Stefan Warner carried his coffee cup in his right hand as he entered the library. He wore a hand-painted silk tie loosely knotted over a denim shirt. Matti Hollis was already in the library. She was seated at the table with Giles.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," Warner said as he sat down. "Up a little late grading tests."

"Are you both actually teachers?" Giles asked.

"Are you actually a librarian?" Warner took a sip of his coffee.

"Yes, we are both certified teachers in the state of California." Hollis smiled. "Just as you hold a Masters in library science."

"But how did you come to be in Sunnydale?" Giles furrowed his brow.

"How did you come to Sunnydale?" Warner placed his cup on the table and leaned back in his chair. "We were assigned here, just like you were. You think the Watcher's Council is the only bunch that knows about the existence of a Hellmouth? Dream on." The Watcher blinked rapidly, like a man who had just taken a severe blow to the head. Warner shook his head and put his hands on the table, palms down. "Tell you what," the history teacher said, "why don't we skip twenty questions and I'll just lay a big chunk of exposition on you and get you caught up. Okay?"

"I think I might like that." Giles looked dazed.

"Seven, maybe eight years ago, I'm in grad school, at a history conference and symposium." Warner sipped coffee and made a face. "You know the kind of thing I mean-dull as dirt and musty as a coffin liner. Full of professors trying to outdo each other with the daring of their newest theory, which is usually deconstructionist hooey. Anyway, I end up at a workshop called 'Language and Empire.' Sounds like a snoozer, right? Wrong. It's Gerard doing the workshop and it's great. I was really impressed, so I stayed afterward to meet him, see if I could really understand some of his hypotheses. One thing leads to another, we end up meeting for coffee that night. We talked until, man, something like 2 am. Kept in touch after that, you know, notes, discussions of theory, me trying to understand those weird, convoluted notions he has about language and human development." Warner took another taste of his beverage before he resumed his account.

"We'd been corresponding for about six months when he asked me to help him with some research on the Phoenicians. I was already an adjunct member of the Chevalier and there was a strong mystical element in the material he wanted, so I kind of started asking some questions." Warner smiled a crooked smile. "I thought I was very subtle but he knew what I was doing right away. He asked me straight out what I was after. I was so flustered at being busted that I blurted out that I was a Knight of the Cross. He looked at me for a minute, then laughed and told me that he was a Watcher."

Giles touched the earpiece of his glasses to his lips. "You know that was an unusual reaction, don't you?"

"Yeah. Usually our kind get on about as well as bobcats in a burlap bag." Warner looked in his cup and found it empty. "Amateur psych time, but I think that he felt we had sort of a mentor-protégé relationship. Probably played into that Watcher's feeling of superiority." He shrugged in the face of Giles' indignant look. "Hey, most of the other groups have reached at least a sort of live-and-let-live arrangement. Admit it, the Watchers think they're better than everybody else."

"I think that from a historical standpoint--" Giles began.

"From a historical standpoint you can blow it out your ass," Warner said calmly. "I know all about that dawn of time and First Slayer and from the depths of antiquity crap. Even if it's true, it doesn't give you Watchers the right to act as if your mission was somehow higher than ours."

"No, how could it be? It's only ten thousand years older. May I remind you that when your order was founded the Watchers Council had been an organized body for almost eighty centuries?" Giles felt his face getting warm.

"Oh, right, and there was no one else fighting the good fight back then." Warner shook his head. "That's the sort of ludicrous pomposity typical of Watchers."

"Ludicrous--? Pompos--" Giles sputtered, unable to finish. His confusion had been banished, replaced by pique and wounded pride. He started to rise up from his chair.

"This should accomplish a lot." Matti Hollis leaned back in her chair and propped her feet on the table. Her calm demeanor and the fact that her long, shapely legs were encased in red Spandex tights pulled the two men's attention away from each other. "Mr. Giles, Gerard asked us to keep an eye on you. We know how unusual that is, but you should understand that we're doing it strictly off-book, so to speak."

"What?"

Hollis lifted her feet from the table and came to an upright and locked position. "We're not here to be your bodyguards. This is a legitimate assignment. Gerard called us within forty-eight hours of our notification. He asked us to do this as a personal favor. Our superiors don't know. And the Watchers Council doesn't know he asked."

Giles eyes widened. "Did he contact you while he was here?"

"Of course." Hollis shrugged. "Who do you think had your back the night you fought the wolf pack?"

Giles gaped. "You were the shooters?"

"Sho 'nuff." One corner of Hollis's mouth lifted.

The librarian's expression hardened. "Where were you when Lindsay Maeda was killed?"

"Hey, we're sorry about that, but we already told you that we have our own mission. We don't follow you around and wait to snatch you out of trouble. We were only here tonight because Gerard gave us the heads-up." Warner tapped the base of his empty cup against the table. It echoed in the library.

"I should really tell Buffy about this," Giles said.

Hollis grimaced and shook her head. "We would prefer if you didn't. We're not exactly supposed to be high profile during an assignment. If our superiors knew about this little chat we'd be in a world of hurt. The fewer people know, the less chance of that happening."

Giles frowned. "What is your mission?"

"We don't have a Chosen One," Warner said. "We just have people who study ancient texts and prophecies and try to locate hot spots. A Hellmouth is, by definition, a hot spot, but one of our researchers finally worked out a translation problem in a Perizzite scroll circa 3,000 BC. Now that we can read the scroll it's thrown a lot of light on some other prophecies. We believe that something big is going to happen in Sunnydale."

"Is that all?" Giles couldn't help but smile. "You must really have an outstanding department of prophecy."

***

"I just hate it. It's not like I really like hanging with you guys." Cordelia pouted. "If I weren't so perceptive I wouldn't have noticed the vampires and then I wouldn't have gotten sucked into your stupid save-the-world orbit."

Willow bit into a celery stick, mostly to give herself time to frame a reply. "That sort of perception would be a burden." She wiped her mouth on a napkin. "But, let me see if I understand this. You actually didn't show up for the date, but you're mad at Xander for calling you on it?"

"Well, when you put it that way, of course it makes me look bad." Cordelia took a bite of some exotic salad. "But I don't like the pressure. Something did come up."

"But you don't feel the need to share what it was with Xander?" Willow was growing more deeply confused by the second.

"Whatever happened to trust? If I had to miss a date, it must have been something important, right?" Cordelia's logic was unassailable, so Willow just shrugged. The cheerleader bored on. "So why does he get all insecure and assume I have some sort of agenda?"

Willow swallowed. "Because it's the sort of thing you would do." She dabbed at her lips again. "Cordelia, dating is kind of a new thing for Xander anyway. Dating you is like trying to learn to swim by crossing the English Channel. He's going to be a little insecure. You have to cut him some slack."

"Like what?" The concept of cutting a boyfriend some slack was clearly virgin emotional forest for the brunette.

Willow shrugged as she put her silverware on her tray. "Start by telling him where you were, maybe."

Cordelia leaned across the plate. "Do you tell Oz everything?"

Willow stopped and stared at the other girl. Something flickered in the redhead's eyes. "I better go," she said. "Xander's coming in."

Cordelia whirled in her chair. Xander was just inside the door, heading for the serving line. She turned back as Willow stood up.

"Good luck," the redhead said.

***

"Yes, it seems that our truce with the hillbillies is a thing of the past, so everyone must be careful." Mr. Trick looked around the table, making eye contact with each of his lieutenants, letting them know he was serious. "They may be stupid, backward and obnoxious, but they are dangerous." He waved a hand. "Now go. There's work to be done." They filed out of the room. Vampire reactions never failed to amaze Trick; let a group of humans know that one of their own had been coldly mutilated and they would quake in fear. Vampires, on the other hand, seemed to relish that sort of thing; it got their juices going. Trick took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh.

"Here, sir. I thought this might be appreciated." Quisling placed a glass on the table. Trick picked it up and took a drink.

"Damn, Quisling, that is fine. What is it?"

Quisling smiled at the compliment. "A very nice Merlot mixed with, I believe, a fifteen year old B positive."

"It hits the spot, I must say." Trick took another drink. "I tell you, Quisling, sometimes it's enough to make a brother just hang his head. First it's no Slayer, then it's one Slayer, then it's two Slayers. By the way, forgot to tell you there's another vampire in town and he's bughouse crazy. Now there's this... whatever it is, curse or somethin'." He leaned back in his chair. "If a man doesn't stay focused, it could get him down."

Quisling nodded, his face creased with concentration. "Sir, may I ask a question?"

"Ask away. How will my protégé learn without asking?" Trick drained the glass.

"Well, how does one stay focused in this situation? It seems as though obstacles have arisen at every turn."

Trick snapped up out of his chair, his body alert, tense like a coiled spring. "Quisling, what does a hurdler concentrate on?"

Quisling looked confused. "Why, clearing the hurdles I suppose."

Trick shook his head. "No, you see, the hurdles are the one thing he doesn't let hold his attention." He began to stalk around the table, moving fluidly. "He knows where the hurdles will be. He has prepared for them. No, what he keeps his eye on is the finish line. The man who does the best job of that will win the race."

"I'm sorry. Are you saying you ignore these... distractions?"

Trick shook his head. "No. I'm saying that I know they're going to come. Something will go wrong. Some do-gooder will try to stop me. Some ancient scroll or tablet will be a fake. Something will go wrong. You have to prepare for that."

Quisling mulled this over. "How can you be prepared for what is unknown?"

Trick smiled, a sly and dazzling burst of teeth. "You don't focus on the process, my friend, you focus on the goal. Fulfilling that contract, that's what's important. The tactics, the means, all are superfluous. You must meet that contract. If you keep that in mind, you can roll with anything that comes at you." He was fairly bouncing on his toes. "Man, I feel good now. I may have to go out and have me some fun tonight."