Minutes to Memories

by Bastille Kain

Logan gets a call from somebody out of his past that informs him the mother of his daughter just died.

7. Chap 7: Red Sector A

Chapter Seven : Red Sector A

A heavy haze of blue smoke hangs in the thick rafters high over head in the nearly empty bar. The quite clatter of the clean up, as employees tidy up; putting chairs on top of tables, sweeping the floor, the clink glass as mugs, pitchers, and glasses of all shape and sizes are washed and put away. The soft chatter of conversation drones on throughout the process.

Underneath it all anguish filled strains saturate the air as Joe Dawson's pain, suffering, love, and life are transformed into some of the most stirring music many of the people present are ever likely to hear. He sits atop the large stage nestled against both the side and back interior walls.

More than once or twice everyone gets so caught up, so enraptured with the heartfelt music flowing from Joe that they tend stop what they're doing for brief periods of time. Nobody minds though even if it does mean it takes them a little longer to get done with their job. Most of them consider it a bonus for a job well done.

The bell over the door jingles as the heavy wood swings in easily letting a sliver of the early morning predawn light filter in.

"We're closed," Ryan; a young, well built, dark hair, dark eye white man informs the strangers. "Come back anytime this afternoon."

Methos glances at the broad shoulder mortal, a square jaw that puts him in mind of an anvil. He smiles, a condescending little grin, as he says, "it's okay. I'm an old friend of your boss," he finishes with a nod at Joe as the music comes to a stop.

"Adam," Joe calls out cheerfully as he takes in Methos' slightly haggard expression, the rumpled look of his clothes. Placing his guitar in its stand he grabs hold of his cane kept near his right elbow, and rises to his feet as quickly and gracefully as his plastic legs will allow. "What the hell brings you out at this time of the day?"

"Nice to see you too Joe," Methos responds to Joe's semi accusing tone. Still his mind flashes back nearly half an hour, the metallic ring of steel meeting steel, the angry hiss as razor sharp blades slide against each other. The thrill, the adrenaline rush, the surge of excitement that had flowed through his veins as he fought, and killed. The fear of not knowing if he would emerge victorious mixed with the certainty of knowing he would. "I'm going to go grab a beer. You want anything?" He asks already heading to the end of the bar.

Joe gives his head a small shake as he makes his way to the short flight of stairs. "Whatever you're having," he answers wondering what Methos is after. He knew that eventually the oldest man would tell him, he just didn't feel like wading through the normal rig-a-moral.

As everyone returns to what they had been doing, the buzz of normal conversation picks backs up, Methos twist the cap off one beer and then the other. Placing one on the counter he gives Joe a mock salute with the other before taking a large pull off it.

Joe picks up the dark bottle and takes a quick swig of the liquid filling it. Placing the bottle back down on the polished wood he encircles it with both hands lacing his fingers together. His eyes shift back up taking in the eternally young man. "What's on your mind old man?" He finally asks needing to break the prolonged silence.

He shrugs, a slight movement of his thin shoulders as he slips off his thick, black, knee length duster. "Can't I just drop by every now and then because I want to see a friendly face." Joe tilts his head to the side as his eyes widen fractionally in disbelieve. Unfazed by Joe's look, Methos picks up his beer and takes another smaller pull from it while reading his friend's expression. "Besides," he starts after lowering the bottle slightly, "this is the only place in town I can get a decent conversation. Unless you include those one-nine hundred numbers, but then again it's not really conversation that people are after when they call those is it? The psychic hot lines aren't bad either, it's rather amusing listening to them tell me about my life. Every now and then though you run across a real psychic, that can get extremely chilling in a hurry. Listening to someone else tell you about your life in stunningly accurrrete detail."

"There's a point to this?" Joe questions once Methos stops to take a breath.

Methos considers the question for a moment as he takes another quick draw from his bottle. He gives his head a short shake and says, "not really. I was just rattling on."

Joe nods, takes another swollow from his beer. "How about that weather we've been having lately?" He inquires then picks his bottle up and takes another pull.

Methos sighs slightly as his hand stops half way to his mouth then slowly lowers it back to the bar. "About fifteen years ago, while I was taking an extanded subatical from the council, giving everyone who knew me the chance to die off before I returned. Wouldn't do to have someone that knew me, recognize Adam Pearson."

"Anyway," Joe prompts.

"Well here I am minding my own business, more or less. Doing some little side projects I'd been meaning to get to for the last century or so when this incredibly beautiful woman approaches me. Light blonde hair, nearly bronze tan, piercing ice blue eyes. Like they could just see right into you, right through as if they strip away everything leaving you bare. She wanted something researched and heard I was the best." He shrugs adding, "it's the curse of knowing nearly every known language and having lived nearly as long as human civiization."

"Plus being so damn humble."

"Humility's overrated. Better by for to simply be the best and let everything else fall where it may." He picks up his beer, drains it and goes in search of another.

"So what did this mystery lady want you to research?" Joe asks as Methos hands him another beer.

He gives his head a light shake saying, "wasn't no mystry about who she was, is?" He gives another light shrug. "A very young Emma Frost."

Joe blinks at that bit of information as he swollows. "You're joking right. The head of Frost Industries went to you because she needed research done. She has an entire team… Hell probably a few hundred teams dedicated to research projects."

The oldest known man shrugs. "Maybe this was something she didn't want coming back to bite her in the ass." A speculative smile flitters over his face even lighting his eyes briefly as he considers something privately.

"What did she want?" Joe asks after several moments of silence.

This time it's Methos that blinks in surprise. "Sorry, cought in a moment there," he apollogizes semi seriously. "What did she want? Information, about some crippled professor, Charles Xavier, a theorist concerning human genetics and mutation. A real Gandhi, can't we all just get along, type. From what I recall he was just beginning the process of turning his family's mansion in upstate New York into some kind of private school for the gifted. Ask me it sounds more like a safe house, seen enough of them to recognize one when I see it, but I was never able to get close enough to tell. Place had a security set up that would give Amanda pause."

"Why would Emma Frost, one of the nations leading industrialist be intrested in Charles Xavier, perhaps the most out spoken person in the world, campaining for equel rights for mutants even though under the constitution all humans are gauranteed them?" Joe muses aloud.

Methos shrugs while he says, "probably because they're both mutants."

Joe stares at him with unblinking eyes as he tries to process the statement. "That can't be right," he murmurs.

"Think about it, Frost took the million dollar company her father started and withen two years turned it into a multi-national conglamerate that rivals Stark, Shaw, 3M, Gerber, Worthington, Colt, Microsoft. You give me a plausable explanation on how she did that. And nobody sticks their neck out for somebody else unless they're invested somehow. Then there was my last meeting with Frost, told me my secrets are safe with her so long as I keep what I know to myself."

"So," Joe replies with a shrug. "Everybody has secrets. Maybe you just let her get to you?"

"I thought of that," he admits. "Even believed it for all of five seconds or so. Right up untill I realized she called me Methos. Then when I want to give chase I found I couldn't move. Almost five minutes passed before I regained my mobility. It was like living in hell for five minutes. Could almost feel the seconds ticking away, waiting for a stray immortal to come along." He shudders slightly lifting his bottle to his lips.

There was no sense telling Joe about the other way he had of discovering if somebody is a mutant, is a powerful mutant anyway. It's a piece of knowledge no mortal has ever been privy to. The fact that immortals can sense humans, not how they know another immortal is close, just the life force. The life force of mutants is different, not a lot, but just enough to be able to diffrerentate between the two. It had taken him centuries of searching to recognize those minute differences between the two, but it was there and he had found it.

"Where's all this coming from?"

"I really didn't feel like talking about the weather. Everyone always wants to talk about the weather, especially when there's nothing else to talk about or the other topics are too difficult to discuss."

Joe shakes his head mumbling, "sometimes you're impossible to deal with."

He smiles, a crooked grin as he raises his bottle back up in another mock salute. "When's MaCleod suppose to be back."

"You haven't heard?" Joe asks a little surprised by that information. Normally Methos knew everything three days before it happened.

Methos' crooked smirk slides into a pensive frown without too much effort. "What haven't I heard?"

Joe takes a small pull from his bottle. Placing it back on the table he stares at it for a moment. "I don't think he's coming back, at least not in the immediate future."

"What?"

Joe nods at him. "It seems he found something in Sunnydale to keep him there."

"What?" He repeats in slightly more strangled voice.

"He bought an Art Gallery. I think it belonged to the woman whose funeral he attended."

"What?" He parrots one last time still not believing what he's hearing.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Thunder crashes as bolts of lightening light the sky nearly as bright as day for brief moments. Dark, thick clouds blot out the sun while rain pours down in heavy sheets making an almost solid wall that drives, everything or everyone insane enough to be out in it's fury to their knees as it turns the hard packed dirt streets of Alexandria to slick mud. Wind buffets everything, whipping shutters back and forth, making the spray of water even harder then it is without it.

"This is Egypt. It never rains in Egypt," Amanda murmurs despondently while pulling her white fur lined cloak tight around herself in futile attempt to keep dry as she tries to climb the slick streets as she attempts to find some suitable cover to wait out the deluge. Pulling her sword around a little she makes sure to keep it close at hand. Just in case there is someone insane enough, or stupid enough to be out in this weather.

Especially one man. She however doubts if even he is insane enough to be out in this. Nobody in their right mind would be out in weather like this. No matter the reason.

Amanda stops as she senses someone watching her. She spins around, her eyes searching the darkness. Lightening flashes, lighting sky. Thunder roars almost directly overhead. A second flash streaks across the sky followed quickly by a third and fourth streak across the suddenly bright skies. Thunder, loud enough to nearly drive her to her knees rumbles afterward.

The sudden, intense light robbing her of her night vision. Quickly she squeezes her eyes shut tight trying to regain what she lost in the bright moment of illumination.

With her eyes close Amanda thinks back the past several weeks to when she first realized someone had been following her.

Three days after leaving the Vatican with her haul she first felt a presence watching her. To start she simply thought it is her imagination playing tricks on her.

That lasted into the middle of the night when she woke up out of a trouble sleep. The dying ambers of her fire highlighting a small man covered in dark furs making him nearly indistinguishable from the night around him. She watches him, watches the shadow that is him as he studies her. She can just imagine the wolfish grin lining his face.

She watches him never taking her eyes off him as he stands there, motionless. Then he was gone. She hadn't taken her eyes off him hadn't blink, nothing he was simply gone. Like he had never been there.

Letting the week old recollection fade she opens her eyes allowing her gaze to sweep over the squat one and two story Buildings. There's nothing that she can see as darkness and shadows swallow everything more then half a dozen paces away, but she can feel him. Out there, watching her, just waiting to reach out of the darkness to touch her.

She had seen him once, on the docks of Carthage. On one of the higher roofs near the docks she watches, she waits and she finally spots him coming off a two masted galley. Making his way through the densely packed quay he ignores the heavy crush of people as if they aren't there.

Aside from that one night by the fire. She had never seen him before, never seen him clearly anyway, but there had been no doubt in her mind that it was him. He stood out from everyone else moving along the docks. Like a wolf lazing away his day amongst a flock of sheep.

Even from a distance she can tell he's short. Shorter then her anyway. His clothing consisted of dark, fur line material. Much like a primitive that survives strictly off the land. He carries a thick limb bow in his left hand, a quiver full of arrows hang off his back. She could just make out the heft of a sword from under his heavy cloak. His dark hair hangs loose, a strong ocean wind whips it around like streamers. A heavy, but well kept beard and mustache covers the lower portion of his face.

She expects him to ask questions about her. After all she only arrived the day before and made sure to make quite a scene. To be remembered just for him.

Only when he stops it isn't to ask questions. He raises his head slightly, his nose flaring as he sniffs the wind. Then he kneels down running his fingers over the smooth paving stones and lifts them to his nose then tastes them.

Amanda knows it's her imagination, but she almost believes that's the exact spot where her shoe came off and she had to sit down to put it back on. Rising quickly to his feet he follows the same line she took the night before.

A sudden insight hits her like the greatest epiphany of all time as she wonders if that is how he is able to track her. If he could follow her by scent alone like some kind of blood hound. Then another thought hits her like a sludge hammer. She had wasted an entire day that she could have been using to put distance between the two of them just so she could catch a glimpse of him.

With her hand resting on her sword hilt she spin's in a loose circle, always moving forward towards her destination -- even though she doesn't have one yet -- and what she hopes is sanctuary. From the storm, from her pursuer.

As she comes full circle, facing the way she had originally been, she stops. Eyes going wide, heart hammering in her chest. He's there, standing in the middle of the wide road, his small body seeming to block off the entire street.

Lightening flashes again, she throws up her right hand taking a short step back. For a brief moment that last longer then it should, Amanda gets her first good look at him. His hair is plastered by the rain, hanging below his shoulder. Dark eyes, black as midnight, are like a wolf on the hunt as he studies her. Just like the night by the dying fire. His face is hard, angular and sharp as if it had been curved from granite. His beard and mustache gone, but heavy whiskers are already growing in to replace them. His frame is hidden by the bulky fur line clothing that he wears.

Amanda swallows knowing the time for running and hiding and dodging is over. Steeling herself she straightens, her hand reflexively tightening on her sword hilt as she settles into a relax fighting stance. In the darkness she thinks -- she imagines -- she can pick up an amused little smirk settle on his face. His stance doesn't alter in the slightest.

Amanda can't help but grin at his confidence. It's obvious that he thinks himself something special with a sword, and maybe he is by mortal standards, but there isn't a mortal alive who could match blades with an immortal. A few come close but that's all.

"You took something that doesn't belong to you girl. Puskin wants his crest back," he shouts his voice booming over the wind and the rain.

"And he sent you?" She chuckles with more then just a hint of amusement.

"You've been entertaining so far youngster." Amanda gawks at the term youngster. She's over six hundred years old, not that he knew that, and he barely looks older then her anyway. She wants to know where he gets off calling her young. "There's no need to make this personal. Just turn the crest over and you can get on with having yourself a long life."

Her sword seems to leap into her hand as she draws it in the blink of an eye. "You want it so bad, come and get it," she challenges him in the middle of the down pour on the mud slick road. The crest is the most valuable piece of everything she had taken exactly twice as valuable as the rest combined. Without it the venture was hardly worth the risk and she would barely be able to cover her expenses.

"If that's how you want it?" He says with a deep scowl at her as he starts forward, focusing on her to the exclusion of everything else, "just remember. When this is all over, I gave you the chance to walk away without all this here grief," he finishes having cut the distance between them in half. His powerful strides carry him to her at a rapid pace eating up the ground between them. His hands still nowhere near his sword and his composure completely unshaken.

It's unnerving to her how calm he is, like he has absolutely nothing to fear from her. As far as Amanda is concerned it is the ultimate form of arrogance. Just because she is a woman. She still has a sword in her hands and is accounted as good as any man. She's taken enough heads in her life to prove it. Not that he knows that.

Her smile broadens though it's more hostile then amused now. She would show him. She'd let his arrogance work to her advantage.

Setting herself in a standard on guard position, sword held low point dipping upwards aimed at his chest. As he comes within range she strikes with the speed of cobra taking a swift swipe at his head. Only she misses, her blade going high of it's mark as he easily ducks underneath her swing.

She tries again and again misses as he twists away from her . His grin broadens as she attacks again and again, each and every strike gaining in speed and intensity. "That's it," he taunts her. "Show me what you've got."

"Show you," she growls slamming the hilt into his face. She grins as he stumbles back, a trickle of blood dripping from his nose.

He looks up at her, a feral light gleaming in his eyes. He wipes the blood from his upper lip. Looking from the blood covering the back of his hand to her he smiles at her, a lecherous grin. "Now we're starting to get somewhere," he announces drawing his sword. "Now we can have ourselves some real fun."

Amanda frowns, swallowing hard as he comes at her. A quick thrust that Amanda just manages to slip followed by a sharp slash that misses slicing her open by a hairs breadth as she dodges out of the way. He continues attacking, his swings sharp, precise as they try to reach her flesh.

She deftly parries his next thrust and quickly takes the offensive forcing him back half a dozen paces as her blade comes closer and closer to his flesh. Determination sets in her face and she redoubles her efforts. Each attack is turned aside at the last possible moment giving her that much more reason to increase her pace.

Then in a heartbeat he's back on the attack, a smile on his lips as he forces her back, circling. She keeps him at bay with little effort, managing to launch her own strikes at him. Then the pace, the tempo increases several notches and she suddenly finds it's all she can do to keep his blade from reaching her.

Then it jumps up several more levels. In utter desperation Amanda defends herself. Moving faster then she ever has before, her blade barely managing to deflect his smooth attacks. She hasn't felt this clumsy since Rebecca first took her in and taught her to handle a sword more then six centuries ago.

Needing to take the initiative back. To regain control of the fight she attacks. Lunging forward she tries to reach him, he deftly parries the strike spinning around her, his elbow smashes into the back skull causing her to stumble forward, nearly sending her crashing to the ground.

With her left hand touching the ground. She just manages to keep her balance. Spinning back around to face him she keeps her sword leveled at him despite the heavy rain pounding at her.

"Don't tell me that's all you've got?" He shouts at her as lightening splits the sky.

Thunder crashes as Amanda rises back to her full height. "why don't you come and see what I've got left," she hisses at him.

"Why don't I?" He answers with a grin right before he charges at her. The slippery slope doing nothing to slow him down.

Amanda rushes at him unmindful of the rain, the mud, everything except for him. The two meet in a clash of steel striking steel as the two move , strike, punch, dodge, kick, parry, lunge. All faster then humanly possible. Always Amanda is pushed back as her adversary shows only one frame of mind. Attack. Nothing but all out attack.

Amanda slashes at him. He catches her sword on his blade swinging them up and over. He steps in his right elbow smashes into her face, she feels the sword slip from her fingers, sending her crashing to the ground, a spray of mud splashing up from where she crashes.

Before she can move sharp steel presses against her throat. She can feel a small slice to her skin. Opening her eyes she stares at the sharpen steel that leads to the man standing over her.

"Personally I'd rather not ruin my day by having to kill such an exquisite creature over a fancy piece jewelry," he says exerting just a little more force on her throat.

"I get your point," she murmurs softly.

He smirks down at her. "I was sure you would."

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Kurt listens to Amada, with one upswept ear, as she tells Logan of their first meeting over six hundred years ago, while he listens to the phone ring with his other. "Fourteen sixty-two," he mutters to himself in wonder.

He takes a step away from the dining room door as the portable phone pressed to his ear cuts off half way through it's second ring, "Charles Xavier's School For Gifted Youngsters," Xavier's voice greets from three thousand miles away. "Charles Xavier speaking. How may I help you?"

It has been more than a full day since the last time either Logan or himself gave Xavier a call to check in. He felt a little guilty about that, Xavier had been gracious enough to offer him a room, a bed, more importantly a place that he could call home. Something he hasn't had since he and Stefan left the Kalderash to see the world. Not even when he joined the Munich Circus, they made him feel as if he belonged with them, a freak, amongst freaks, but it wasn't home.

"Good morning Professor," Kurt replies glancing back into the dining room. A thick cloud of white smoke hangs in the air as Logan continues to smoke his massive cigar. Duncan had long since opened a couple of windows.

Amanda is still weaving an incredibly intricate tail of her and Logan's first meeting. Such attention to detail and an amazing memory to recall even half of it, much less everything that she does.

Immortals who will live forever if they didn't kill each other off fighting for some prize. Something that may well decide the fate of all mankind, perhaps mutant kind as well. He gives his blue head a shake trying to make some sense of the undecipherable.

"Kurt." A sense of relief filling the powerful telepaths voice. "How are things going out there?"

"Not good Professor," Kurt responds with a shake of his head. "We had our first run in with Glory. She's everything Spike said she is."

"We'll be out immediately."

"Nein," Kurt blurts softly. He squeezes his eyes shut a little embarrassed by his reaction. Deciding there isn't any to do but to go on and explain he begins. "Buffy believes we have about a four day grace period. It seems whenever Glory expands a tremendous amount of energy nobody sees hide nor hair of her for at least four days."

"She goes into a retreat," Charles breathes out sensing an edge that they can use to their advantage. "Whatever her power it's finite and takes time to build back up."

Kurt nods saying, "that's we came up with as well."

"How powerful is she?" Charles asks.

Kurt lifts his head looking up at the plaster ceilings trying to estimate her strength. "Physically I don't think we'd stand much of a chance. She's invulnerable to physical force, even Logan's claws didn't do anything more than ruin her clothes." He pauses to take a breath as he remembers something else. "From everything we've been told the only one whose had any success against Glory has been Buffy…"

"Which might be psychosomatic condition." Xavier cuts in as he thinks aloud. "With Glory claiming to be a disposed god and Buffy being this embodiment of a mystical force for good."

Kurt nods again understanding the Professors meaning. "Then we might have found ourselves an advantage."

"How's that?"

He takes a slight breath. "There's another, slayer."

"Truly?"

"Ja."

"Does anyone know where she is?" Xavier asks the excitement clear in his normally composed voice.

"Ja," Kurt replies taking another breath. "Orange County Maximum Security Female Correctional Faculty."

Xavier exhales slightly at the information. It hadn't been what he was expecting but still it could be useful. "I'll check into it."

"Good," Kurt responds. "With two slayers, if we could find some way to wear her down, which might not be as hard as it sounds, we might be able to end this once and for all."

"I'd still rather have you avoid a confrontation as long as possible," Xavier informs him.

"So would I," Kurt admits. "I think even Logan would prefer that way."

He can almost hear the wonder in Charles voice as he says, "that's something I never thought I'd hear."

"Ja, it was very strange." Kurt admits. "Listening to Logan plan a retreat, going to either Los Vegas or San Francisco and having you meet us there."

"I'd stay away from San Francisco if at all possible."

"Why?" Kurt asks a confused expression clouding his face.

"You haven't been watching the news recently have you?"

"We've been a little busy."

"When you get the chance turn on MSNBC, I think you'll find it of some interest." A quiet note of command laces his voice. "Now about this Slayer in prison, do you know what her name is?"

"Faith," Kurt answers then pauses with a frown. "That's all anybody ever called her, Faith."

"I'll find out what I can and get back to you as soon as possible. Are there any other developments?"

"Some, but Logan should really be the one to tell you."

"About his past?"

"Ja. About his past."

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Spike groans softly, almost silently as Buffy presses the flimsy yellow stripe straw between his lips. The fact that the straw is dipped into a large coffee cup full of blood and that he's in so much pain are all that keep him from venting his anger and frustration at his treatment.

Or mistreatment as he sees it.

After all he had kept his mouth shut about Dawn, and the best the slayer could do is a cold mug of pigs blood fed to him by a damn robot that wants to get all lovey dovey with him, he gripes internally ignoring the fact that he's the one that had her built and programmed the way she is in the first place.

Even during the worst that Glory could throw at him he had kept his mouth shout. But considering some of the kinks Dru had been into wasn't as bad as everyone seems to think, but he saw no need to mention that to Buffy and her lot.

He's very good at ignoring what he doesn't want to see. He always has been. Even when he was still alive.

Worst yet is the fact that Dawn is down here to watch his total and complete, utter humiliation. That she does it with a broad smile lighting her face does nothing to lighten his dark mood. If anything it just deepens his foul temperament.

Spike spit's the straw out of his mouth as he glares at the young girl. "Don't you have someplace else to be, like antagonizing a pack Treathal larvae."

Dawn's grin slips a little, but not much. She's really enjoying seeing Spike suffer, not from his injuries, but his embarrassment. It isn't often that she gets to see Spike deal with the consequences of his plans.

She shakes her head. "You had to have known everyone was going to find out," she says with a quick peak at the android double of her sister.

"Yeah well," Spike mutters to himself. "No one's ever really considered me the brightest bloke on the bloke."

"Nonsense," Buffy chimes in with her overly bright tone. "You're the most brilliant, most cunning, conniving evil mastermind to ever plot my destruction."

Dawn rolls her eyes at the android's back. While Spike glares at the machine he had had built. He shakes his head, then grimaces at the pain. After another brief glance at the android he shifts his gaze to Dawn. "Like I give a rat's bloody ass that everybody found out I had friggin machine built of your sister…"

"Spike," Dawn gasps her face going red. "I don't need to hear about… Whatever it is that the two of…" She shakes her head making a disgusting little face.

Buffy stares first at Dawn then Spike trying to figure out exactly what they're talking about. It seems to her that she should know, but her circuitry and processors simply can't fathom the meaning of their words. As quickly as she can she looks up every word, every definition, putting them together in every conceivable way, but still nothing makes sense. It's as if they're speaking in some type of code she isn't privy to.

"Hey! You're the one that brought it up," he gripes at her. "If you didn't want to know what I was doing with your sister then you should've kept your…" He stops talking seeing Dawn's face fall. He lets out a sigh as he realizes that once again he's let his quick temper and sharp tongue dig him into a crapper of a hole.

"Listen," he starts reaching for Dawn. A sharp pain shoots through his body causing him to grunt and recoil.

Buffy instantly move in. "Are you alright?" She questions intently.

"I'm bloody fine," he mutters pushing her hands away from him. "I don't need you pawing all over me."

The tray blonde frowns, a slight quiver to her lip and tear slipping down her check. "You don't love me anymore.?"

Spike gapes at her in shock, his eyes widening drastically. "I… I…" She looks at him expectantly, mouth open slightly.

"Yes he does," Dawn blurts. "He's a guy so he's not really good at expressing his feelings or telling people what he feels for them. You have to be patient with him."

"Oh," Buffy responds with a grin. "I can do that," she adds shoving the straw back into Spike's mouth eliciting another groan from him.

Dawn smiles again as Spike rolls his eyes heavenward. Deciding it's better to just shut his mouth and take his punishment like a man. Or a vampire as the case may be.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Buffy impatiently paces across the Magic Box's upper tier. Her arms folded across her chest, chin resting on the webbing between thumb and forefinger while she chews on her bottom lip.

Xander, Tara, and Willow are pouring over research material. Tara working on the finishing touches of the memory reclamation spell. Xander, like Anya at the counter, is trying to find any mentions of immortals or humans with accelerated healing abilities in Giles' nearly inexhaustible supply of books, tomes, and volumes.

Willow haunches over her laptop searching the world wide web for any reference to watchers -- that have nothing to do slayers -- as well as the Weapon X program. It's slow going since neither organization is exactly listed in the yellow pages.

As usual Giles is scouring his thickest, oldest, most vile looking tomes. Books that are covered with arcane symbols and an air of power. Volumes so old that even Giles with his big brain and intricate knowledge of ancient and long dead languages needs to cross reference parts of the text.

She can't help but feel nervous. Almost trapped, like the world is closing in around her, with a vague sense of dread accompanying it.

"If you keep pacing like that you're going to wear a groove in the floor that we're going to have to have repaired," Anya announces in irritation as Buffy's pacing becomes too much for her. "Which is going to incur us to pay a bill, a bill that I'll send to you since it was your pacing that caused the damage in the first place," she finishes with a definitive nod. "Plus you're scaring away all the costumers," she adds as an after thought.

Xander looks up, feeling mildly ashamed of Anya's comments. "An," he starts off in a light reproving tone. "The shops already closed. You don't have any costumers for Buffy to frighten off."

"But if it was I would and she'd…" She makes an angry scowl.

"But you don't," Xander points out with a soft sigh.

Right now her father; Logan, or Luc, or Jacques Del Leon, or whatever his name actually is, is back at her house learning about a section of his past that took place six hundred years ago from a women who at least equals Anya in age.

"How come you're always taking her side?" She asks in a huff. "You haven't even been friends with her that long, no where near as long as Willow. In fact you've only known her a couple of years longer then me."

"I don't always take Buffy's side," Xander denies looking around the room at everyone, who are busy with projects of their own and paying him no mind what so ever.

"Even they know," Anya declares with a broad sweeping gesture. "They're just to polite to say anything."

Giles lets out an exacerbated breath as he looks up from his ancient tome. With an unwavering glare at the two of them he says, "if you two wouldn't mind overly much. We have far too much work still to be done for the two of you to be bickering so."

She should be there, with him. Instead she's here trying to figure out to keep him and everyone else out of harms way. Out of Glory's way before she makes them -- Logan, Kurt, Amanda, and Duncan, not to mention all the other people they're going to pull in -- a target as well. Just as she's done with the rest of her friends.

"The thing I'm going to be really, really, really happy about," Xander begins as he flips to the next page in the in the book he's reading. "For the first time we're going to be facing one of these end of the world type things and it's not just going to be us. We've got a pair of immortals. Two mutants, one that just might be…"

"We're leaving," Buffy announces suddenly cutting Xander off.

"We know. Two days after…" Willow begins but stops as Buffy shakes her head.

"Before," the blonde announces. She takes a deep breath looking around at all of her friends. "If I thought, even for the smallest fraction of an instant that Glory wouldn't come after you guys without me and Dawn here I'd take her this very instant and run as far as fast as I could." She gives her head a small, sad, nearly defeated shake. "But I can't. Glory knows how much you guys mean to me so the only way I can protect everyone is to keep you guys close to me. She's only seen Kurt and Logan once, never even laid eyes on Duncan or Amanda let alone any of the X-Men and I plan on keeping it that…"

"Whoa. Wait a minute." Xander starts standing up from his seat. "You're just planning on turning down all this high powered help?"

Buffy steps down onto the lower level, her gaze as hard as he has ever seen before. "They don't know what they're dealing with. Glory isn't some mutant that can be locked up once she's defeated. If she can be defeated. She's just going to keep coming, and coming, and coming until she gets what she wants."

"But it's okay for us to face that?" Anya demands.

"I can protect you," Buffy declares honestly.

"And they're more then capable of protecting themselves," Anya shoots back. "Duncan and Amanda are both immortal…"

"Yeah and just think about what'll happen to them if Glory finds that out? You saw what she did to Spike. Give her somebody that isn't going to stay dead…" She shudders as quick images of gruesome torture flick through her mind. Dropping her head a little she takes a light breath before raising it back up to stare at everyone. "Right now Kurt is talking to this Xavier, Professor person. By tomorrow they're going to find out Faith's been a model prisoner…"

"How do you know that?" Giles asks with a moderate curiosity coloring his voice.

Buffy looks over at him, shrugs, a slight roll of her shoulder. "Angel's been keeping tabs on her and sending me updates. So far she's been a model prisoner."

Xander groans out loud as Willow shakes her head. "Thanks for keeping us in the loop," he mutters.

"It's not like I asked…" She growls out before stopping herself. She gives her head a shake saying, "that's beside the point. All that matters is that Duncan and Logan are going to be going to pick up Faith leaving just Kurt and Amanda to deal with. Now I could hit them over the head, but I'd like to be a little more subtle."

"If you're going to do this then you should probably just slip them a Mickey," Giles suggest.

A puzzled expression creases Willow's face as she turns her head towards Giles. "Why would we want to take them to Disney Land?"

The watcher groans lightly before slipping his glasses off to give them a thorough cleanly that they don't need. "I believe he meant drugging them by slipping something in their drinks that will render them unconscious," Anya supplies with a smug expression.

"I knew that," Xander chirps happily.

Buffy ignores the byplay. Instead she directs her attention towards Giles. "Do you know something that'll knock them out, keep them out for six hours or so that isn't going to hurt them?"

"Several actually," Giles answers rubbing at his temples. Putting his glasses back on he turns his attention back to Buffy. "You still need someplace to hide them. Unless you were just planning on leaving them at your house?"

"The point is to keep them safe from Glory," Buffy mutters. "I was planning on leaving them at the Gallery, plus leaving Spike's little sex toy behind to protect them."

Giles nods thoughtfully. "It seems you've put a lot of thought into this."

She shrugs at the comment not sure if it was meant as a complement or not. Not really caring either way. "I just feel like there's something I'm missing, something that'll make it that much harder for glory to find them if she decides to look." She admits quietly, almost guiltily.

"What about a cloaking spell?" Willow questions then pauses thoughtfully before adding, "well not really cloaking but sort of making them less… Noteworthy to people seeing them. Sort of like with Marcie, but without that whole invisibility thing."

"You can do that?" Buffy questions in amazement.

"It's done," Tara announces excitedly. Her face beaming brilliantly, a quiet sheen lighting her eyes. "The memory reclamation spell. I've finished it." She catches Buffy's gaze, "whenever you want we can do the spell."

Buffy nods, a sense of anticipation filling her. "Tonight. We'll do it tonight." Then in a softer voice she adds, "I can leave him that much at least."

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

A cooling breeze blows in off the warm waters of the deep inlet. Boats and ships of nearly every conceivable size, shape, and description dot the harbor. Single masted as well as double, triple masted deep sea galleys anchored off shore and shallow drafted coast huggers. Amanda thought if seen from a great height that they would look like insects moving to and fro without any noticeable pattern.

Throngs of people line the open air market, the dull roar made by all of them clamoring for the objects of their desire at the same time is nearly deafening. Just like with their European counterparts Amanda can't help but wonder how the attendants can get the orders right, or if they get them wrong and nobody notices or says anything.

Most are similar to one another, all having the same dark, black or nearly black hair. The same sun dark skin, slim nose and mouth, dark eyes. Most wear the same drab gray or black or white clothing with wide sleeves and cuffs in both the arms and legs. A few wear similar style clothes but made from a finer cut of cloth.

Amanda however stands out like a stork among pond full of ducks. Not just because she stands almost half a foot above nearly everyone else's head, but because her style of dress is as foreign as the sword on her hip. Her look is the very image of the swashbuckling adventurer from Europe; black boots with turned down tops, cream colored pants, white shirt, a rose colored jacket, a light cloak, a wide brim white hat, and a saber slung low on her hip.

She carouses the shops and stalls with a keen eye and a quick razor sharp tongue as she haggles over prices of the things she requires. Like the clothes she needs to blend into Oriental society. She ignores the shouts, the jostling -- while keeping a sharp watch on her coin -- the grind, and the pressure as she makes her way along the street.

Turning she stops dead in her tracks as the last person she thought, expects, or wants to see in the world stands not more then five paces in front of her. No taller, in a few cases shorter, then the people sweeping past him, giving him a good foot of space.

In the light of day, from this distance, she gets her first really good look at the man that thoroughly trounced her, just shy of three years ago, in the mud slick streets of Alexandria during one of the worst storms she's lived through. Dark eyes, black as coal, bore into her. A hard face, all sharp angles and planes covered with a thick stubble. Dark hair sways side to side in the soft breeze. Just like all that time ago he's covered, head to toe, in dark fur covered hides.

His unstrung bow is slung horizontally across his back along with his quiver full of arrows. A heavy bladed sword hangs at his waist, a long, thick bladed dagger -- nearly the size of short sword -- balances his belt. "Shanghai's not the place to be practicing your trade," he starts off without preamble. His eyes graze over her body, a wolfish grin slipping across his lips. "They don't take kindly to that sort of activity in these parts."

Her glare is enough to stop most people in their tracks, or at least give them reason to pause. It didn't even seem to faze this man standing in front of her as he steps close. "Puskin not satisfied with getting his crest back. Did he send you back to take something else. My right hand maybe?"

"Your head actually," he answers bluntly in a cold, hard voice. A shiver runs up Amanda's spine at the deathly quality of his voice, but doesn't react. He smiles, an arrogant smirk as if he knows exactly what she's feeling. "I declined. Couldn't see much point in separating such a fine head from an exquisite body. It'd be such a waste."

Amanda's glare hardens as he speaks. It doesn't do any good. Taking a quick breath she tries to calm herself. "I hope you aren't expecting me to be grateful?" She mutters with a hiss. With one last cold glare at him she turns on her heel and begins striding away. Or that is what her intent had been, only the thick crowd of people stop her. With a whispered curse she begins forcing her way through the throng.

Behind her back she can practically feel his smile glazing her back. She knows he's walking behind her when she feels the crowd around her loosen slightly. "If I wanted anything from you, I'd take it." His voice nothing more then a low growl in her ear.

Amanda spins back around on him forcing him to take a step back. She looms over him, but after the initial backward step he doesn't budge. "If you think, for even one single moment that you're man enough to take something, anything that's mine without a fight you're in for the surprise of your life, you short, mangy, dog faced… Mongrel."

"Jacques Del Leon," he replies calmly.

Amanda blinks as she mutters, "what?" That hadn't been a response she had been expecting.

He grins wolfishly at her. "Only my oldest friends and most despised enemies have the right to insult me. To my face anyway," he adds as an after thought. "Since you're neither you'll just have to use my name."

"Just why would I do that?" She questions, her annoyance clear in her voice.

"Because we're going to be spending a lot of time together," he answers lazily.

Her eyes narrow on him. Partly in amusement, partly in astonishment she murmurs, "we are?"

A mischievous glint lights his eyes as he nods saying in affirmation, "we are."

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Professor Charles Xavier lets out a deep sigh as he tosses the file he has been perusing quite carefully onto his desk with a morbid sense of failure. A feeling he is becoming all to familiar with of late. The detailed file on one Faith Cambell provides him with almost no useful information. While it gives him a complete and thoroughly comprehensive history on the aforementioned young woman it lacks any kind of depth.

Rubbing at his right temple lightly he uses the toggle to maneuver his chair around so he can gaze out his office's large bay window. At the finely manicured grounds of his century old family home. Living within these hallowed halls -- isolated and insulated from the world beyond -- sometimes it is easy to forget about the harsh realities that exist beyond its boundaries.

Stapling his fingers, thumbs tucked in under his chin while his forefingers rest against the tip of his nose, his mind works its way through the thick file sitting on his desk.

Faith's file. While it holds all the facts and data and pertinent information that is available on her it doesn't even begin to tell him what he needs to know to make an informed decision on the matter at hand. It does an excellent job at painting an overall portrait to evaluate, even though it's a hazy drawing lacking the vividness of a true artist.

A turbulent childhood is a kind way to describe Faith's early years, never mind her first few days of life. Born a full month and a half premature and addicted to her mother's drug of choice, heroine.

Her father is a non-entity. Her mother, a heroine addict that died July 15, 1984 from a prolong bout of pneumonia. A sickness that was a direct result of her having acquired the HIV virus years earlier.

The doctors had performed a cesarean section earlier that day in the hopes of saving the mother at the expense of the child, only their plan backfired. The child lived while the mother was dead within hours.

Faith, as one of the nurses named her, never showed any sign of the disease. Never tested positive for the virus. A medical impossibility as far as any doctor in the field has ever been concerned. Something that should be impossible. Something that should have caused the medical community to clamor after her like she was the goose that laid golden eggs.

Only nobody ever found out.

A small, but extremely powerful holding company based in England obliterated nearly all record of Clara Cambell. The only reason the facts were in the file on his desk is because of their source deep inside the U.S. State department.

Of nearly as much interest is the fact that Faith never showed any signs of drug withdrawal.

If that is what a girl who just has the potential of becoming a slayer is capable of it is hardly any wonder that the same British holding company went to such great lengths trying to take possession of the orphaned Faith. Only her Grandfather, Jacob Cambell, had managed to hold them at bay. No mean feat considering the financial and political strings they seemed more then capable of pulling.

Charles still couldn't make up his mind on whether that was the best course of action for Faith. He couldn't place his finger on why, but he just couldn't get past the feeling that something tragic, something even more tragic, happened during her life.

Despite the phenomenally high test scores she was at best a sporadic student. A's and B's one day. D's and F's the next with practically no middle ground. Such ups and downs are indicative of a troubled home life. As is most often the case nobody noticed.

Then one day, the twentieth of May nineteen ninety-eight she disappeared. Simply vanished as if she never existed. She didn't turn back up for a year. When she did it was in an intensive care ward at Sunnydale General Hospital with multiple injuries; blunt head trauma and a sever knife wound to her abdomen were the worst.

An eight month coma followed. After waking up she simply walked out of the hospital, assaulting a woman and stealing her clothes. Over the next few days there were several run-ins with the police, including a capture and subsequent escape.

After that she vanished again, but turned up two weeks later. Only this time when she resurfaced it was in a Los Angeles police station confessing to a plethora of varying crimes ranging from simple assault, breaking and entering to torture and multiple homicides.

The question why continues to dog his mind. Neither guilt or remorse fit with her psychological profile. He lets out another long exhalation. He's finding it very frustrating trying to figure out what is going on by reading between the lines. Especially when half the story is missing.

The girl Faith had attacked at the hospital hadn't pressed charges for whatever reason, and neither had the man at the bus station -- a known pimp and drug dealer. The man she claims to have tortured denied the incident entirely despite a face of evidence that says otherwise. Aside from her confession there isn't a single scrape of evidence against her. A confession that technically isn't worth the paper it's printed on.

His head swivels towards the dark, red wood door. Knowing how uncomfortable it made most people when he bade them to enter before they make their presence known he holds his tongue until he hears Ororo's gentle tap. "Come," he says with authority as he turns his chair back around to face the door.

The heavy door swings open smoothly, silently on its well oiled hinges. Ororo, the white hair dark skin beauty whose mutant powers give her an unimaginable control over the weather -- from creating micro blizzards in an enclosed room to touching down upwards of fifty class five twisters in under a minute -- walks in through the opening created.

"You wished to see me Professor?" Ororo inquires with a tiny nervous hesitation.

Charles nods, an almost imperceptible movement as he says, "it's nearly time for finals. With Jean's passing and Scott taking an indefinite leave of absence that leaves just you and I to handle the rotation. I thought it would be prudent for us to begin our preparations earlier then we would normally."

"It shouldn't be too difficult. Scott left a detailed syllabus for all of his classes and Jean…" She stops speaking, her gaze shifting over Charles head to the window and he graying sky beyond. Schooling her features Ororo forces herself, mind and body, back to a place of utter stillness. "Jean hated waiting to the last moment to do anything. She had to have everything done as soon as possible. The sooner the better as far as she has always been concerned." The corner of her lips to up slightly, but nowhere near enough to touch her eyes. "She had her exams prepared nearly a week before Striker's assault."

Charles' own smile is more then a touch sad. "As if she somehow knew?" He muses in melancholy softness. Ororo's gaze shifts back to Xavier's dark tilted eyes, a challenging glint in her own. He shakes his head catching a quick flash of her temper. "That…" He stops glancing down at the floor for a moment before lifting his eyes back up to her.

She closes her own eyes for a brief second and lets out a short breath. Reopening her eyes she admits in a soft voice, "that was very nearly my first thought as well."

Xavier nods, sighing softly as he shifts his line of sight so his gaze is taking in several pictures along the mantle. Old pictures of his first students, not just Ororo, Jean, and Scott but others as well. The unequivocally brilliant Henry -- or as everyone calls him Hank -- McCoy. Warren Worthington the Third, heir to one of America's largest privately owned corporations.

There are other pictures lining the mantle, most are newer photos of students that have called this venerable old mansion home. A few however are older, black and whites, taken long ago when times were infinitely simpler then they are now. When it was far easier to tell the good guys from the bad. From just after the Korean war while he had been trekking his way across Europe, Asia, Africa, and the Middle East.

After several long moments Charles turns back to Ororo. "There's another matter of some importance. As you are no doubt aware Peter has been expressing a great deal interest in staying on after graduation. Joining both the faculty and the team."

Ororo nods her head thoughtfully with an amused smile playing across her lips. "for as long as I've known Peter he's expressed a desire to become a member of the X-Men."

Charles smiles lightly at Ororo's remembrance. "I'd like you to begin getting Peter acclimated to an X-Man's schedule."

"I'm sure Marie and Bobby will enjoy the company," she responds with a light playful smirk.

Xavier's grin matches her as he agrees with her saying, "I'm sure they will."

For a brief moment peace and tranquility settles over Charles Xavier's private office. A calm stillness that seldom pervades any room in this old mansion. A stillness, a tranquility, and peace that is simply destined to be ruined.

The phone rings, a sharp double beep. Four eyes latch onto the phone as it rings a second time. A different type of stillness fills the room. A dread laced silence that hangs in the air, only broken by the phone ringing for the third time.

Ororo steps to her left grabbing the handset, placing it to her ear in one smooth motion. "Xavier's School for The Gifted. Ororo Munroe speaking. How may I direct your call? Yes, he's right here. One moment please." She takes the phone away from her ear, a confused expression marring her features as she says, "it's the American embassy. In Moscow."

Xavier's face sombers drastically as he takes the handset from Ororo. Placing it against the side of his face he says, "Charles Xavier. To whom am I speaking? Yes Mr. Reynold, we do have a student by that name attending… Yes, that is the name of the town he grew up in. The rest of his family. Mother, Father, a younger sister as well as Aunts, Uncles, and cousins to numerous to list, still live in town. A farming community several miles outside of the town proper," he finishes correcting himself.

Over the next several minutes Charles Xavier is silent as he listens to Mr. Reynold and the situation he has to deal with. His face pales, draining of color with each passing second. Each word that he hears. "Everyone?" He asks, his voice taking on a ghostly, a haggard quality. A spark lights his eyes as a bit of life enters his face. "There is… Of course. Whatever's necessary… Whatever arrangements need to be made to expedite the process. I wish it was better news as well Mr. Reynold, but at least there's a little silver lining this otherwise bleak cloud. Thank you. My lawyers will be in touch shortly."

Taking the phone from his ear, he hangs up. Catching Ororo's questioning gaze, "a moment," he inquires speaking softly. Closing his eyes he focuses his mind, quickly finding the young man he's looking for. Peter, would you come to my office please? He request telepathically.

He sighs softly opening his eyes. "Bad news?" Ororo murmur.

A sardonic laugh escapes his lips as he says, "lately there doesn't seem to be any other kind." Lifting his hands Charles rubs his temples in an attempt to soothe away the headache he feels building. "Peter's home Ulst, a small town, under a thousand people, mostly farmers, on the eastern edge of Siberia. Sometime last week, the authorities aren't sure when. The entire population vanished."

Ororo's eyes go wide as a shock spawned, "how?" burst from between he lips.

Charles gives a small shake of his head saying, "no one knows."

"The entire town? A thousand people is no small thing to make vanish?"

"Not quite everyone," Xavier interrupts knowing what Ororo is going to say and knowing she is right. It would take someone of incredible power to accomplish such a feat. "Subsequent searches revealed a young girl that had been hiding in the town. Peter's sister, Illyana."

"Do you..?"

Charles shakes his head as he says, "I won't know until I've had a chance to examine her first hand. Normally a mutants power don't manifest until early adolescents with stress being the key factor. Illyana doesn't turn six for another seven weeks, but still it is possible for her nascent powers, whatever they are, to have emerged if the event was traumatic enough."

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

The multi colored; blue, red, yellow, green, and purple starburst pattern super-ball hits the concrete floor exactly halfway between the thick steel bars. It bounces off the floor with a dull thwack, hits the bar halfway up, bounces again when it hits the ceiling dead center and bounces back to the hand that had originally set its course less then a quarter of a second ago.

Faith blows out a short, despondent breath as she sends the super-ball back on its way. It bounces around the cell in a blur before landing back in her hand. Again she whips it out in what would seem a random direction and again it bounces around the cell only to wind up in Faith's strong hand once more.

She smiles sardonically.

It's all part of the slayer package she loves so much. Along with the speed, the strength, the accelerated healing, prophetic dreams, enhanced senses, and a few other nifty abilities. There's also this instinctive skill with angles and trajectories. She could literally bounce the ball of thirty-two different walls and have it land back in the palm of her hand. For all Faith knew it could be a thousand walls, surfaces, anything at all and she's fairly certain it would always return to her hand.

Like with most things in her life she has know idea how it works, just that it does.

"Faith!" A rough voice calls out suddenly. Not for the first time Faith wonders if Bimm swallowed a gallon of battery acid to get that extra gravelly, rock crushing quality in his voice.

"Hey Bimm," Faith answers softly. At least it's sudden to everyone who isn't a slayer. Faith however heard him coming at the far end of the cell block when he passed through the security check point. She had made a point of memorizing everyone's walk when she first arrived here months ago. She fond it's a good way of freaking people out. Knowing whose there before they make their presence known.

Not that it was all that hard to tell a guard's footsteps from a prisoner's. Hard sole footwear for the guards and soft shoes that felt like they were made out of paper for the prisoners. Have to give the edge to the guards. Whatever that might be.

Not that Faith had to worry about the guards or the prisoners. Most everyone learnt early on that Faith existed on an entirely different level then the rest of the prison. It took nearly six weeks of constant beatings by the more then enthusiastic guards for everyone to figure that out. Beatings meant to teach her exactly where her place is. Beatings that lasted until their arms felt like they were going to fall off. Enthusiastic until they learnt they could beat her from sun-up till sun down and barely leave a mark on her.

When they actually managed that much the marks were gone by morning.

It took someone, or something supernatural to really make a lasting impression on her. On any slayer for that matter. Vampires, demons, another slayer. Normal humans just couldn't get enough umph behind their punches, kicks, whatever.

Faith hops down off her bunk. Turning to look at large black man crowding her cell's doorway. She figures most people would be intimidated by his size, his bulk, his body builderesque physique.

She, however, isn't most people. Instead of intimidated Faith can feel herself becoming excited; Her blood pumping faster. Her breathing coming in deeper, quicker breathes as her body gets everything it can from each inhalation. Her mind becomes clearer, sharper as her body gears up for a fight.

A fight she's not about to let happen. Other inmates she'd put them in their place in a fast heartbeat. But as long as the guards weren't stepping way out line she let them be.

"Warden wants to see you," he announces in the same hard voice.

Faith's eyes widen slightly in surprise. The Warden a short, wiry man with a pencil thin mustache and a thin receding hair line by the name Ramin Liddons, didn't just summon people to his office. At least not in all the time she's been here. "Why?" She asks defensively.

Bimm gives the impression of shrugging without really moving. "He said to bring you to his office so that's what I'm going to do." His voice as harsh as ever. He steps back out of her way and gestures for her to step out as he says, "come along. No need to keep the man waiting."

Faith sighs as she steps out of her cell. Without thinking about it she slips her super-ball into her pocket.

She didn't bother to wait and see if Bimm falls in behind her. She didn't need to, his footsteps are loud in her ears as she strides down the gray oppressive corridors.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Half a dozen checkpoints and nearly fifteen minutes later Faith finds herself waiting outside a maple colored door that stands slightly ajar. Bimm applying a light pressure to her shoulder to hold at bay while Ms. Appleton, Liddons' assistant, announces her. Faith could listen in on the conversation, but she didn't. She didn't see the point. She was finding the veneer paneling far too interesting to divert any of her attention away from it's study.

"Mr. Liddons will see you now," the overly perky raven hair brunette announces with far too much good cheer for Faith's liking. "Alone," she adds as Bimm begins to follow her in.

Faith glances over her shoulder at the stony face guard. With a small frown she steps forward pushing the door open.

Blinking once she takes the room in with a single sweeping glance; bright, sunny, cheerful. A complete contrast to the feelings of gloom and doom the rest of prison invokes.

"Come in, come in," a clear, well educated voice says from within the room.

Faith's eyes sweep back over to the spot the voice originated from. Ramon Liddons stands with his back towards her, looking out the large bay window. He's nothing but a dark shadow silhouetted by light.

It isn't really the pose she would expect a warden of a maximum security prison to take while waiting for a convicted murderess. "Close the door will you?" He request politely.

With an indifferent shrug she kicks the door close with her boot heel. Faith got the serious impression that Liddons never spent a single day in law enforcement before taking this job.

"And have a seat," he finishes pleasantly as he turns around to face her for the first time. His melodic voice seeming to worm its way into her brain.

With a shrug she crosses the intervening space and sits down on the thinly padded low-back wooden chair. He gives her a veiled smile. To her eyes it looks more like a grimace.

There is something about the man that sends off little warning bells inside her head. That there's something not quite normal about him. At the same the time it isn't like her slayer sense is going off the walls telling her she's in the room with some kind of demon.

"How old are you Faith?" Liddons asks stepping around the edge of his desk. For a brief instant Faith feels an intense urge to answer, to tell the truth. With a minimal effort she pushes it back down concentrating on Liddons desk. It's the only piece of dark furniture in the entire room, like a reminder of where he is. For the first time Faith sees the open folder on his desk. She doesn't need a very good imagination to know that's her file she's glancing at.

After a moments silence Liddons picks up as if nothing were amiss. Glancing down at the folder he begins, "because there seems to be a bit of confusion in the subject. Here I have an arrest report and a few pieces of subsequent documentation all of which has your D.O.B. listed July 15, 1982 which would have you turning eighteen in just a few months. Now, and this is the problem, some altruistic gentleman out there has proof that you're only going to be celebrating your sixteenth birthday. Not only does he have proof, but he also has the political muscle to have it mean something."

"What do you mean?" Faith demands, her eyes narrowing, her body tensing.

"What it means, according to a liberal bleeding heart Judge, is that you never should have been placed here. That the cops that processed you, the D.A. that prosecuted you should have verified your age. That as a minor it wasn't up to you, but your guardian, to accept the plea bargain or refuse council or confess in the first place."

Faith could feel her chest constricting, growing tighter, making it harder for her to breath with each and every word he says. She bolts up out of the chair, knocking it over as she spins around. She quickly turns back, wild eyes boring into Liddons' skull. "You can't just let me go," she blurts out frantically. "I killed those people. I deserve to be here, I have to be here. It's the only way I can pay for everything I've done." The only way I can prove to Buffy that I'm not evil, that I'm sorry. She adds silently, but with far more fervor.

"Faith," Liddons' voice cuts into her thoughts, "I have no doubts what-so-ever that you killed those people, that this is where you should live out the rest of your natural life. Unfortunately I don't control these things. If I did this is where you'd be staying."

"What's that suppose to mean? I just get a walk? Get away with murder because of when I was born?"

"Pretty much," Liddons answers with a disappointed shrug. "Since your confession isn't worth the paper it's printed on and there's no solid evidence connecting you to any of the…"

"I'll confess again. I'm old enough now."

He shrugs closing the folder. "Judge already overturned the previous conviction so another confession would be about as meaningful as this one on account of you already having your trail and all. Of course the Judge also decided that you need to have a strong, positive, nurturing influence in your life so he declared that you're to become the ward of one Charles Xavier, the Head Master of a private academy back east. One of the school's representatives will be here in the morning to collect you and your things. You'll be staying in one of the residential units until then."

Faith scowls at the man. This is definitely not what she wants. How is she suppose to prove to Buffy that she wants to make amends, make it right between them if somebody comes along and rips it away from her. Of course she could always kill Liddons, just reach out and snap his neck like a dry twig, but that would be a little counter productive on her part.

"You can go now. Sergeant Bimm will show you to your quarters," he says with a negligent flip dismissing her. Faith glares at him for a moment before turning to leave. As she approaches the door his voice stops her as he says, "and Faith. Stay out of trouble tonight," almost like an after thought.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Amanda's scowl takes in the far wall as she strides menacingly towards the hard, white plaster. Her arms folded across her chest, the white silk blouse is spotless despite the swath of destruction strewn across the room. Her skirts, made of a light material and divided for riding make a distinctive swish with each step. Her soft soled leather boots barely make a sound as she pads across the floor.

She had been out all night -- the previous day and the one prior to that -- looking Jacques to no avail. Nobody has seen hide nor hair of him for nearly a week, about the same time she last saw him. They had been friends, and occasionally something more, for more then a decade now and this is the first time that he has been gone more then a couple days with leaving her word.

Without warning she pivots in mid stride and heads back the way she just came. Fiery sparks seem to shoot from her eyes as she takes in the robust man just shy of his fortieth year standing in her path. "A week he's been gone and no word," she snarls at him despite knowing it isn't his fault. She simply needs an object to vent her rage and Eblin is who she has at hand.

Eblin rubs his slightly portly hands together as he takes a step back, away from the enraged and armed woman. Never a good combination in his opinion, though he wisely keeps that view to himself. "Perhaps he's off fetching some trinket back for one of them there rich merchants that's always in need of his service?"

"He tells me before he goes off," Amanda hisses knowing it's entirely possible, but finding it highly unlikely. "Besides I normally go with him," she adds defensively. After having him forcefully intrude, push himself into her life she knew him better then she's known anybody before -- with the possible exception of Rebecca. She's practically the one who reinvented him. New clothes, hairstyle, grooming. So him just leaving without telling her is on a very short list of things he would do.

At least she believes it's something he wouldn't do. Especially considering how he came into her life. Barging. Refusing to leave no matter what she did.

It took nearly a month for her to realize that there was no getting rid of him. Wherever she went there he was. She could put a thousand miles between them and at the end he would be there waiting for her. Like a cat who found a favorite mouse to play with.

Once she gave in, stopped running, and allowed Leon a place on the fringes of her life it took her another six months to get him out of the fur animal hides he had still been wearing. The only clothes she had ever seen him wear. He's so set in his ways she could almost believe he came from a different time altogether.

Only he is mortal, at least she believes he's mortal. He isn't immortal. Although in the ten years she's known him, he's never been sick. Not even the slightest case of the sniffles.

There's a lot about Leon that she still doesn't known. For a moment she wonders if this is what a mortal involved with an immortal is like. The lack of personal information, or history.

"Wherever Master Leon has gotten off to I'm sure he's well." Eblin's thick voice pulls Amanda out of her silent musings. "He's the finest swordsman I've ever seen before. Why one time I saw him defend a little beggar boy from a troupe of Royal guard. Didn't kill a one of them and walked away with out a scratch he did."

Amanda nods at the statement. She's seen similar things from Leon. Taking on dozens of armed men at a time and not just winning but utterly embarrassing his foes. Normally cut throats and their ilk, entire guilds of thieves at a time. With never an injury to show.

There are other questions she has aside from his skill with a sword, any weapon really, or without any weapon for that matter. Skill that surpasses any immortal she has ever seen.

Then there's the nagging suspicion that he knows that she is immortal. Little comments, vague innuendoes. The fact that no immortal has challenged her in the decade Leon has carved a place in her life. She's felt them so she knows they've felt her but nobody has approached her. Friend or foe.

She looks over at Eblin, the man Leon called up, from where she didn't know, shortly after they reached Athens. The two of them had a history, that much is obvious.

The type of history though, that's the mystery. Neither Leon or Eblin ever discuss their past and she's never pressed them on the matter. "You've been in service to Leon for quite some time now? All the years you've spent with us here and more before."

He smiles, patiently as he studies her without looking too closely. "Aye Ms. Amanda," he says after a moments hesitation. "I've known the Master longer then most alive. Just this side of thirty years I suppose it is now. I were in Vienna, keeping one step ahead of the local magistrate as it were. The alarm had gone up throughout the city a few hours before dark, seems a few score of Viking longboats had been spotted off shore. I'd like to be able to tell you that I was one of those brave souls getting ready to face death, or worse at the hands of those savage creatures in defense of my home but the truth of the matter is I were just trying to find a place to hide and wait out the butchering that were about to take place. Not very brave but then again I never have been.

"By the time the first boats hit the shore I were still looking for a little hidey hole. Well I came around one corner and there were the first wave of them savages, burning, killing, looting, pillaging, to their hearts content. Leaving nothing standing in their wake, and there I found myself. In there wake.

"I turned and ran like all hordes of Hades were hot on my heels. I turned back round the corner I came down and there he is, large as life, so to speak, walking down the street without a care in the world, a bottle in each hand. I rush by shouting at him, warning him of the horde chasing after me.

"I still wonder what would have happened if they didn't attack him? If he would have just let them go on about there merry business of chopping me into little pieces. As it were, because he were closer they attached him first. I expected to hear his death cries in seconds, only it were the ring of steel striking steel.

"Should of just kept running is what I should of done, only I couldn't help but take a look back. There he were, one man weaving a swath of death through the most fearsome horde I've ever seen. It were like seeing some strange dance. Didn't take but moments for him to break their will to fight, and send them scurrying like a pack of mangy dogs. I half thought he was going to chase them down."

Amanda frowns as Eblin speaks. Realizing the old man isn't about to stop talking anytime soon she cuts him off saying, "you tell me that and you expect me to believe he was done in by a band of cut throats, thieves, and vagabonds."

"Well it has been thirty years Ms. Amanda," Eblin responds.

"I think you've been hit in the head one too many times. If Leon is a day over thirty-five…"

"He doesn't look a day older then the first time you lain eyes on him." Amanda blinks as she cast her mind back down the long decade. All of her memories of Leon, different clothes, different hairstyle, but always the same. Never aging.

How did I miss it? She asks herself silently. Why couldn't I see it? Is that why he left, so I wouldn't discover his secret? Didn't he notice that I don't look a day older since we met?

"I've known him three times as long as you Ms. Amanda and he's always looked just the way he's looked. Though you've managed to add a touch of civility to him Ms. Amanda, more then I ever thought possible."

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

The kitchen is packed with people. What had started out as just Logan, with Duncan nearby, and Kurt on the fringes as Amanda told Logan, or Leon as Amanda continues to call him, had quickly escalated with Dawn emerging from the basement followed by a slightly less tortured looking Spike and the android he had constructed in Buffy's image, though she had been looking less then pleased that he's out of his sick bed. Later on, a few hours -- maybe less -- Xander, Anya, and Buffy had arrived and taken up positions around the small room.

At about four o'clock, Duncan with assistance from both Buffy's had prepared a large pasta dinner with the ingredients Giles and the two witches, Willow and Tara, had brought with them from the store.

Dawn gazes at Amanda with large, wide and clear crystal blue eyes as the immortal finishes her tale. The details were so rich and vivid she almost felt like she had been all the places Amanda had talked about. That she could just reach out and touch all the strange and wonderful; images, people, and places Amanda painted with her words.

The innumerable masses of a Shanghai port market. The torrential, down pouring rain, the feel of the slick mud through the soles of her boots. The pulse pounding excitement, adrenaline rushing thrill of a sword fight. The fear facing someone vastly better then you and knowing they could kill you any moment.

Dawn quickly glances at Logan before shifting her attention back to Amanda, a slightly perplexed frown creasing her lips. If Amanda is the kind of woman Logan is attracted to then why had he been with her mother.

Rational, sensible, level headed. Those were all accurate words to describe her mother. Nothing at all like the master thieve sitting across the table. Of course Amanda never said that they had been involved with each like that.

"Neither of you ever saw each other after that?" Kurt inquires breaking the extended silence. He himself knew Amanda from a long time ago. From his childhood more then two decades in the past. At the time she had been one of the few adults to accept him without any reservations. Despite the tale she just spun of thievery and swashbuckling adventures that have lasted more then a millennium he can't help but see her as he remembers. A beautiful woman in desperate need of help.

Dawn shoots a quick glance at the blue skin mutant whose squatting on the counter top -- claiming he finds chairs to be highly uncomfortable because of his tail -- a cup of hot coco cradled in his hands. His tail, a small teaspoon held in its grip, lazily stirs his drink. Catching Dawn looking at him he flashes her a warm, sharp tooth smile.

"Never," Amada answers.

Right on top of her Duncan says, "there was Berlin. During the middle of the war…"

"Gonna have to be a lot more specific with this bunch mate. Lot of you's been around for awhile. I'm fairly sure there's been more then one war took place around Berlin," Spike cuts in with a wide smirk on his face.

For once Xander seems to find amusement with what Spike said as he chuckles lightly. Just until he remembers that it was Spike doing the talking and that alone cuts his laughter short.

There's nothing light about Duncan's returning glare that takes in both the vampire and the mortal.

"That's right," Amanda agrees remembering the conversation she and Duncan had just a few short days ago. Her dark eyes doing their best to pin Logan to the pot, a task she is rediscovering is all but impossible. "How did you crack that safe so quickly?" She demands. Then as an after thought she adds, "without any tools?"

"If I had any idea what you were talking about darling we wouldn't be having this conversation," Logan responds tersely.

"It probably has to do with his enhanced senses," Giles supplies putting the dish cloth down. "Mr. Logan here can quite possibly hear the tumblers clicking without the aid of any specialized equipment. It really is quite fascinating. Why with just a few days to run some test I could probably learn exactly what the upper limit of your senses are."

Logan's glare intensifies drastically as he stares at Giles. "I see a needle anywhere in my vicinity and we're going to find out exactly what your…"

"Logan," Kurt interrupts. He didn't think Rupert meant anything by his statement. The man simply has a mind that needs to classify and put into some kind of order everything he comes across. The last thing he wants is for Logan to start elimanating their allies. It would just be doing Glory's work for her.

Giles blanches slightly as if just realizing what he said, how it can be construed. Especially by a group of people who have an intrinsic fear of that exact thing happening to them. "That was a rather crass thing to say," Giles begins starting to apologize.

"Sure as hell was Rupert," Spike growls at the watcher with as he produces a cigarette and lights it with a large flourish.

A moment later the Buffy-bot snatches it out of his mouth crushing it out. "Smoking isn't allowed in the house. If you want to have a cigarette you'll either have to go outside or into the basement and open a window." She informs Spike with a stern expression.

Giles ignores Spike's comment and the androids public service message as he adds, "Especially considering your experiences."

"The basement's in the bloody house," Spike grips.

A large frown spreads across the robots face. "I'm sorry Spike. You know how much I love you I'd let you smoke wherever you want, but they," she points at Willow, Buffy, and Xander, "forced me to say those awful things to you and be a bad girlfriend."

"Sodden blighter," Spike mumbles to himself as all the eyes in the room settle on him. "Put my hands on that bloody git I'm gonna string him up by his bleeding entrails," he snarls snatching another cigarette from his pack. Then he seems to notice everyone's gaze on him. "What?" He challenges them all. "It's that pounce Warren. I told him I wanted Buffy. Does that sound like bleeding Buffy?"

Several people open their mouth's to answer in the affirmative. Buffy's glare silences them before they can say anything. Not that Spike gave anybody a chance to speak as he continue.

"Sure it was nice for awhile, Buffy acting all lovey dovey but it weren't real. There was no fire, no passion. No thunderclouds bursting in her eyes sending out lighting bolts to strike me dead." With that he spins away from the assemble crowd and burst through the basement door like a man about to do murder.

"Being dead certainly seems to agree with him," Amanda comments even as the door swings close behind Spike with a loud thud. "At least as for as expressing himself. And his confidence is sky high compared to a century ago." She gives her head a shake as she mutters, "William The Bloody indeed."

Xander's eyes light with a dark gleam as he catches Amanda's comment. "You knew Spike back when he was alive?" He asks hopefully sensing untold amounts of ammunition just about to be dropped in his lap.

"Spike?" Amanda questions forgetting for a moment the god awful name he had taken for himself.

"William," Duncan reminds her.

"Oh William," Amanda echoes. "Only briefly, but a more Victorian Gentleman you'd be hard press to find. Especially for that day and age. Completely devoted to his mother and besotted with a young woman who would never be able to appreciate him. He use to write poems and sonnets about how he felt for her. They were some of the most beautiful works I'd ever heard. Don't get me wrong they were utterly horrendous, but they were him and that made them beautiful."

"Spike wrote poetry," Buffy whispers in wonder.

Xander smiles, an almost evil grin as he corrects Buffy saying, "Spike wrote bad poetry," with a special emphasis on bad.

Amanda glares at the young man, she notes that even Logan's scowl deepens as he takes in Xander from head to toe -- he may not like the vampire, but he has developed a sort of grudging respect for him. She had been trying to show them that there's more to William then the facade he shows everyone. Buffy seems to see it, so do Willow and Tara. Even Giles seems to be reevaluating his opinion, but for Xander it is all about finding new information that can be used to hurt his rival.

Before Amanda, Buffy, Dawn, or anybody else can say anything to put Xander in his place a quiet sniffle breaks the silence. It is followed closely by a second. Everybody turns their attention to Buffy's android double, tears -- or a watery tear like substance -- leaking from her eyes in a fast moving steam. Her bottom lip trembles as she attempts to hold in the sob threatening to break through. She gazes around at everyone with large pain-filled eyes. "Spike doesn't love me anymore," she finally sobs pitifully.

Willow shoots an intense gaze at the android. She had been very surprised at how easy it was to find a spell that would do what she desired, make a clone of Buffy's essence and instill into the android, golem by ancient terms. As easy as finding the spell had been it was nothing when compared to the simplicity of actually casting it.

She had expected it to be infinitely harder, more complicated than what it had been. Like finding the memory reclamation spell. Maybe it had something to do with frequency. How many mages, witches, or other spell casters ever had to have their memories restored and how many made mobile targets of themselves to draw enemy fire.

Buffy's face hardens as she glares at the machine made to look like her. With a low, unintelligible utterance she marches to the basement door, nearly pulls it off it's hinges opening it, and storms downward slamming the door behind her.

"Men are just plain evil," Anya says with a frown, feeling an unusual sense of empathy for the android. The Buffy-bot had been nice to her from their first meeting, showing a genuine interest in the things Anya enjoys, money and sex. Taking a couple steps, she grabs a box of paper tissue from the window sill, causing the light, spring curtains to stir slightly. "Especially the undead soulless evil kind that have robots built of the woman they love," she adds putting a comforting arm around the androids shoulders.

"He said he loved me," the android says plucking a tissue from the box and dabbing at her eyes.

"They always do," Anya murmurs turning her towards the door. "If I was still a vengeance demon I'd grant your wish in…" Her voice trails off as she moves out of range of most of the people in the kitchen.

Xander gawks at where his girlfriend had been while Giles gives his head a rueful shake. The newly reinstated watcher turns his attention to Logan, "Buffy's told us a bit about your memory loss. I think that we might have found a solution, a spell."

"A spell?" Logan asks doubtfully.

Giles shrugs as he continues speaking. "Willow and Tara finished researching this afternoon." Giles gives Logan a worried smile before he continues. "It's not without some risks."

"What kind of risk?" Dawn demands having a better understanding of magic then Logan did.

Amanda sets her nearly empty cup down on the opposite side sink, near the coffee pot and Kurt.

"Just a few old standards, hair falling out, but it re-grows normally. A blue pigmentation to the skin that would last a week at most," he answers.

"This is a long way from Kalderash country," she says earning a small frown from Kurt who doesn't catch the reference. Willow however hears the name and frowns at the familiar sounding word. "Did you ever manage to join The Munich Circus?"

"Ja," he answers. "For awhile."

"I remember how you were, always talking about becoming the most famous, high flying acrobat to ever perform under the big Top. That you were going to travel all over the world. Performing in all the great cities."

Kurt smiles, a little sadness touching his eyes. "It was the experience of a life time. At least while the audience thought I was just wearing costume. Once they found out this is what I really look like," he says gesturing at himself, "the cries of demon and beast and monster rang out. It was all I could do to get out with a whole skin."

Amanda shakes her head. "You would think, that the human race would grow up eventually." She mutters with disgust having experienced a persecution or two herself over the span of her life. "What about Stefan? Janna? The three of you were inseparable growing up."

A little of Kurt's smile drops from his face. "I haven't laid eyes on Stefan since the night I fled the circus half a step ahead of a mob wanting my head decorating the top of a pitchfork, and Janna," his voice takes on a harder edge. "It's been nearly six years since the clan sent her off, because a curse an ancestor called down upon an enemy had begun to unravel."

"You didn't agree?" Amanda questions.

Kurt shakes his head vehemently. "They were wrong with what they did in the first place. A vampire kills a member of your family, your clan, find the foul creature and kill him. What they did," he says pausing with disgust. "Ripping a soul from heaven." he gives his head another shake.

"Excuse me," Willow says interrupting Kurt and Amanda. "I don't mean to intrude on a private conversation but I couldn't help over hear you talking."

"Ja… Yes," Kurt replies.

"You were saying something about a soul and a vampire and somebody sent to watch them," Willow begins but stops as she glances at Giles whose explaining the memory spell to Logan. "And I'm sorta, kinda hoping that you'd tell me exactly what it is you're talking about."

Kurt sighs slightly. He didn't really like discussing the subject especially with strangers. While his adoptive family may have been extremely proud of the cruelty they could inflict, he had been, and still is extremely disgusted by what they did, and to this day continues to perpetuate.

Before he can say anything though Amanda speaks up. "And why would he want to do that?" She inquires, a challenging note in her voice.

Willow meets Amanda's eyes for a brief moment. Exhaling softly she starts, "I have a friend, Angel, who just happens to be a vampire with a soul and if he's the same one your friend was sent to watch, then I have some really bad news for you."

Kurt eyes narrow as he focuses in on the young redhead. With a quick move he hops off the counter. "A hundred years ago a vampire killed the favored daughter of the Kalderash clan. In order to exact their revenge on the fiend, they forced his soul back into his body, forced it into a dead body alongside one of the most vilest kind of demon. Almost a century later the old woman felt the curse unraveling, felt the soul beginning to feel peace instead of the pain and suffering the demon inflicted on people. They sent Janna, Jenny as she was calling herself by that time, to watch him. She had come to America years earlier in order to attend school. It was my first time in the country, trying to talk her out of doing her family's bidding. She has always been loyal to the clan. It truly is her only fault."

"Jenny," Willow says softly remembering the young computer science teacher. "That wouldn't be Jenny Calendar would it?"

"How do you know that?" He demands.

Willow swallows, wishing she hadn't broached the subject in the first place, but she did and now she has to deal with the consequences. "She was here," the tiny redhead admits. Tara, having an innate sense of her lover's distress, silently takes Willow's hand, squeezing gently lending her what strength she needs.

"To keep an eye on your friend, Angel?" Amanda suggest.

Willow gives a small nod in response. "She was suppose to make sure the curse remained unbroken." She takes a small breath. "There's a happiness clause attached to the curse experience one moment of pure bliss, no pain, remorse, guilt and the curse is lifted. Well, Angel fell in love, soul-mates, were meant to be together, at first sight, kind of way."

Amanda frowns slightly as she asks, with a mildly confused voice, "and that was enough to break the curse?"

Willow's eyes widen a small fraction of an inch as her face reddens. "It wasn't so much the falling in love as the, uhm… You know?" They continue to look at her with blank faces and her skin darkens ever so slightly. "Consummating their love," she says in a rush.

Kurt frowns slightly at the information while Amanda nods. "He killed Janna," Kurt states forcefully.

"Why didn't…" Amanda starts to asks but stops as realization dawns on her. Catching Willow's eye she finds all the confirmation she needs there.

"You have to understand for more then a year he had been working with us, helping. He saved Buffy's life, saved the world." She gives her head a small, sad shake as she murmurs, "he was a completely different person. Cruel instead of nice. Wicked, not kind. Hateful, but it was still him. Still the person Buffy fell in love." She looks up at them. "How does somebody kill the person they love?"

Amanda's eyes shift downwards. She hadn't been able to kill Kenneth when she had the chance. Even after eight hundred years and him threatening Duncan's life. Kenneth was more of a son to her, but still…

"So you recast the curse?" Kurt questions.

Willow nods. "Jenny did the translation. It's why Angelus killed her. We didn't know about the spell at first. We thought he did it because Jenny and Giles," Kurt's eyes instantly flash to the watcher, "were seeing each other and this was another way of hurting Buffy. It wasn't until I found the disk with the spell that we figured out why but by then Angel was planning on sucking the world into hell. In the end I managed to cast the spell restoring his soul, but he had already started the ritual and Buffy had to send him to hell in order to stop it."

A sudden, loud crash reverberates through the house causing nearly everyone in the kitchen to jump. Only Logan, who has a broad grin planted across his face seems unfazed by the noise that originated in the cellar. Turning his attention back to Giles he growls, "lets get this over with," as he rises to his full height.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

"I still don't see why you need to drag me along with you," Joe grumbles loudly as he makes his way through the throng of people filling the airport terminal. His pace a little slower then the average person, but not noticeably. The silver headed cane makes a rich clank as it strikes the hard floor.

Methos pulls his eyes away from the shatter proof windows lining the outside wall, at the darkness or what should be darkness beyond. So much has changed in just a few short centuries, after millennium with no drastic advancements of any kind, more than he ever would have imagined before. Lights so bright they turn night to day, humans flying as if they were born to it, racing towards the stars with never a care.

He covers his private thoughts with a light smirk that he forces to his eyes as well as the rest of his face. "I already told you…"

"Not that I don't believe that you were there when Caesar was assassinated, despite the fact there isn't any mention of an advisor…"

"What were they going to say Joe? Killed along with his personal attaché who later got up and walked away from the incident?" He inquires with an arched brow. "Better for all concerned that he died alone."

"It still doesn't explain dragging me along," Joe reiterates marching towards the metal detectors.

"You're his watcher." Methos replies still astonished at what the network he started more then twenty five hundred years ago has evolved into. Basically their function, to watch and observe immortals and report their whereabouts to him, hasn't altered even if the entity has taken on a life of it's own.

He can't help but chuckle slightly, if the watchers only knew what the tattoo they cherish so much originally meant. Still means to him. He bares the same mark on his own wrist, but for him it's nothing more then a brand, a mark of ownership, put on him when he had been little more then a boy. After his first death -- at his master's hands -- and he discovered he is immortal he tried to remove the brand every conceivable way, short of removing his hand.

Only it always reappeared within a matter of seconds. That had been when he discovered how quickly his body heels from injuries. How it remains constantly the same, his hair needs to be cut ever few days, if he let it grow to the length it had been at when he died it would take weeks for it to grow even a fraction of an inch longer after that.

"What's so amusing?" Joe asks more then just a little perturbed.

"With that little plaque you have, because of your disability I was able to park a lot closer to the terminal then I normally would have," he says with a friendly smile so Joe would know he's simply joking.

Even so Joe tenses letting a terse, "ha, ha," escape his lips. "Now if you don't tell me why you're in such a rush all of sudden I'm taking my plaque and going the hell home."

Methos looks around as he says, "I got this felling that something's going to happen."

"Something," Joe repeats slowing slightly. "Something bad?"

Methos shrugs saying, "I don't know. Just something." He glances at Joe, the skeptical look the watcher is giving him. "Every now and then I get these feelings. In my gut and I just know something is going to happen. It took me more then a few centuries before I started paying attention to them. Right now it's telling me to get my scrawny butt out to Sunnydale and to drag your carcass along."

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

"…subject entering the final gate. Do you want me to follow?" Lt. Col. Michael Rossi's barely audible voice is transmitted thousands of miles to the man that gives him his orders. Col. Nick Fury.

"That's a go," Fury's gruff voice growls directly into Rossi's ear. "Keep Pearson in sight at all cost. There'll be a unit waiting your arrival in Sunnydale. We can only assume this is some kind of retribution against MaCleod for his interference in the Horsemen's terrorist threat in Paris back in ninety-six."

"If it is?" Rossi inquires as he watches Pearson sling his carry on over his shoulder. "MaCleod saved a lot of lives in Paris…"

"Pearson's the objective. It's been nearly four years since Paris. Men like him don't change. He's got something in the works. I can feel it my bones."

"So we just hang MaCleod out to dry?" Rossi demands not bothering to hide the anger filling his voice.

"MaCleod's more then capable of taking care of himself. Just make sure Pearson stays alive. Those are your orders. Understand."

"Understood sir, Rossi out," he responds following Adam Pearson through the last checkpoint. He didn't care what Fury's orders were. There's no way he is going to let MaCleod come to any harm. From the file he's read MaCleod is a rare breed of men. The fact that he single handedly averted a biological terrorist attack, killing three of the four ring leaders in the process. Duncan MaCleod is not the kind of man that you just let be killed when there's a chance to prevent it.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

The house is dark, the only light coming from the faint ambers glowing on the recently burned out candles. The slight scent of rosemary and apricots fills the air. The only sound is the hush breathing of the people gathered around in anticipation. After several seemingly long moments with nothing changing Dawn finds the waiting to be beyond agonizing, unbearable and finally blurts out, "well? Anything? Are your memories starting to come back?"

Logan looks up, the answer in his eyes long before he says, "it was a long shot at best." Despite his casual tone there is no mistaking the disappoint in his voice.

"Look on the bright side," Xander starts. "At least they didn't turn you blue, With the way Willow's spells work there was a fifty percent chance of that happening."

"It should've worked," Willow mumbles to herself while Tara shoots daggers at her lover's best friend.

With a quick glance at Kurt, Xander hastily adds, "not that there's anything wrong with being blue. The color works for some people."

Kurt ignores the youth. He knew there had been no malice behind his words. Just a young man trying to relieve the tension. "I am sorry it did not work my friend."

"We did everything right," Willow continues softly as she tries to figure out why the spell didn't work.

"You all right?" Logan asks standing up.

Kurt nods saying, "just got some bad news earlier."

"The incantations, the pronunciation."

"Heard, feel like talking about it?"

Kurt shakes his head. "I'm just going to find a nice, quiet place. Reflect on simpler times and pray for guidance."

Logan nods. "If you change your mind Elf," he says leaving the statement hanging there.

"I'm sorry," Tara begins, a slight stammer to her words as the crowd begins gathering around. "When I saw the spell I thought it would be perfect. Hat…"

"No need to apologize," he says as Kurt slips away. "You didn't do nothing wrong."

"Are you sure about leaving tonight?" Buffy questions. Her stance challenging, but still defensive, as she faces him.

"The sooner I get up to L.A., pick up Faith, the quicker I get back here and the quicker we can get out of town. Are you sure Spike will be able to find something big enough for all of us?"

Buffy looks at Logan as if he's lost his mind. "If there's one thing Spike knows it's how to steel stuff. It might not always be the best, or the newest, or shiniest, or anything like that, but it…"

A low growl rumbles in Logan's chest cutting her short. Before he can say anything though Duncan puts his two cents in. "If you're worried about traveling in style then you should send Amanda with him. We'll be traveling all the way to Vegas in a stretch limo with a thirty person capacity."

Buffy shoots a brief withering glare at Duncan before returning her attention to Logan. "I know I put you onto Faith and everything, but. Be careful around her. I know she's been making progress, getting better, but I haven't seen her for myself in more then a year."

"I'll keep that in mind," Logan replies.

"You about ready?" Duncan questions slipping into his coat.

"How do you get that thing through metal detectors?" Xander asks poking at Duncan's long duster.

Duncan glances upward, a subtle shift of his eyes, at the fractionally taller young man. A light smirk wrinkling the corners of his eyes. "Carefully," he says with meaning.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Kurt steps out the back door exiting the Summers' residence. He spots the tree sitting at the corner and vanishes in a flash of gray smoke. Less then a split second later he reappears at the base in another sulfurous smelling cloud and a soft pop.

Janna's dead, the thought floats in the front of his head. If only I could have convinced her. I should have tried harder… Damn what she said. Damn her stubborn, selfish, self. She'd still be alive if I just did what I wanted. Should have just taken her back with me. With a bestial growl his fist lashes out against the thick oak tree leaving a small crack in the bole of the tree.

"Somebody's got a bit of a temper," Spike mutters stepping out from the backside of the tree. As far as he's concerned Buffy has a serious screw loose if she thinks he's going to apologize to some walking hunk of junk. It isn't his fault that Warren had programmed the damn thing to be so sensitive. He wanted the thing to act like Buffy, but that had been just a little too realistic.

"My apologies," Kurt starts. "I didn't realize anybody was there."

"No skin off my nose mate," Spike replies with a shrug. With a look at the tree he adds, "but I think the tree here might be looking for a band aid."

Kurt looks at the damage he's inflicted on the tree, a soft exhalation slipping past his lips. The sudden flare of light as Spike puts a flame to his cigarette and inhales draws Kurt's eyes for moment. Spike's eyes remain locked on the dancing flame in contemplation, a sinister smile absently forming on his face.

"She was a decent chit," Spike says suddenly closing his Zippo. "Your lady friend."

The shock on Kurt's face is almost palpable as he sputters, "how do you…"

"The walls around here have ears mate," Spike answers before Kurt finishes his question.

Kurt shakes his head as he mutters, "between you and Logan…"

"Don't forget Buffy," Spike interjects.

"…how does anybody expect to have a private conversation?" With that he turns away from the vampire. He takes a couple of disgruntle steps before turning back around to face Spike. "you knew Janna?"

Spike takes a short drag off his cigarette as he ponders the question. Exhaling he gives his head a small shake saying, "not so much. Almost had her as an after school snack a couple times but never really got the chance."

"You said…"

"Yeah well, figure anybody that could put up with Rupert as long as she did had to be a decent sort," Spike replies with a smirk. He takes another drag off his cigarette then adds, with smoke billowing from his mouth along with his words, "or not quite right in the head."

"Giles?" Kurt murmurs in disbelieve.

Spike nods, "it's about the only time the bloke has shown even the least bit of emotion." He takes a drag off his cigarette, holds it for a long moment savoring the flavor before letting it out. "Should of seen the bloke go off on Angel, it was really a sight to see. For a moment I thought he was going to kill the bastard. Only he was more interested in inflicting pain on the pounce bugger. Can appreciate that though, anybody hurt the ones I love I'd wanna make them suffer as well," Spike finishes in a soft whisper meant for himself alone.

"You don't like him," Kurt states as he comes to the realization.

"Despise him with every fiber of my being comes a bit nearer the mark." He takes another drag off his cigarette, tossed the spent object to the ground, then adds, "and more in the last few months then I thought possible."

"Willow's been trying to convince me that they're two separate entities forced to share one body," Kurt says wanting to get Spike's opinion.

"Bollix," Spike spits out. "With a soul, without a soul. I've known both, One's a bit nicer, not quite so blood thirsty, but they're both manipulative pricks with a thing for virginal young lasses. Find them, obsess over them, seduce them, and then destroy them."

Kurt frowns slightly. Willow made the entire situation seem so cut and dry. With a soul he's Angel, a good guy, a hero saving people. Without his soul he's Angelus, a depraved, cold blooded killer with no remorse.

"Now don't get me wrong. I'm no saint, far from it. Done things to make your blood curdle and all that rot, but Angel is one sadistic bastard. If you want I'm sure Rupert's got some books on his exploits, skinning pets and nailing their carcasses to the door. Things like that."

"You want me to kill Angel," Kurt says like a light bulb going off in his head.

Spike scowls at Kurt. "Please. Unless you've forgotten. Demons are the one thing I can kill without needing a pint of whiskey and a morning hangover to dull the migraine. So if I want Angel dead I'd take a trip on up to L.A. and kill him myself."

His frown deepens as he stares at the vampire. "Then why are you telling me this?" He asks, his confusion sharp in his voice.

Spike shrugs, a small roll of his shoulders. "Seemed better then talking about the California weather. Eighty degrees and sunny in the middle April. Give me crisp air and a pea soup thick fog any day of the week."

"Why do I get the feeling I shouldn't trust you?" Kurt questions with a small smile playing at the corners of his lips.

"Because you shouldn't," Spike replies pulling his pack of cigarettes from his duster pockets. "I am evil after all."

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

The siren wails through the dark air. Drips and drops of water splash and echo in little pools collected in the uneven and broken pavement. A pair of Tom cats screech and yowl as they contest the ownership of a dead rat.

Garbage, trash and discarded junk line the alley, filled from one dingy, faded red brick wall to another. On the west facing wall a set of concrete stairs lead up to a second floor door while a second stairwell opens up into a basement storehouse that has been broken into one too many times about a thousand times ago. A thick heavily dented gray steel door stands flush with the street on the south wall, bracketed by a pair of large blackened widows with heavy wrought iron cages and a heavy wire mesh welded in front of them. A rusted fire escape hangs askew on the east wall.

Merk glances down at the grungy piece of paper in his hands before looking over at Quil. His companion did not look good, unsurprising considering the fact he had lost his hand and wrist during the confrontation with the crazed human in the stairwell. Then the great and oh so magnificent Gloricifous wouldn't allow the limb to be reattached. Some allowance could be made for losing a confrontation to a slayer with their mystically enhanced powers, but a human -- no matter that he came with built in weapons and healed almost instantly from the most grievous of injuries -- is totally and completely unacceptable to the temperamental deity.

Quil wipes his hand across his coarse brown cape, an extremely worrisome expression marring his otherwise scabrous face. Twisting his hand slightly he glances briefly at Merk, "this looks like the proper place."

"It matches the address that our Omnipotent and all powerful deity's seer gave our great Gloricifous," Merk replies with a subtle condescending air to his tone.

"I don't suppose they mentioned how we're going to recognize this agent of death?"

Merk looks around the alley, grimacing slightly at grime. "The seer simply said we should come to this location and he would make himself known to us."

"You…" Quil starts as glass shatters, metal rends with screech before clanging to floor.

Both Merk and Quil whip their heads around at the sudden sound just in time to see a large, burly shaven headed man roll to stop in a stack of wooden pallets. The right window stood open, it's black glass covering the pavement below the opening, the heavy steel cage that had been covering the glass rocks slowly on the ground.

A heavy cloud of smoke flows outward. Hard music pounds out of opening that is already filled with the thick stench of beer and other alcohol, along with other various noxious smelling aromas.

A roar, like a large hunting cat, fills the air. Not loud enough to drown out the music but it reverberates on such a level it can be felt by everyone. A second roar, this one louder. The music stops with sudden jerk.

This time both Merk and Quil see the black glass of the second window shatter outwards with the heavy body that crashes through it. The steel screen buckles, the bottom right corner breaking away from the brick wall, but holds.

Panic cries and shouts erupt from inside. The first person; a long legged, long haired blonde wearing an extra short, black leather mini skirt, a sheer top, with five inch stiletto heels jumps out the broken window, her feet crunching on the glass. A moment later a wiry man squirts through, hitting the woman with his shoulder sending her spinning. Without a backward glance he darts away --briefly glancing at Merk and Quil -- as the blonde loses her balance and falls, back towards the ground.

With a sickening wet sound a pair of the jagged metal bars punch their way through her body, right shoulder and just below her left rib cage. She screams out, a pain filled shriek as her face contorts in a mask of agony.

Then the exodus begins in earnest as the door burst open revealing a sea of people trying to exit the building all at once. Others jump through the window with the reckless abandon of lemmings going over a cliff. Some fall, pushed or jostled by those around them, a few suffering the same piercing fate as the blonde, but most simply got trampled by the mob hot on their heels.

Another roar fills the air just as a second body hit's the wire meshed cage with the force required to rend it from its welds with ease. It and the bodies land several feet away.

Then the cause of the panic appears in the hole. Easily recognizable as human despite his bestial features. A thick, unkempt mane of long blonde hair frames a face that would put many in mind of the great cats. Sharp canine teeth easily twice as long and thick as a normal humans. Light colored eyes that seem to catch all the ambient light in the area giving them an eerie glow.

With a casualness that borders on predatory he jumps through the window hitting the pavement with a dull thud. Standing to his full height, a few inches under seven feet, he towers over everyone in the alley. His clothes give the appearance of rags, dregs cast off by others when in fact he's owned some of them more then a century.

Stranglers a handful of people either too drunk or otherwise afflicted seem to sober up as Victory Creed, the man known to the world at large as Sabertooth, roars into the night. They suddenly find even greater reason to be elsewhere in a hurry.

Merk smirks as he turns his attention to Quil. "And you thought we were going to have a problem locating…"

"You," Creed's harsh guttural voice cuts Merk off in his verbal tracks.

The two demons swivel their heads back around to face Creed as he stalks straight for them. Almost in unison with each other Merk and Quil swallow hard.

Merk, possessing a slightly sterner backbone then his companion, steps forward. "I bring greetings from her most splendorous, the shiniest center of the known universe Gl…"

Creed's casual backhand sends him sailing the width of the alley. He hit's the wall with bone crushing force. Bouncing off the brick wall he drops to the ground landing in a heap of trash.

With a lightening quick lunge his hand wraps around Quil's throat, his thick claws cutting deep into the demons flesh. With no effort Creed lifts him from the ground and holds him aloft. "Where is he?" He growls sniffing the air.

"Who?" Quil manages to breath out.

Creed growls, a low rumble deep in his chest, "Wolverine. His stench is all over you." He gives his head a savage, animalistic shake. "I owe him pain."

"So tall," he starts holding his hand up to approximate Logan's height, "dark hair," he continues as he holds up his stub of an arm, "these razor sharp claws in each arm?"

"Where?" Creed mumbles.

"Our most, extremely magni…" Creed's fist tightens around his throat. "Sunnydale," Quil chokes out. Creed drops him to the ground and he struggles to regain his breath as he continues, "Gloricifous, the most magnificent Goddess to ever set foot on this mud ball, has a proposition for you, for your unique skills. And if in the process you come across this Wolverine you can inflict all the pain on him you want." He rushes out in a high speed burst.

Creed watches the demon lying on the ground, scenting the air. Savoring the intoxicating aroma of the fear, the blood filling it, both human and demon. Relishing the idea of not only getting some payback against Wolverine, but earning a hefty chunk of cold hard cash as well. Life couldn't get much better then that. "Lead the way demon."