It was another hot day in Sunnydale, California. The palm-tree lined streets were deserted and quiet, and the only thing the disturbed the quiet was the songbirds which flew about. The sky was a deep blue, and the clouds moved lazily along through the air. It was a perfect day, when one could go about without a care in the world. Buffy Summers did not have many cares. The girl was content and happy, she had the day off from work, and she knew she could look forward to a day of leisure. There was not much to do in Sunnydale besides go to the mall or see a movie. It was a small city, a little more than a glorified town, which stood constantly in LA's shadow. The rich society of Sunnydale never spent money in the town; rather they would buy their furniture, cars and such in LA. The women and their daughters would never dream of buying dresses in Sunnydale, if a dress for a dance or wedding were needed, the women would go into the city for an expensive lunch and then for some expensive shopping at the finest and trendiest shops. There was a line separating Sunnydale society. Buffy Summers was not a member of the well to do, she had no mother, a father who did not care, and she struggled along with a low paying job which did not allow her to enjoy the privileges of good society. It had not always been so. She had once been a member of the elite, with upper-middle class parents and the promise of a marvelous education at UCLA or UCAL Berkeley. Buffy knew she could look forward to a charming existence, full of endless parties, good looking and wealthy boyfriends, beautiful dresses, expensive cars, and a most profitable marriage to a doctor or lawyer. Whatever her dreams were, however, they were derailed when her parents divorced. Her father stayed in the city, and Buffy and her mother came to Sunnydale, a seemingly sleepy town where the air smelt sweeter and seemed healthier than in the city. They lived in middle-class comfort, and Buffy could have risen very high in her new surroundings if not for the terrible burden that was on her shoulders. That had been nearly seven years ago. Buffy was twenty-two and her mother was dead. Her father had moved north to Santa Barbara to be with a new woman and to start a new life, but he did not very much care. Her friends were her family, and she had a sister who she tried to look after; although some days she rather wished she still lived in LA, amongst the rich and privileged. Buffy had struggled the past years to accept her fate. She rightly felt that she had been robbed of happiness time and time again; her family had separated, denying her a life of ease and comfort which had been promised her, the man she loved more than life itself was not for her, and her mother had died too early in life. She wanted to rage against life, to curse her fate and collapse in a well of self-pity, but she knew she could not. Buffy needed to have strength; there were so many people that depended on her. Her sister, starting high school, needed support and encouragement. Dawn, only 14, was practically alone. Her mother was dead, did not know her father, and had no friends besides her sister, Xander and Willow. They were really Buffy's friends, but they included her and cared for her. These three people were the only one's who showed Dawn any notice. To everyone else the girl was invisible. In school, no one took notice of her; most thought her a rather plain and insignificant girl. They thought her odd, not having a father and mother, and most people, those who remembered her sister, judged her a strange girl on count of Buffy's own odd behavior in high school. Buffy, in their mind, had never amounted to anything, and so they figured Dawn would not amount to anything either. The poor girl was unhappy, and had no one her own age to cry to. Dawn was a topic of constant concern and sadness for Buffy. Having no mother or father, she had no one to support her emotionally or financially. Dawn would have to work hard if she ever wanted to get out of Sunnydale. The girl was not an athlete, nor was she gifted artistically, so the only hope she had was to get an academic scholarship, or hope for the charity of the state. Buffy wasn't about to let her sister become a charity case. All these things Buffy sorted through her brain; she was sunning herself and drinking a martini in the back yard of her small house on Palm Street. She shared the house with her friends and her sister Dawn. The house was small and comfortable, and it fit in with the other small and comfortable houses on the street. It was a quiet street, where people went about their lives without noticing their neighbors, and Buffy was glad for the cheerful obscurity. Life went on at a leisurely pace under that palm tree lined street, and she hoped that no one would ever come to disturb life there again. She went into the kitchen and made herself another drink. Soft, melodious music was floating from upstairs and she guessed it was coming from Willow's room. "Poor girl," thought Buffy. Her friend Willow had been in a deep depression for the past few months, ever since her girlfriend had been shot dead in the backyard. Her anger and desire for revenge had burned hot, but now there was nothing except an incapacitating depression and deep regret. Buffy hoped Willow would fall in love again, and get out of Sunnydale, but there were some people, Buffy knew, that would never get out of the town. Buffy understood love. She had been in love before, and knew the horror and despair of lose. Angel, the man she really loved, was in LA, and she wanted very much to be with him. They had tried to have a relationship, but it had never worked; they were too different, too many obstacles stood in their way, and Buffy figured she would love him the rest of her life, without ever being able to have him. The thought saddened her, but she was grateful he was still alive, and not dead like poor Willow's lost love. She was about to return to the backyard when the doorbell rang. Buffy threw a top on and walked to the door. "Wesley, what are you doing here?" It was her old watcher, Wesley. When Angel had gone to the city, he had followed, having no place in Sunnydale. He was a young man, in his late twenties, with dark hair and glasses. He looked the literary type, and he played the part well. There had never been a dislike between the two, but there was certainly no great affection. Buffy looked down on him as being stuffy and weak, while Wesley, who was English, thought her the stereotypical American girl who did not respect authority. "Can I come in Buffy? I have something I need to talk to you about." He was very grave and serious. Something bad must have happened and Buffy was panicked. "What's wrong?" The girl was fearful, Wesley wouldn't have come to Sunnydale unless there was something wrong. "Has something happened to Angel." "I'm afraid so." There was a long pause, he seemed to be in pain and was struggling with his words. "What is it?" Buffy was impatient. "I'm so sorry Buffy." The girl started to cry, she could feel a horrible dread fill her heart. "What happened?" She was practically screaming. The music in Willow's room went silent. There was a moment when the house was completely still. Wesley had never felt such a surreal moment. "Angel's dead." In a single instant Buffy's world collapsed. She felt her heartbreak and an unbearable pain, unlike anything else she had known, racked her body. For a moment, she felt faint. "I'm so very sorry.." he went to comfort her, but she backed away. "No, you're lying, it can't be true." Willow had come down; she was white faced and looked in horror as Buffy broke out in uncontrollable sobs. "Buffy, what's wrong?" "He's lying, he's lying." Again Wesley went to comfort her; she pushed him away and collapsed into Willow's arms. "What happened?" "Angel's dead." "No, when, how." "Late last night, I left the city this morning." "How did it happened?" Buffy controlled a sob and looked at Wesley, teary eyed. He had never seen such pain and misery on a girl's face before. It killed him to see her look at him like that. "I'm not exactly sure." He was hiding something; Buffy could feel it. "Wesley, how did it happen? Tell me!" She was threatening him now; all her anger was boiling. The desire to strike back at the person or persons who had ruined her happiness was filling in the girl's heart. "He was.." he stammered, not sure of what to say. "He was murdered, and I think-" he could not go on. "You think what." She had broken away from Willow, and there was hatred in her eyes. Wesley knew she would kill him on the spot if he didn't tell her what he knew. "I think Cordelia killed him." If he had expected Buffy to register shock, he was no disappointed. Her whole continence fell, and the anger in her was for a moment dissolved and replaced by confusion. "Cordelia?" Cordelia Chase, a Sunnydale beauty that had moved to LA with Angel after graduation. She could have no malice against Angel, Buffy thought. How could she be the murderer? "You see, they were intimate." He hated saying that word, that damning word which exposed their secret. "You mean they were sleeping with each other?" Willow was no more shocked than Buffy. "Yes, for a little less than six months." "Impossible." Buffy spat out the words. "He would have never slept with her, he never say anything in her. "She's changed Buffy. She was in love with him." "Why did she kill him?" Buffy was unbelieving. "She found him with another woman, a client I suppose. She came crying to me this morning, saying she had had a fight with Angel and that she was leaving. I went over to see him, but I only found." His voice trailed off. Buffy knew what he would have found, a small pile of dust. That was all that was left of her former love. "Do you know where she went?" Buffy's voice was as cold as an arctic chill. "No, all she said she was leaving LA right away. I came here as soon as I realized Angel was." He could not bring himself to say it. "I'm going to find that bitch. I swear to God I'm going to find her and kill her." She pushed away from Willow and stormed to her room. Willow followed. "Buffy, what are you going to do?"

"Are you going to stop me Willow?" "You know what I went through, you say how horribly it consumed me. Don't let hatred and revenge destroy you Buffy." "If you try to stop me Willow, you're no friend of mine." She was packing her bags. She put a knife in her suitcase. It was very long and very sharp. "You're being unfair Buffy. I know that she has hurt you, but there has to be another answer. Besides, where will you go? Wesley doesn't know where she is, how can we hope to find her?" "I know her parents moved to Bakersfield after they went bankrupt, Cordelia told me. I assume she might have gone there, and if not, then they might know where she went." She was finished packing. "Don't get in my way Willow, I mean to kill her." Buffy had thrown on jeans and a tank top, packed enough for two days, and was ready to kill. "Tell Dawn what has happened and that I'll be back soon." She slipped past a mute Willow, and after giving Wesley a cold glance, went out the front door into the warm southern California daylight. The day, which had been so happy and full of promise, was now dull and miserable. The sun, once was bright, was pale and sickly, and the world around Buffy now seemed to be full of decay and death. Her friend Xander was coming up the drive. He noticed instantly that something was the matter. "Buff, what's wrong?" "I'm going up to Bakersville, I'm going to kill Cordelia." Xander tried to stop her. "What are you talking about?" "Are you going to try and stop me too?" She was livid with anger. Willow had come outside with Wesley and was watching, appalled. "Listen, you're in no shape whatever to go alone, I'm coming with you." "No you aren't Xander, you have no business." "I do, I have a past with her, and I'm coming along." They got into Buffy's car, and drove away. Cordelia, Buffy thought, was going to pay.