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I'm British, so's my spelling. Live with it.
By Marcus L. Rowland
III
"Well?" says the Slayer. I search my memory. Suddenly it has more holes than a Swiss cheese. I can remember my life perfectly, right up to the moment I killed my final demon and went to heaven, then it's all blurred. I can't remember anything specific about heaven. I can't remember a damned thing about my mission. Do I think I can bluff my way through this? Maybe. Better than what the Slayer would do if I told her the truth? Only one way to find out...
"...Got to do something that I'm not allowed to tell you about."
"Can you tell anyone else?"
"Nope."
"Is it larger or smaller than a breadbox?" asks the kid.
"This isn't twenty questions, Dawn," says the Slayer. At the same time I get an odd feeling; whatever it is, whatever I have to do, involves something smaller than a breadbox. Hey, this might work.
"Well, if you twist my arm... it's smaller."
"Are you under a spell that stops you from telling us directly?" asks the redhead.
"Something like that, toots."
"Okay then, good thing it's Saturday. Let's take it from the top. Animal, vegetable, or mineral..."
About fifty questions later we've established that I have to do something concerning some sort of statue or doll. It's smaller than I am, and made of metal and plastic.
"Are you sure about this?" asks Willow. "Sounds kind of odd materials for some sort of mystic whatsit."
"Sure enough, toots."
"Metal inside the plastic, like some sort of robot?"
"Nope."
"Plastic inside the metal, like... er.. some other sort of robot?"
"Nope."
"I know!" says Dawn, "Metal on a plastic base?"
"That's it, toots."
"Some sort of trophy?"
"Bingo. Give the girl a coconut."
A door slams somewhere in the house, and a man's voice shouts "Buffy?"
"In the kitchen, Xander," says the Slayer. Xander... that kid who spent a couple of hours making fun of the Slayer for thinking I was alive. Oh yeah, I remember him.
"Did you know that a dog or something has been digging up your lawn and..." He sees me "...holy crap, what did you dig that up for?"
"Nice to see you again too, kid." I say. He collapses onto a stool, looking shaken. Sometimes it's fun to be me.
"Sid?"
"In the wood, kid. I'm back."
"To which the only answer is a heartfelt 'huh?'. You said you were going to heaven. What went wrong?"
"Got bored, got sent back to do a job, they gave me the same damned body."
"You got sent back from heaven on a mission? We so have to get you a black suit and a hat."
"What for?"
"So that I can get one too and say 'we're on a mission from God.'"
"Yuck it up, kid, any more and I'll tell them about you sticking your hand up my ass."
"I didn't... well, maybe, when I thought you were a dummy."
"Pervert."
"Both of you knock it off," says the Slayer. "We still have to figure out what this trophy thing is, and where we can find it."
"Trophy?" says Xander.
"Sid's mission has something to do with a trophy, but he can't tell us what it is, we're having to find out by asking questions."
"Ooh, can I play? Is it larger or smaller than a breadbox?"
"We've been there already, Xander. Whatever he has to do concerns a trophy, a statue made of metal and plastic. Any ideas?"
"Buffy, Buffy, do you have to ask? What's sitting on top of the Hellmouth?"
"Sunnydale High?"
"And what's Sunnydale High?"
"A school?"
"And what do schools have?"
"Oh... Trophy cases, of course."
"And where is the Xand-man still doing some detailing work?"
"Let me take a wild guess and say Sunnydale High."
"Correct. Which means I have the keys and we can get in today without an audience."
"Okay. Let's have some coffee then hit the road."
To Be Continued