Note: Originally, this story was supposed to end with this chapter, but the wonderful response I've received so far made me decide to put a little more effort into this. It will still be a short story, but I do hope you like what's coming up. :-)


Chapter Two


Giles sat alone in his flat, his fingers dully tracing the chipped rim of the empty gin bottle.

"Four weeks," he mumbled, his tone slow and somewhat slurred as he pushed the glass bottle to the floor. The former librarian smiled weakly as it shattered into a million pieces at his shoeless feet. "Four bloody weeks..."

The pain hadn't dimmed in the least, he thought angrily as he reached under the shelf to grab reserve bottle hidden behind several books.

"Wan' my soddin' money back," he grumbled as he leaned his tired head back against the scratchy upholstery of the lounge sofa. "Not supposed to 'urt like this. She wasn't my dah'ter, wasn't a'tall. Bloody Council had the right idea of it all along. Don' love 'er. Just watch 'er. Don' love 'er. Can't love 'er."

His face twisted into a grimace as he willed his eyes not to overflow with the tears he could already feel forming.

"Not like Jenny at'tall... Thought it would be. Not at'tall, though. Hurts more. Don' know why. You weren't my bleedin' dah'ter, Buffy. You were jus' my Slayer. Jus' that. Don' love you. Don' miss you. Glad you're dead," Rupert Giles spit out, his voice rough and hoarse as he looked to the sky.

"Dead! Dead!" He repeated slowly, almost singing the words out as the damnable tears leaked from his eyes. "No more worryin' now. You're gone. Dead. Dead. Find sum'un else to be Slayer. Fin' sum'un else to watch their baby girl die. Don' love you. Can' love you."

He closed his eyes as his soft sobbing crescendoed until all he could hear in his ears were her fiercely spoken last real words to him.

"Wish you killed me, lil' Buffy ... never to come 'ome again Buffy," Giles muttered as his hand holding the bottle fell listlessly to the floor. "My dah'ter is dead. Don' think I can live."



***



She wasn't quite sure when or why precisely it happened, but hope was as dead as her body.

Buffy Anne Summers stood silently by as she watched her little sister toss yet another perfectly good orange into the trash.

"Score! Six points for the Dawnster!" the girl giggled, her hands high in the air as she posed ridiculously for her audience.

"Dawn, we can't afford to waste stuff because *you* don't like the way it looks. Go on. Take it out!" Buffy exclaimed impatiently, her arms folded across her chest as she glared at her sister sternly.

Or, at least, that's what she meant to do.

"Dawn, please don't waste food," Buffy heard her flat voice ask quietly, every syllable nonthreatening as she felt her awkward body lean over and pick the orange out of the trashcan.

"Oh, Anne! That's disgusting! You can't go around eating stuff that's in trashcans. Jesus Christ!"

Buffy felt her plastic lips pull up at the corners until her head was nodding in agreement.

"Yes. I can't go around eating stuff that's in trashcans," she repeated even as she fought with the Programming to retain her grip on the orange. But once again, it overruled her wishes and she succumbed to those of her little sister.

"What you making for dinner tonight?" Dawn asked as she extended her hand to reach for another orange.

Directive 3, Buffy thought suddenly as she picked up the fruit bowl before her sister could waste another orange, keep house clean.

Carefully, she placed the bowl on the wooden island as she threw a triumphant smile at her sister, her spirits buoyed by the successful manipulation of the Programming. It didn't happen often, but when it did it was a definite cause for celebration.

Unfortunately, Buffy reflected as she watched her sister roll her eyes, her triumphant smiles looked exactly the same as every other one to curve her lips.

"We are having spaghetti and steamed brussel sprouts," she responded as her head automatically turned to the pot simmering quietly on the stove.

"Aw. We had that last week..."

Buffy felt her lips pull into a frown as the pressure in her head began to increase.

"I'm sorry," she whispered quickly, waiting for the pressure to mutate into that terrible mind-dulling pain she was getting used to. Wincing internally, Buffy steeled herself for the onslaught. "I will do better next time."

Dawn shrugged as she stood up. "Not a big deal, Anne. It's cool..."

Buffy smiled in relief as the pain allevated with those few words, her Programming allowing (and in fact forcing her) to show her gratitude.

"Can we go out for ice cream for dessert?" she asked hopefully, an idea forming in her robotic head as she imagined the scenario. Maybe if she could order a lemon and pistacchio cone like she had on a dare no more than six months ago, her sister would realise what happened. Then Dawn would tell Giles and the Scoobies. And then they'd find a way to save her from this hellish prison of circuits and wires in which she found her soul trapped.

"Naaaah," the girl snorted as she threw herself down at the kitchen table. "No offense, Anne, but if I'm gonna go out, I'll do it with a real person. If you want, you can pick up some ice cream the next time you go shopping, though."

I AM real, dammit! the Slayer screamed inside even as the plastic body she inhabited nodded and smiled contentedly.

"Thank you, Dawn."