Images. Dark, terrible images. A dark chamber. Lit candles. Vampiric skulls
dripping blood. Daemonic bones rattling. There was a dagger, sharp, and
made of gold and platinum. A bejeweled crucifix. An ancient African urn.
Flashes of golden yellow light and bruise purple electricity. And then,
somewhere in the midst of it all, a voice, steeped in evil and mystery,
screaming "At last! At last!"
The images change. They shift, changing into something else. The folds of destiny, the twirling hands of fate. The line of Slayers, girls, women, who had all come before her. Lucy Hanover, Kishi Minomoto, the Primal Slayer, Robin Whitby, White Doe, Mollie Prater, Betty Spring, Kiki Kidman, and so many others.
A line of Slayers, each girl's thread of life cut by some horrible monster. Buffy knows many of their names, but how, she does not know. It's an innate, base knowledge. It is the deep knowledge that every Slayer has. Buffy sees the death of each Slayer, and the Calling of the next. She sees how the Powers That Be endow the Slayer with her gifts, and how They skip over the other Slayers-in-Training. Buffy sees the others' disappointment, their pain, their regret, their hope that it will be them Chosen next time. And then she sees some of the other girls, the ones who are not unhappy about being passed over this time. They're overjoyed for now.
That's when Buffy sees it. Kiki's pain at being Chosen, and Skinner's pain - and burning hatred - that it is not her who was Chosen. Then, the black aura that slowly starts to surround Skinner, enveloping her slowly. And then, the words, flowing out of Skinner's mouth, "At last." The glimmer of a golden blade in Skinner's hands, and Skinner murdering Kiki in cold blood. The Powers choose someone else, but not Skinner.
And Skinner's anger grows, and grows. And, finally, Skinner kills her own Slayer, a ruthless, evil expression upon her once sweet features. The Watchers excommunicates her from the Council, and she leaves, to America, with a baby in her arms. And some sort of vow or promise.
A vow that Buffy does not hear. But Buffy can feel the tone of the vow, and it's evil. Pure, untainted evil.
***
Buffy stumbled into school the next morning feeling extremely drained. Her hazel eyes were kind of red and puffy, and no amount of make-up really hid it. Her blonde hair was pulled back haphazardly and was held in place by two pencils. Her tie was loose and her shirt untucked. Buffy wasn't the chirpiest person that morning. She'd dragged herself out of bed and quickly showered and changed. Unfortunately, she had missed homeroom and was late for first period anyway.
Buffy couldn't rub off the eerie feeling of last night's dream, though she couldn't really remember much. She did, though, remember seeing the Callings and the deaths of many Slayers, and she knew that Gretchen Skinner had put in a guest appearance somewhere, and there had been some bad mojo surrounding her, but Buffy wasn't too sure what. The Slayer sighed. She'd figure it out soon enough, but first, she had a first period class to walk in tardy to.
Or never, judging by the fact that Principal Skinner was walking towards her right that moment.
"Miss Summers," Skinner said pertly.
"Principal Skinner," Buffy greeted, trying her best to sound cordial, wondering if she actually succeeded. "Good morning."
"Good and lazy, I see, Miss Summers."
"Yeah, well, late night. You know how it is, being the Slayer and all. Wait, no, you don't. You never were." Buffy shot her a bubbly-yet-bitchy smile. "In any case, you were a Potential once upon a time. You have a fair idea." She glanced at her watch. "Hmm, I'm late."
"That's not the only thing you are."
"Excuse me?"
"Detention. Tonight. My office. Two hours."
"You've got to be kidding me."
"Sorry, Miss Summers. I warned you yesterday. You won't be treated specially. Now, control your attitude. Go, now. And remember, my eyes are on you. "
Buffy nodded and headed up the stairs and through the double doors to her first period Math class.
***
Los Angeles International Airport
Kennard York got off his British Airways flight, rubbing his steel grey eyes tiredly. His rich, wavy black curls were in disarray and his flowing linen suit was rumpled. His carry-on bag was slung over his shoulder, and his tie was loose. Kennard had left England in a hurry at the request of the Watcher's Council. After all, he thought as he hailed a taxi, someone had to watch over the current Vampire Slayer.
The images change. They shift, changing into something else. The folds of destiny, the twirling hands of fate. The line of Slayers, girls, women, who had all come before her. Lucy Hanover, Kishi Minomoto, the Primal Slayer, Robin Whitby, White Doe, Mollie Prater, Betty Spring, Kiki Kidman, and so many others.
A line of Slayers, each girl's thread of life cut by some horrible monster. Buffy knows many of their names, but how, she does not know. It's an innate, base knowledge. It is the deep knowledge that every Slayer has. Buffy sees the death of each Slayer, and the Calling of the next. She sees how the Powers That Be endow the Slayer with her gifts, and how They skip over the other Slayers-in-Training. Buffy sees the others' disappointment, their pain, their regret, their hope that it will be them Chosen next time. And then she sees some of the other girls, the ones who are not unhappy about being passed over this time. They're overjoyed for now.
That's when Buffy sees it. Kiki's pain at being Chosen, and Skinner's pain - and burning hatred - that it is not her who was Chosen. Then, the black aura that slowly starts to surround Skinner, enveloping her slowly. And then, the words, flowing out of Skinner's mouth, "At last." The glimmer of a golden blade in Skinner's hands, and Skinner murdering Kiki in cold blood. The Powers choose someone else, but not Skinner.
And Skinner's anger grows, and grows. And, finally, Skinner kills her own Slayer, a ruthless, evil expression upon her once sweet features. The Watchers excommunicates her from the Council, and she leaves, to America, with a baby in her arms. And some sort of vow or promise.
A vow that Buffy does not hear. But Buffy can feel the tone of the vow, and it's evil. Pure, untainted evil.
***
Buffy stumbled into school the next morning feeling extremely drained. Her hazel eyes were kind of red and puffy, and no amount of make-up really hid it. Her blonde hair was pulled back haphazardly and was held in place by two pencils. Her tie was loose and her shirt untucked. Buffy wasn't the chirpiest person that morning. She'd dragged herself out of bed and quickly showered and changed. Unfortunately, she had missed homeroom and was late for first period anyway.
Buffy couldn't rub off the eerie feeling of last night's dream, though she couldn't really remember much. She did, though, remember seeing the Callings and the deaths of many Slayers, and she knew that Gretchen Skinner had put in a guest appearance somewhere, and there had been some bad mojo surrounding her, but Buffy wasn't too sure what. The Slayer sighed. She'd figure it out soon enough, but first, she had a first period class to walk in tardy to.
Or never, judging by the fact that Principal Skinner was walking towards her right that moment.
"Miss Summers," Skinner said pertly.
"Principal Skinner," Buffy greeted, trying her best to sound cordial, wondering if she actually succeeded. "Good morning."
"Good and lazy, I see, Miss Summers."
"Yeah, well, late night. You know how it is, being the Slayer and all. Wait, no, you don't. You never were." Buffy shot her a bubbly-yet-bitchy smile. "In any case, you were a Potential once upon a time. You have a fair idea." She glanced at her watch. "Hmm, I'm late."
"That's not the only thing you are."
"Excuse me?"
"Detention. Tonight. My office. Two hours."
"You've got to be kidding me."
"Sorry, Miss Summers. I warned you yesterday. You won't be treated specially. Now, control your attitude. Go, now. And remember, my eyes are on you. "
Buffy nodded and headed up the stairs and through the double doors to her first period Math class.
***
Los Angeles International Airport
Kennard York got off his British Airways flight, rubbing his steel grey eyes tiredly. His rich, wavy black curls were in disarray and his flowing linen suit was rumpled. His carry-on bag was slung over his shoulder, and his tie was loose. Kennard had left England in a hurry at the request of the Watcher's Council. After all, he thought as he hailed a taxi, someone had to watch over the current Vampire Slayer.