It was a warm night but it felt like a splash of spring water after the Bronze's stuffy interior. Faith ran her hands through her hair and held her arms out to the night. Xander stuffed his hands into the pockets of his pants and shuffled his feet. "So, haven't seen you around," he said.

"I been busy," was her simple reply. She looked up at the stars before turning to face him. "So that's it? No inquiries into how I've been? What I'm feeling?"

He shook his head. "Nope."

"Why not?"

He shrugged. "It would sound stupid. Plus I figure you've been feeling crappy. I would if I were in your shoes."

"Hey, an honest man." Faith stuck her hands in the back pockets of her jeans. "Everybody else keeps laying it on kinda thick."

"They mean well. They want to help. They know you've got a lot of weight on your shoulders, slaying and all." Xander rubbed his knuckles on his chin. "You might listen to Buffy, though. She understands better than the rest of us."

"Because she had to kill Angel, right?" Faith pursed her lips as Xander nodded. Then she grimaced and shook her head. "See, not the same. She ran him through because she had to, she didn't watch somebody else do it while she was helpless, plus she got him back. Think there's any chance of Lindsay coming back?"

Xander shook his head. "Guess not. So what's your plan?"

"Who needs a plan? I slay, I party, I die young."

"Ah, nihilism as existential statement. Pretty derivative, don't you think?"

Faith frowned. "What?"

Xander shrugged. "The whole 'life's over so I'll spend it wantonly' thing. Been done, don't you think?" He ran a hand through his hair. "I'm just saying, yeah, you've gotten a raw deal-almost from day one. But you're here, at this place right now. The rest of the world is moving. You can't stay still, even if you try. Question is, how are you gonna move?"

"Are you sounding deep?" Cordelia appeared out of the dark and threaded her hand through Xander's arm. She looked away from him and saw Faith. "Oh. How are you?"

Faith's eyes smoldered. "Five by five. Xander was just giving me his take on my life experience."

Cordelia rolled her eyes. "Well, don't listen to him. He's never been anywhere." She turned to Xander. "Want to go in?"

"Sure," he said. "I think the mood's broken out here." He looked at Faith. "Want to come with?"

Faith shook her head. "Nah. You guys have a good time. I'm gonna think about what you said." She watched them enter the club. "You think the world's moving now?" she said as the door closed. "Just wait. It's about to get a whole lost faster." She turned on her heel and disappeared into the darkness.

***

"Mom, where's the orange juice?" Buffy pulled her head out of the refrigerator.

"Oh, I forgot, it's all gone." Joyce put on her earrings as she walked briskly through the kitchen. "I'll pick up some more on my way home."

"Okay." Buffy opened a cabinet and looked inside, then turned to her mother with a frown on her face. "Wasn't there peanut butter in there?"

Joyce made a face and clenched her fists. "Sorry. It got eaten. I'll put it on the list."

Buffy leaned against the counter and crossed her arms. "Mom, if you're having some sort of torrid affair while I'm at school, you should tell me. Not that I'm judging, I just don't want to come home one day and walk in on something that will have me on heavy doses of prescription anti-psychotics for the rest of my life. Especially if it involves food."

Joyce glared at her daughter. "Ha ha. Very funny." She took a deep breath. "Faith ate it."

Buffy's eyes widened. "What?"

"I ran into her yesterday. I talked her into breakfast and then before I knew it I was doing her laundry and she was eating lunch. A lot of lunch. I hope you're not upset." Joyce winced.

"Upset?" Buffy crossed the room and threw her arms around her mother. "Mom, that's great." She stepped back, holding her mother by the shoulders. "Have I told you how fabulous you are?"

"Not nearly often enough." Joyce's smile was wry. "And don't think I didn't notice that you're saying this as I have to leave for work."

"And as I have to leave for school." Buffy swung her backpack off the counter onto her shoulder. "But, speaking as serious girl, I'm glad you got through to her."

Joyce held up a warning hand. "I'm not sure I got all the way through. Be patient."

Buffy arched her eyebrows and made a pouty mouth. "I'm the very picture of patience." Joyce rolled her eyes and pulled the door closed behind her.

***

"Does it ever freak you out?" Buffy asked Willow as they watched Xander and Cordelia walk toward the lounge. Buffy and Willow sat on the couch with Oz sandwiched between them.

Willow studied the approaching couple for a while. "Sort of, but not aggressively so. It's sort of like bumblebees."

"Excuse me?" Buffy leaned forward to look past Oz.

"Well, you know, bumblebees can't fly, or at least they shouldn't. Their bodies are too big for the wings. But they do fly." She nodded toward Xander and Cordy. "It shouldn't be, but it is."

"Let it be written, let it be sung." Buffy flopped back against the couch.

"I regard it as a surrogate drug experience," Oz offered. "It's sort of disorienting but intriguing."

"What are you guys discussing?" Xander said.

"Nothing," the trio said quickly.

"Color me surprised," Cordelia said.

"Hey, everybody. What's shakin'?"

They all turned. Jaws dropped and eyes widened before Buffy said, "Faith?"

The dark Slayer shrugged. "Five by five, ten feet tall and bulletproof." She held her arms wide. "It's me." She wore jeans and a red jersey top with 3/4 length sleeves and a V-neck. A white 55 was emblazoned on the upper left chest.

"Wh--" Buffy popped to her feet. "It's great to see you."

"Yeah. Somebody told me that the world was going to move on whether I was on board or not." Faith glanced at Xander. "This seemed like a good first step to getting back on the horse."

"I'd love to stay for the reunion, but I've got elsewhere to be." Cordelia cocked her head. "Faith, good to see you. Conditioner might be a good second step." She walked away.

"I gotta go," Xander said. "Not to be anywhere but because... you know." He sprinted after Cordelia.

Faith frowned. "Do you think they're doing the dirty yet? 'Cause otherwise, I can't figure out what's going on there."

"I wouldn't stress over it." Buffy took Faith by the arm. "Come on. Let's go see Giles."

***

Gunther Koenig picked up a napkin and dabbed at his plump lips. Waves of rapture enveloped him; today's croissant was so delightfully buttery and his sausages were perfection itself, the casing crisp and sizzling, the inside juicy. Koenig sighed. His doctor would be displeased with his cholesterol count again. The physician did not understand that the portly Watcher really didn't eat that much. He simply enjoyed what he ate too much. This was Koenig's theory, at any rate. Besides, when one realized the true thinness of the membrane that separated life from death, it was very difficult to be concerned with one's dietary habits.

Koenig pushed the chair away from the little round table that he occupied in the corner of the café. He made his way through the crowded room, a round man with a curious, almost mincing gait due to his small feet. He smiled and shook hands with many people, exchanging pleasantries with other patrons. Some of them had been coming to breakfast here as long as he had, twenty-seven years. He took his coat and hat from the stand and wrapped his scarf securely around the spot where his neck used to be, years ago. The café was warm and comforting, but outside it was very cold and the wind was sharp as a sushi chef's favorite knife. Koenig buttoned up tight, placed his homburg firmly on his round head and headed back to his office.

The walk was only six blocks, but his eyes were watering within two. Crusts of dirty snow still clung to shadowy corners and the leaden sky overhead promised to cover them with a clean layer of white. He reached the old four-story brick building, his labored breathing producing white clouds that made it look as though he ran on steam power. He entered the lobby and immediately began to sweat. The elevator was out of service again, a fact that produced a groan from Koenig. He struggled up the three flights of stairs, breathing heavily as he reached his landing. He paused for a moment to catch his breath, then stepped onto the worn carpet of the hall, fishing in his pocket for his keys. The lettering on the pebbled glass read:

G. Koenig & Associates
Legal Research & Genealogical Data

He inserted his key into the heavy deadbolt and turned. The mechanism worked with well-oiled and machined precision. Koenig proceeded into his office and stopped, his mouth gaping open. Normally his office was a cozy space, the book-lined walls making the room seem smaller than it was. His desk was centered in front of the only window and on most mornings the fifteen newspapers he received would be tied in a neat bundle.
Instead of that comforting image, he was greeted by anarchy. Books were pulled from the shelves, drawers taken from the desk, pictures thrown from the walls.

Gunther Koenig had never been an adventurous man. He had been content, nay, happy, to sequester himself here in Geneva, dedicating his life to the translation and interpretation of texts. Their arcane glow had consumed him and he in his turn treasured them. He was valuable to the Watchers Council and that was enough for him. Every time a new Slayer had been called and he was passed over for the assignment, Koenig had breathed a sigh of relief and taken it as a sign that there was a God or Someone or Something that knew he was exquisitely unsuited for the position. This was his proof that there was at least some intelligence guiding the universe and he had thanked Whatever Was Out There that it/he/she/they had seen fit to let him continue to fill his perfect little niche. This was the sum of his life and it passed rapidly before his eyes as the blade slid into his neck.

It was a thin blade, almost a spike, and very, very sharp. It passed rapidly and with ease through layers of fat and muscle, severing blood vessels and puncturing both Koenig's carotid artery and his trachea. It was withdrawn with very little blood; the fat encircling his neck closed, sealing the wound. Internally, it was another matter; blood flooded from the perforated artery and rushed down the trachea to fill the lungs. Koenig fell to his knees, then to his side. As he drowned in his own blood, Gunther Koenig's last view was the crazily tilted panorama of his office.