"Someone with a soul, but more than human." Spike held up the silver encased gem and twirled it in his fingers. It was volatile, powerful and to be worn by one with great strength. It looked harmless. The gem shone in the light like a gaudy bauble an old woman might wear. A trinket he would have cast away without a second glance. He'd seen hundreds like it in his time seducing and devouring women. This one though, he smirked, was to be worn by a champion? What a sick turn of fate.
His thoughts slowly drifted back to reality, suddenly aware of the gentle breathing of the woman beside him. The years he'd spent wanting, needing her. Every waking moment the bitch was in his head. Their relationship, despite not existing, tore at his soul. Sure it was unorthodox, but he continued to tell himself it could have been. Certainly crazier things had happened on the Hellmouth. His hundred some years a beast were an afternoon compared to his trials at Sunnydale. He thumbed the amulet once more before glancing back at her.
There was no reason to continue fooling himself: Buffy was incapable of loving him. Last night he had her in his arms. She was so close, and yet they had never been so distant. He was to be her champion and at the same time he meant nothing to her. A fire burned in his head. He knew he would protect her from the Turok-Han, the First - hell, God himself couldn't harm her, but it would never be enough.
His gaze again fell to the glint of the amulet. He had heard tales of it before. Tonight, for once, the grand poof had been right. This amulet did have great purifying power. Still, he knew he would be her champion. Sliding back into the sheets, Spike held the Slayer close and waited for dawn. "Tomorrow, we'll go be heroes," he thought.
Everyone watched as Buffy again paced about the room. Giles fully realized that training the potential slayers was paramount to their success, but he wasn't so sure the constant monologuing was quite necessary. He'd been the one attempting to impart the history and dark realities of the role on Buffy, always against stiff teenage resistance, but apparently the tables had taken a turn somewhere. Still, he never remembered his speeches being so dry. With their relationship being the worst it had ever been, he dared not tell Buffy his feelings on the matter. After the failed attempt at ridding the group of the dangerous complication that was Spike, he was unsure she still valued his opinion.
This session was different than the usual wagon-circling, however. Buffy had called together what some of the others referred to as the *core Scoobies*. Never penchant for American television, Giles took it to mean the people of immediate importance. The potentials, Robin and Andrew were absent.
"We're gonna win..." Buffy said with an air of certainty. She paused to take in the looks of bewilderment on their faces. She lifted the Scythe and turned it as she spoke. The power she felt while holding it was welcoming in times of doubt.
A communal sigh could be heard in the room. Giles looked back at her unconvinced. Buffy was definitely one to express a motley assortment of emotions often and passionately, but unfettered optimism had become exceedingly rare of late. With today, one way or another, being a big day for mankind, he hoped she hadn't completely fallen off her rocker. The conviction in her face hinted that this wasn't simply another pep talk.
"I am the slayer. Not a slayer, *the* slayer," she stated, matter-of-factly. Leaning against the wall, Faith shifted as if to retort, but stayed silent thinking otherwise. "No one has the power I have to save humanity from this thing," she continued. "If the slayer falls, a new slayer takes her place and again fights alone against the evils of the world." None of this was news to anyone, of course. It was just another bleak reminder of their situation. Why so many waited for her to make every decision. If they didn't, regardless of the merits of any decision they made, its execution would be toothless and lacking. She was the only way to progress.
She stopped pacing abruptly and looked back at everyone, letting her words sink in before saying, "Why?"
She stood now, lips pursed as if waiting for a response.
The room was silent, everyone contemplating the question. It was obvious to everyone, but Buffy seemed oddly defensive today so no one obliged her with the obvious. Rupert Giles, being the one to explain the building blocks of the moral drama to her as a teenager, felt he might be the one to answer.
"Because you were chosen, Buffy."
"Chosen by who? A few wise men thousands of years ago on a continent far away?" Buffy shot back. "Something as important as this should not be left up to those who have no stake in the matter." She looked to Willow, sitting on the bed listening intently. "I do not think I should be the one wielding this power. We should determine our own fate."
If those in the room hadn't looked concerned before, they certainly did now. Giles was fairly certain now was not a good time for Buffy to be going through an existential crisis. The specifics of their charge were not variables made in the wind nor open to debate. They were constants that had to be reasoned around for they were as old as time immemorial. Maybe this tone was a means by which Buffy could cope, but at the expense of losing to the evils of the world, he didn't feel it safe to change course now.
"Buffy, what exactly are you saying? You cannot relinquish your duty as Slayer. Not ever - and definitely not now" he stuttered, hoping to convince her to stay the path. She continued to surprise him. Never had she questioned her place in the world. Sure, she often bemoaned the realities, skipped patrol once or twice, but never had he doubted her drive. Then again, they had never faced anything quite like what they were up against today.
Buffy looked down at the weapon she held. "I cut Caleb in half with this weapon. Caleb was propped up by the immense power of the First Evil and despite all that, I was able to defeat him." She looked back at Giles, her tangent did little to convince him of anything. "I won't be able to do that to the First Evil. In the last few days, I've come to realize, it's too powerful," she admitted.
"We aren't using all our resources. Those girls, the ones we've taken in. Every one of those girl is capable of doing what I'm doing, I feel it. The limit on their power is artificial. Power was not just given to the slayer, it was taken from *them*." She said, pointing emphatically.
"We can use the power of this ancient weapon to restore the strength granted to every potential slayer." She glanced again at Willow, who immediately looked away as she saw it coming. "I have seen the things Willow can do. I'm sure she'll be able to do it. She's at least as powerful as the men who created the slayer. We need every slayer possible to fight this thing." Again she walked to the center of the room, all eyes on her. "After restoring the potentials power, we attack the First before it can organize and attack on us. We barricade all exits and flush out the evil. We beat it before it can get out." The words flooded out of her like she'd been preparing it for weeks. To her, it was the only way forward.
"No way," thought Willow, "I'll kill everyone." She was just beginning to feel comfortable in her skin again after nearly destroying the world. Opening a portal was a small victory, but even that took all the willpower she could muster. It's easy to tell someone they're ready for the Olympics when you don't have to run, when you've never run a race. This was *the* race. The faces of those she'd killed, the destruction she caused, the pain, it all came flooding back.
Giles looked up, intrigued. Compared to any watcher he's known, he was definitely on the unconventional side. This was not out of some personal desire to think outside the box, far from it, but from reacting to the stresses and particulars of the situation. Changing the terms of engagement was never something he had considered. None of the books, the tomes, the scrolls said anything about it. There was only one slayer because that's the way the world works. Still he held a more than healthy skepticism about the idea.
"What do you think?" Buffy asked sincerely.
"Nobody cares, you little monkey," Anya quipped as she pulled Andrew from the stairwell, tugging on his loose red hoodie. Her derision, though not unwarranted, cut through Andrew like a blade. He was a mess. In quiet resignation, he dropped the note he had frantically scribbled together just moments ago: the last public statement of the notorious reformed super-villain, Andrew Wells. His well-known habit for delusions of grandeur notwithstanding, he held no wishful misconceptions today. He was a wash up amateur demonologist and one-time petty murderer. In his brief time chasing the Scoobie Gang, he had plenty of time to do all the math. He was the weakest person in the group despite it consisting of an assortment of teenage girls and a librarian in his forties. On top of that, he alone provided the most tangible support to the First Evil even with a bloodthirsty vampire and murderous ex-demon counted among his comrades. He wasn't Lex Luthor or Dr. Doom. He was simply a bad person. He saw the writing on walls; written in Jonathan's blood.
Anya stepped over concrete, rubble and shattered glass with the sulking man-boy in tow. The two relative lightweights had been charged with holding the Sunnydale High North corridor against the imposing demonic horde. They would be one of the world's last defenders against the ensuing blight. With any hope, the threat would be neutralized by the magically promoted slayer-band of frightened teenagers currently rushing directly into the highest concentration of evil the earth has ever seen. Even for someone who made a living out of granting wishes, their plan sounded completely bananas. She adjusted her sling of weapons and peered back at Andrew. The lanky and exhausted creature stared ahead, pale and cold as if frozen in ice.
"So, how come you're here? I mean, you could just go, right?" The words from last night's conversation echoed in her ears as if they still hung heavy in the air. She was sure she had given an answer to his satisfaction, but the words eluded her. She wished she had them now, though she knew she had no reason to doubt her earlier conviction. She couldn't be anywhere but here - despite wanting to be everywhere but here.
Finally reaching the corridor, Anya threw off her satchel and began preparing for combat. Abandoned lockers and broken drywall lined the hall. The motivational "Go Razorbacks!" banners still hugging the walls were certainly more encouraging in better times, thought Andrew. He turned to Anya as she drew two steel swords from the sack. Looking up, she pressed a sword's blackened hilt into Andrew's palm. He shivered down at the sword as if pulled from somewhere far away. The epic gravity of the situation finally bore down on him.
"The witch would be starting her incantations now", Anya thought.
The two stood facing the school atrium, both imagining what it would look like flooded with demonic presence. The serene silence of the corridor seemed like a bold and insulting lie as they stood at the steps of unbridled chaos. For a moment, Anya began to think of Xander and his abnormally large arms.
Andrew moved to Anya's left flank. "I think they're coming..."
A low rumble began to fill the corridor. The shrill cries of thousands of demons became increasingly more audible above their droning cadence as the seconds went by. Anya nervously quivered in place.
"Oh God, I'm terrified." she breathed, anxiously wringing her hands around her sword's hilt. "I didn't think... I just figured *you* would be terrified and I would be sarcastic about it." Her less-than spectacular prospects began engulfing her consciousness.
"Picture happy things." Andrew suggested, unskillfully holding his sword like a baseball bat, "A lake. Candy canes."
Anya nodded, looking slightly reassured.
"Bunnies," Andrew finished.
Anya's eyes narrowed. "Bunnies... Floppy, hoppy *bunnies*," she said with rising resolve. She lifted her sword and looked straight ahead, her fear suddenly gone.
Within moments, Turok-Han flooded the corridor, their toothy maws wildly agape. One streamed past Anya while another swung at her head. Expertly, she ducked the strike and parried his next. The abomination struck high again, this time knocking her back.
Meanwhile, a übervamp charged at Andrew, arms abreast. Andrew, unsure of what to do, taunted "I... have swimmer's ear!" while overextending with his sword. His timid projection allowed the beast to outmaneuver the novice swordsman and throw him against a wall, knocking him off balance. Andrew unceremoniously toppled to the ground dropping his weapon with a clang on the tiled flood.
Anya, initially unaware of Andrew's plight, dutifully decapitated her primary foe then pivoted to deal a mortal wound to the second. Both demons turned to dust as she heard the weapon fall, continuing to his aide. With the offending demon's blade still high in mid-swing, Anya plunged her sword into his leathery back and he quickly erroded to dust.
In front of her, Andrew lay nearly comatose in fear. His empty palms still held high in what would have been a vain attempt to defend himself from the attacking blade. Looking down at him, sword in hand, Anya saw the face of a UC Sunnydale grad. The skin was contorted in fear and his eyes crying of anguish as she brought him death. With a heavy heart, she faught the strong urge to throw her weapon aside and proceeded to shake the image from her mind. She kicked Andrew's orphaned sword back to his feet commanding "Get up ya twerp, we're not done yet."
Andrew grabbed his sword and threw himself to his feet. Anya faced the Southward invaders, determined to be rid of the oncoming scourge. As long as the humans fight, she told herself, she would fight. Her sword cut two more down before swiftly impaling a third at her flank.
Andrew looked at her, stunned. Her strikes were clean. Her steps were sure. Her actions looked at least as fast as those of the demon's she slew. She looked magnificent, dispatching evil with a honed skill and poise. She was like Elektra cutting down an army of cybernetic ninjas.
Anya and Andrew continued the determined defense of the corridor. As the demonic bodies piled on the school hallway, they began to notice the flood of foes begin to dissipate. Her eyes caught his as she pulled her sword from the gut of a bringer. Suddenly, a glint of a bringer's blade shone above her head.
Andrew watched, hopelessly, as the bringer dragged the blade down, ripping through her chest. She buckled, still holding her sword at the ready. Andrew wanted to say something, anything to her, but no words came. He read her eyes. The pain was instantaneous, thick and piercing. Stubbornly, she dropped to the ground. Consciousness began to fade, yet the words she was grasping for finally come back to her. As she lay dying, Aud again heard Andrew say "I don't think I'll be Okay. I'm cool with it. I think I'd like to... finish out as one of those... lame humans tryin' to do what's right."
After all, a sword through the chest doesn't kill a vengeance demon.