The next day, Buffy and Giles entered the hospital. Oz met them in the waiting room.
"Thank God you came," he said. Buffy could that his eyes were red and puffy from crying.
"How are they?" she asked softly.
He sighed, "Willow's ok, sort of. She's up, but she's still weak. Xander, though, still hasn't woken up."
"Dear Lord," Giles murmured. "Can we see them?" Oz dimly nodded. He looked ready to collapse himself. Buffy looked him over.
"Have you gotten any sleep yet?" He vaguely shook his head. "All right. You go home, and rest. Then, you can come back, " before he could protest, Buffy sternly said, "We'll be here. And my mom's stopping in later. Mrs. Rosenberg's on her way back. We'll keep you informed."
"Thanks," he replied quietly. Buffy took a good look at his face. He seemed to have aged a couple of years in a day. He said goodbye to them and headed for home.
-----------------------------------------
He was somewhere, though it seemed like it was really nowhere, but that's impossible. It had to be somewhere, right? Somewhere exists. It can't be nowhere, because nothing exists in nowhere. He turned around, and he could hear it. Laughter. But this laughter sounded horrible, like Satan himself was amused about something. He turned around again, and saw a mirror. He walked toward it. At first, it was just himself reflected. Then, a shimmery haze appeared on the glass surface, and the reflection shifted and warped. Then, he gasped at the sight of the Master's face staring before him. "Revenge," the reflection's lips whispered, and then the image shifted again. It was himself, but he never looked like this. His outfit was black. Black boots with a black shirt, long leather coat, and black leather pants. His eyes were black, not brown, and they held a faint glow of red on the edges of the iris. And these eyes held the promise of violence, of torture, of slow death. Also, something about seeing himself like this, reminded him of his father, and that frightened Xander even more. He backed away in horror, as his reflection smiled cruelly at him. It then stepped forward, and emerged through the frame.
"Hello, wuss. The Xandman says, it's playtime." his other self still smiled, a smile promising death. He screamed again as another wave of pain washed over him. Another rip, another tear. The severing had time before it would be complete, and before then the Master would hear the boy beg for mercy. And that would be music to his ears.
"Thank God you came," he said. Buffy could that his eyes were red and puffy from crying.
"How are they?" she asked softly.
He sighed, "Willow's ok, sort of. She's up, but she's still weak. Xander, though, still hasn't woken up."
"Dear Lord," Giles murmured. "Can we see them?" Oz dimly nodded. He looked ready to collapse himself. Buffy looked him over.
"Have you gotten any sleep yet?" He vaguely shook his head. "All right. You go home, and rest. Then, you can come back, " before he could protest, Buffy sternly said, "We'll be here. And my mom's stopping in later. Mrs. Rosenberg's on her way back. We'll keep you informed."
"Thanks," he replied quietly. Buffy took a good look at his face. He seemed to have aged a couple of years in a day. He said goodbye to them and headed for home.
-----------------------------------------
He was somewhere, though it seemed like it was really nowhere, but that's impossible. It had to be somewhere, right? Somewhere exists. It can't be nowhere, because nothing exists in nowhere. He turned around, and he could hear it. Laughter. But this laughter sounded horrible, like Satan himself was amused about something. He turned around again, and saw a mirror. He walked toward it. At first, it was just himself reflected. Then, a shimmery haze appeared on the glass surface, and the reflection shifted and warped. Then, he gasped at the sight of the Master's face staring before him. "Revenge," the reflection's lips whispered, and then the image shifted again. It was himself, but he never looked like this. His outfit was black. Black boots with a black shirt, long leather coat, and black leather pants. His eyes were black, not brown, and they held a faint glow of red on the edges of the iris. And these eyes held the promise of violence, of torture, of slow death. Also, something about seeing himself like this, reminded him of his father, and that frightened Xander even more. He backed away in horror, as his reflection smiled cruelly at him. It then stepped forward, and emerged through the frame.
"Hello, wuss. The Xandman says, it's playtime." his other self still smiled, a smile promising death. He screamed again as another wave of pain washed over him. Another rip, another tear. The severing had time before it would be complete, and before then the Master would hear the boy beg for mercy. And that would be music to his ears.
