Disclaimer: "So," the doctor starts, uneasily looking over my sister's wounds, "How exactly did this happen?" Before I can say anything, she jumps in. "Oh . . . so, like, I was, like, running through a cornfield and being chased by, like, these little . . . thingies. They were, like, um . . . you know! And, so I, like, run into this barn, and there's, like, Elmo, except he's like in leather and chains and bondage. And I'm like 'Oh my god!'. So I got, like, mondo freaked out. Then, he starts talking, except he's, like, talking like I imagined Happy Noodle Boy would, like, talk. And he says, 'Anyanka, this is the spirit of Joss Whedon! Tell Lily-bug that she doesn't own anything related to Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Angel, or else I will eat your testicles!' And I'm like, 'Hey, dude, I like don't have testicles!' So then he, like, takes a dentist scraper and picks away at my skin!" She stops when she runs out of breath, a satisfied smile creeping up on her lips. The doctor looks to me. "She's a crack whore, and decided to get a do-it-yourself tattoo using an ice-pick," I explain. Rolling his eyes, he pulls out a bottle of rubbing alcohol. It's going to be a long night.

Rating: R- insert something clever/perverted here

Summary: Sequel to "Exit Stage Left". The Scoobies and their children battle against an impending apocalypse, their own demons, and an uncertain future.

Author's Notes: Wow! I feel so weird. I attended my first punk concert on Wednesday, and am still feeling the side effects. And now, I can officially say, "I survived a mosh-pit!" Anyway, here's a new chapter for all you good people. I hope you all like the story. I have some wild things planned. Oh yeah, it's gonna get all spacey. I should mention that I'm writing this in conjunction with "Most Rare Vision", so I'm going to update every other story. It sucks, but I can only do so much. Hope you enjoy this chapter. Love to you all, especially those who enjoy cheese!

PS: Right, you're probably wondering where I came up with that fucked-up disclaimer. I was super bored and feeling funky. The whole cornfield thing was stolen from the movie Signs. Elmo belongs to Sesame Street, and as some tell me, does not enjoy playing a cross-dressing dominatrix. Happy Noodle Boy is part of the "Johnny the Homicidal Maniac" comic book series. As for Anyanka-Faith . . . that's how she really talks. Let's hope she gets some help.











Chapter Three- Heading to the Valley

Five cups of coffee later, they found themselves in the same position.

"I'm just not understanding this," sighed President Fielding, sending a stack of papers to his right.

Pitts rubbed the bald spot in the back of his head. "Sir, you have to view this from a non-biased standpoint."

"Fuck that!" Leaning on the large conference table, Fielding carefully supported his head. "I just don't see why we can't fight these Horsemen bastards with all the firepower we can gather!"

Turning her attention back to her yellow notepad, Walsh rolled her eyes. The man wasn't getting the point.

"Mr. President," she spoke up, "You can't fight mystical forces with firepower! It's like trying to stop bullets with daisies!"

Gripping his fist in frustration, Fielding forced back his anger. "Then tell me," he growled through clenched teeth, "What you think we should do."

Walsh slid two files across the mahogany table. "We need to contact the Slayer."

"Explain to me again, what is a Slayer?" He glanced down at the two files, not picking them up.

"A Slayer is a young woman chosen to fight the forces of darkness," she quoted from memory, "She is blessed with super strength, healing powers, keen senses, agility, and speed. When one dies, another one is chosen, the cycle never breaking."

"So who the hell is this Slayer?"

An uncomfortable silence filled the room as Walsh bit her lip. *How do I explain this?*

"Well," she started, "There's two Slayers. Actually, we don't know how many there are." Staring up, she began to rub her neck. "It's not the business for the Department of Special Interests to interfere with the lives of the Slayers. Not a lot is known about their personal lives, or the creatures they've had to fight against. But, we do have some information."

Indicating him to open the first file, she continued. "The most recent Slayer is Faith, but I highly recommend that we DON'T ask her for help!" Walsh chuckled to herself. "She's insane. The paperwork we have on her, the limited amount, indicates she's a psychopath with no grasp on human ethics. Plus, she serving time in prison for manslaughter."

Fielding threw that file to the floor. "How exactly is that supposed to help?"

"Let me continue!" Taking a deep breath, she controlled her emotions. "There is a second Slayer, a more experienced and level-headed Slayer." Fielding opened the next file, as Walsh recited the information. "Her name is Buffy Summers. Again, the information on her is limited. We know she lives in Sunnydale with her daughter and fiancé. Works at a local magick store. But, she's good. She's the longest living Slayer in history. Of the three apocalypses we've known about, she was the one to stop them. We need her help!"

Fielding closed the file, then pressed his hands against his eyes, thinking the issue over. "I want you to understand, Miss Walsh," he began, "I have serious reservations about bringing a civilian, even a mystical warrior, into an issue of national security. There's too much risk involved." Sighing, he leaned back in his chair. "But, you have given me no other options. Tomorrow, I want you and Pitts on the next flight to Sunnydale. Get in contact with this Slayer. But, be discreet! I don't want the public to get a hold of this!"

Grinning, Walsh leapt up. "Thank you sir," she exclaimed, shaking the President's hand as he stood.

"Just don't disappoint me," he growled. With a swift turn, he left the room, Secret Service in tow.



"Well, considering the occasion, that didn't go so bad," commented Pitts as he and Walsh stepped into his private car. He was expecting a panic attack from the Commander in Chief, but ended up with a levelheaded reaction.

Giving his driver instructions, Pitts turned back to Walsh. She was fidgeting with her jacket, obviously worried.

"Jennifer, what's wrong?" he asked; now addressing her as a friend.

She shook her head. "I just lied to the President."

He gave a double take. "WHAT?"

"We know a lot more about this Buffy Summers than I let on." Walsh let out a brief sigh. "Remember that project back in 1999? The Initiative? For a while, she was included as a civilian member, but rebelled later on, and brought her then-boyfriend with her. She has a habit of disappearing for an extended amount of time. There's all this shit that may get in the way of stopping the Horsemen."

Pitts put his head down, wanting to concentrate more on the floor than Walsh. "Why didn't you tell President Fielding that?"

"If he knew about these things, do you really think he'd let us contact her?"

Without a word being said, Walsh knew he agreed.

The pair rode in silence for a while, absently looking out the window as the city passed by.

"Whatever you do," Pitts spoke up, "Don't let him know. He can be a lenient guy on some things, but this isn't one of them."

They arrived outside of Walsh's small Arlington apartment.

"Get a good nights sleep," ordered Pitts. "We've got a hell of a job tomorrow."

Walsh laughed. "Tomorrow? That's just the beginning."



Serengeti Plain

His back, his neck, his legs, even his toes felt stiff. With a loud moan, Major Keldon threw his arms over his head, then stretched every moveable joint in his body.

"Damn it," he mumbled, returning to the forms in front of him. Instead of enjoying the warm evening, he was stuck inside a private tent, filling out the paperwork that Walsh girl had given him. One hundred and fifty-seven pages of crap.

*I hate those intellectual bitches, always acting superior. Especially her, what with her camera, fucking morbid questions, dumb helicopter, nice legs . . .*

Stopping the mildly sexual thoughts, Keldon returned his attention to the forms. Ninety-four pages to go.

'Question 453- If there were any casualties, please state the number:'

Keldon reached for his clipboard containing all the information, then wrote in the amount. The first figure had been an estimation, but they now knew.

'182 casualties.'

There was movement outside the tent. Keldon looked up.

"Hey Dan, that you?" he asked, putting the pencil in his hand down.

As soon as the tent flap was pushed aside, it was shut quickly behind them.

No one heard Keldon scream.

It would be hours before anyone discovered the body.

Or the other seventeen scattered throughout the plain.