Disclaimer: I claim no rights to Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Hannibal

Rating: F15 for mentions of violence and gore, and potential swearing.

Author's Note: No one was going to write this story, so after waiting a bit I decided to. Fair warning, this chapter is mostly exposition. More to follow.

Summary: Buffy is on her way to consult with the FBI with regards to the Chesapeake Ripper (1300 words).

Buffy likes to imagine that when Giles got the call from the FBI he sighed, polished his glasses, and whipped out a rolodex (because even if she had joined the 21st century and kept all of her contacts electronically, he certainly hadn't) and tried every single person he could before he called her up. She is, however, aware he had likely jumped at the chance to ask something of her, to force an opportunity to engage. She's sad and bitter and she wishes she were a big enough person to forgive him, but at this point in her life, she's so fucking done with forgiveness. It takes too much energy and requires you to give some of yourself to the person you forgive. There isn't very much of her left these days, and what there is, she hoards selfishly. So she hasn't forgiven Giles, or Willow, Xander, or even Dawn, her little sister who couldn't even muster up a half-hearted apology for betraying her. She is an army of one again these days, despite the thousand or so baby slayers that have popped up. Giles is running The Council these days, now PC-ly called the International Slayers and Watchers Council, or ISWC for short. Turns out, most of the world's governments had arrangements with the old Council, or as Buffy not-very-PC-ly calls them in her mind, 'the idiots and assholes who had the decency to die'.

When there was suspected supernatural activity that one of the government agencies was investigating, the ISWC would send in one of their people to investigate. Usually one of the newly minted watchers, or one of the older slayers. When it was some attention seeking vampire, or ambitious demon who had managed to avoid the local slayers and independent monster hunters, a team would come in to take care of the problem, and the agents would be left more or less clueless as to why their rash of serial killers just came to a close. They had a few people higher up in each agency who were either reporting directly to the Council, or who were more or less aware of what went bump in the night, and they knew to ask for help when it came to suspected demonic activity.

Sometimes though, it turned out that there was no monster, or at least, not one with scales and horns and fangs. That was always difficult. It was so much easier to fight evil when it didn't wear a human face. So much easier when you didn't have to think about how someone who you shared a massive amount of DNA with was capable of committing such atrocities. It was frightening and far more disheartening than going up against a creature out of a fairytale.

The woman in the seat next to Buffy's let out a little snore. She glanced passively at the middle-aged woman. Overweight and tackily dressed, she smelled of an overpowering perfume and dirt. Her mouth was open and Buffy could see the faint outline of hair on her upper lip. There was something so…so pathetic about her. Asleep, she could have been anyone. She lacked light in her eyes, a laugh on her lips, anything besides the soft breathing and flutter of her heart to indicate she was alive. Turning back to the file in front of her, she continued reading. Having assured herself of her companion's restfulness, she felt safe in looking at the glossy crime scene photos below. Even though she rarely spoke to any of the others these days, preferring to communicate through those she occasionally worked with, she still technically answered to Giles. He had pulled this stunt again a year before, sending her to a group of stuffy agents in Scotland tracking a child-killer. It had been a human. The agents hadn't really needed her. One of them, a tall man with too-wide eyes, had taken a hearty dislike to her from the beginning. Witch, he had called her, as they had parted. There was no madness in his eyes, only wariness. Fey.

Creepy, she had heard the younger members of the Council calling it. Inhuman, was the word of choice of the older members, those few who had survived the bombing and been welcomed back. She knew she had changed, body seemingly untouched by the trials she transformations she had endured to save the world and save her family and save herself. Her face was still unlined and youthful, body fit and graceful, but her eyes were merciless and empty, save what little of herself she had hoarded like tarnished heirlooms and occasionally allowed to flash through and light her gaze. She looked at the bodies, at the humans discarded and displayed. There was a certain arrogance there, and a cool precision that she had seen before in the ancient and the cruel. But for the lack of sensuality, and the personal touch he had always dared to display to her, she might have thought the work Angelus'. But Angel was in L.A. far, far away, and while the others might think her oblivious to his latest suicidal move, she still had contacts in L.A.

Okay, seriously? What the fuck was with the antlers? Maybe it was a Chaos Demon, she thought to herself, amused. Though it was missing slime…. The problem was, the intensity of the crimes, and the repetitive nature indicated possible demon. Especially considering the whole missing organs thing. Chowing down on humans was par for course when it came to demons, they usually just weren't usually so stupid, or in this case, arrogant, as to make their actions obvious. On the other hand, this Chesapeake Ripper, and the FBI seemed sure that it was just one killer, seemed to use nice tools for cutting up his victims. Demons usually liked their claws or fangs or whatever. Or knives if they didn't have those. The victims themselves didn't seem to have much in common and their deaths were confusing. The info didn't match any known rituals, and the crimes were different. It was not as though their killer was just collecting virgins' hearts, or ears or something. Buffy sighed. She would have to wait until after she was able to talk to the agents on the case and check out a crime scene. If nothing else, she might be able to smell the demon. Seriously, some of them reeked, and these days, her senses were better than ever.

She absently put the file away and put up her tray table as the plane prepared for landing. She closed her eyes but did not sleep. The next few days were going to be unpleasant, to be sure. Her life wasn't very fun though, even when she wasn't looking at murder victims and playing nice with FBI agents. What did she have to lose? She could be in and out, and one way or another, her job would be done. Buffy was patient as she got off the plane, mechanically smiling at the stewardess, neatly collecting her bag. She hailed a cab and it took her to the hotel someone else had chosen to her. It was as bland and lifeless as any she had seen, perfectly clean, perfectly soulless. She was meeting the FBI in the morning.

Buffy set her alarm, undressed, and washed her face. Empty eyes stared back, out of a pretty, youthful face. She wondered what she was doing with her life. There was no mission, no light, no guiding principle, only numbness and soul-bruising monotony. There was death, and blood, and lies. She had friends who had betrayed her, lovers who were dead, and those who might as well have been. That night, she lay awake in bed, arms spread wide, with her eyes open and dreamed of freedom.