TWO

* * *

Patrolling had a certain purity to it now.

She remembered the first time, the time Merrick had taken her out to the graveyard, the feeling of the stake penetrating the chest of the thing, the explosion into dust of what had once been alive but that now was a perversion of life. She remembered the terror, too, that such things could be.

"Into each generation a slayer is born ...."

Yada yada yada.

Things had been different then. Merrick, with his sad, tired face. The sight of the gymnasium, burning. The sound of her parents' voices.

"We're getting a divorce."

And then here. Sunnydale. Friends and Giles and the Hellmouth. The Master and Angel; Spike and Druscilla, the Mayor. Glory.

Dawn. Losing Mom.

Through it all, the only constant was patrolling. Fighting. Slaying. But as you walked through the empty cemetery, you had time let it all slip away, time not to think but simply to feel the cool night air, to do what it was that you were alive for.

Alive.

Dead.

In that place, that perfect, loving place that you never wanted to leave.

"Hello, little girl."

She had felt his presence for several minutes now, had felt him stalking her. Now Buffy Summers turned and faced the vampire. He was tall, still dirty; recently risen.

And his fangs were bared.

Perhaps he expected her to scream. Perhaps he expected her to run. Certainly a normal, sane person would have.

"Oh, my," she quipped. "Your family buried you in that suit? They must have secretly hated you. Family issues much?"

He looked at her quizzically.

"What?"

Then her foot was impacting his face. His career as a vampire was short and ended in dust.

#

It had begun with dreams, so long ago now.

Nightmares.

Things, attacking her. Vampires.

This is your calling, Merrick had said. You are the Slayer.

She remembered being afraid.

The dreams were gone now, the nightmares; sleep was simply a dark, empty place from which she never seemed to emerge well rested. And then it would be off to work, the stench of grease sticking to her hair, her skin, her clothes. In the evenings she would patrol, though there were not so many vampires in Sunnydale anymore.

Now she was hunting people.

I know what you did, Warren.

I know you killed Katrina.

I know that you want to kill me.

She did not know why, though. Before, with Glory or Adam or the Mayor, there had always been a reason for what they did, a reason for their madness. But Warren?

Why? Why kill her?

She wished he was a monster; a real monster, not the human kind. She could understand those. Even Angel had made some sense that way.

Angel. She remembered how he had made her feel. She remembered what Xander had said, what Spike now said. You like your men dangerous. You like that edge to them.

Men who are good for you are the ones you avoid.

It was late; the cemetery was quiet. After a time Buffy took the long walk home.

Bed came and then sleep came, in their time.

#

It began slowly, uneven. A bed, not her bed. Lights, nearby, and movement.

A place.

But more than a place, too. Her, herself, in that place, in this place.

Here.

She heard herself cry out, like it was far away. She felt herself struggle, felt a stab in her arm, felt nothing nothing nothing at all.

Listen listen listen listen listen you don't listen you don't listen you never listen bad girl bad girl bad bad bad bad ....

She came awake with a start.