Howard Quillish had gotten the wake-up call he dreaded. He was assigned to take Mrs. Bates' English classes for the whole week. "You're Mrs. Bates today," the new vice-principal, Mr. Wood, had said to him earlier. Having worked for the Sunnydale School District for nearly two years, Quillish had heard that chestnut too many times. He appreciated neither the humor nor the vice-principal's complacent grin while uttering it.
Now it was nearly time for the bell to ring, but Quillish was putting off entering the classroom. He was almost glad for the distraction just provided by the man who had introduced himself as Wesley Windham-Pryce and asked for directions to the library.
At least I am competent to direct a stranger to the library, Quillish thought to himself without much satisfaction.
As the first bell rang, he turned and beheld a woman so stunning in her appearance that he was surprised he had not seen her before stumbling into her. Her skin was darkly chocolate in contrast to Quillish's, which was palest white. She wore a silky orange blouse and well-fitted blue wool suit. She was lithe and tall, towering over the diminutive Quillish.
"Excuse me," said Quillish, "I didn't see you; I must have been lost in thought."
"No, excuse me," she said smiling charmingly. She had a slight foreign accent that Quillish couldn't place. "My name is Abby LaChance. I am a new substitute teacher. Do you know the way to Mr. Salmonen's classroom?"
"Well, as a matter of fact, I do, because I substituted for Mr. Salmonen, I think, a couple of months ago, before the massacre, anyway…."
"Massacre?" asked Ms. LaChance, seeming curious but not alarmed. "What sort of massacre?"
"Well, actually," began Quillish, looking around to see who might be listening, "if you had asked anyone else, they probably wouldn't have mentioned it. There are some really scary things that go on in this school. No one likes to talk about them, though. I'd be glad to fill you in sometime, but we both had better get to class. Umm…. Actually, if you go around this next corner, Mr. Salmonen's classroom is the first door on the right."
"Thank you, and I hope to take you up on those scary stories sometime."
"Why, sure. I'd be glad to," said Quillish. She seems like a very nice lady, he thought. "I have to warn you about something, Ms. LaChance: you are about to walk into a very unruly class. Watch out or those kids will eat you alive."
"Thank you for the warning," said Ms. LaChance. She smiled warmly before turning and walking around the corner.
Quillish sighed and walked into Mrs. Bates' classroom.
The boys in the back of the room immediately began to chant, "Sub! Sub! Sub! Sub!" Quillish set his briefcase on the teacher's desk and opened the middle drawer. As he expected, the attendance book and lesson plan were right there. He pulled them out and set them on top of the desk.
"All right!" he called. "Settle down people!" He wrote his name, "Quillish," across the chalkboard in a quick but neat Spenserian hand.
"Sub! Sub! Ha-ha-ha, 'Quillish'! Sub! Sub!" The boys continued chanting, but with difficulty since they were also laughing at his name. A few more students, including a few girls, gleefully joined in the chant.
"Listen up, people!" shouted Quillish. "I'm about to take attendance. You wouldn't want to be marked absent because you couldn't hear, would you?" he pleaded. The chanting continued but soon trailed off into chuckling. Quillish knew that they stopped chanting because they were getting tired of it rather than because he had persuaded them to stop.
"Abbott? Cynthia Abbott?" No one answered. "Is she here?"
Five or six different voices answered "yes" and "no."
"One person answering will be enough."
"Hey, what are you going to teach us today?"
"He's not going to teach anything: he's a sub," said a handsome athletic fellow. Laughter all around.
"OK, what's your name?" Quillish asked the boy who had asked the question about the lesson plan.
"Who? Me? Pete Whitman."
Quillish marked him present. "And you?"
The boy who had answered Pete's question said, "Russ Eckhart." Quillish marked "Eckhart, Russell" present as well. "Hey, what are you writing about me?" asked Eckhart.
"In case you're already lost," said Quillish, "We're still taking attendance." And before Eckhart had a chance to reply, Quillish forged ahead. "Andrew Acevedo?"
"Yo!"
"A simple, 'here' will do," advised Quillish. "David Cameron."
"Present!"
"Hey, you heard the teacher," said Acevedo. "You're supposed to say 'here,' not 'present'." A wave of giggling rolled through the room.
"OK, quiet down." Quillish paused over the next name. "You're going to have to help me with this one. Christopher…ahh…D-u-r-k-a-c-z. Der-kaz?"
Students tittered and Acevedo imitated Quillish's pronunciation of the name, barely under his breath.
"Close," said the bespectacled boy seated directly in front of Acevedo. "But my family happens to pronounce it 'Dure-kah-ch'."
"Hey, Door-catch," called Eckhart. "Catch any doors today?" The class laughed together, loudly.
"All right," said Quillish, "the next person who speaks without being called upon gets sent to the vice-principal."
The class made a unanimous "Ooooh," sound.
"I mean it," warned Quillish.
"Ooooh," they said again. There was more laughter.
"Ow! Hey cut it out!" shouted Durkacz." He stood up and glared at Acevedo.
"Sit down, Mr. Durkacz," said Quillish.
"Mr. Quish!" said Eckhart, waving his hand.
"Quillish," Quillish corrected.
"Yeah, that's it." Eckhart shared a goofy smile with his classmates by turning from side to side; his classmates giggled. "You should send Door-catch to Mr. Wood's office. He talked without raising his hand."
"While you've been talking steadily even though I've never called on you except once to ask your name," Quillish pointed out. "I'm going to write you a note so that you can go to Mr. Woods office and explain yourself to him." Quillish grabbed pen and paper from the desktop and began to write "Russell Eckhart…."
"Knock it off!" cried Durkacz. Quillish looked up in time to see Durkacz turn in his chair and strike Acevedo. It was just a mild rap on the arm, but a daring move considering that Acevedo outweighed him by no less than one hundred pounds.
In the next moment, too many things happened at once for Quillish to account for them all. An eraser slammed against the chalkboard. He turned to see it bouncing off, leaving a thick chalk track on the green board with a cloud of dust floating before it.
Then Acevedo brought Durkacz to the floor with a crash and began punching him in the face. Eckhart led the entire class in a new chant: "Fight! Fight! Fight!"
Quillish grabbed the phone to the administration and began to ask for help.
"What's the meaning of this!" shouted a tall, bald black man in the doorway.
Quillish wondered when the door had opened and how long Vice-Principal Wood had been standing there.
By the time Wood's stride brought him to the center of the room, the din had turned to utter silence. Students seemed frozen in space; wary eyes watched the vice-principal, but their bodies were unable to withdraw from compromising positions. Acevedo knelt, fist in mid-air, about to smash the prone Durkacz, who was already bruised and bleeding.
Wood's knees halted within inches of Acevedo's face. "You are so busted, Acevedo," said Wood looking down at him. "Get up and go to my office. Now!"
Acevedo got up and left the room without another word.
"Mr. Quillish, would you be so kind as to call the school nurse? Tell her we have a student whose parents will need to take him to the hospital. Do you know the student's name?"
"Ah, Durkacz," responded Quillish, quite stunned by what was happening.
"Good," said Wood. "Tell Nurse Farrell to call Chris Durkacz's parents."
While Quillish nervously stammered instructions to the school nurse, Wood turned on Eckhart. "You, too. I want to see you in my office."
"What did I do?" whined Eckhart.
Wood walked over to the teacher's desk and picked up the disciplinary form Quillish had been filling in just before the lopsided fight had started. "I have every confidence that Mr. Quillish wrote down your name for a good reason," said Wood. "On your way, Mr. Eckhart. And try tempering your urge to describe your behavior in the best possible light by guessing how long I was observing the class before I opened the door."
Eckhart frowned, collected his books, and left the room.
"I am going to consult briefly with Mr. Quillish in the hall," said Wood to the remaining students. "During that time I trust you will study quietly or, failing that, meditate on the error of your ways."
There was silence except for the sound of books opening and papers shuffling. Wood nodded toward Quillish who followed the vice-principal into the hall. Wood closed the door behind him, peered briefly into the room, and then led Quillish to the lockers lining the opposite side of the hallway.
"So," Wood began, "you've been substitute teaching at Sunnydale for over a year now. Is that right?"
"Yes," said Quillish.
"Seems to me you should be getting the hang of it by now, don't you think?"
"I suppose so."
"You have to be firm with them, Mr. Quillish. The only thing these kids understand is the boot, the bat and the bastinado."
"The what?"
"It's a club used by Turkish prison guards," said Wood quickly. "Perhaps a bit of misplaced levity on my part…. But, look, my point is that you need to brook no foolishness from the second you walk into that classroom until the last student leaves. Whatever you do, they aren't going to take a liking to you. If they don't like you, that might sting at first, but it's far better that they respect you and dislike you than that they disrespect you and still don't like you."
"I see your point," said Quillish.
"I hope so," said Wood. "Now, I think that if you go back in there you'll find that—for the remainder of the period, at least—you'll have very obedient students."
"Well, no danger of finding those here," Giles was saying.
"You mean vampires?" asked Wesley incredulously.
"No, controlled circumstances," replied Giles off-handedly. Then, seeing Faith come through the library doors, he added, "Good morning, Faith."
Faith slowed her pace as she approached them, her eyes fixed on Wesley. "Who's this?" she asked.
"Wesley Windham-Price, at your service," Wesley announced, almost clicking his heels like a Prussian officer. "And you would be, perhaps, Faith?"
"That's what I just called her," muttered Giles.
Ignoring him, Wesley added, "I have come on a mission from the Watchers Council."
"You my new watcher?" asked Faith. As she spoke, she drew herself up defensively.
"That has not been determined," said Giles, eyeing Wesley cautiously.
"Right," said Wesley, "the Council has only instructed me to evaluate the situation here and report back. A change in personnel would be decided only in the event that my report reflected gross negligence or incompetence on anyone's part." He looked Giles in the eye for the first time.
"Is he evil?" Faith asked Giles.
Wesley did a double take. "Evil?"
"Gwendolyn Post left Faith with an understandably less than trusting attitude toward people claiming to be from the Watchers Council," said Giles.
"Ah, yes," said Wesley. "Well, Mr. Giles checked my credentials—rather thoroughly I might add—but I am glad you are on your toes as well." He smiled and leaned toward Faith. "A good Slayer is a cautious Slayer," he said confidentially.
"So, is he evil?" asked Faith again.
"Not essentially," said Giles.
"I'm glad we've cleared that up," said Wesley. "Now, Mr. Giles was just giving me his version of recent events. I am curious to hear your account of things: what happened in your own words?"
"You mean how Buffy got bit, turned into a vampire, and then got re-ensouled?"
"That pretty much puts it in a nutshell." Wesley nodded. "And what do you make of it all?"
"Wha'dya mean?" asked Faith warily.
"Well, do you think there was anything anyone could have done to prevent it?"
"Yeah," said Faith, looking at Giles.
Wesley saw this and raised an eyebrow. Giles' expression, however, remained one of mild interest. "What do you believe should have been done differently?" asked Wesley.
"Buffy should've stayed in bed that day."
Wesley stood for a moment, at a loss for words. Then he changed the subject. "Mr. Giles tells me that you plan to attend this, ah, school."
"Yeah," replied Faith. "It makes sense if I'm going to be working with Giles here, that goin' to school is a good cover."
"Well, yes, as well as getting what passes for an education in this country; that seems very sensible," said Wesley, "assuming that Mr. Giles will be continuing on as your watcher."
"Assumin' the council wants to keep me a happy Slayer," said Faith, "he better be continuin' on."
Again, Wesley was taken aback by Faith's bluntness. He considered his words carefully now. "I don't feel that we're getting off on quite the right foot," he said.
At that moment, they heard footsteps in the hall and muffled but animated voices approaching the library. All heads turned as the doors swung open.
"Well, let's just see what Mr. Giles says about it," Willow was saying to Xander as they entered the library. Then both stopped when they saw Wesley with Giles and Faith.
"We're not interrupting a secret meeting are we?" Xander asked. "Although, if we are, I have to tell you: Secret meetings in public places around 8:30 a.m.—not likely to stay secret for long."
"Ah, ah," Wesley stammered.
"Good one," Giles observed to Faith as he inclined his head toward Wesley.
Wesley scowled at Giles before addressing the newcomers. "There are no secret meetings here; I can't imagine what you could possibly mean."
"New watcher?" asked Willow.
"Good Lord!" Wesley said turning to Giles. "Does everyone here know about the Slayer?"
"We already know about the Watchers Council and whom they watch," said Willow, walking up to Wesley. "By the way, I'm WillowRosenberg."
"Willow, of course! I'm Wesley Windham-Price." He took her hand. "I understand that you are the witch who re-ensouled Buffy."
"Aww, well, I don't really consider myself a full-fledged witch," said Willow. She then introduced Xander who did not bother to shake hands but instead plopped down in a chair, saluted Wesley with a forefinger, and said, "Yo."
Wesley turned to Giles. "Just how many people in Sunnydale know about the Slayer?"
Giles removed his glasses and looked toward the ceiling for a moment. "Five," he said, "not including you and Faith herself, of course."
"Not including the undead, either," said Xander.
"Hard to keep the news from the vamps," said Faith.
"Say," said Xander, "you weren't sent here by the Council to replace Giles, were you? 'Cause that Buffy-vampire thing was so not Giles' fault."
"Thank you for that vote of confidence," said Giles wearily.
"Don't mention it," replied Xander.
"Perhaps it was not his fault," said Wesley, "but I have a duty to look into it." Then to Giles he said, "Since everyone in this room—as well as others not present, I gather—knows what this is all about, and since I am beginning seriously to doubt that there will ever be a moment when we may speak in private, would you mind my speaking frankly?"
"Was Frank invited to this meeting, too?" asked Xander. No one laughed.
"Feel free," Giles said to Wesley.
"Well, where do I begin? You have a Slayer killed by vampires—that's happened all too often, of course; she is then turned into a vampire herself—a rarer occurrence but not as rare as one might suppose; then, the thing you might expect, if at all possible, would be for the next Slayer in line—that would be Faith, here—to slay the, ah, Buffy-vampire as this young, ah, gentleman so colorfully described the former Slayer; however, just as Faith was about to do just that, you, Mr. Giles, prevented her from doing her duty."
"I told you the Council would see it that way," Faith reminded Giles.
"You are forgetting that Buffy had been re-ensouled at that point," Giles told Wesley.
"Yes, re-ensouling vampires," mused Wesley, "a practice frowned upon by the Council."
"Actually," said Giles, "it is a rare enough phenomenon that the Council has had no particular policy regarding it."
"Until last Monday," said Wesley. "As a result of recent goings on in Sunnydale, the full Council has indeed voted to forbid any and all Council personnel from performing or in any way involving themselves in any re-ensouling rituals."
"And this was decided last Monday?" asked Giles.
"At a special meeting of the Council."
"As usual, I didn't get the memo," said Giles.
"Delivering that information was one of my duties," said Wesley.
"And speedily discharged," said Giles sarcastically.
"Hold on, Mama!" exclaimed Xander. "You mean to tell me that now we can't re-ensoul Cordy, just because some twits across the big pond say we can't?"
"Who?" Wesley looked searchingly from person to person.
"I think the twits he's talking about are the Watchers Council," said Faith helpfully.
"No, I mean who's Cordy?" asked Wesley.
"When they turned Buffy into a…," began Giles, "well, they turned two other young women, as well. Cordelia was one of them, and she was a particular friend of Xander's."
"Not so much to the rest of us," Willow said.
"I hardly even knew her," added Faith.
"I see," said Wesley. He turned to Xander. "As sorry as I am for your loss—and believe me, as a watcher, I understand these things—but we can't go around giving vampires their souls back. Faith wouldn't know whom to slay anymore. Should we establish an assembly line re-ensouling every vampire? I suppose we should replace slaying with re-ensouling as the way to manage the vampire population? Imagine a world full of vampires with souls; it would be unnatural for one thing."
"One of my best friends is a vampire who's been re-ensouled," said Xander testily.
"Do you see, Mr. Giles, where your leadership—or the lack of it—has led?" said Wesley.
"It's news to me that this was an issue," said Giles.
"Actually, we came here to talk to you about it," said Willow, "Xander wants me to do the ritual again, this time to re-ensoul Cordelia, but I had qualms and said we should talk to you first."
"Ah! Thank God!" said Wesley. "At least someone here can be sensible. My compliments to you, Miss Rosenberg."
"Willow," she corrected him.
"In this matter, I am afraid that I would have to side with Willow's qualms," Giles said gently to Xander. "I know that Cordelia meant a great deal to you, but any time we resort to magic, there are consequences—unintended consequences—that we just might not be capable of dealing with."
"You gave Buffy her soul back," said Xander, "and there have been no unintended consequences so far."
"So far," echoed Giles. "There is the problem of her readjustment to having a soul. What if she becomes so unhappy that she someday curses us all for returning her soul to her?"
"I've just got to believe that won't happen," said Xander. "Besides, I also gotta believe it's better to have a soul than not have one. She has a choice now."
"That's one of the things that troubles me," said Giles. "Buffy never had a choice about being the Slayer, then she was forced to be a vampire, and now we've forced her to be a vampire with a soul; from here on, she does have choices, but they have become rather narrowed."
Giles turned to Wesley. "As for your report to the Council and your ambitions to become Faith's watcher, I can only point out that we are in a crisis here in Sunnydale."
"If you are referring to Mayor Wilkins, I have read your reports."
"Then you know that we are only beginning to discover the extent of the threat he poses."
"Precisely why I need to make my report and, if necessary, take corrective measures," said Wesley.
"The most corrective measure you could take," said Faith, "would be to put your report and your ego on hold and help us find out more about this bad guy."
"Interesting," said Wesley. "What is your assessment of the threat posed by the Mayor?"
"I know that he tried to sacrifice some babies to a demon so he could gain some kahuna-sized mojo; I know he's got an army of vamps workin' for him; I know his number one was Mr. Trick, who used to be right-hand man to Kakistos."
"Ah, Kakistos, the vampire who killed your first watcher in Boston," said Wesley, beaming. Faith winced and became silent. "What?" asked Wesley.
"High marks for doing your homework," said Giles. "Demerits for insensitivity."
"Anyway, Buffy slew Trick," said Willow. "By the way, she did that as a vampire."
"And now Cordy is the Mayor's Commander Riker," said Xander ruefully.
"His who?" asked Wesley.
"Really?" said Giles, looking quizzically at Wesley. "I finally got one of their cultural references, and you didn't." He smiled to himself for a moment—before his expression turned to one of horror. "Dear Lord, I'm becoming one of them."
"Don't worry," said Xander, "You have a ways to go yet."
By now Faith had regained her composure. "Look, something just happened last night," she said. "A demon offered me something called the Books of Ascension. When I told him I wasn't interested, he said the Mayor would be, and if Wilkins found out this demon was selling them, he'd have him killed."
"You say this demon wants cash? How unusual," said Wesley.
"Demons after money," said Giles. "No one has standards anymore."
"What's the Ascension?" asked Xander.
Giles and Wesley exchanged looks before admitting that they were equally clueless.
"Oh! The Marenschadt Text!" exclaimed Willow. "In the section on genocide, the Ascension is mentioned."
"Go Red!" said Faith. "We have a winner."
More importantly, two losers," said Xander.
Willow told Giles where to find the volume; he brought it out and located the relevant passage.
"Ah, yes," Giles said, "there's a reference to the journal of Desmond Caine, pastor of the town of Sharpsville. It's dated May 26, 1723, and it reads, 'Tomorrow is the Ascension: God help us all.' It was the last anyone heard."
"Of Caine?" Wesley asked.
"No, of Sharpsville."
"The point is, we can't afford to swap horses right now," said Faith. "Can you give us a break and help us find out what we're up against before you write us up?"
"I am not sure I understood all of that, but I think I got the gist," said Wesley.
"Good," said Giles. "I was afraid I was the only one of us that did."
"Of course, I do have my orders from the Council," Wesley continued. "Still, I see your point about the possibly imminent nature of the threat posed by Mayor Wilkins, and the need you might have for my services as a highly-trained watcher; so I am willing to relay your views to the Council, Faith, and I might even add my recommendation that they have some merit."
"I'm sure we could use your expertise," said Willow.
"Why, thank you, Miss Rosenberg. It is good to be appreciated by someone around here."
"Please, call me Willow."
"Oh, sorry, I forgot—Willow." Then to everyone he added, "Right, then. I am off to telephone headquarters with our concerns. Ah, might I use the phone in your office?"
"Go right ahead," said Giles. "Make sure you call collect, though."
When Wesley was out of earshot, Faith said, "Nice going, Red."
"Oh, you know me: I like to read," Willow said. She gave Giles an apologetic look.
"No," said Faith. "I mean that was really helpful: the way you buttered up the new watcher? I can never do that shit. Maybe I could take a page from you on that."
"Hey, how come they call it 'buttering someone up' when the primary ingredient is always bullshit?" asked Xander.
"Well, Faith, it was also wise of you not to mention that Buffy was patrolling with you when you met that demon," said Giles. "I think it will take Mr. Windham-Price some time to get used to the way things are done here on the Hellmouth."
"You think he's close to being on the same page as the rest of us?" Faith asked.
"No," replied Giles.