The artist began with putting her in a white tanktop and pale jeans, looked, and shook his head. "Off." He ordered. It took him a while, but he finally found something he was happy with.

She was dressed in a silky white dress that was tight to the waist, and slit at the thighs until it ended at the ankles. Then he fiddled with her hair, settling on lightly curling it and leaving it down, contrasting the almost virginal attire with dark red lipstick and black eyeliner. He put her in white leather heeled boots that went up to mid-shin.

Spike was in tight black pants and a matte black, flowing shirt, hair lightly slicked back. She almost laughed when she saw that he was wearing foundation like her, but his death glare deterred her. His shoes were normal black dress shoes, but he wore a ruby earring in one ear; Faith assumed it was a clip on.

Piotr bustled around, hanging a dark red backdrop that matched her lipstick and his earring perfectly. "Now," He looked at them expectantly once his camera was set the way he wanted. "Go."

"Go? Whaddya want?"

He gave her the type of look he'd give a particularly dim pupil. "Fight. Normal speed, please. Switch who is dominating the battle."

Faith shrugged, and went for it. The outfit required her to move in a more feminine way that she was used to, but she still managed to get in some killing blows. So did he; the two moved in a way that suggested a dance more than combat.

"Thank you." Piotr said, then asked plaintively, "Would you do one more shoot?"

"Got anything better to do, Slayer?" Spike asked.

"Nope."

"Thank you!"

He rushed them out of their clothes, then entered Faith's changing room. "I apologize," He said, averting his eyes, "But this dress requires some assistance." He helped her into it, then brought her back to the makeup room. This time, her makeup was practically nonexistent, but her hair was in an elaborate updo, curls following the curve of her neck and dripping down her back.

She would have gasped when she saw Spike, if she did shit like that. He looked perfectly natural in his outfit, an eighteenth century nobleman's party attire in all black; and if rumors of his human life were true, it made sense. His hair was still bleach blonde, but it hung loosely down, curtaining his face.

Spike's eyes did widen when he saw her. She looked like the women from his time; though he'd hated his life as a human, those times had shaped him. She wore a dress that was a little simpler, a little tighter than those of the time, but it was still almost perfect, all dark red satin and white lace. He bowed over Faith's hand, instinctually.

"Spike." Piotr's voice interrupted. "I assume you know how to dance?"

"I do."

He gently led Faith in a simple waltz. Piotr's camera flashed, but he barely noticed. Soon, Faith picked up the rhythm of the dance, and he added in twirls and dips, speeding them up until her skirts blurred. All they needed was more couples dancing with them, and he'd think he'd been transported back in time.

"I will show you the finished product soon." Piotr promised once they were done. "Thank you."

The two left the studio close together.

"Wanna spar?" Faith offered after a moment.

"Sure."

Unfortunately, breaks like that didn't come often enough for those fighting.

Scott trained blind for days at a time, preparing for when his vision would betray him. He didn't tell Logan, though he was certain the older mutant knew, that he continued to practice with his knife, letting old skills return to him. It was like riding a bike, he supposed. Some skills could never be lost, as much as he might want them to be.

Spike and Logan—the two that couldn't be at the final battle—took over training the others, pushing them far beyond their limits.

"No shiftin', Pete." Logan yelled, turning to face the larger man.

"My apologies." He ducked a blow Scott sent at him, returning one the older man easily evaded. Scott was lithe and fast, and though Piotr was quick for his size, there was no comparison.

The problem with training Scott was that there was no way for him to simulate the effect the loss of his mutation would have on his sight. His eyes were normally like a bird of prey's; they were attracted to motion. He'd spent almost thirty years with his eyes the way they were, and the switch was disorienting. Connor and the Slayers had the serum Giles had gotten from the council, and though they hated the effects, it showed them what the battle would be like.

Connor was the worst. For the other two, they'd at least spent some time without supernatural powers; Connor had been born and raised with them. In one set of memories, at least, but that was the set he tended to rely on, it being the truth and all.

He gritted his teeth as Gunn took him down once again. "Listen, Connor." He was instructed. "You ain't got the strength to take me down; use your speed. I know you got it." Following that, he at least stayed alive a little bit longer. "Try some of those fancy dodges you used to use." He managed to stalemate, and "Where'd that agility go, man?" He won. He still had the knowledge and the training; he just had to adjust it for the lowered strength.

Kitty smiled at her lover, sitting and intently staring at his half-finished painting. She walked forwards, draping herself over his shoulders.

"Hey babe."

"Hello, Katya."

Piotr stood up, covered his painting, and paced. Kitty sat down, and watched her lover anxiously. He was usually such a collected man; anything that got him this frazzled had to be important.

"I do not want you going." He said abruptly, turning and staring at her.

"And I don't want you to go."

"Katya, please. I am serious."

"So am I." He sent her a pleading glance, but she was resolved. "Piotr, you're as vulnerable as I am, out there. We both signed up for this knowing the risks."

"I know that, Katya. But this is something larger than we have ever faced."

"It is." Her face was implacable.

His was sad. "I just do not want to lose you."

"And I don't want to lose you. We'd both better be careful, okay?"

Piotr tried one last time to convince his wife to stay away from the battle. "I cannot talk you out of it?"

"Not a chance."

"Then," He clasped her hands in his, "We shall be careful, and enjoy what time we have together."

The serious tone of the evening was gone. "I'm good with enjoying."

His answering grin was wicked as he picked her up and deposited her on the bed. "As am I."