Pitt was born Colin Pitney MacKenzie in 1908 in Aberdeen, on the eastern coast of the Scottish Highlands. He was from a family of stone cutters, and worked in the granite quarries outside of town. He was a decent and unexceptional young man. He came into adulthood at the start of the Great Depression, and he had trouble saving up enough money to get married and start a family. In 1938 he was drafted into the British army. He took to military life unusually well. During basic training he was promoted from private to corporal. When he landed in France in the spring of 1940, he was a sergeant. He showed great courage and leadership during the chaotic first few days of fighting in May, when the Germans plowed through the Allied lines faster than anyone expected them to. When his company commander died, the senior officers quickly promoted Colin to lieutenant. By the end of the month, the Panzers' westward thrust had cut off the English Expeditionary Force from their French allies. 300,000 English, Belgians and Frenc frantically retreated to the port of Dunkirk, hoping to make it across the Channel before the Nazis finished them off.

While everyone around him was terrorized and traumatized by their first taste of modern mechanized combat, Lieutenant MacKenzie felt disappointed that the fighting was ending so soon. Barely three weeks under fire, and now they were heading home. Colin wanted more. He wasn't a bloodthirsty man. It wasn't the killing that made him love battle. A soldier rarely came within two hundred yards of an enemy, much less got the chance to look him in the face and watch him die. What Colin loved was the danger. He had never felt so alive. A lot of his fellow soldiers felt the same thing. But all of them also felt mortal fear. That's why they felt so alive — they knew that at any moment they could die. They didn't like that sensation. But Colin didn't feel any fear. Perhaps it was because he had no wife or children to return home to. Perhaps it was because he found his pre-war life uninspiring. Whatever the reason, in combat he was fearless and dynamic and clear-headed.

So when the generals asked for volunteers for a holding force, Colin jumped at the opportunity. While English where embarking onto their ships, a small contingent of infantry had to hold back the Nazi vanguard coming at them from the south. Colin and the 150 soldiers in the company he commanded took up a position on a hill a few miles inland. After several hours of light fighting, the units around him retreated to more defensible positions closer to the beaches. But Colin would have none of it. He resolved to hold that hill until the enemy forced him off of it. His enthusiasm infected the men around him. All the other commanding officers were vacillating and feckless and demoralized. They were proud to fight for Colin. And they were sick of retreating and running away like cowards.

The company repelled charge after charge, even when they were surrounded after the other units pulled back. Colin had chosen a steep hill overlooking the main German line of march. So long as the 500-odd Germans attacking his position failed to dislodge him, Colin rained down light artillery and mortar fire on the German column. These were mere pot shots which did little actual damage but deeply annoyed the Germans. Colin's defiance taunted them. They knew his stand was suicidal — the longer he stayed on the hill the less chance there was that his men could make it to a ship before the English departed. But it was demoralizing to think they couldn't wipe out these few stubborn bastards. So they devoted a full battalion — 1,000 men — to taking the hill. And still Colin's company held. In part, this was because of the weather. The sky was foggy, preventing German planes from strafing the position (and also preventing German planes from sinking the British ships as they fled across the Channel, thereby saving their army). It had been raining heavily, so the ground was too soft for the Germans to employ heavy artillery or mechanized armoured infantry. All the Germans could do was lob a few small mortars and shells into the position and hurl men up the slope

Still, they would have easily taken the hill if Colin had not imbued his men with a complete disregard for their own safety. The Germans threw in another battalion of 1,000 men. But after a few abortive charges their colonel decided to leave. He knew it wouldn't be long before the British company ran out of ammunition. No point wasting his own men for the time being. So he left. 2,000 enemies turned back into 1,000. Colin's men were ecstatic. It felt like their own little victory. Still, they continued to get pounded on all sides. Casualties mounted. 20 dead, 50 wounded. Ammunition was running low. First they ran out of shells. Then mortars. Then grenades. Then they were nearly out of bullets. Colin wasn't going to surrender. Not after all his men had withstood. He surveyed the situation. I appeared that nearly half of the battalion he was fighting against had been killed, injured or retreated. The remaining 500 men surrounded him on all sides. But by spreading out into a circle, they had thinned their lines. Only a little over 100 men stood between him and the road the Germans were using. If he could break through that line, he could make it back to the beach. And what a triumph that would be.

His men loved the idea. After saying farewell to them, Colin had his 80 remaining fighters load up all the ammo they had left, fix their bayonets, and prepare to charge downhill. After forming into a compact formation, they ran out from behind their foxholes with loud whoops and hollers. The Germans couldn't believe their eyes. The besieged enemy was actually going on the offensive, right in the middle of the largest retreat in British history! Taken by surprise, most of the Germans who stood in the path of the British fled. Colin's men mowed down those who remained with their rifles. They made it to the road, bayoneting the men around the vehicles who didn't have time to flee. They broke clear through the German line. The enemy was too stunned and surprised to counterattack. Besides, the German lines were stretched out for twenty miles. A few dozen Scotsmen running through one tiny section of their massive army was hardly worth noticing.

A few platoons of Germans did take them on. Colin gleefully shot them down with his two pistols. The plan had worked. Half his company had plowed its way through an entire German regiment. There was even a good chance they could make it to the ships and be bragging about their exploits in Dover that evening. And then at the moment of victory, as he was running with his men to the beach, a bullet went through his spine. The men stopped for a moment. They couldn't believe their invincible leader had been vanquished. Panic set in. But Colin lifted his head and urged them on with inspiring words. "I will see you again. Now go!" He then lost consciousness. They headed on. 60 of them made it back to England. The rest were captured. Lieutenant MacKenzie was presumed dead. For his valor, he was posthumously promoted to captain and awarded the Victoria Cross, Britain's highest military honor. It was the first VC awarded in the war.

Colin became a hero at a time when his countrymen desperately needed one. The men of his who survived made sure the other soldiers knew of their story. MacKenzie briefly became a celebrity. His parents were profiled by the local newspaper. Press from Glasgow and Edinburgh talked to them about their heroic son. It was an appealing regional story — a company of brave Scotsmen defeat the Nazis while divisions of cowardly English run for their lives. His parents even heard their boy's deeds described in glowing terms on BBC radio. They were proud, but also deeply surprised. Their Colin was being described like some mythical warrior, a reincarnation of Rob Roy or William Wallace. It was hard to reconcile this portrayal with the unimpressive son they had known for 30 years. Of course, it's hard for any parent to be told out-of-the-blue that their child is a superhero. Especially since Colin had no special powers. He wasn't very strong, or very tall, or very fast, or very smart. He wasn't a great orator. There was nothing about him to indicate he could be a great leader of men. Of course, Colin didn't consider himself a great leader. He believed he just did his job while everyone else failed to do theirs. Within a few months, the Luftwaffe was over London, and peoples' attentions had moved on to new dangers, new battles, new heroes. Lieutenant MacKenzie became a footnote, one of thousands of local heroes the war produced. Men whose names were remembered fondly at the local pub but nowhere else. Still, even that's more notoriety than most people achieve.

When Colin woke up, he was in a hospital in Flanders in a German POW camp. The bullet had severed his spinal cord in his lower back. He would never be able to walk again. He wished he had died honorably rather than live in this condition. Worst of all was the fact that he was wounded in the back. That's what happened to cowards who ran away from the enemy. He found this cruelly ironic. It seemed like all his bravery had been for nothing. But the fog which saved the evacuating British army would come to Colin's aid yet again. Clouds had blocked out the sun for the entire day. A Dutch vampire named DeGrasse came out to watch the carnage. Vampires love war. Amidst all that chaos and bloodshed, they can kill and feed to their heart's content without anyone noticing. DeGrasse also enjoyed warfare on a cerebral level. Millions dying, cities in flames, misery and suffering everywhere. And all of it the work of human beings, creatures with souls. It was all a vampire needed to see to lose all respect for the species it preyed upon. Any animal with so much contempt for its own kind didn't deserve to rule the planet. The only good thing about humans was that they could become vampires. They were weak and wretched, but they had potential.

DeGrasse had seen Lieutenant MacKenzie in action, and knew that this human being definitely had potential. He saw Colin go down. He saw the Germans carry him away in a stretcher. A few days later, he found him in the hospital. Disguising himself as a German orderly, he was able to ascertain the extent of Colin's injuries. It was perfect. This mighty warrior, trapped in a broken human body, lying there, waiting to be rescued. And late at night, when no one else was around, he did just that, siring Colin and carrying him away. The next night, Colin awoke. He could walk. He was better. But he was different. And he liked it. Now he could be a warrior even when there wasn't a war going on. And now the killing brought him great pleasure. He felt complete. Of course, without a soul to offer a dissenting opinion, he couldn't help but approve of his new identity.

Colin now saw his life in three acts. First he was some nobody in Aberdeen. Then he went to war, and began his transformation. Getting sired completed it. His human body was too fragile and needed to be replaced. Now that he was a new man, he needed a new identity. Colin didn't sound tough enough. Pitney was even worse. But it could be shortened to Pitt. He liked the sound of that.

Pitt quickly left DeGrasse. He was too proud to be anyone's protege. He went to Paris, snacking on Frenchman and Nazi soldiers alike. But in the capital there were too many S.S. men with too many informers for Pitt to feel safe. He traveled South, to Vichy, where he had a wonderful time. He seduced French women by claiming he was a British spy working undercover to help the Free French. Then he told this story to the Free French. Then he told the Vichy police he was a double agent, a Nazi sympathizer pretending to work for the Allies. Sometimes he would sell out the French Resistance fighters to the Vichy collaborators. Sometimes he would sell out the collaborators to the Resistance. Sometimes he sell them both out, getting the two sides together and killing everyone himself. When he got too good at it and had made too much of a name for himself, he'd flee east to Switzerland, hang around Geneva, show the Swiss that with vampires there was no such thing as neutrality.

But something was missing. Pitt couldn't make a name for himself among the vampire community. As a human warrior, he became famous in less than a month. Five years as a vampire and he was still a nobody in the demon world. This ate at him. He needed admiration, or at the very least respect. The world of vampires was extremely clannish. If you didn't run with an important crew, or weren't friends with the right vampires, you were a nobody. Lone wolves like himself had no standing. It didn't matter how imaginative or clever his killing was, or how much danger he survived. He could sire fighters, or sire girlfriends, and try to make his own clan. But it was hard to produce anything more than mediocre vampires. The great ones, like himself, were rarities. Finding one of them to sire was as rare as winning the lottery. So Pitt had fun. He enjoyed himself. But deep down he craved something more than human blood.

Jonathan knew that Willow killed Warren in the woods to the east of town. But he didn't know the exact spot. But given the manner in which Warren was dispatched, this was easy to discover. Spells leave traces where they are cast. These traces linger, like mystical radioactivity. Usually they are too miniscule to detect. But what Willow did — obliterating a human body — left a powerful trace which Jonathan hoped would still be detectable even nine months after the event. He was right. A simple detector spell led him to the spot of the slaughter. Now began the hard part. He had to find what was left of Warren. He laid out a circle of stones, lit some incense to kindle a fire, added the appropriate herbs and animal parts, and began this most unusual of locator spells. The essential ingredient was a crimson ochre taken from the clays of the upper Don valley. Ancient Scythian priests used it to cover the dead during the burial process. This was what he had bought from Anya. It had only one use — finding the dead. Fortunately, when Anya rang up the lucrative purchase, she did not check the label very closely. At a glance, it looked like any one of dozens of powders the store carried.

He discovered the text of the spell in Raul's library. He translated it from Spanish into English. But this version of the spell was meant to find bodies, not pieces of bodies. To do that, he had to translate the spell from English into Old Slavonic. This took time, since Jonathan didn't know any of the modern Slavic languages, to say nothing of their antecedents. But the text he needed to translate was only about 100 words. The only difficult part was figuring out the proper verb conjugations. He chanted the spell as he poured the ochre into the fire. When he finished chanting, the ochre turned into a blue mist which rose up into the air. It dispersed, settling on tree branches. The florescent blue revealed where Willow had splattered Warren. A few minutes later the powder faded and disappeared. Jonathan had what he wanted.

Three days later, in the early afternoon, a short blonde woman entered the Espresso Pump and walked up to the counter where Buffy was. "What can I get for you today?," Buffy asked.

The woman showed Buffy her badge. "Detective Kate Lockley, California State Patrol. I need to ask you a few questions." Buffy looked concerned and surprised. She turned around, told her boss she was taking a short break, and stepped out from behind the counter.

"Would you like anything to drink?," Buffy asked offhandedly, to lighten the mood. After all, cops were supposed to like coffee. The woman shook her head. They sat down at a small table in the back corner of the cafe. "Can I ask what this is about?"

"The disappearance of Warren Mears. The man who shot you, then vanished without a trace. I imagine you'd like to find him. Am I right?"

"Uh, yeah sure. Of course. Absolutely," Buffy answered nervously.

"You don't seem very concerned, Miss Summers. Someone tries to kill you, and fails, they usually try again. So I figured you'd be nervous, maybe even a little afraid, that the man who shot you is still at large. Unless, of course, you knew what happened to him." She looked Buffy in the eye. Buffy shifted her eyes, blinked, and laughed nervously. "And if you did know, it would make my job a whole lot easier if you told me. I'm sure you don't, but I just have to ask." Kate looked at Buffy with a poker face, waiting for Buffy to respond. After about ten seconds Buffy gave in.

"Oh! You're actually asking me? Cause, well, of course I don't know. He shot me. I almost died, so I wasn't in a position to track his whereabouts, and when I got through being nearly dead, he was gone."

"So your story is, the last time you saw him was when he shot you."

Buffy paused a few seconds. "Yep. I mean yes, that's my story. That's what happened."

"Of course it is. After all, lying to me is a felony offense. Thanks for your time, Miss Summers." Kate got up and walked to the door. Buffy thought of asking what this was about, why the police were talking to her for the first time nine months after the fact, but Kate was gone before Buffy could get the words out of her mouth. She went back to work. The detective had that sly, knowing half-smile of a woman who knew more than she was letting on. Then there was the part where Buffy lied to her and Kate responded by reminding Buffy that it was a crime to lie to the police. Kate definitely made Buffy nervous. A few minutes later, nervousness turned to fear. Not for herself, but for Willow.

That evening, Kate knocked on Buffy's front door. Dawn opened it. "Can I come in?," Kate asked.

Dawn was wary of inviting in strangers after dark. "I don't know. Can you?," she asked in all seriousness.

"Not if you don't invite me in," Kate answered. Dawn looked frightened and too a step back. Kate pulled out her badge. "I'm with the State Police. I can't legally enter a private home without an invitation, or a warrant." Dawn looked at the badge suspiciously. It all seemed like a trick. "Can you wait one second?," Dawn asked. She scampered into the living room, opened up Buffy's weapons chest, and pulled out a cross. Then she went back to the door and thrust it against Kate's coat. Kate laughed. This girl actually thought SHE was a vampire. How ironic.

"You must have some pretty scary cops around here," Kate joked. She entered. "Is Willow Rosenberg at home?"

She was. But Dawn was still nervous. "May I ask what this is about? Is Willow in some sort of trouble? Cause she's SO not the kind of person to ever cause trouble with the police." Dawn was getting more nervous.

"I just need to ask her a few questions about some other people who are in trouble. Nothing for her — or you — to get nervous about. If she's not home now, I can come back later when she is."

Dawn realized there was no point in trying to hide Willow from this woman. "I'll be right back," she told Kate, heading upstairs to Willow's room. Kate walked around Buffy's living room, killing time. A few minutes later Willow came downstairs.

"So you have a few questions for me? About what, exactly?"

"Warren Mears." Willow looked very worried. "I understand if this is a difficult subject for you to discuss. But all I'm asking for is a minute of your time." Willow reluctantly sat on the edge of the couch. Kate sat down in a chair on the other side of the coffee table.

"I'm sorry I have to do this, but the local police reports are grievously sketchy. Since the death of Tara MacLay was not reported to the authorities until several hours after she was killed by Mr. Mears, am I to assume that she was alone inside the house at the time of the shooting?"

Willow paused for a few seconds. "Well, no. I mean, Buffy and Xander were here."

"Of course. But they were outside on the lawn. Was there anyone else besides Miss MacLay inside the house when the shooting occurred?"

Willow recognized the trap. If anyone else was home, why didn't they call an ambulance or notify the police that Tara had been shot? So if she told the truth, Willow would have to explain herself. "No. Tara was alone," Willow answered.

"Thank you. That's all the questions I have for now." Kate let herself out. About an hour later, Buffy came home.

"Willow, is something wrong?"

"There was this police woman asking questions about Warren killing Tara."

"Blonde? About my height? Thirtyish?" "Really pretty?"

"Well, I wouldn't say REALLY pretty. But not as ugly as most cops I've seen," Buffy replied defensively.

"She talked to you too?"

"This afternoon. At the coffee shop."

"What did she ask you?"

"Just if I knew where Warren was. Then she left. Kinda creeped me out. Of course, I lied to her, told her I didn't know. But she seemed to sense that I was lying. Like she was setting me up."

"Setting you up for what?" "Well, if she knows Warren's dead, she'll want to find out who killed him. Or maybe she knows what happened, and wants to back us into a corner and make us confess."

"There is no us. I'm the one who did it."

"Willow, I won't tell her anything. I promise. Without us, she has no proof. Then she'll go away and this will all blow over."

"No it won't."

"Willow, you're not going to jail."

"That's not what I mean. We can't pretend it didn't happen. Actually, you can, and Xander can, but I can't. I have blood on my hands. And I can't make that go away. Having this woman come by and bring it up just reminded me of that fact. I can't escape what I did. You can't run from your own conscience."

The next morning, Kate showed up at Xander's building site. There were the requisite whistles from the construction workers. Xander was at a table looking at blueprints. She introduced herself and suggested they go into his trailer for a private talk. He didn't say no, though he was nervous. Several of the guys gave him thumbs-up and winks. Unlike them, Xander took her seriously.

"After Warren Mears shot Buffy, you ran into the house and called for an ambulance. Right?"

"That's correct."

"Then I suppose you ran outside to stay with your wounded friend until the paramedics arrived."

"Yes. Of course. What else would I do?"

"No need to sound defensive. You did the right thing. Without you, Buffy would have died. What I'm wondering is, do you have any idea why Warren Mears wanted to kill Miss Summers?"

"Miss Summers? Oh! You mean Buffy." To Xander, Miss Summers sounded like Joyce.

"Right. Why would he single her out for an execution-style attack outdoors in broad daylight?"

Xander thought about this. Obviously this police officer would not believe the truth. After all, the truth would sound crazy to an outsider. "He didn't like her."

"That's it?"

"And I think he was psychotic."

"Then why didn't he try to kill you?"

"You'd have to ask him."

"Right. Of course, he could have tried to kill you, but missed. It's obvious Mr. Mears was a psychopath with very bad aim. Tragically bad aim, actually."

Xander realized she was referring to Tara. "Yeah. Tragic."

"All murders are tragedies. Especially the ones where you can't find the murderer." Then she got up and left. Xander sat for a minute, trying to figure out why it took so long for the police to interview him. The detective hinted that she was looking for Warren. That worried Xander. He tried to put it behind him and went back outside. A few of the guys came over to him.

"Didn't know it was your birthday."

"It's not."

"Then why did someone send you a present?"

"What are you talking about?"

"That woman. The 'cop.' What did she do, handcuff you to the chair and give you a lap dance?"

"No Kenny. She was an actual cop."

"No real cop's that foxy. Come on, Xander. We ain't naive. Police officer's the oldest stripper setup there is."

"Okay. I admit it. When we went inside, she took off her coat. Then when she left, she put it back on. That was all the stripping she did. She said she was with the State Police, and she gave me no reason to believe otherwise. Sorry guys."

"Harris, you're the one who should feel sorry. Not very often you get to meet a hot little piece of tail like that. You know what I'm talking about, right?"

"Sure. She's a definite hottie. But it was all business. And I generally avoid hitting on women who can toss me in jail if make a bad first impression."

Two days after Jonathan did his spell, Andrew was awakened by two Mexican police officers who broke down his door and handcuffed him. "What the hell are you doing in my house?" With them was a U.S. Marshall.

"Andrew Wells, you are under arrest for attempted armed robbery, conspiracy, accessory to murder, and accessory to attempted murder."

"Murder! What are you talking about?," he asked as they led him out to the police car.

"Spike, why haven't I seen you with Buffy?," Anya asked in the store.

"Since when was my life any of your business?"

"She forgave you. You know that, right? Whatever you did to her, she forgave you."

"So now she's talking to you about me? Didn't know you two were close."

"She wouldn't, and she didn't. I was a Vengeance Demon, remember?"

"She asked you to curse me? I don't bloody well believe it."

"Buffy's more-than-capable of settling her own scores. Remember Spike, Vengeance Demons sense pain and rage. That's how they find clients. And believe me, deep down inside Buffy was calling out to the heavens. She didn't know it, but my God, I'm surprised every Vengeance Demon within 500 miles didn't find their way to her doorstep."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"I'm not asking you to. I just wanted you to know that Buffy was a 100 megaton neutron bomb full of rage. I've gone decades without sensing pain that intense. But then a week later, there was nothing. All that pain, gone. And you didn't have to apologize or beg or do anything to atone for what you did to her. Like nothing ever happened in the first place. Clean slate. Now THAT I had never seen before. It's that funny Christian word that's the opposite of justice. What's that called? Oh, right. Grace. You got yourself a freebie. All you have to do is accept it. Why haven't you?"

"It's not that simple. It never is."

"Oh, for crying out loud! Who do you think you're talking to? I know why you can't accept her forgiveness. You don't think you deserve it. That's what grace IS — undeserved forgiveness. I know you have quite the masochistic streak, but quit torturing yourself and get the girl already! We're all coupled up. You two are the missing link. Plus if you don't Sterling and Aiden are going to set you up with someone. They're very concerned about your excessive solitude."

"What! Those wankers told you this?"

"Not exactly. But they do wonder about you. Elise and Zooey as well. They even think you might be gay."

"What the bloody hell gave them that idea?"

"Something about not ever hitting on them. Hell, if I was their band leader, I might even be tempted to . . . it's irrelevant. The point is, give up the tortured loner act. You've gone to such great lengths to get Buffy care for you, so it's insane that you won't be a man and close the deal already. But not now. Right now you need to do inventory." Spike walked into the store room muttering under his breath. He really hated when Anya was both on the mark and insufferably bossy.

"I can hear that!," Anya told him.