Episode 6: A Change.

Part 1 (of 2).

Providence, Rhode Island, May 2003

At twilight, when the sun dips below the horizon, and the orange sky fades to deep purple, the mourning doves croon to one another. A soft breeze sways the light branches of the trees lining the sidewalks. The lights above the streets and arches of the dormitories switch on. The campus, however, is deserted. With finals over, most students have thrown everything they own into laundry sacks, perched their bicycles on the roofs of their beat up sedans, and took that long drive to their parent's houses for summer. Now, the campus is serene and quiet.

But for the tall, shadowy figure quickly rounding the corner of a dorm. His black coat almost billows behind him as he marches forward, brow furrowed, and seemingly talking to himself.

"You drag me all the way out here, across the country, away from my shiny new human life – one that I took great pains to procure mind you - to do what, exactly?" Angel carries a crumpled piece of paper in his hands. He's been sweating and the ink has smeared. He glances to his side, unable to see his invisible companion, though knowing he is walking right alongside.

"Angel," Aym says, "you were chosen because you are a champion. The powers have granted you this human form you cherish so much, but that doesn't mean you're quite, how should I say this, off the pay roll." He smacks Angel's shoulder, "So, buck up chuck! It's quite 'n honor to be payin them back 'n all."

"Paying them back? Did I mention the great pains? With the fighting and the stabbing and the fire, did I mention the fire?"

"We're here," Aym stops in his tracks. Angel unfolds the paper in his hands and looks up at the building. "Yes,315 Thayer street. But, what the hell are we here for? Why won't you tell me?"

"Quiet," Aym grabs hold of Angel's arm, "and listen."

Just then, a group of young girls rounds the corner on the other side of the building, chatting loudly and laughing. One wears a sweater with "Brown" emblazoned on the front. And another wears a soft, light blue sundress with yellow flowers. There's a cloth belt tied around her waist and she stomps forward in tall black doc martins. They climb up the stairs and enter the red brick building, with the simple written sign that says, "Final Gallery Showing – An undergraduate retrospect ."

The door shuts behind them and the streets are quiet once more. Aym looks to Angel, "Did you see that girl? The one with the pretty dress and boots?"

"Yeah, but what's your point, why am I...here..."Angel's face hardens with realization. "You brought me out here... for a girl..." His voice is shaking now. "For a ….slayer."

"Angel," Aym says calmly, "I know what you're thinking, but don't go jumpin' to conclusions. Your beloved Buffy and your beloved Faith, goddess bless 'em, are as alive and well as you and I are today. Well, maybe you. I'm not technically alive. But, anyways, moving on, that doesn't mean she won't be a slayer."

"What are you talking about?"

"God you're thick. I'm saying that, that girl that you just saw right there, will be turned into a slayer."

"What?! When?"

"Oh I'd say, in about an hour."

"But how?! Why? I don't understand!"

"In due time puppet. But now, I need you, we need you to keep your head in the game. Because she's an extra special one, this girl. And the power's have chosen you as her champion, to escort her into...um..safe passage. To where the power's need her."

"But, I'm only human. What could they possibly expect of me? I can't do this...I can't protect, protect this girl from anything!" He looks up to the night sky, "How dare you charge me with her care?! Nothing," he spits, "I can do nothing!" Angel turns, marching away from his invisible steward.

"Angel!" Aym calls.

"Find another champion. Her blood won't be on my hands."

"Angel STOP!" As if frozen to the spot, Angel stands still as a statue.

Aym takes careful, tempered steps towards Angel. "Angel, I can't tell you why you were chosen for this task. But you must believe in your charge. If you're stupid enough to cross the powers - who have given you everything you had hoped for in life- if you won't do this for them, then do it for the girl. She has no one."

"She has you."

"I am only a messenger! I can't fight these mortal battles."

Aym sighs, and rests his wide blue claw on Angel's shoulder. "Go in there... go in there and at look at her. Watch her. Talk to her. And then..." he says, "and then tell me that you can abandon her. That you would choose to walk away from her when she needs someone like you so desperately."

Angel turns back towards the building and sighs. "Her name?"

"Mae. Her name is Mae. Remember, help will be sent when it's needed." The champion begins to march up the white marble steps. "And Angel," Aym calls out, "Do hurry. She's running out of time."


"What do you think of this one?"

The girl with the short black hair and sapphire eyes takes a step back and squints dramatically at the charcoal drawing hanging on the wall.

"Oh come on, be serious! What do you think?"

"I'm being serious." Mae says, with a smirk, "I like it. I really do."

"Well," her friend with long brown hair says, "that was the right answer."

Mae rolls her eyes as they move on to the next set of drawings. Her friend has linked arms with her now. In fact, Jess has been moving closer to her all night. Finding little ways to make contact. Noticing, Mae's heart begins to beat twice as fast. Neither of them take note of the tall man with the long black coat standing only a few feet away, sipping a glass of wine.

"And what about this one?" Jess asks.

"Wow, this one's really nice. The realist expressionism is quite visceral don't you think? The way the work abstracts and de-centers its object, creating a pervasive and enigmatic tension..."

Jess smiles, "You really have no idea what you're talking about, do you?"

"Not the slightest, but I swear I could fool half the people in here. I should give guided tours."

"Oh! And you'd be swimming in free booze."

"I don't really consider a medium bodied Merlot to be, well... booze."

"Don't get all snobby on me now Mae Oliver. You know what they say, if it gets freshmen to skinny dip in the main street fountain, it's booze."

Mae leans in, smiling , "Who says that exactly?"

Jess leans in as well, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek. Too close to her mouth.

"I'm going to the restroom. Don't leave, okay?"

Mae blushes, "Okay."

Angel has been watching her closely and listening in. Seems a bit too old to turn slayer, he thinks, thought they liked 'em as young and as helpless as possible. He sighs, and walks over to a large window facing the street. Looking up into the night sky he sees a storm brewing. Wisps of gray clouds are moving quickly and covering up even the brightest stars. What the hell am I supposed to do with this? And then there's the other question that has been burning in his mind,

Why didn't they just call Buffy?

A glass shatters. When Angel turns he sees the red wine spilling onto the stark white marble floor of the gallery. And the girl laying in this pool, the girl in the sun dress, is seizing. As her body contorts in violent convulsions, Angel sees her eyes as they turn: Bright white to the deepest black. White to Black. In an instant, he is at her side, lifting her head from the ground, "Call an ambulance! Somebody call an ambulance!" The crowd of people are gasping, frightened at the unnatural scene. A few fumble with their cell phones, trying to dial for help. This isn't protocol. She's not just turning into a slayer. She's...could it even be true?

"MAE!" Jess has emerged from the restroom. "MAE!"

"Stay back!" Angel barks, "Just stay back! She needs room!"

Then, from the large window, a bright light cascades in, shattering the glass, and lifts Mae off of the ground. The light burns and Angel jumps back. Helpless to watch as the girl floats mid-air. Her eyes are rolling and changing colors. The screams and shouts from the gallery crowd were so loud, Angel didn't even notice the hooded men surrounding the building. Before he can act, twenty or so have gathered brandishing curved daggers. There are deep scars where their eyes should be, like the alphabets been carved into their faces. No exit. He thinks, There are no exits. They've blocked them all.

He watches Mae twirl in an on earthly glow, taking in any other possible way to get the hell out. And that's when he hears them.

The baying of wolves.


[Back to the present date and place of our story]

The sun rose about an hour ago. And Mae still clutches the side of the bed with both hands. Her panting has given way to deep breathing. The pain has let up a bit. The nausea too. But the ache of uncertainty, the fear of the others who may invade her when ever they please... that is what has kept her up all night. Not that she's been getting much sleep otherwise. The sun peeks through the windows and warms her feet. She thinks about that mask. That mask. Someone has it. It flew off last night. And she hasn't seen it sense. Someone's waiting.

Whatever.

She lifts herself off the bed. Still clutching her stomach, still feeling the pain of the gods who tried to snuff out her light, she hobbles over to the closet, looking forward to a private shower and a fresh pair of clothes. Buffy had lent her a couple of shirts that she had worn a few times over by now, but she could wash them in the sink and hang them out the window to dry. When she parts the doors though, there's a whole wardrobe. Not just any old wardrobe, but her clothes from just a year ago. What the fuck? Blue and white sundresses. Some decked out with pink and yellow flowers, some just soft white cotton. Black boots line the carpeted floor. The fresh scent of fabric softener fills the room.

Willow, she thinks. God dammit Willow. All night, she'd avoided thinking about these...feelings. These deep and irrevocable feelings. Not now. Not...this. Not these clothes.

She's heaving a little. Her stomach's begun to turn over again. Her head reels, but she won't give up the thought. Fuck these clothes. Shivers run down her arms, These are not my clothes anymore. This, she thinks, this is not me. She can barely hold herself up now, but she's filled with purpose. Her knees are shaking, but she holds on to the door knob to keep her balance. She grits her teeth. Give me something more, please. Please, not this.

She's too busy keeping herself steady to notice the closet changing. But when she dries the tears from her eyes and clears her vision, she sees, not a closet full of bright sundresses, but a couple of black t-shirts. And there, in the back, there's a pair of black jeans. She feels the fabric. Feels good.

After a long, hot shower, she brushes back her hair and tucks the loose strands behind her ears. Black shirt, black jeans. She'll keep the doc martins, though. She laces them up her leg carefully. This is better.

Her slayer strength is reviving her.

This is much better.

[Stay tuned for Part 2]