Buffy has returned home, and with her, a case of the zombies.
The two are not exactly causal. Her mother is to blame more than anything. But more on that later. First and foremost, I must officially dictate that Buffy Summers has resumed her destiny as the Chosen One. She returned late two nights ago and came to my door with the gang. Leave it to Xander, of course, to ruin a perfectly good moment of reunion and connection with a non-witty remark. All the same, I invited them in for tea. I could sense there was some . . . disconnect . . . between Buffy and her friends. It's to be expected. She caused them all a great deal of stress and worry. None more so than I, I might add. There's likely some resentment . . . some anger towards her. Words need to be shared, likely some tears shed, and then a whole lot of hugging, as Americans like to do, and then all will be well.
For myself, I am simply relieved to see Buffy unharmed and well. She is a tad skinnier though. Wherever she was, it looks as though food was a tad scarce. I'm sure Joyce noticed it as well and has launched a crusade to rectify that immediately. I do not share the disconnect that Buffy and her friends are feeling. My relationship with the Slayer has, by its very nature, been strong. Ever since there have been Watchers and Slayers working together, the relationships between the two have been strong and unyielding. After all, no one understands the other more. I know exactly what Buffy goes through every night. I take care of her afterwards. She, in return, knows the stresses I bear and the restricted lifestyle I've given myself to for her. Some Watchers, of course, are better at remaining distant than others. But it is an agreed upon fact that there exists some sort of metaphysical connection between a Watcher and their Slayer. A Watcher simply knows when his or her Slayer is dead. The pain of this severing of the connection is often so terrible, that retired Watchers—those forced into retirement because of the death of their Slayers—are unable to record the changes they feel when the new Slayer is chosen.
The opposite of this is that they also know when their Slayer is alive. I knew Buffy was alive out there . . . somewhere. What I did not know was her state of physical and emotional well-being. These are things not even my connection will tell me. So, to see her sitting on my sofa, whole and unscathed, was a blessing. Indeed, I needed a moment away from them all to have a very un-British moment of emotion. The stiff upper lip melted into a smile. But none shall be the wiser. To speak of Buffy's emotional state, I am yet unsure how much she has healed in her time away. She seems . . . disorientated to me. She is with us, but she can't quite grasp onto anything just yet. She appears, quite frankly, lost. Even after the events of tonight—on which I shall describe soon—Buffy seems as though she's floating through the rest of us. Untouchable. Or maybe I'm just reading too much into it. But when I saw Buffy embrace Willow, and I felt the tension among them all start to relax and ebb away . . . I knew I needed to do something—something beyond my station—to help her touch base again.
Which is why I just finished threatening Principal Snyder into revoking Buffy's status of expulsion. Joyce had met with him and attempted to revoke it herself, but Snyder simply gloated them off. As I said, it wasn't exactly my place to press a bit of weight on him, but honestly? . . . The rodent had it coming. He was far too smug and snide about expelling Buffy. I think it genuinely brought him physical pleasure. Revolting. So, I took matters into my own hands. Buffy deserves a break, and if I have to reveal a bit of my old self to make that happen, so be it.
I began with informing him that I could make his life a living Hell, professionally. The Watcher Council holds a lot of power, even across the ocean, and I knew I could convince them into putting pressure on Snyder. Regardless, Snyder didn't seem perturbed. Instead, I switched tactics and slammed him against a filing cabinet instead. Not the wisest decision, considering he's technically my employer, but damn did it feel satisfying. As I expected, Snyder crumbles when one reminds him how small he is and how cowardly. He said he'd revoke the expulsion, and I left him in his office. Pillock.
Now, to the zombies. It began all innocently enough. I received a call from Buffy about a dead cat who was decidedly not dead anymore in their house. So, like a true gentleman, I purchased a cage and came to their rescue. The ghastly thing smelled atrocious and was already decomposing. It's a wonder I managed to grab it at all and didn't simply grab a chunk of flesh and fur right off instead. The cat was extremely poor-tempered and hissed regularly. Whether this was simply the cat's nature pre-death, or the result of whatever it was that had reanimated it, I wasn't sure. I took the cat to the library to conduct some research. My poor library. I do so hope the awful smell goes away soon. I think it's clinging to the table the cat was set on. I just might have to get a new one.
Whilst I primarily researched means that might bring an animal back to life, the others—Oz, Willow, Xander and Cordelia—were discussing the dinner party Joyce and Buffy had invited us to. For whatever reason, they thought having a . . . "hootenanny" . . . was the correct form of party to welcome Buffy back home. I politely disagreed. Noise and shallow celebration were not what Buffy needed. Surprise to no one, I was correct, for the record. When will they ever listen to me?
By the way, I looked up "hootenanny" in the English dictionary, and it clearly states that it is an informal gathering with folk music. Folk music, Oz. The last I heard, your band was not folk. Next time, I suggest you're more accurate in your descriptions of parties.
Whilst the others went off to this "hootenanny" even though it's not really a hootenanny, I continued to search for an answer to our little cat riddle. I discovered that it was all Joyce's fault. Who's to blame for Buffy's troubles now!? a mask that Joyce had purchased for her art gallery. This mask held a zombie demon within it, one named Ovu Mobani, or The Evil Eye. His crusade, as with most demons, was the destruction of all life on Earth. The mask he wore—and which he was bound to by an unnamed Exorcist—was capable of producing Medusa-like effects. If his victim looked him in the eyes, he was able to paralyze them for a few moments, in which he could dispatch them. Unfortunately, the Exorcism which trapped the demon in the mask did not all-together end his power. When the mask was hung on the wall of Buffy's home, it activated the mask and allowed it to reanimate the dead. Hence, zombies. The zombies were all called to the mask, and whoever wore it, would become the demon incarnate, and Obu Mobani could continue his crusade of death.
As soon as I discovered this, I ran to my car and rushed off to the Summers' residence. On the way, I hit a man. Terrified that I had just killed someone, I hurried out and realized it had been a zombie. This zombie was not alone either. Before I knew it, I was attacked by a small pack. I managed to fight them off and return to my car, but in the struggle, my keys had fallen out of my pockets. I suppose this was one of the few moments where I was grateful for my past as Ripper. In my youth, I delighted in hotwiring cars and taking off for pleasurable joyrides for a few days. I always returned the car, of course, though sometimes not for a week. Still, the method of hotwiring remained ingrained in my mind, and I was able to start my car sans keys and drove off.
I found Buffy's home in tatters. The zombies had swarmed and done a bang-up job of destroying the place. I was nearly skewered to death by Cordelia and Oz, but together, we fought off another zombie. Buffy killed Mobani properly, and the zombies disappeared. I don't know why they disappeared, but they did. The cat did as well, I noticed, when I checked on it in the library after the attack. Perhaps because they were linked to the mask, when Mobani was destroyed, they . . . ceased to exist in this plane as well? No. Ah well. I shall leave the matter to rest for now. It's been a long night, and instead of eating the dinner I was so looking forward to at Buffy's, I've only just finished helping them put it back into order. I'm famished.
Before I end this entry, however, I really feel I must touch on the idiocy displayed tonight. This isn't simply directed at Joyce either. It's to be shared by many. Though, particularly, Americans. Hanging up an ancient relic simply because it looks "cool" or "neat" or "pretty" is extremely unwise. I know that, for whatever reason, there seems to be a general aversion to history here in the Colonies States, but that does not mean one should be an imbecile and not check into this ancient relic to ensure that it does not carry any curses with it. A simple cleansing with sage is usually enough to dispel any dormant evil tied to the artefact. We are lucky in that raising the dead is the only thing this mask was able to do, and that Buffy was here to destroy it. It could have been worse. So, should anyone read these pages, I beseech you to check into the history of an ancient item before removing it from its containment apparatus. It just might save your life and many others. Don't simply hang it up without thought to the consequences because it "matches the décor" or "makes one appear artsy." Please, let us not be so trite.
Perform research first. It can save lives.
-Rupert Giles
1998