

Perhaps it was the tone in Xander's voice, or the earnest expression on his face, but Faith seemed to allow something inside to cave. Just a little. She took her time, however, leisurely finishing her cigarette. When it had all but burned away, she produced another and lit it from the embers of the first before grinding it out and allowing the butt to drop to the floor. If she was waiting for Xander to rescind his words, she was destined to be disappointed.

Faith sighed, the sound more frustrated than anything. "Something about it all don't feel right. I mean it's cool the wannabes got themselves some big damn hero, but I'm thinkin' maybe it shouldn't'a been the relapsed murderer." She forcibly jabbed a finger at herself, in case her meaning was at all cloudy.

"You don't think you deserve a little hero worship?" questioned Xander, his tone indicating that he wasn't entirely certain he agreed with that stance.

"You tell me," Faith shot back.

Taking everything into consideration left no easy answers, and Xander breathed a relenting sigh. "Okay, maybe it'd be a bit more politically correct if you'd, say, cured cancer or found some way to deactivate cell phones in movie theaters," he admitted, "but Hazel—"

"Anyway," Faith immediately interrupted, drowning out Xander's words, "it's only a matter'a time before the shine fades. It always does."

Xander took a deep breath, at least mildly put out at being unable to finish his sentence. Before he could attempt to repeat himself however, he heard someone call his name.

At the sound of the voice, Faith stiffened and began to search for a place to hide her cigarette.

Giles soon spotted Xander and swiftly approached. Without any suitable possibilities, Faith settled for hiding her hands behind her back and did her best to not look guilty. It was a skill that seemed to be lacking from Xander's repertoire at the moment as well.

"Whatever it is, I didn't do it," Xander quickly defended.

Giles appeared puzzled. "What?"

"Nothing then." Xander's smile was wide. "Continue."

"Indeed," responded Giles, keen to move onto more important matters. "I've just received reports of a group of demons attacking a small diner off of Rivergate."

Faith nodded. "Been there. Good pie."

"I doubt very much they're interested solely in a slice of peach cobbler," he told her dryly before continuing. "At least three have been spotted, but there could be more. I want you to lead a group of Slayers." His tone became firm, brooking no argument. "They will fight – you will observe."

Xander looked for a moment like he might begin the argument anew, but instead attempted to get down to business. "Right," he agreed in his most professional voice. "So, uhm, what kind of unpleasant nastiness is on the menu for tonight?"

"I'm not certain," Giles admitted, clearly not happy with his own lack of concrete information. "The species described didn't seem familiar. This may very well be a new sort of threat, completely unknown to us."

"But they like pie," offered Faith, "so there's that."

"Which makes it all the more vital that you return with as much information as possible," Giles instructed Xander. "Their appearance, their abilities, their goals – everything and anything could be important, and we must know it."

Swallowing hard, Xander stole a nervous look at the unaware Slayers, but nodded resolutely.

Faith swung her legs over the stack of exercise mats and made ready to hit the floor. "I'll come with," she announced.

"No."

Faith hesitated and stared at Giles with a questioning frown.

"I want you to remain here," he informed her before turning back to Xander. His tone was soft, but intensely serious. "You will be wholly responsible for this mission. Are you prepared?"

Xander took a deep breath. "Guess we'll find out."

Giles moved to stand directly in front of the younger man and favored him with a small smile. "You're a Watcher, Xander. Remember what that means."

Clapping his hands together, Xander gave them a brisk rub before stepping forward to address the room. As his voice echoed off the walls, the Slayers began to gather around him.

Faith landed next to Giles with a thud. "Way to be motivational."

Giles' eyes remained fixed on Xander. "Yes, well, I try." He settled his glasses firmly on his nose. "Now if you would, please take your smoking habit outside?"

Now with nothing left to hide, Faith allowed her face to split into a grin as she backed toward the door. "Since you asked so nice."

"You really shouldn't smoke, you know," Giles replied without turning around. "It's bad for you."

"What isn't?"

Spinning on her heel, Faith exited the room, leaving a trail of smoke in her wake. Giles didn't notice, however, choosing instead to watch as Xander continued to prepare the young girls for battle.

  Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all such related things, © Mutant Enemy and many other people with big scary lawyers.
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